“Tell me some more, please. See, I will blow the fire and make a blaze.” Vivi spoke pleadingly, as she picked up some pieces of a broken basket and put them on the low fire in the tiny, rusty grate.

“You tell me something, Vivi. I’ve talked and talked, and now I want to know about you. Have you always lived here in the alley? Let’s sit close together to keep warm, and let’s talk.”

Rosanne drew the velvet table cover close about them and they hitched the cot as near the fire as they could without getting up.

Vivi shook her head.

“What is there for me to tell, Mademoiselle? It is you who have done everything. I have done nothing. I have lived with my father always, here in the alley. Winter and summer I have lived here. In the summer I go out and play in the streets. There is always some fun about the gates. We used to catch rides on the market carts, and that was the most fun of all. Sometimes we would ride way out into the country. But those times are over, for now no one may go in and out of the city without a pass, and there is always shouting and fighting around the gates.”

It was a fortnight since Humphrey Trail had brought Rosanne to Vivi. Their acquaintance had progressed by leaps and bounds. Shut in from the winter cold and terrors of the city, it was small wonder that they were drawn together. The days had been long, the only excitement being the arrival of Humphrey with food and good cheer. But he always had to shake his head when Rosanne asked for news of Lisle. He did not let her see how he himself was worried to distraction over the boy; instead he always had a word of encouragement. They would have a clue soon. He was probably safe enough. Yet all the while, night and day, he was going over in his mind the few things that he knew about Lisle. Where was he? How to find him? These were the grave questions always before Humphrey Trail!

This particular February night he was feeling discouraged, and for that reason pretended to be more than usually cheerful before the two girls. He found them sitting on the cot close to the fire and spoke to them merrily.

“What would tha say to a bit o’ sweet cake! Humphrey Trail will bring tha some. Tha shall see!”

Vivi smiled delightedly.

“A real cake from a bakery shop; one with cherries,” she pleaded.

“Bring news of Lisle, Humphrey Trail,” Rosanne said. Her brown eyes looked very big in her small, white face.

Above all things he must see that the little girl kept her cheer and courage. “Tha’ll be running races with him some day in the land o’ Yorkshire,” he said as he threw his cloak over his shoulder and went out.

He stood uncertainly for some moments on the corner of the rue Saint Antoine in a swirl of snow. Sounds of rough, brawling voices came down the dark street. The snow was black with the ashes and smoke from near-by forges where guns were being made for the army. Humphrey stepped inside a small cafÉ at the end of the street and, seating himself at a rude table near the door, ordered a glass of hot ale. He had never attempted any disguise. He was just an honest farmer and taken for such by any one who took the trouble to notice him. Few would have thought him to be other than French until they heard him speak. There were many out-of-towners in the city at that time, market farmers, well-to-do villagers, all eager to join in the talk and wrangle of the day, each with his own especial plan or grievance, all ardent Republicans.

Humphrey listened to a group who sat near him, rough, unkempt men of the Saint Antoine district. He had made it a practice, during the last fortnight, of dropping in here and there and listening to the talk going on around him. He sipped his hot ale, listening intently, but his knowledge of French was so meager that he could only catch a word here and there.

“They think they’re mighty fine, those aristos living snugly in their grand houses in the country. They think their fields and cattle and their hired slaves will save them. Well, they’ll sing another song soon. They’ll not stay long in hiding. They’ll be hunted out, root and branch, all of them!”

Loud laughter and applause greeted the end of this harangue. After putting down the coins to pay for his drink, Humphrey went out into the wintry night. He had heard something which gave him food for thought, and he felt that it would ease his mind to walk about the city. He was restless, but his discouragement had given place to alertness. There was so much to do that he had not a moment for brooding. For a week or more he had been wondering how it was with Lisle’s family at Pigeon Valley. The day after Lisle’s disappearance he had gone to the Marquise du Ganne’s house. Rosanne knew the house well, having gone there on state occasions with Marie Josephine. She was able to give Humphrey a fair idea of how to find it. She told him that the coat of arms on the door was different from that of the Saint FrÈres’. It was a shield with two swords crossed in the middle. He had found the house, but he had found, also, two soldiers of the Republic stationed in front of it. He had stopped and spoken to them.

“Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, citizen,” he had said, and they had answered, “Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, citizen.”

