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: