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Title: The Lost Child
1894
Author: François Edouard Joachim Coppée
Translator: J. Matthewman
Release Date: October 17, 2007 [EBook #23063]
Language: English
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LOST CHILD ***
Produced by David Widger
THE LOST CHILD
By François Edouard Joachim Coppée
Translated by J. Matthewman
Copyright, 1894, by The Current Literature Publishing Company.
On that morning, which was the morning before Christmas, two
important events happened simultaneously--the sun rose, and so did M.
Jean-Baptiste Godefroy.
Unquestionably the sun, illuminating suddenly the whole of Paris with
its morning rays, is an old friend regarded with affection by everybody,
It is particularly welcome after a fortnight of misty atmosphere and
gray skies, when the wind has cleared the air and allowed the sun's rays
to reach the earth again. Besides all of which the sun is a person of
importance. Formerly, he was regarded as a god, and was called Osiris,
Apollyon, and I don't know what else. But do not imagine that because
the sun is so important he is of greater influence than M. Jean-Baptiste
Godefroy, millionaire banker, director of the _Comptoir Général de
Crédit_, administrator of several big companies, deputy and member of
the General Counsel of the Eure, officer of the Legion of Honor, etc.,
etc. And whatever opinion the sun may have about himself, he certainly
has not a higher opinion than M. Jean-Baptiste Godefroy has of
_him_self. So we are authorized to state, and we consider ourselves
justified in stating, that on the morning in question, at about a
quarter to eight, the sun and M. Jean-Baptiste Godefroy rose.
Certainly the manner of rising of these two great powers mentioned
was not the same. The good old sun began by doing a great many pretty
actions. As the sleet had, during the night, covered the bare branches
of the trees in the boulevard Malesherbes, where the _hôtel_ Godefroy is
situated, with a powdered coating, the great magician sun amused himself
by transforming the branches into great bouquets of red coral. At the
same time he scattered his rays impartially on those poor passers-by
whom necessity sent out, so early in the morning, to gain their daily
bread, He even had a smile for the poor clerk, who, in a thin overcoat,
was hurrying to his office, as well as for the _grisette_, shivering
under her thin, insufficient clothing; for the workman carrying half a
loaf under his arm, for the car-conductor as he punched the tickets, and
for the dealer in roast chestnuts, who was roasting his first panful. In
short, the sun gave pleasure to everybody in the world. M. Jean-Baptiste
Godefroy, on the contrary, rose in quite a different frame of mind. On
the previous evening he had dined with the Minister for Agriculture.
The dinner, from the removal of the _potage_ to the salad, bristled with
truffles, and the banker's stomach, aged forty-seven years, experienced
the burning and biting of pyrosis. So the manner in which M.
Jean-Baptiste Godefroy rang for his valet-de-chambre was so expressive
that, as he got some warm water for his master's shaving, Charles said
to the kitchen-maid:
"There he goes! The monkey is barbarously ill-tempered again this
morning. My poor Gertrude, we're going to have a miserable day."
Whereupon, walking on tiptoe, with eyes modestly cast down, he entered
the chamber of his master, opened the curtains, lit the fire, and made
all the necessary preparations for the toilet with the discreet demeanor
and respectful gestures of a sacristan placing the sacred vessels on the
altar for the priest.
"What sort of weather this morning?" demanded M. Godefroy curtly, as he
buttoned his undervest of gray swandown upon a stomach that was already
a little too prominent.
"Very cold, sir," replied Charles meekly. "At six o'clock the
thermometer marked seven degrees above zero. But, as you will see,
sir, the sky is quite clear, and I think we are going to have a fine
morning."
In stropping his razor, M. Godefroy approached the window, drew aside
one of the hangings, looked on the boulevard, which was bathed in
brightness, and made a slight grimace which bore some resemblance to a
smile.