“You have a chilly day for doing naught but standing still,” he went on. They had laughed at his attempt to speak their Paris French, and one of them had replied:

“We are watching a nest to see that the birds do not fly away, citizen.”

Then he had gone on as unconcernedly as he could. So Lisle’s mother and his Great-aunt Hortense were prisoners, too!

Humphrey was thinking over this occurrence of a fortnight ago, as he walked toward the Place de la Bastille. He had gone back twice since to a vantage point where he could see the Du Ganne house without being observed himself. Both times he had seen the soldiers. He was thankful that Rosanne was safe for the present, at least. He was slowly trying to prepare a way of escape when the time should come that he could get away, but he knew that unless he could take the children, Lisle and Rosanne, with him, he would never go. He would not go alone.

The skipper of the schooner Sandlass, Anastasius Grubb, was a Yorkshire friend of his. He had made the voyage across from England with his crony, and he had waved him a smiling good-by from the shore. But that was some time ago now and Anastasius was as far away and unattainable as the stars, or so it seemed to Humphrey on that raw February night!

He walked on toward the rue Saint HonorÉ, drawing up the wide collar of his coat as the stinging wind blew about him. At last he turned in at the gilded door of the bakery at 126 rue Saint HonorÉ. Its blue and silver sign was flapping in the wind.

When he came inside he saw the bakery woman talking across the counter with a boy who carried a basket of vegetables.

“Tell your master that I say he is getting almost too fine for his old friends, judging by the cake he has ordered for next week!” the woman was saying, and the boy answered:

“It’s not for himself. It’s for the seed merchant where we stay when we come in with produce. Some of his friends are coming together next week for a dispute and supper!”

The bakery woman shrugged her shoulders.

“That’s all they do, waste good time chattering like a set of magpies. Well, they’ll have the cake, never fear! Now you can go to the back and take a cup of coffee and a croissant, if you’ve a mind to. Only do get that big basket out of the way, and quickly, too. You’re right in front of a customer.”

The boy went through the shop to the back where he found himself in the midst of general confusion.

Humphrey selected a good-sized sponge cake topped with almond icing. It was expensive and he counted out his coins ruefully. He did not have a great deal of money and he knew that he must save enough for bribes, if need be. He took the package of cake from the woman, who gave him only a passing look, and went out.

Raoul, the farmer’s boy, helped himself to a steaming cup of coffee from a tall, white jug on the table in the back room and selected a nicely browned croissant from the plate beside the jug. Then he shoved his basket over to one side and looked about for a place to rest and eat. He had been on his feet all day, and he was glad of the prospect of a bite to eat and, perhaps, a nap. Beyond the pantry room, at one side, were the kitchens, from which issued a savory odor of baking and the jangle of many voices; on the other side, at the back, was something that looked like a storeroom. On going into the storeroom, Raoul found that it was filled with old boxes, bundles of paper, a broken chair or two, and some tubs.

He sat down on a dingy settle without a back, in a dim corner of this junk room. At the other end of the room was a short stairway leading to a narrow gallery. The remains of an old bureau and some more boxes were heaped up on the little gallery. Raoul sipped his hot, sweet coffee and munched his croissant. The warmth from the baking kitchens and the quiet after his busy day made him drowsy, and soon he was fast asleep.

He woke suddenly and sat up. The bakery woman was climbing the stairway, carrying a tray. When she reached the gallery she put the tray down on the floor in front of a door which faced her. Taking some keys from her waist she unlocked the door and then picked up the tray. At that moment, through the half-open door, Raoul caught sight of a boy, who sat facing him on a window ledge in a corner of the room.

Raoul rubbed his eyes. He was not one to fancy things. Surely he was awake and not dreaming! He had seen a boy sitting on a window ledge in an otherwise unused room back of the storeroom. He had seen him distinctly. The light from a window behind had shone upon the boy’s fair hair. He saw the bakery woman unlock the door upon going in, and he knew she had locked it again when she went inside. He had heard the lock click. The boy in the room must be a prisoner!

Raoul picked up his basket of vegetables and went quickly out, unnoticed by the bustling groups in the kitchens and pantry.

After she had bolted the door, the woman crossed the room, and, putting the tray down on the window sill beside her prisoner, surveyed him, her hands on her hips. Lisle returned her gaze unconcernedly.

