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.