Springfield Daily Republic

POLYTE.

A happy home that of the Sigaults—the husband John, a sober workman, his wife Theresa, gentle and honest. To complete the family an urchin 9 years of age, M. Polyte a very devil, said his father, and with that always first in school.

John Sigault was a skillful molder. Theresa was known as the most tasteful milliner of Montmartre.

All that little world lived without any other care but the future of M. Polyte. Father and mother prepared to drain themselves when that would become necessary, as Polyte had already shown some inclination toward the learning of an art whose apprenticeship costs a great deal. John had a friend named Robert, a stonecutter employed in the studio of a celebrated sculptor.

The child had been admitted in the contemplation of the world renowned artists, of whom the two workmen spoke of as a demigod.

At first M. Polyte was intimidated; then he familiarized himself when he saw the great man. Nothing was less imposing than this short, old fellow, wearing a blouse abominably maculated, occupying himself in the making of small balls of sticky clay with his clammy fingers.

This cry from the heart escaped from the lips of this Parisian gamin: "Papa! when I am big I will be a sculptor, because at least that is dirty!"

The member of the institute of France, who was a kind of wag, declared that this exclamation might pass for an unequivocal manifestation of an artist's vocation.

The good parents did not go further.

From this memorable day, when Therese had to work late in cutting, repairing and washing the clothes and linen of "her men," she said to the boy: "All right now, only when I cannot work any more, monsieur the sculptor, it is you who shall work for us."

Then from an early period Polyte was taught that the destinies of his family would rest one day entirely on his conduct and labor.

Besides, John Sigault had been a soldier and his moral education of his child bore marks of his military life. Early he took care to develop the sentiment of responsibility in his son by making him believe that, in some time to come, he would have to support his parents.

So it was, when the molder left Therese alone in the house, he said to Polyte, "Boy, I am going out and place mamma under your protection; you stand sentinel!"

And Polyte, honored with such high confidence, would have allowed any one to make mincemeat of him rather than go out and play with the other urchins of the neighborhood.

Those humble people, so quiet, so loving, so united, were too happy. That could not last long.

The 15th of July, 1870, the declaration of war to Germany was published in Paris.

From that day John was not the same man. That model of a workman, having absolutely nothing to do in the shop, expended his whole time in the reading of newspapers. One evening he came home, pale with rage. The Germans were in sight of Paris!

During the following night he had the fever a patriotic one. His despair broke out into terrific invectives against his egotism of a happy husband and a timorous father: so much that Theresa, although she had nothing of a heroine in her, ended by plagiarizing that famous phrase. "And now, go to fight."

And he went.

In a few days he had won again his sergeant's stripes. One morning he paid a visit to his wife and child. He was mad with joy. His colonel had granted him a twelve hours' furlough and given him the military medal awarded to the sergeant by the republic for the bravery he had displayed in the several encounters with the Germans.

He could not get a twenty-four hours' leave of absence because his regiment had to make a sortie on the following night. Friend Robert, the stonecutter, called upon John to present him with his congratulations for the honor that he had received from the government. He offered to watch over the sergeant's house during his absence. John, who knew the personage as unfit to watch over any one's house, replied smiling:

"Many thanks, I have here a rigid sentinel; is that not true, Polyte?"

"Of course," answered that embryo of a man, with the inimitable accent of the polisson, son of Paris and raising himself on the top of his feet.

Yes, he was to be a rigid sentinel, the poor child, as from this day nothing was heard of John Sigault in the modest apartment of Montmartre. After that sortie the squad of the brave sergeant had returned without their chief; killed or taken during the battle they would not say—in any case he was missing.

Since the month of March, 1871, poverty had stricken hard the home previously so contented. The slowly gathered resources had foundered quickly.

Theresa, worn out by disquietude and privations, fell sick, and the terrible days of the Commune happening unexpectedly, the situation of the mother and child became very critical.

The young one did not complain, did not cry, did not fret. Not that he was unconscious of the dangers that threatened his mother and himself. His deep look indicated well enough that many bitter thoughts passed through his child's brain.

Finally his courage gave way, and this is why—the baker was there; he wanted money and refused to let them have bread on credit any longer, only until the next day.

At this moment the favorite axiom of his parents—viz, "It is the duty of children to support their mammas when they cannot work any more"—was remembered by him.

Polyte rushed out. A long time he promenaded the streets, his eyes shining, his head on fire, asking himself what he could do to earn money.

All of a sudden he saw people pushing each other. In the middle of the street a young man was selling newspapers.

The crowd fought among themselves in their eagerness to buy The Petit Journal.

At this view Polyte made up his mind. He also would sell newspapers.

He bought a copy of The Journal, read the direction of its publishers, ran to the office and asked a clerk to confide a number of papers to him.

