“Minuit!”

A little girl peered through the gloom of a dark alley, toward the rue Saint Antoine. Her thin, eager face looked anxious and her black eyes darted here and there in search of him who until very recently had been her best friend in all the world, Minuit, an alley cat!

“It’s time to go to bed, ma mie. Come to Vivi,” she called again and suddenly from out of the greyness of the deserted alley, a gaunt, long shape appeared. It was Minuit and when he saw Vivi he ran up to her with a welcoming meow. She stooped and gathered him into her arms, hugging him close to her.

“I’ve been alone all day, for the fat, funny man told me I’d best stay inside to-day. He will be coming soon with my supper.” While she was speaking she was making her way back to an open door through which a faint light was gleaming. She was so used to being alone with Minuit that she found it natural to talk to him as though he were a person.

A jangle of rough voices came down the alley from the shoemaker’s shop on the corner of the rue Saint Antoine. Vivi was not at all frightened of the voices or their owners, for she knew them. They had been friends of her father and he would have been with them, talking far into the night, had he not been killed the summer before by some pieces of lumber from the big pavilion falling on him. The pavilion had been erected after the storming of the Tuileries and he had been one of hundreds who had offered to help put it up. He was a licorice water seller by profession and all that he had left Vivi of worldly goods was his tin tray and the cups dangling from it. She hoped to make some sous in the spring selling the cooling drink in the streets. Now that the cold weather had come, no one was thirsty enough to drink licorice water, and if it had not been for the fat, foreign stranger, who had taken the room above her and who never failed to bring her something to eat when he came in at night, she would have had to go down the alley to beg a bit of bread from the shoemaker.

She went through the open door, climbed a short flight of rickety stairs, and opened a door at the right of the first landing. The room she entered was small and bare. There was a cot in one corner covered with a piece of sacking, a deal table close to a tiny, rude fireplace, and a chair. Some pieces of a broken box lay on the floor near the fireplace. Vivi went over to the cot and put Minuit down on it. Then she went over to the cupboard and threw open its rickety door. There was nothing at all to eat in the cupboard and Vivi made a face at it. She had never heard of Mother Hubbard, but she must have felt very much like her as she saw the bare boards and heard Minuit’s entreating meow.

“Never mind, Minuit, the fat man will bring us something to eat. Let us go to sleep under the sacking until he comes.” She picked Minuit up in her arms as she spoke and going to the cot, curled up on it under the sacking. Before she knew it, she and her purring friend were fast asleep.

Vivi was awakened by a loud scrambling of rats. She could hear them fighting and chasing each other through the wall as she sat up on the cot and rubbed her eyes. She jumped up and, drawing the cot close to the dusty window with its small jagged corner of broken glass, leaned forward so that she could see down the alley as far as the rue Saint Antoine at the end of it. She did not have to wait very long before she saw a short, stout figure in a long cloak and wide hat coming toward her through the dusk.

It was the figure of Humphrey Trail, or “the fat, funny man,” as Vivi spoke of him to Minuit. He gave a little knock on the door and came in, bringing a rush of cold wind with him. He had a bundle in his arms and going over to the table he put it down, yawned, and looked at Vivi. She came slowly toward him, trying not to look too eagerly at the table. Her rough black hair flapped about her face as she pulled up a chair for him. When he had sat down in it, she jumped up on the table beside him.

“I told Minuit you would bring something,” she said, smiling at him. He smiled back at her, opening the bundle which was done up in brown paper.

“Food we shall have, tha and I and tha friend th’ cat,” said Humphrey, tearing off the paper and bringing forth its contents, a loaf of bread and a hunk of cheese. He felt in his pocket and drawing out his big jackknife, cut a generous slice of the bread and a good supply of cheese. He put the cheese astride the bread and handed it to his little friend with a bow.

Vivi nodded her gratitude. She was too busy taking big bites out of the bread and cheese to thank Humphrey in words. He was well pleased at her enjoyment of the simple meal and took his own share with a relish. Minuit was not forgotten either and ate his portion greedily. Humphrey spoke to him apologetically.

