“Allons enfants de la patrie,
Le jour de gloire est arrive!”
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:
“Dansons la Carmagnole,
Vive le son du canon!”
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!