Montparnasse leaned back against the building, crossing his long legs and pulling his hat down further over his eyes.
Babet was aware that the young man was in a pensive state of mind; the dandy had hardly responded to anything Babet had said within the last few hours. In lieu of conversation, he contented himself with watching a bony alley cat desperately pawing through a nearby pile of trash. She caught a broken quill between her front paws and, turning her head sideways, slowly began to gnaw on the tip, pausing frequently to make an exaggerated chewing motion, clearly having difficulty swallowing what would probably be her only dinner. Her middle was swollen in pregnancy.
"I hate this city," Babet declared suddenly. "I wish I were anywhere else."
He did not expect a response from Montparnasse, who was often immersed in deep reverie the likes of which no one else bothered to understand. There was a long, silent moment between the two of them; the starved cat began to retch, heaving, and would probably have been sick if there were anything in her stomach. After the spell passed, she went back to biting at the old quill. Babet sighed. He had not eaten today either.
"What else is there?" Montparnasse asked softly.
It was not meant to be a sarcastic or droll remark. For a moment Babet had forgotten his original statement; he turned to his companion and saw that the boy's dark eyes were fixed on him, unintentionally revealing the mild question within. "What do you mean?"
"Have you been outside this city?"
Babet interlocked the long fingers of both hands and flexed them. "Yes," he said at length. "I used to travel. I saw a lot of France." He paused, remembering.
"Someone told me," Montparnasse began, his voice still low and calm, "that if you go far enough, there is nothing but water." There was a gentle question in these words. "And nowhere to stand."
"The ocean."
"Have you seen it?" asked Montparnasse, his rising tone betraying his disinterested countenance. "It's true?"
Babet shrugged. "I haven't, but I know some who have." He paused again. "On the other side of the ocean is London."
Montparnasse turned to face him. "London?"
"People there speak differently, neither French nor slang."
"Like Mamselle Miss," Montparnasse said quickly, barely hiding his enthusiasm.
"Mademoiselle Mars," said Babet, "has been in Paris for a very long time. But yes, like Mademoiselle."
The two lapsed back into silence.
The cat, meanwhile, had hardly moved. Babet frowned at it. The quill was not going to be enough to keep it alive, much less the kittens it had not yet borne. Certainly an animal, with no attachments, could escape this city and find a better life—anywhere.
He looked at Montparnasse, who was almost twenty years old and could not comprehend the idea of an ocean. Paris was evil, that was certain, but it was magnetic. All of them were trapped here, both capable and incapable of escape. The city did not easily let go of its inmates.
The three Parisians remained in the alley, almost immobile, until sunrise forced them to retreat to the shadows.