Red Caps and Lilies

by Katharine Adams

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.