“Tha shall have tha dish o’ milk one day when milk is easier got, beastie,” he said. Minuit, who had not tasted milk since the days of his infancy, did not seem to be at all put out because of the present lack of the beverage. He jumped up on to the table beside Vivi and began to lick his paws. Humphrey Trail balanced himself uncomfortably on the rickety chair as he ate his supper. He had had only a bowl of hot soup in a small cafÉ on the rue Royale at noon, and he was as hungry as his two companions. As he ate he thought deeply and hardly heeded Vivi when she went over to the cot. His French was so limited that they could only hold brief conversations.

Minuit gave Humphrey’s arm a soft bump with his head to remind him that he was holding an uneaten bit of cheese in his hand. Humphrey gave him the cheese, accompanied by a pat on the head. Then he relapsed into thoughtfulness again. He sat a long time at the deal table with his plump, round face propped up on his two hands. He was thinking of Lisle Saint FrÈre and of the great house where he lived and of all that had passed since he had snatched the boy from the spinner’s cart, when he had called out, “God save King Louis!” What awful things had happened in Paris since that night of the tenth of August when the gallant Marseillais had stormed the Tuileries and awakened Paris to action! Ah, that had been a great day for the people! They were worth-while men, those Marseillais who had cheered their long march across France with their own songs, who had come in their simplicity and valor to avenge their wrongs, to start a new era of liberty for the people, but who had not known, alas! that innocent people would so cruelly suffer, that Paris would go mad.

He had made his decision to remain in Paris on that August night, as he paced up and down his room at the Croix d’Or. He would stay on, even if his staying might mean his death. His heart bled for the people of France who had been starved and taxed and unjustly treated for centuries and he had rejoiced when he heard the new song of liberty shouted in the streets:

Humphrey would have answered, if any one had asked him, that he had remained in France to “see the fun,” but this was not so. There was Vivi, who depended on him for her daily bread, and there was some one else who might need his help also. He knew in his own mind that it was greatly because of this some one else that he had decided to stay. The some one else was Lisle.

Humphrey roused himself and got up, wrapped the bread and cheese carefully in brown paper, and, going over to the cupboard, put them on a shelf. It made him happy to supply food for little Vivi. He had come across her in a strange way. He had witnessed the accident at the pavilion which had caused the death of her father. The poor man had been selling his licorice water when the timbers from the pavilion fell on him. While some one went to get a cart in which to take him to a hospital, Humphrey held the man in his arms and spoke to him in his poor French. Afterward he had visited him at the hospital, and just before the man died, promised to look after his little girl. Humphrey had picked up the man’s tray and tin cups and given them to Vivi. He moved into the attic room above hers, so as to be able to look after her. His good action proved a safeguard to himself, for all foreigners at inns were being questioned and put under suspicion, and his days at the Croix d’Or would have been numbered had he remained.

Humphrey had sat down again at the table and he remained there for a long time, deep in thought. Suddenly he was startled by sounds of wild laughter and shouting from the rue Saint Antoine, as groups of citizens danced by. They were shouting a new and terrible song:

Humphrey stood up, wrapped his snuff-colored cloak about him, and picking up his wide hat, went out, closing the door softly behind him. He made his way through the alley to the noisy rue Saint Antoine and went on swiftly through the dark, wintry streets. Everywhere were hurrying masses of people. Snatches of the “Ça Ira,” the favorite song of the crowds, could be heard on all sides and wild, dark faces under scarlet caps peered out of the gloom. He turned in at a brightly lighted shop on the rue Royale. It was the bakery shop where he had bought for Vivi the first cake that she had ever eaten. Now he wanted to buy her another.

On the first days of his visit to the great city, Humphrey had come to this bakery several times, in order to indulge in his love for sweets. It had once been very fashionable. Less than a year before, it had been filled with smart lackeys, who carried charming boxes of maroons or candied grapes to their ladies’ sedan chairs. Now no such finery was seen. Instead the shop was patronized by honest farmer people from the country and rich merchants of the city who were heart and soul in sympathy with the revolution, never dreaming that their turn to suffer was coming soon.

The baker woman still sold her neat rows of cherry tarts. On the wooden gallery above, talkative groups drank their eau citron and enjoyed the good cakes. Humphrey eyed the pile of puffy brioche set out on a tray next to a gleaming pile of fruit confits, and he wondered what to buy for Vivi. He felt guilty in buying anything but bread, but he could not resist the pleasure he would be giving Vivi, who had never had any sweets in all her life. Humphrey admired Vivi because she had been so brave when her father died, and because she could smile when she was hungry!

