“They’ll talk, but they won’t get anywhere; they never do,” sniffed the woman as she set the cake down on the table. It was already placed in its wide green box, and it was surrounded by soft pink paper.
It was a superb, a fantastic cake—four tiers of golden fluff, with glimpses of cream and marrons between layers and a gauze covering of spun sugar holding it all in place. It was topped with a glittering icing. The icing was festooned with candied apricots and cherries, in the midst of which stood a little spun-sugar figure wearing a tiny scarlet cap decorated with a tri-color rosette, the emblem of the revolution!
The bakery woman was proud of her cake and she did not attempt to conceal her pride. She pushed one side of the fine paper away so that Lisle could see it in all its glory. Lisle was glad to show his gratitude to the bakery woman for her kindness, by expressing an interest in her cake. He was quick to see beauty and cleverness, and he looked at the cake with appreciation. “Magnificent!” he exclaimed. Something in his sincere admiration, contrasting with the dire peril of his situation, touched the bakery woman so much that the tears came to her eyes. She turned away, saying, “I’ll see if I can make your cot more comfortable.”
She crossed the room, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand as she went.
It was then that the thought came to Lisle, and he knew that he must act quickly. He picked up the quill pen and wrote these words on a scrap of paper:
“I am Lisle Saint Frère, and I am a prisoner in the bakery shop at 128 rue Saint Honoré.”
He folded the paper and thrust it far back in the corner of the box, almost under the cake. While he did this he watched the bakery woman, whose back was toward him, as she smoothed the blankets of his cot. When she turned around, he was sitting as usual on the window seat. As she came up to him, he nodded toward the cake.
“You are a genius. I have never seen a cake like it, even at my mother’s soirées!” he said.
“It is a cake! Sacré bleu, it is a cake!” the bakery woman exclaimed.
“It might be for a banquet of the gods!” said Lisle, leaning forward and giving it another look. As he did so, the picture of past days in the schoolroom at home rose before him—Le Pont reading about Olympus, Marie Josephine pulling Denise’s hair when the governess was not looking, Hortense’s bored expression as she unwillingly took notes for a composition they were to write on the “Iliad.” A feeling of hopelessness came over him, but he smiled one of his rare smiles as he spoke to the woman. She put the green cover on the box and fastened the paper all about it with a gilt cord.