“A nice, grateful kind of boy you are, to be sure! Here I leave my patrons and my shop to come up here with good, fresh milk brought straight from the country by a market gardener, and crisp cakes baked in my own oven this very day, and never so much as a 'Thank you’ from you for all my pains. Name of a name, but you’re a proud one!”

Lisle did not show any emotion at the bakery woman’s words, and that is what she could not understand. He had been snatched away from his own home, this young aristocrat, at night in the midst of a storm, and was a prisoner here in this little room at the back of her bakery shop, held under lock and key, his destination unknown. For all he knew, he might be delivered up at any moment to the Revolutionary Tribunal, which made short work of aristocrats, old or young. Yet he could look at her unconcernedly with his cold blue eyes. Well, she had had nothing to do with the whole business, except that it was her task to feed the prisoner. She was not without a heart, and she saw that the food was good. She had no use for aristocrats, old or young—let them have their just deserts!—but she could not see the sense of keeping the boy shut up. Her husband did not confide his plans to her, but she guessed that there was money in his scheme, money or official position in one of the sections. These sections had sprung up all over the city, and each one hoped, in time, to make the laws of the country. No doubt her husband was keeping the lad until the right moment for handing him over to the Revolutionary Tribunal. He would be a ripe plum to present. That was their game. She was sure of it!

The prisoner was speaking to her.

“I wish to ask you a question. Could you tell me if there is any other prisoner in this place beside myself?”

Lisle asked the question simply enough, but he listened eagerly for the woman’s answer. His unwinking gaze held her eyes as she replied:

“There is no one else. Do you think I make a jail out of my good bakery? No! I’ve plenty to do to feed the gay birds who come flocking in these days. They think they’re all very fine, good Republicans they call themselves, but to my mind their heads are not any too safe on their shoulders. Each one has his turn these days, and the mob is none too fond of fine clothes!” She walked toward the door as she spoke, and as she opened it, she said over her shoulder:

“You’ll do well to eat the cakes. They’re madeleines, you know, the kind you bought when you used to come to the bakery.”

He smiled as he answered her. “I’ll eat them, every one,” he said.

He sat for a long time on the window sill, his hands clasped about his knees, thinking. He still wore the blue velvet suit in which he had been dressed on the night of his abduction. The woman brushed it for him each night. The fresh linen that she brought him each day was coarse. She did not ask him to wear the shabby trunks and smock which her husband had given her for him; but there was a streak of romance in her, and she admitted to herself that she liked to see the boy sitting there on the sill, in his velvet suit, and with the flare of ribbon at the back of his neck. He was different from any one that had ever been in her life, like some one in a book of fairy tales.

Lisle was thinking deeply, while he drank the glass of milk and ate the cakes. He went over in his mind the events of a fortnight ago—his sudden, unbelievable capture, the rush through the fury of the storm, then warmth, the smell of baking, this room, and the bakery woman! He had never seen his captors. They had left him blindfolded inside the room, and the woman had come in shortly afterward!

He knew that the bakery woman was kind and he was grateful to her. He knew that as a prisoner he might have had to suffer physically in ways that he would have found it hard to bear. Here there was no filth or misery. There was good food and a comfortable bed. There was even a little mouse who came out and wabbled its nose at him now and then. He particularly enjoyed this because he had read stories in which prisoners made friends with mice and rats. It made his captivity more interesting to him. He felt certain that the bakery woman would not lift a finger to help him to escape, and he was right. She was not of the stuff of which heroines are made. She would not do anything to change the peaceful, even course of her bakery existence. No, he must not look to her for more than everyday comfort! Where, then, could he look?

He thought constantly of Rosanne, more so than of his mother, for he knew where his mother was, or, at least, where she was supposed to be, while of Rosanne he knew nothing at all, except that he had left her singing in the salon when he went to the cellar for the wood. More than anything else he longed to know that she was safe. He did not dare to mention her to the bakery woman, because he did not want to call attention to her at all. There was nothing then that he could do, but wait.

He asked the bakery woman for ink and a pen soon after his coming. She had protested at first, but had finally brought him a dish of ink and a long, fine quill pen. She herself used such articles only for her accounts, writing not being one of her best accomplishments. Lisle had explained to her why he wanted them.

