In the year 18--, a little boy of seven found himself wandering in some rich public garden, several miles from his own little hovel. Hands shoved in his pocket, the little fellow's eyes fairly popped out of his head at the gentry that strolled about on the paths. There were immensely fat woman, so covered in lace that he wondered that they could even take a few steps. He gazed in wonder at the silks and fine clothes. Every so often, the boy would spit into his hands and rub them together, in an effort of get the dirt off. Why was an urchin wandering in such a fine place?

We shall attempt to explain.

The little fellow's only name was Montparnasse. He was called after his father, a vagrant who only came around twice a year at best. He saw no need to be called by anything else, it suited him. His mother, who barely seemed aware of his existence, called it only when she was angry with him. He belonged to a single woman who encouraged him to stay as far away from the house as possible. He was happy to oblige, for what had a tiny hovel and a dirty street to offer him? He was a boy who was enamored by silk and satin, by purples and blues. The drab colours and coarse wool of his own life held no interest for him. In his own mind, he was above them.

This was why he spent his days gazing at the well-to-do folks, imagining himself to be one of them.

"How am I different than they," he asked himself, "Not at all. I'm smarter than at least half of them and better-looking than most."

And, if it were not for his outfitting, he should fit amongst them very well. He had a handsome face for one so young, and fine, if filthy, black hair that he often reached out to twist in his fingers. Often, he would stop to straighten out his filthy rags, and re-position his scrap of a hat.

"Ah," he said, catching sight of himself in an immaculate carriage window, "I really might be a handsome fellow." He would stare at his reflection until the carriage moved on. The child continued his walk, trying to look at everything at once.

Suddenly, he stopped. On a bench nearby sat an elderly gentleman, who was deeply involved with a book. This did not interest little Montparnasse. What interested him was the old man's hat. It was an enormous thing, dark black with a blue band. It was far larger than any hat he'd ever seen before. He had the unfightable urge to reach out and touch it.

He snuck behind the bench, keeping his eyes on the old man's hat at all times. It was an advantage he had being small. How many pocket-books had he stolen in this manner?

He inched closer, like a cat going for the kill. And, like a cat, he made a leap for it. His fingers closed around his prize, and he was off in a flash. He was stopped by a stern hand on his shoulder.

"I believe that is my hat, boy."

Montparnasse looked up. The gentlemen looked down. Neither said a word, and the child made no move to release the hat.

"Do you think you can make your living by stealing from honest citizens?"

The boy blinked. He could think of nothing to say. He had never been caught in his work before, and now his mind spun furiously to think of a way out.

"Turn around."

He obeyed, though it meant he had to look the man face on.

"What is your name?"

"Montparnasse."

"Is that all?"

"Yes."

The man reached out to take the hat, but the boy took a step backward. He was quite ready to run if he had to.

"Child, if you run, you will have men of the law at your heels, and a street full of witnesses who saw you. Return the hat, and I'll act as if nothing happened."

"Give it to me, and I will not have to run."

There was another silence. Montparnasse took note of clear paths through which he might escape.

"Very well. Take it and go. It is not fitting for a child like yourself to live like you are. Sell it, and make a profit. Take the money home to your mother, and live honestly. If I ever catch you at this game again," The man placed a hand on his shoulder, "I will most certainly call for the law. Do you understand, Monsieur Montparnasse?"

The boy nodded. He shoved the hat onto his head and made his escape.

"Stupid fellow," he laughed to himself as he ran, "I've got out of that scrape, with nothing but a lecture. Is that all these rich fools are made of? Surely, I'll out-fox them all."

He made his way to the dirty street-corner where his room was. It was situated on the bottom floor of a lopsided grey building. It had originally been a closet, and his mother rented it off the proprietor for half the price of a normal room. There was scarcely room for two people to inhabit it at a time. They took it in turns, by an unspoken system, to sleep in the room. They rarely saw each other. On one wall were fragmented shards of a mirror. It was for this reason that Montparnasse came home.

He found his mother sitting cross-legged on the floor. She was a short, scrawny, pale-faced woman of fourty-two. If it had not been for her abject poverty, she might have been beautiful. Had her hair not been chewed by lice, had her face been clean, with no teeth missing, she was the kind of beauty that would turn heads. It was this beauty, in fact, that had resulted in the birth of Montparnasse. After his birth and his father's disappearance, she forsook beauty, realizing it as the cause of all her troubles. She cared not that her teeth rotted, and that her face was scarred. It was all the better: no man would ever bother her.

She looked at Montparnasse with the greatest surprise when he entered. He knew he was not welcome, but took no notice.

"I am only here for a moment, mother," he said before she could shout at him.

He regarded himself in the broken mirror. The enormous hat, he thought, looked out of place in this filthy closet. It was strange to see such a fine thing over his gaunt face.

"I really am a handsome fellow." He said with a grin, that rendered him all the more handsome.

In his at of kindness, the rich gentlemen had increased the black mark of vanity in the child's soul. Could he have known that by sparing punishment, the already spoiled boy would rot more? He could not. Had he known the effect of his actions, would he have behaved differently? Most likely not.

It would have, perhaps, been kinder if he'd called the police and let the robber learn his lesson. Then, properly punished, young Montparnasse would think on amending his ways. The boy's heart was already hardened to kindness. It was a furnace of vanity, and the old man's act of mercy was merely kindling for it.

Montparnasse marveled at himself, at the handsome boy in the mirror.

"Why are you here? You know there is no room!" His mother's shout drew him from his reverie.

"I was just going, Mother." He tipped his hat to the miserable woman. He turned from his room with a new swagger in his step.