It is all very well to be perfectly stiff and correct, and to know
that it is bad taste to show feeling of any kind in the presence of
domestics, but the appearance of the roguish sun in the middle of
December sends such a glow of warmth to the heart that it is impossible
to disguise the fact. So M. Godefroy deigned, as before observed, to
smile. If some one had whispered to the opulent banker that his smile
had anything in common with that of the printer's boy, who was enjoying
himself by making a slide on the pavement, M. Godefroy would have been
highly incensed. But it really was so all the same; and during the space
of one minute this man who was so occupied by business matters, this
leading light in the financial and political worlds, indulged in the
childish pastime of watching the passers-by, and following with his eyes
the files of conveyances as they gaily rolled in the sunshine.
But pray do not be alarmed. Such a weakness could not last long. People
of no account, and those who have nothing to do, may be able to
let their time slip by in doing nothing. It is very well for women,
children, poets, and riffraff. M. Godefroy had other fish to fry; and
the work of the day which was commencing promised to be exceptionally
heavy. From half-past eight to ten o'clock he had a meeting at his
office with a certain number of gentlemen, all of whom bore a striking
resemblance to M. Godefroy. Like him, they were very nervous; they had
risen with the sun, they were all _blasés_, and they all had the same
object in view--to gain money. After breakfast (which he took after
the meeting), M. Godefroy had to leap into his carriage and rush to the
Bourse, to exchange a few words with other gentlemen who had also risen
at dawn, but who had not the least spark of imagination among them.
(The conversations were always on the same subject--money.) From there,
without losing an instant, M. Godefroy went to preside over another
meeting of acquaintances entirely void of compassion and tenderness.
The meeting was held round a baize-covered table, which was strewn with
heaps of papers and well provided with ink-wells. The conversation again
turned on money, and various methods of gaining it. After the aforesaid
meeting he, in his capacity of deputy, had to appear before several
commissions (always held in rooms where there were baize-covered tables
and ink-wells and heaps of papers). There he found men as devoid of
sentiment as he was, all utterly incapable of neglecting any occasion
of gaining money, but who, nevertheless, had the extreme goodness to
sacrifice several hours of the afternoon to the glory of France.
After having quickly shaved he donned a morning suit, the elegant cut
and finish of which showed that the old beau of nearly fifty had not
ceased trying to please. When he shaved he spared the narrow strip
of pepper-and-salt beard round his chin, as it gave him the air of a
trust-worthy family man in the eyes of the Arrogants and of fools in
general. Then he descended to his cabinet, where he received the file of
men who were entirely occupied by one thought--that of augmenting their
capital. These gentlemen discussed several projected enterprises, all
of them of considerable importance, notably that of a new railroad to
be laid across a wild desert. Another scheme was for the founding of
monster works in the environs of Paris, another of a mine to be worked
in one of the South American republics. It goes without saying that no
one asked if the railway would have passengers or goods to carry, or if
the proposed works should manufacture cotton nightcaps or distil whisky;
whether the mine was to be of virgin gold or of second-rate copper:
certainly not. The conversation of M. Godefroy's morning callers turned
exclusively upon the profits which it would be possible to realize
during the week which should follow the issue of the shares. They
discussed particularly the values of the shares, which they knew would
be destined before long to be worth less than the paper on which they
were printed in fine style.
These conversations, bristling with figures, lasted till ten o'clock
precisely, and then the director of the _Comptoir Général de Crédit_,
who, by the way, was an honest man--at least, as honest as is to be
found in business--courteously conducted his last visitor to the head of
the stairway. The visitor named was an old villain, as rich as Croesus,
who, by a not uncommon chance, enjoyed the general esteem of the public;
whereas, had justice been done to him, he would have been lodging at the
expense of the State in one of those large establishments provided by a
thoughtful government for smaller delinquents; and there he would have
pursued a useful and healthy calling for a lengthy period, the exact
length having been fixed by the judges of the supreme court. But M.