“There is nothing to do, don’t you see? Nothing. I have no books, and you have none to give me. All prisoners have written accounts of their life in prison. It is always done, and it will give me something to think about!” he had said to her, and she had brought what he wanted, when she had come up again with his food. He had begun a sort of diary, and once when the mouse came out from his hole and winked at him while he was writing, he felt as though he might be a part of an old novel. He was a prisoner writing his diary, and his one friend was a mouse!

These were his happier moments. There were other times when he realized his dire position so vividly that it seemed as though he must pound and tear at the door until somehow he smashed it open, but he knew that it would never give way. He knew that his mother had gone to Great-aunt Hortense. More than that he could not know, and he dared not think too much about his people. When he thought of Pigeon Valley, he found that it was Dian who stood out among all others.

Meanwhile, Dian had walked the city from one end to another, making friends as was his wont. He became acquainted with the market gardener and went about with him to meetings of the different sections. Now and then he spoke at the meetings. When he spoke, the wrangling generally ceased for a moment, and the people listened—but only for a moment. They had no use for the message of love that he had to give. Yet they showed no animosity when his gentle, earnest face was seen among the crowds and at public meetings. He never once lost faith in his belief that the right way would be shown him. He was grateful that he had met Raoul and his master, for being with them meant being with the people, mingling with them freely. He had never gone through the Saint FrÈre house again, as he did not wish to run the risk of meeting Henri. Each night he slept in the hidden cellar and it was there that he thought everything out. As he paced up and down the rough, uneven floor, Dian thought that he would give up all that the future held for him of peace and quiet days to have Lisle walking beside him.

When the bakery woman came in to see Lisle the next afternoon she brought with her the cake she had baked for the seed shopman’s party. The boy, Raoul, was to come for it at four o’clock. Her man was going to the supper. There was to be roasted suckling pig. Indeed, it was to be a fine affair and much discussion was to take place.

“They’ll talk, but they won’t get anywhere; they never do,” sniffed the woman as she set the cake down on the table. It was already placed in its wide green box, and it was surrounded by soft pink paper.

It was a superb, a fantastic cake—four tiers of golden fluff, with glimpses of cream and marrons between layers and a gauze covering of spun sugar holding it all in place. It was topped with a glittering icing. The icing was festooned with candied apricots and cherries, in the midst of which stood a little spun-sugar figure wearing a tiny scarlet cap decorated with a tri-color rosette, the emblem of the revolution!

The bakery woman was proud of her cake and she did not attempt to conceal her pride. She pushed one side of the fine paper away so that Lisle could see it in all its glory. Lisle was glad to show his gratitude to the bakery woman for her kindness, by expressing an interest in her cake. He was quick to see beauty and cleverness, and he looked at the cake with appreciation. “Magnificent!” he exclaimed. Something in his sincere admiration, contrasting with the dire peril of his situation, touched the bakery woman so much that the tears came to her eyes. She turned away, saying, “I’ll see if I can make your cot more comfortable.”

She crossed the room, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand as she went.

It was then that the thought came to Lisle, and he knew that he must act quickly. He picked up the quill pen and wrote these words on a scrap of paper:

“I am Lisle Saint FrÈre, and I am a prisoner in the bakery shop at 128 rue Saint HonorÉ.”

He folded the paper and thrust it far back in the corner of the box, almost under the cake. While he did this he watched the bakery woman, whose back was toward him, as she smoothed the blankets of his cot. When she turned around, he was sitting as usual on the window seat. As she came up to him, he nodded toward the cake.

“You are a genius. I have never seen a cake like it, even at my mother’s soirÉes!” he said.

“It is a cake! SacrÉ bleu, it is a cake!” the bakery woman exclaimed.

“It might be for a banquet of the gods!” said Lisle, leaning forward and giving it another look. As he did so, the picture of past days in the schoolroom at home rose before him—Le Pont reading about Olympus, Marie Josephine pulling Denise’s hair when the governess was not looking, Hortense’s bored expression as she unwillingly took notes for a composition they were to write on the “Iliad.” A feeling of hopelessness came over him, but he smiled one of his rare smiles as he spoke to the woman. She put the green cover on the box and fastened the paper all about it with a gilt cord.

