Argosy (UK), January 1955 — page 62: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

60 ; CARYL BRAHMS But scarce had he siffled a stave when Monsieur Gustave’s tittupping came to a slow halt, and his siffle withered at his lips. For the firm figure of Madame Clotilde appeared at the window, and the last fern left disappeared from it. She had taken his fern away. She was showing it off to the Widow Grimaldi. The Widow Grimaldi was opening her chain purse... In his agitation Monsieur Gustave dropped his fifty-franc piece, and by the time he had dodged between the passers-by, groped in the gutter, been stumbled over and sworn at, and finally found his coin and rushed into the shop with it, the Widow Grimaldi had acquired the only fern left. ‘And I must water it every day?’ the Widow Grimaldi was saying. “Every day. Without fail,’”’ Madame Clotilde advised her. *“ Above all in this weather.” Speechless with despair Monsieur Gustave held out his fifty- franc piece to the Widow Grimaldi. Misunderstanding his meaning, the Widow Grimaldi gave Monsieur Gustave a gifle. What kind of a widow did he think she was—grass? With smarting cheek and a heavy heart, Monsieur Gustave went on his way. In the hall Madame la Concierge put her head round the corner of her cave: “* You won’t forget to water it every day?” she urged. ‘““ Every day,” responded Monsieur Gustave, falsely. And from that moment Monsieur Gustave stood committed to his Maidenhair Fern. In the dead of night, when even Madame la Concierge was asleep, Monsieur Gustave stole forth on a desperate venture. He had determined to break into the house of Mademoiselle Sophie’s parents to retrieve his fern. The streets of Dijon were deserted. Numéro onze rue du Congres was as dark as a witches’ sabbath. ‘There was not so much as a glimmer of gas showing through the fanlight in the hall. But at the back a flight of stone steps led obligingly to the salon. . Even if the noise of breaking glass were to rouse one of the sleepers, Monsieur Gustave would be up, off, and away with his fern before you could cry poker! Monsieur Gustave possessed himself of a nice sharp flint from a handy grotto. But as he was about to fling it, Monsieur Gus- tave paused. The sound of a voice—his own voice—came to him from what seemed to be a lifetime away: “... And you seriously mean to comicloooks.comn