“The aristocrats are going, going, going! The guillotine is doing good work. But we must find them all, we must not let any escape! Some of them are getting away in spite of us, but, for the most part, they’re safe under lock and key or, better still, minus their thinking caps!”
There was a loud laugh at the end of the seed shopman’s remark, followed by a moment’s hush as Soufflot’s wife lifted the great cake and began to pass it around the table. It was so magnificent, as Lisle had said, that it fairly took one’s breath away. Most of the guests—tailors, blacksmiths, and tanners from the Saint Antoine district—were in awe of it, but after one taste they fell to with ardor. It was good! Ah, but it was delicious, that cake from the bakery on the rue Saint Honoré!
It was slow work passing it about the table, for it was heavy to carry. As Soufflot’s wife had no china dish to put it on, she had left it in its green box. Raoul regarded it yearningly. Would it ever reach him! He had thought often of the boy in the room above the junk room at the back of the bakery, but he had not spoken of him to any one. He knew that it was best to keep a quiet tongue in one’s head and he had no desire at all to get himself into trouble. It was no concern of his! He eyed the cake gloatingly, and turning to Dian, who sat next to him, he exclaimed: “How big it is! Madame Soufflot cuts big wedges for everyone but still it seems immense!”
His turn had come and he eyed his portion delightedly. He lifted the big piece in both hands and delved into it, smearing his round face with cream.
Dian took the rusty, uneven knife and lifted out his slice as Soufflot’s wife passed it to him. Then she went on to the next man. Dian took his cake in his hand, and, as he did so, he saw a stiff piece of paper stuck tight to the melting sugar. It was heavy and firm like writing paper, otherwise it would have turned to a pulp, as the softer paper about the cake had done. Dian unfolded it without thinking and saw the writing on it. He glanced about him. Everyone was deep in his cake and the discussion.
He read the words written upon it.
“I am Lisle Saint Frère, and I am a prisoner in the bakery shop at 128 rue Saint Honoré.”
He crushed the paper between his fingers, grinding it to bits with his nails. Then he sat silently in the midst of the hubbub going on about him, his head bowed over his clasped hands and in his heart a prayer of gratitude.