Godefroy showed him out relentlessly, notwithstanding his importance--it
was absolutely necessary to be at the Bourse at 11 o'clock--and went
into the dining-room.
It was a luxuriously furnished room. The furniture and plate would
have served to endow a cathedral. Nevertheless, notwithstanding that M.
Godefroy took a gulp of bicarbonate of soda, his indigestion refused
to subside, consequently the banker could only take the scantiest
breakfast--that of a dyspeptic. In the midst of such luxury, and under
the eye of a well-paid butler, M. Godefroy could only eat a couple of
boiled eggs and nibble a little mutton chop. The man of money trifled
with dessert--took only a crumb of Roquefort--not more than two cents'
worth. Then the door opened and an overdressed but charming little
child--young Raoul, four years old--the son of the company director,
entered the room, accompanied by his German nursery governess.
This event occurred every day at the same hour--a quarter to eleven,
precisely, while the carriage which was to take the banker to the Bourse
was awaiting the gentleman who had only a quarter of an hour to give to
paternal sentiment. It was not that he did not love his son. He did love
him--nay, he adored him, in his own particular way. But then, you know,
business _is_ business.
At the age of forty-two, when already worldly-wise and _blasé_, he
had fancied himself in love with the daughter of one of his club
friends--Marquis de Neufontaine, an old rascal--a nobleman, but one
whose card-playing was more than open to suspicion, and who would have
been expelled from the club more than once but for the influence of M.
Godefroy, The nobleman was only too happy to become the father-in-law of
a man who would pay his debts, and without any scruples he handed over
his daughter--a simple and ingenuous child of seventeen, who was taken
from a convent to be married--to the worldly banker. The girl was
certainly sweet and pretty, but she had no dowry except numerous
aristocratic prejudices and romantic illusions, and her father thought
he was fortunate in getting rid of her on such favorable terms. M.
Godefroy, who was the son of an avowed old miser of Andelys, had always
remained a man of the people, and intensely vulgar. In spite of his
improved circumstances, he had not improved. His entire lack of tact and
refinement was painful to his young wife, whose tenderest feelings
he ruthlessly and thoughtlessly trampled upon. Things were looking
unpromising, when, happily for her, Madame Godefroy died in giving birth
to her firstborn. When he spoke of his deceased wife, the banker waxed
poetical, although had she lived they would have been divorced in six
months. His son he loved dearly for several reasons--first, because
the child was an only son; secondly, because he was a scion of two such
houses as Godefroy and Neufontaine; finally, because the man of money
had naturally great respect for the heir to many millions. So the
youngster had golden rattles and other similar toys, and was brought up
like a young Dauphin. But his father, overwhelmed with business worries,
could never give the child more than fifteen minutes per day of his
precious time--and, as on the day mentioned, it was always during
"cheese"--and for the rest of the day the father abandoned the child to
the care of the servants.
"Good morning, Raoul."
"Good morning, papa."
And the company director, having put his serviette away, sat young Raoul
on his left knee, took the child's head between his big paws, and in
stroking and kissing it actually forgot all his money matters and even
his note of the afternoon, which was of great importance to him, as by
it he could gain quite an important amount of patronage.
"Papa," said little Raoul suddenly, "will Father Christmas put anything
in my shoe tonight?"
The father answered with "Yes, if you are a good child." This was
very striking from a man who was a pronounced freethinker, who always
applauded every anti-clerical attack in the Chamber with a vigorous
"Hear, hear." He made a mental note that he must buy some toys for his
child that very afternoon.
Then he turned to the nursery governess with:
"Are you quite satisfied with Raoul, Mademoiselle Bertha?"
Mademoiselle Bertha became as red as a peony at being addressed, as
if the question were scarcely _comme il faut_, and replied by a little
imbecile snigger, which seemed fully to satisfy M. Godefroy's curiosity
about his son's conduct.
"It's fine to-day," said the financier, "but cold. If you take Raoul to
Monceau Park, mademoiselle, please be careful to wrap him up well."
