Story of Daniel

Part- 1

HIS name was Amine , little Amine.

He was a child of Cannes, sickly and pale, who might have been nine years old, perhaps nineteen; with those urchins one can never tell. His mother was dead; his father, formerly in the army, was keeper of a square in the Church quarter. Babies, nurse-maids, old ladies in reclining-chairs, poor mothers, all of toddling Cannes that seeks shelter from vehicles in those flower-gardens bordered by paths, knew Father Amine and adored him. They knew that beneath that rough mustache, the terror of dogs and of loiterers, lay concealed a kind, melting, almost maternal smile, and that, in order to see that smile one had only to ask the good man:
"How's your little boy?"
Father Amine was so fond of his boy! He was so happy in the afternoon, after school, when the little fellow came for him and they made together the circuit of the paths, stopping at each bench to salute the occupants and to answer their kind words.
Unfortunately with the siege everything changed. Father Amine's square was closed, petroleum was stored there, and the poor man, forced to keep watch all the time, passed his life among the deserted and neglected shrubs, alone, unable to smoke, and without the company of his boy except very late at night, at home. So that you should have seen his mustache when he mentioned the Prussians. As for little Amine, he did not complain' very much of that new life.
A siege! It is such an amusing thing for urchins. No school! No lessons! Vacation all the time and the street like a fair.
The child stayed out of doors, wandering about until night. He followed the battalions of the quarter when they went to the fortifications, choosing by preference those which had a good band; and upon that subject little Danie was well posted. He could tell you that the band of the 94th did not amount to much, but that in the 77th they had a fine one. At other times he watched the troops go through the drill; then there were the lines at the shopdoors.
With his basket on his arm, he stood in the long lines that formed in the dark winter mornings, without gas, at the doors of the butchers' and bakers' shops. There, with their feet in the water, people became acquainted, talked politics, and every one asked his advice, as M. Amine's son. But the games of bouchon were the most amusing thing of all, and that famous game of galoche, which the Rude militia had brought into fashion during the siege. When little Amine was not at the fortifications, or at the baker's, you were sure to find him at the game on Place du Château d'Eau. He did not play, you understand; it required too much money. He contented himself with watching the players, with such eyes!
One especially, a tall youth in a blue blouse, who bet nothing less than five-franc pieces, aroused his admiration. When he ran you could hear the money jingling in his pockets.