Marie crept into Madame’s private study, then quietly jumped onto an open drawer, then a stack of books, then the back of a chair, and finally the top of the bookcase by the window. She lay down with her head on her paws, closing her eyes to the sun streaming in from outside.
She thought of her dream, where she was serving up treats to animal friends in a busy, happy pâtisserie. Then she added to that image, with Berlioz’s music filling the air and Toulouse’s art brightening the walls. All three kittens were cheerful and proud of their work as a team.
WHOMP!
Something furry and heavy landed on her. Marie opened her eyes to see Toulouse, smiling wide.
“Looks like we finally found your hideout,” he said.
“I’ll get you back the next time you’re having a great nap,” Marie said with a laugh as she swatted at Toulouse’s bow.
“What did Louis say?” Berlioz called from below. “Will he help us? And what are you doing up there when there’s so much work to do at the café?”
Marie peered down at her brother. A small cloth bag lay at his feet.
“Why aren’t you at the café?” she asked.
“We found something very interesting. Come down and see.”
Marie sighed as she stood up and made her way to down to her brother. Toulouse followed.
“It’s a bunch of photographs from the Creature Café,” Berlioz said as his littermates landed softly on the floor. He nudged the bag toward Marie. “I discovered them in a box that was stuck inside the piano. That’s what was making it sound so awful.”
Berlioz opened the bag, and dozens of photos tumbled out. In them, all types of animals posed at the café tables: mice and rats and rabbits. Chipmunks and squirrels and groundhogs. Pigeons and ducks and geese. Dogs and cats and—wow!—even a pig.
“They all look like they’re having so much fun,” Marie said wistfully. “I’m glad you found this, Berlioz. It really gives me inspiration to make the café work somehow.”
“Hey,” Toulouse said, pointing with his paw to one particular photo. “There’s Pierre.”
Marie leaned in to get a better look. In the picture, Pierre stood under a sign that said WELCOME TO LE CAFé DES CREATURES.
Next to him stood a fluffy black cat—who looked very familiar.
“It’s Louis!” Marie cried. “They know each other! Now that I think of it, Louis changed his mind about helping us as soon as I said Pierre’s name….”
Berlioz pointed to another photo. In this one, Louis was in the kitchen on his hind legs, holding out a tray of kitty croissants.
“Mmm,” Toulouse said. “Looking at these photos is making me hungry.”
“What does his chef’s hat say?” Berlioz asked.
Marie leaned in close so she could read the writing on the hat.
“Oh. Meow. Gosh!” she said. “It says ‘Monsieur Midnight’! Louis is Monsieur Midnight!”
“Yes,” said someone behind them. “I’m Monsieur Midnight.”
“Louis!” Marie exclaimed.
The fluffy black cat sat in the doorway of Madame’s study with a chef’s hat on the floor in front of him.
“I’m sorry I ran off like that,” he said. “I was just so surprised to hear you mention Pierre and Le Café des Creatures. And, you know, we are cats, after all. Cats hate surprises.”
“I’m confused,” Berlioz said. “Pierre told us that Monsieur Midnight and his human moved to America.”
“Yes, that was the plan,” Louis said. “But right before we were supposed to leave, I realized I would miss my beloved Paris too much. My human could tell I didn’t want to move, so he let me stay behind. I’ve always wanted to live the alley cat life! I’m happy, but I wish I could see my old friend Pierre.”
“Then why didn’t you go tell him you were still here?” Toulouse asked.
Louis hung his head. “Pierre is a very loyal dog. At first I was afraid he’d still be angry with me, because his human was angry with my human, and we had such an awful fight. Then the more time passed, the harder it became to go visit him.”
“Oh, Louis…” Marie said. “I think Pierre misses you very much, too. You should have seen his face when he talked about Monsieur Midnight and all the fun you two had running the café.”
“He remembers all the fun?” Louis asked, his face brightening.
“Yes!” Marie said. “And obviously, so do you. We have to get you back together.”
Louis waved his paw. “Don’t worry about that. We have a café tryout to plan.”
“But first we have a friendship to save,” Marie said.
“That’s more important,” Berlioz added.
Toulouse thought quietly for a few moments. Then he exclaimed, “Hey, I think I have a plan for both those things!”
Late afternoon light seeped in through the small windows of the café, throwing patterns across the floor. Toulouse worked on his mural while Berlioz repaired a broken table leg with a piece of chewing gum he’d found in the alley.
He paused, sniffed the air, and turned to his brother. “Mmmm,” he murmured. “Fresh cream.”
Toulouse nodded. “Cheese, too. And spinach. Also, maybe a tomato?”
“Plus eggs. They must be making quiche!”
Both brothers began to purr at the delicious thought.
In the kitchen, Marie peeked into the oven. Louis had fixed it, but she was still worried about another food-on-fire situation. The black cat stood near the counter, mixing up cookie batter for dessert.
Knock-knock.
“Hello?” a squeaky voice called from outside the secret café door. “Kittens, are you here?”
“It’s Roquefort!” Berlioz told Toulouse. “Go let him in!”
Toulouse opened the door to find their mouse friend, dressed up in a little red cap and coat.
“Greetings, Berlioz!” Roquefort said, and stepped aside to reveal three other mice, also wearing coats. “This is my cousin Brie, and my other cousin, Camembert, and my other other cousin, Munster.”
“Welcome to our café!” Toulouse said, leading them inside to a mouse-sized table. “I’ll take your coats.”
“Your meal should be ready soon,” said Berlioz. “I can play you a song while you’re waiting.”
Berlioz sat down at the piano and started to play one of his new jazz tunes. The instrument sounded much better now that it didn’t have a box of old photos buried inside it.
Pierre appeared on the back stairs. “Is it time yet?” he called. “It smells like it might be.”
“Yes,” Toulouse told him, pointing to a dog-sized table set with a matching plate, cup, and silverware. “We set this table just for you.”
“Psssst,” Marie whispered to her brothers from the kitchen doorway. “Come here. Your bows are crooked.”
Berlioz and Toulouse let their sister fix the ribbons around their necks.
“There,” Marie said when she was done. “Now, here’s a cart with the quiche and lemonade. Don’t you dare drop anything!”
“Sure, Mademoiselle Chef,” Berlioz said. He wheeled the cart to Roquefort, his cousins, and Pierre. He and Toulouse had barely finished passing out all the food and drinks when Roquefort declared, “Dee-li-ci-ous! Double dee-li-ci-ous, in fact!”
The mice were gobbling up the quiche, but Pierre was taking his time. He scooped up one pawful, popped it in his mouth, and chewed slowly.
“Bah!” Pierre said. “This tastes so much like Monsieur Midnight’s quiche it’s eerie. It brings back many memories.”
“Good memories?” Berlioz asked.
“Definitely,” Pierre said with a smile. “Although I must say, this quiche might even be better than his. His quiche was always a little too…cheesy.”