Then she woke again. Surprisingly all was still. How blissful that was! She was sure the musicians had stopped only a short time ago, and waited tensely to see if they would start again. But there was no sound. Then rolling over with aching head she saw that light streamed from between the chinks of the shutters, and that her watch said seven o’clock.
She opened her window, went back to bed and slept till nine. Then she wandered out to find breakfast. Only a gnawing hunger had made her get up at all.
Strangely enough none of the restaurants seemed to be open. She peered in at two, between drawn net curtains, to see chairs piled on empty tables, and boys washing down the floors. Then rounding a corner Cynthia came full on the Seine, between its gray stone banks, and a gray stone bridge beyond which loomed, full in the summer sunlight, the twin towers of Notre Dame de Paris. Oh lovely!
Along the embankment were the tiny stalls of the booksellers, all closed now. Didn’t Paris people go to work until noon, she wondered?
Then at the end of the block, facing a small open square she saw a sign which read “Café, Chocolat.” Here, perhaps, she could get some sort of meal. Outdoors, under a gay striped awning she found a little wicker table with a red and white top, and wicker chairs. A big black cat with a white bib, and green eyes gave her welcome with purrs and ankle rubbings. This was going to be jolly. She stammered her desire for chocolate, and learned that “little breads,” and butter could also be procured, and that little breads were really crisp warm rolls.
Notre Dame faced her, serene, solid, impregnable. When breakfast was over she’d go across and visit the church, and stroll along by the river. This must be the famous Left Bank, where all the artists and students lived.
The cat rubbed, purring, about the table, and a small boy with eyes as softly dark as the cat’s fur, and clad in a diminutive smock of black, with a small black beret perched on his dark curls came out to stare solemnly at this stranger. Cynthia buttered a piece of roll, and offered it to him. With a shy, “Merci!” muttered in an oddly deep voice he took it, bolted it, and watched for the next mouthful. Cynthia grinned at him, ate a bit herself and gave him, thereafter, alternate bites. By the time two rolls were finished, and the big pitcher of hot chocolate was drained to the last sweet drop, the small boy had smiled also, had told her that his name was Nono, and that he lived here. Here at last was a friend. Tomorrow she’d bring a sketchbook to breakfast.
When tomorrow came Nono appeared, along with his black cat, for more bits of warm roll. But this time he smiled immediately, crinkling his dark eyes with an amused and delightful welcome. When his father brought the chocolate, he said something in brief reproof, but Cynthia protested. “Let him stay,” she begged and displayed her sketchbook.
The man grinned and nodded. He knew about artists, and explained to the boy that he must sit still for mademoiselle. Whereat Nono climbed into one of the café chairs, and grasping firm hold of the huge and somewhat reluctant cat, proceeded to demonstrate that he was born to be an artist’s model.
Oh, this was glorious. Cynthia’s fingers flew to get it all down before it could dissolve, and when the cat finally went calmly to sleep, Nono continued to sit immovable, wide eyed, minutes on minutes. Cynthia got more and more thrilled. It was going to be a honey of a sketch. She wondered if, maybe, colors tomorrow. ...