Leaving the river behind them, they made their way onward across the Esplanade des Invalides, through the serried lines of trees, stark and formal against the January sky, to the rue Fabert.  Here, in the rue Fabert, lay that note of contrast that is bound into the very atmosphere of Paris—­the note that touches the imagination to so acute an interest.  Here shabby, broken-down shops rubbed shoulders with fine old entries, entries that savored of other times in the hint of roomy court-yard and green garden to be caught behind their gateways; here were creameries that conjured the country to the eager senses, and laundries that exhaled a very aroma of work in the hot steam that poured through their windows and in the babble of voices that arose from the women who stood side by side, iron in hand, bending over the long, spotless tables piled with linen.

It was a touch of Parisian life, small in itself, but subtle and suggestive as the premonition of spring awakened by the twittering of the sparrows in the tall, leafless trees, and the throbbing song of a caged canary that floated down from a window above a shop.  It was suggestive of that Parisian life that is as restless as the sea, as uncontrollable, as possessed of hidden currents.

Involuntarily the boy paused and glanced up at the bird in its cage—­the bird that, regardless of the garden of greenstuffs pushed through its bars, was pouring forth its heart to the pale sun in a frenzy of worship.

“How strange that is!” he said.  “If I were a bird and saw the great sky, knowing myself imprisoned, I should beat my life out against my cage.”

The Irishman looked down upon him.  “I wonder!” he said, slowly.

The quick, gray eyes flashed up to his.  “You doubt it?”

“I don’t know!  ’On my soul, I don’t know!”

“Would you not beat your life out against a cage?”

“I wonder that too!  I’d like to think I would, but—­”

“You imagine you would hesitate?  You think you would shrink?”

“I don’t know!  Human nature is so damnably patient.  Come along! here’s the place we’re looking for.”  He drew the boy across the road to the doorway of a little cafe, over the door of which hung the somewhat pretentious sign Maison Gustav.

The Maison Gustav was scarcely a more appetizing place than the Hotel Railleux.  One-half of its interior was partitioned off and filled with long tables, at which, earlier in the day, workmen were served with dejeuner, while the other and smaller portion, reserved for more fastidious guests, was fitted with a counter, ranged with fruit and cakes, and with half a dozen round marble-topped tables, provided with chairs.

This more refined portion of the cafe was empty of customers as the two entered.  With the ease and decision of an habitue, the Irishman chose the table nearest to the counter, and presently a woman appeared from some inner region, and, approaching her customers, eyed them with that mixture of shrewd observation and polite welcome that belongs to the Frenchwoman who follows the ways of commerce.