Mademoiselle, by a second fit of idiotic smiling, having set at rest
M. Godefroy's doubts and fears on that essential point, he kissed his
child, left the room hastily, and in the hall was enveloped in his fur
coat by Charles, who also closed the carriage door. Then the faithful
fellow went off to the café which he frequented, Rue de Miromesnil,
where he had promised to meet the coachman of the baroness who lived
opposite, to play a game of billiards, thirty up--and spot-barred, of
course.
*****
Thanks to the brown bay--for which a thousand francs over and above its
value was paid by M. Godefroy as a result of a sumptuous snail supper
given to that gentleman's coachman by the horse-dealer--thanks to the
expensive brown bay which certainly went well, the financier was able to
get through his many engagements satisfactorily. He appeared punctually
at the Bourse, sat at several committee tables, and at a quarter to
five, by voting with the ministry, he helped to reassure France
and Europe that the rumors of a ministerial crisis had been totally
unfounded. He voted with the ministry because he had succeeded in
obtaining the favors which he demanded as the price of his vote.
After he had thus nobly fulfilled his duty to himself and his country,
M. Godefroy remembered what he had said to his child on the subject of
Father Christmas, and gave his coachman the address of a dealer in toys.
There he bought, and had put in his carriage, a fantastic rocking-horse,
mounted on casters--a whip in each ear; a box of leaden soldiers--all as
exactly alike as those grenadiers of the Russian regiment of the time
of Paul I, who all had black hair and snub noses; and a score of other
toys, all equally striking and costly. Then, as he returned home, softly
reposing in his well-swung carriage, the rich banker, who, after all,
was a father, began to think with pride of his little boy and to form
plans for his future.
When the child grew up he should have an education worthy of a prince,
and he would be one, too, for there was no longer any aristocracy except
that of money, and his boy would have a capital of about 80,000,000
francs.
If his father, a pettifogging provincial lawyer, who had formerly dined
in the Latin Quarter when in Paris, who had remarked every evening when
putting on a white tie that he looked as fine as if he were going to a
wedding--if he had been able to accumulate an enormous fortune, and to
become thereby a power in the republic; if he had been able to obtain in
marriage a young lady, one of whose ancestors had fallen at Marignano,
what an important personage little Raoul might become. M. Godefroy built
all sorts of air-castles for his boy, forgetting that Christmas is the
birthday of a very poor little child, son of a couple of vagrants, born
in a stable, where the parents only found lodging through charity.
In the midst of the banker's dreams the coachman cried: "Door, please,"
and drove into the yard. As he went up the steps M. Godefroy was
thinking that he had barely time to dress for dinner; but on entering
the vestibule he found all the domestics crowded in front of him in a
state of alarm and confusion. In a corner, crouching on a seat, was the
German nursery-governess, crying. When she saw the banker she buried her
face in her hands and wept still more copiously than before. M. Godefroy
felt that some misfortune had happened.
"What's the meaning of all this? What's amiss? What has happened?"
Charles, the _valet de chambre_, a sneaking rascal of the worst type,
looked at his master with eyes full of pity and stammered: "Mr. Raoul--"
"My boy?"
"Lost, sir. The stupid German did it. Since four o'clock this afternoon
he has not been seen."
The father staggered back like one who had been hit by a ball. The
German threw herself at his feet, screaming: "Mercy, mercy!" and the
domestics all spoke at the same time.
"Bertha didn't go to _parc Monceau_. She lost the child over there on the
fortifications. We have sought him all over, sir. We went to the office
for you, sir, and then to the Chamber, but you had just left. Just
imagine, the German had a rendezvous with her lover every day, beyond
the ramparts, near the gate of Asnières. What a shame! It is a place
full of low gipsies and strolling players. Perhaps the child has been
stolen. Yes, sir, we informed the police at once. How could we imagine
such a thing? A hypocrite, that German! She had a rendezvous, doubtless,
with a countryman--a Prussian spy, sure enough!"
