WHAT LISLE PUT IN THE CAKE
“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.