As he had no money the man refused to entertain his demand. Then he burst out sobbing. His sorrow appeared so touching and true that the clerk signaled him to one of the editors. In a moment Polyte, who had related his story to the gentleman, received a gratuitous and large supply of newspapers, together with a handsome uniform cap, while the good editor dispatched a messenger to Polyte's house, bearer of succor for the wife of the missing sergeant.

From that time and for several weary weeks mother and child subsisted on the profits made by the indefatigable boy.

Polyte increased his commercial operations by taking a partner in the shape of a poodle dog that he found in the street and to which he taught tricks. Among them the foremost was known as "The Duck's Hunt Executed by Jean de Nivelle's Dog." Polyte threw up large ring on which newspapers were hung, and a cup was put on the ground. The dog seized the ring in his flight. The more the master cried "Come here," the more the dog ran away from him; the animal described quick circles, presenting the newspapers to the passers by with such a comical expression that quickly the ring was deprived of its burden and the little cup filled to the brim with copper and silver pieces.

Energy wore out adversity in Polyte's case. Theresa regained her health and resumed her work of a milliner. Meanwhile other sorrows were in store for the courageous child.

One evening after serving his customers Polyte found Robert visiting his mother. He returned often, friend Robert, he returned too often. Once he invited himself without much ado to dinner, under the pretext that he had brought a roasted chicken and a bottle of fine claret.

And asking to be excused for his lack of ceremony, on the plea that he was alone in the world, the stonecutter arrived, little by little, to share the evening meal of the Sigaults. A thing which displeased M. Polyte a great deal. Every day it seemed to the jealous child that this newcomer was taking part of his mother's love from him.

It was the morning of New Year's day. Polyte had economized cent by cent in order to prepare a surprise to his mother in the shape of a modest costume that he spread on her armchair, and he said to her:

"Mamma, after breakfast will you dress yourself and we will go out together to show your new dress to the neighbors?"

This request caused Theresa to blush. She had already promised Robert to have a walk with him—he was to call on her at 10 o'clock—and "it is proper," she added, "that I remind you to be more polite with Mr. Robert: you are too rude with him."

Polyte did not answer; the tears filled his big blue eyes; he retired to the next room.

Opening a drawer he took out a photograph of his father, that he covered with kisses and deposited it on the dress, his present to his mother.

Through a ray of precious intelligence the boy had comprehended that shortly the rigid sentinel, as his father called him, would be unable to watch over the place alone.

The dog turned around his master, looking at him very attentively, as if it wanted him to understand the cause of his sorrow.

Suddenly the animal straightened its ears and began to growl. Somebody had entered the room next to Polyte's. The child heard a heavy step, a voice (Robert's) speaking loudly, then a whisper, followed by a cry half smothered, and the noise of a slight struggle. The dog made a jump and opened widely the door that was not locked. Polyte saw this hated Robert standing near his mother, who hid her face and protested with great vehemence. The intruder had buried the old year too gayly: in his half drunkenness he had thought himself entitled to a kiss from Mrs. Sigault as a New Year's present.

Polyte was on the eve of speaking, when his dog, sociable only with him and his mother, rushed on the man and bit him cruelly.

It needed all the strength of Polyte, who shook with anger, to make the faithful animal let go his hold on Robert's leg. The boy and the man, brought face to face by the incident, glared at each other. Robert detected in the eyes of the child his firm will to retain his mother's heart. He was not a bad man, that Robert, only a little vain and braggart, a true Parisian. Noticing the mistake done by him, he reddened, stammered and saluting low he departed.

The next day, as Theresa awoke after a bad night's sleep, Polyte entered her room like a bombshell, having in his hand a letter just given to him by the janitor of the house. He threw it on his mother's bed unable to articulate another word but Pa-pa! Pa—pa!

And this blessed letter, that the child had not hesitated to recognize as having been written by his father, read as follows:

"DEAR WIFE—I am in the military hospital of Spandau in Germany. I have undergone a frightful operation on my head. I am informed by the medical authorities of the hospital that I have remained senseless over one year; they call my case with a Greek or Latin name.

"I have suffered very much, but now the physicians told me that I will be well again in a few weeks.

"Good-by, dearest. I hope that the rigid sentry has performed his duty to your utmost satisfaction. I kiss both of you a million times, Your husband and father.

"JOHN SIGAULT."

After the reading of the letter from his father, Polyte did not wait long. As he was a progressive man and an economical boy he glided on the banisters to the street, ran to the nearest telegraph office and sent the following message, short and good:

"To John Sigault, Military Hospital, Spandau, Germany—Yes.

POLYTE.

"What joy! Come home soon.

"Theresa."

A month after the child was relieved from his sentry duty by his father, and with that my story ends.

Perhaps, dear reader, you want to know what became of our little Polyte. He is yet standing sentinel as fifteen years ago; this time it is for our country. Lieutenant in the marine infantry, he commands an advanced post in Tonquin, where, in two years, he has won his golden epaulettes and the cross of the Legion of Honor. — Translated from the French by Guard S21, Sixth Avenue Elevated Railroad, for New York Graphic