His son lost! M. Godefroy seemed to have a torrent of blood rushing
through his head. He sprang at Mademoiselle, seized her by the arms and
shook her furiously.
"Where did you lose him, you miserable girl? Tell me the truth before I
shake you to pieces. Do you hear? Do you hear?"
But the unfortunate girl could only cry and beg for mercy.
The banker tried to be calm. No, it was impossible. Nobody would dare
to steal _his_ boy. Somebody would find him and bring him back. Of that
there could be no doubt. He could scatter money about right and left,
and could have the entire police force at his orders. And he would set
to work at once, for not an instant should be lost.
"Charles, don't let the horses be taken out. You others, see that this
girl doesn't escape. I'm going to the Prefecture."
And M. Godefroy, with his heart thumping against his sides as if it
would break them, his hair wild with fright, darted into his carriage,
which at once rolled off as fast as the horses could take it. What
irony! The carriage was full of glittering playthings, which sparkled
every time a gaslight shone on them. For the next day was the birthday
of the divine Infant at whose cradle wise men and simple shepherds alike
adored.
"My poor little Raoul! Poor darling! Where is my boy?" repeated the
father as in his anguish he dug his nails into the cushions of the
carriage.
At that moment all his titles and decorations, his honors, his millions,
were valueless to him. He had one single idea burning in his brain. "My
poor child! Where is my child?"
At last he reached the Prefecture of Police. But no one was there--the
office had been deserted for some time.
"I am M. Godefroy, deputy from L'Eure--My little boy is lost in Paris;
a child of four years. I must see the Prefect." He slipped a louis into
the hand of the _concierge_.
The good old soul, a veteran with a gray mustache, less for the sake
of the money than out of compassion for the poor father, led him to the
Prefect's private apartments. M. Godefroy was finally ushered into the
room of the man in whom were centred all his hopes. He was in evening
dress, and wore a monocle; his manner was frigid and rather pretentious.
The distressed father, whose knees trembled through emotion, sank into
an armchair, and, bursting into tears, told of the loss of his boy--told
the story stammeringly and with many breaks, for his voice was choked by
sobs.
The Prefect, who was also father of a family, was inwardly moved at the
sight of his visitor's grief, but he repressed his emotion and assumed a
cold and self-important air.
"You say, sir, that your child has been missing since four o'clock?"
"Yes."
"Just when night was falling, confound it. He isn't at all precocious,
speaks very little, doesn't know where he lives, and can't even
pronounce his own name?"
"Unfortunately that is so."
"Not far from Asnières gate? A suspected quarter. But cheer up. We have
a very intelligent _Commissaire de Police_ there. I'll telephone to
him."
The distressed father was left alone for five minutes. How his temples
throbbed and his heartbeat!
Then, suddenly, the Prefect reappeared, smiling with satisfaction.
"Found!"
Whereupon M. Godefroy rushed to the Prefect, whose hand he pressed till
that functionary winced with the pain.
"I must acknowledge that we were exceedingly fortunate. The little chap
is blond, isn't he? Rather pale? In blue velvet? Black felt hat, with a
white feather in it?"
"Yes, yes; that's he. That's my little Raoul."
"Well, he's at the house of a poor fellow down in that quarter who
had just been at the police office to make his declaration to the
Commissaire. Here's his address, which I took down: '_Pierron, rue des
Cailloux, Levaïlois-Perret_.' With good horses you may reach your boy
in less than an hour. Certainly, you won't find him in an aristocratic
quarter; his surroundings won't be of the highest. The man who found him
is only a small dealer in vegetables."