As he stood there undecided, the shop door opened with a clang, and turning his head, Humphrey saw a boy enter and stand near him at the counter. After a moment, he realized that it was Lisle. He wore a shabby black suit which had evidently belonged to a groom, his locks were tied back with a bit of black tape, and the cap which he held in his hands was a dismal, ragged one. He was evidently attempting a disguise, but it was a poor one, and when Humphrey heard him ask the woman for the cakes, his heart sank. Lisle’s attempt to change his voice was more futile than his attempt to change his garb.

“I want a cake for a little girl, citizen, something simple but very good,” Lisle said to the bakery woman.

“You want a cake, do you!” she waved her hand above a tray of cream pastries, surrounded by green “cauliflowers” of almond flavor. Her black eyes took in his appearance as she cried her wares. “Here are tartlets, choufleur. Choose what you will!”

Humphrey felt an odd mixture of emotion as he stood there with his back to Lisle. Lisle was a large part of his adventure, and his chief reason for staying on in Paris. He had never forgotten the sight of the boy on top of the spinner’s cart, waving his cap and shouting for the king. He had been sent to be his friend. The little incident that occurred when he had let Lisle go his way, after he had rescued him, had made him sure of it. He had watched Lisle and seen him stop and start back, then pause uncertainly and go on again. Something in the action touched Humphrey’s big heart. The boy had needed his counsel, but his pride and independence had forbidden his asking it. Since then Humphrey had gone each night and stood for an hour in the shadow of the wall at the side of the great house of the Saint FrÈres.

“What cakes will you choose? My time is not forever at your disposal,” the bakery woman said impatiently.

Lisle regarded the cakes soberly.

“I want something simple for a little girl,” he repeated.

“I have just the thing, a plain sponge with white icing. You shall see.”

The woman moved away to reach the cakes at the back of a shelf just behind her. Lisle turned round and, seeing Humphrey Trail, at once gave him a smile of greeting. Humphrey made no sign of recognition. The woman returned with the cakes saying:

“They are three sous apiece. How many?”

Lisle answered, “I wish to have three.” He put his hand in the pocket of his rough over-jacket and, drawing forth some coins, counted out the desired amount and handed it to the woman. When she had given him the small package he went out. Without waiting to buy his cake, Humphrey Trail followed him.

Humphrey was angry as he walked out of the bakery shop. They were a little in awe of him at home in the farmlands when his easy-going temper was aroused. He came up to Lisle and spoke to him without ceremony.

“Th’ art mad, lad, I tell thee, to buy cakes at a shop where spies eat and there are eyes in every corner. Th’ art a poor fool at play actin’ with tha soft speech and ways. Get tha home and, for tha mother’s sake, stay within tha house!”

They had walked slowly along the crowded rue Royale. Lisle turned and looked at his companion and suddenly he smiled.

“I like you, Humphrey Trail,” he said.

Humphrey felt his temper cooling, and as they turned into a quieter street he slackened his pace. Nothing could have happened more timely than Humphrey’s losing his temper. Had there been any vestige of suspicion as to Humphrey’s sincerity in Lisle’s mind, it vanished forever with his honest scolding.

“I like tha well myself, lad, but see that tha ken sense with tha manly ways,” Humphrey said in answer.

“It is the first time I have been there, Humphrey Trail. Our friend, Rosanne de SoignÉ, is staying with my mother and me. I was buying cakes for her.”

“Th’ little girl can do well without sweets these sad days if it will save her life,” he answered. As he spoke a deep sense of responsibility fell on him and then he felt a warm glow of thankfulness that the boy trusted him and was confiding in him.

They had reached the Saint FrÈre house and Lisle turned and held out his hand.

“I have been glad of your company, Humphrey Trail. I know you are honest, and just now there is no one else in all Paris whom I can trust.”

“Tha can trust me, lad, that tha can. Can tha remember the name of my lodging? Listen well. It is in the Impasse FornÉ, just off the rue Saint Antoine, the fourth turn to the right from the corner where the women are making waste for the guns. Tha cannot fail to find it and any message sent there will reach me. I shall not be far and I shall be ready to serve tha well.”

Humphrey shook Lisle’s hand warmly there in the shadow of the great house.

“In all Paris, you are my only friend, Humphrey Trail,” Lisle answered.