“There are no gods now but liberty and fraternity, they say, but I say there’s too much lawlessness, too much fighting and drinking, when every one needs a sober head. That’s what I say!” The woman shrugged her shoulders, lifted the box and walked toward the door. “This cake is going to them that have never tasted anything like it before. No one needs to say, because I’ve risen in the world I forget them that hasn’t.” As she said this, the bakery woman went out and closed the door.

The seed shopman, whose name was Soufflot, surveyed his room with pride. It was the storeroom of the seed shop. All along the center of the room were two rows of rude benches put together to make one long table. The walls were festooned from one end to the other with tri-color rosettes and streamers. At the far end of the room was a great banner upon which were the words “Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death” in bright red, white, and blue letters.

The seed shopman had little enough to offer in the way of refreshment, his own nourishment consisting of black bread and lentil soup; but he was fortunate in having friends from the country. Raoul’s master had brought a couple of suckling pigs and had ordered a superb cake from the famous bakery on the rue Saint HonorÉ!

There were rows of tin plates along each side of the improvised table, and jugs of thin red wine were placed at intervals down the middle. From an inner room came the smell of sizzling, roasted pig. The cake sat in the center of the table. It was of so regal an aspect that it seemed to have no part with its surroundings.

A clock somewhere near the West Barricade struck nine. It was time for the guests to arrive. Just then, the market gardener, who had contributed largely to the feast, entered the room, Raoul at his heels. Towering behind them, his grey cloak wrapt close about him, hatless, and with the breath of fields and woods that seemed always to hover mysteriously about him, was Dian!

“I’ve brought in a man from the farmlands. He met up with the boy, Raoul. He’s a shepherd and he’s new to the city. He went to a sitting of the convention last night and spoke some good words, but those fools wouldn’t listen to him,” said the market gardener. Having donated the pigs and potatoes and the cake for the feast, he felt at liberty to bring in whom he pleased to partake of it.

Soufflot gave Dian a hearty welcome. His greeting was interrupted by the loud trampling of feet and the jangle of rough voices on the stairs, and the next moment the party arrived!

It was a noisy meal after the first hunger had been appeased. The guests, whose food consisted daily of black bread and garlic washed down with poor wine, ate enormously, declaring that they never knew that roasted pig could taste so good.

When at last they had had enough of the pig, they sat back and began to talk.

“The aristocrats are going, going, going! The guillotine is doing good work. But we must find them all, we must not let any escape! Some of them are getting away in spite of us, but, for the most part, they’re safe under lock and key or, better still, minus their thinking caps!”

There was a loud laugh at the end of the seed shopman’s remark, followed by a moment’s hush as Soufflot’s wife lifted the great cake and began to pass it around the table. It was so magnificent, as Lisle had said, that it fairly took one’s breath away. Most of the guests—tailors, blacksmiths, and tanners from the Saint Antoine district—were in awe of it, but after one taste they fell to with ardor. It was good! Ah, but it was delicious, that cake from the bakery on the rue Saint HonorÉ!

It was slow work passing it about the table, for it was heavy to carry. As Soufflot’s wife had no china dish to put it on, she had left it in its green box. Raoul regarded it yearningly. Would it ever reach him! He had thought often of the boy in the room above the junk room at the back of the bakery, but he had not spoken of him to any one. He knew that it was best to keep a quiet tongue in one’s head and he had no desire at all to get himself into trouble. It was no concern of his! He eyed the cake gloatingly, and turning to Dian, who sat next to him, he exclaimed: “How big it is! Madame Soufflot cuts big wedges for everyone but still it seems immense!”

His turn had come and he eyed his portion delightedly. He lifted the big piece in both hands and delved into it, smearing his round face with cream.

Dian took the rusty, uneven knife and lifted out his slice as Soufflot’s wife passed it to him. Then she went on to the next man. Dian took his cake in his hand, and, as he did so, he saw a stiff piece of paper stuck tight to the melting sugar. It was heavy and firm like writing paper, otherwise it would have turned to a pulp, as the softer paper about the cake had done. Dian unfolded it without thinking and saw the writing on it. He glanced about him. Everyone was deep in his cake and the discussion.

He read the words written upon it.

“I am Lisle Saint FrÈre, and I am a prisoner in the bakery shop at 128 rue Saint HonorÉ.”

He crushed the paper between his fingers, grinding it to bits with his nails. Then he sat silently in the midst of the hubbub going on about him, his head bowed over his clasped hands and in his heart a prayer of gratitude.