But that was of no importance to M. Godefroy, who, having expressed his
gratitude to the Prefect, leaped down the stairs four at a time, and
sprang into his carriage. At that moment he realized how devotedly he
loved his child. As he drove away he no longer thought of little Raoul's
princely education and magnificent inheritance. He was decided never
again to hand over the child entirely to the hands of servants, and he
also made up his mind to devote less time to monetary matters and the
glory of France and attend more to his own. The thought also occurred
to him that France wouldn't be likely to suffer from the neglect. He had
hitherto been ashamed to recognize the existence of an old-maid sister
of his father, but he decided to send for her to his house. She would
certainly shock his lackeys by her primitive manners and ideas. But what
of that? She would take care of his boy, which to him was of much more
importance than the good opinion of his servants. The financier, who
was always in a hurry, never felt so eager to arrive punctually at a
committee meeting as he was to reach the lost little one. For the first
time in his life he was longing through pure affection to take the child
in his arms.
The carriage rolled rapidly along in the clear, crisp night air down
boulevard Malesherbes; and, having crossed the ramparts and passed the
large houses, plunged into the quiet solitude of suburban streets. When
the carriage stopped M. Godefroy saw a wretched hovel, on which was the
number he was seeking; it was the house where Pierron lived. The door of
the house opened immediately, and a big, rough-looking fellow with red
mustache appeared. One of his sleeves was empty. Seeing the gentleman
in the carriage, Pierron said cheerily: "So you are the little one's
father. Don't be afraid. The little darling is quite safe," and,
stepping aside in order to allow M. Godefroy to pass, he placed his
finger on his lips with: "Hush! The little one is asleep!"
Yes, it was a real hovel. By the dim light of a little oil lamp M.
Godefroy could just distinguish a dresser from which a drawer was
missing, some broken chairs, a round table on which stood a beer-mug
which was half empty, three glasses, some cold meat on a plate, and on
the bare plaster of the wall two gaudy pictures--a bird's-eye view of
the Exposition of 1889, with the Eiffel Tower in bright blue, and the
portrait of General Boulanger when a handsome young lieutenant. This
last evidence of weakness of the tenant of the house may well be
excused, since it was shared by nearly everybody in France. The man took
the lamp and went on tiptoe to the corner of the room where, on a clean
bed, two little fellows were fast asleep. In the little one, around whom
the other had thrown a protecting arm, M. Godefroy recognized his son.
"The youngsters were tired to death, and so sleepy," said Pierron,
trying to soften his rough voice. "I had no idea when you would come,
so gave them some supper and put them to bed, and then I went to make
a declaration at the police office. Zidore generally sleeps up in the
garret, but I thought they would be better here, and that I should be
better able to watch them."
M. Godefroy, however, scarcely heard the explanation. Strangely moved,
he looked at the two sleeping infants on an iron bedstead and covered
with an old blanket which had once been used either in barracks or
hospital. Little Raoul, who was still in his velvet suit, looked so
frail and delicate compared with his companion that the banker almost
envied the latter his brown complexion.
"Is he your boy?" he asked Pierron.
"No," answered he. "I am a bachelor, and don't suppose I shall ever
marry, because of my accident. You see, a dray passed over my arm--that
was all. Two years ago a neighbor of mine died, when that child was
only five years old. The poor mother really died of starvation. She wove
wreaths for the cemeteries, but could make nothing worth mentioning at
that trade--not enough to live. However, she worked for the child for
five years, and then the neighbors had to buy wreaths for her. So I took
care of the youngster. Oh, it was nothing much, and I was soon repaid.
He is seven years old, and is a sharp little fellow, so he helps me a
great deal. On Sundays and Thursdays, and the other days after school,
he helps me push my handcart. Zidore is a smart little chap. It was he
who found your boy."
"What!" exclaimed M. Godefroy--"that child!"
"Oh, he's quite a little man, I assure you. When he left school he found
your child, who was walking on ahead, crying like a fountain. He spoke
to him and comforted him, like an old grandfather. The difficulty is,
that one can't easily understand what your little one says--English
words are mixed up with German and French. So we couldn't get much out
of him, nor could we learn his address. Zidore brought him to me--I
wasn't far away; and then all the old women in the place came round
chattering and croaking like so many frogs, and all full of advice.
"'Take him to the police,'" said some.
But Zidore protested.
"That would scare him," said he, for like all Parisians, he has no
particular liking for the police-- "and besides, your little one didn't
wish to leave him. So I came back here with the child as soon as I
could. They had supper, and then off to bed. Don't they look sweet?"
When he was in his carriage, M. Godefroy had decided to reward the
finder of his child handsomely--to give him a handful of that gold so
easily gained. Since entering the house he had seen a side of human
nature with which he was formerly unacquainted--the brave charity of
the poor in their misery. The courage of the poor girl who had worked
herself to death weaving wreaths to keep her child; the generosity of
the poor cripple in adopting the orphan, and above all, the intelligent
goodness of the little street Arab in protecting the child who was still
smaller than himself--all this touched M. Godefroy deeply and set him
reflecting. For the thought had occurred to him that there were other
cripples who needed to be looked after as well as Pierron, and other
orphans as well as Zidore. He also debated whether it would not be
better to employ his time looking after them, and whether money might
not be put to a better use than merely gaining money. Such was his
reverie as he stood looking at the two sleeping children. Finally, he
turned round to study the features of the greengrocer, and was charmed
by the loyal expression in the face of the man, and his clear, truthful
eyes.
"My friend," said M. Godefroy, "you and your adopted son have rendered
me an immense service. I shall soon prove to you that I am not
ungrateful. But, for to-day--I see that you are not in comfortable
circumstances, and I should like to leave a small proof of my
thankfulness."
But the hand of the cripple arrested that of the banker, which was
diving into his coat-pocket where he kept bank-notes.
"No, sir; no! Anybody else should have done just as we have done. I will
not accept any recompense; but pray don't take offense. Certainly, I
am not rolling in wealth, but please excuse my pride--that of an old
soldier; I have the Tonquin medal--and I don't wish to eat food which I
haven't earned."
"As you like," said the financier; "but an old soldier like you is
capable of something better. You are too good to push a handcart. I will
make some arrangement for you, never fear."
The cripple responded by a quiet smile, and said coldly: "Well, sir, if
you really wish to do something for me--"
"You'll let me care for Zidore, won't you?" cried M. Godefroy, eagerly.
"That I will, with the greatest of pleasure," responded Pierron,
joyfully. "I have often, thought about the child's future. He is a sharp
little fellow. His teachers are delighted with him."
Then Pierron suddenly stopped, and an expression came over his face
which M. Godefroy at once interpreted as one of distrust. The thought
evidently was: "Oh, when he has once left us he'll forget us entirely."
"You can safely pick the child up in your arms and take him to the
carriage. He'll be better at home than here, of course. Oh, you needn't
be afraid of disturbing him. He is fast asleep, and you can just pick
him up. He must have his shoes on first, though."
Following Pierron's glance M. Godefroy perceived on the hearth, where
a scanty coke fire was dying out, two pairs of children's shoes;--the
elegant ones of Raoul, and the rough ones of Zidore. Each pair contained
a little toy and a package of bonbons.
"Don't think about that," said Pierron in an abashed tone. "Zidore put
the shoes there. You know children still believe in Christmas and the
child Jesus, whatever scholars may say about fables; so, as I came back
from the _commissaire_, as I didn't know whether your boy would have to
stay here to-night, I got those things for them both."
At which the eyes of M. Godefroy, the freethinker, the hardened
capitalist, and _blasé_ man of the world, filled with tears.
He rushed out of the house, but returned in a minute with his arms full
of the superb mechanical horse, the box of leaden soldiers, and the rest
of the costly playthings bought by him in the afternoon, and which had
not even been taken out of the carriage.
"My friend, my dear friend," said he to the greengrocer, "see, these are
the presents which Christmas has brought to my little Raoul. I want him
to find them here, when he awakens, and to share them with Zidore, who
will henceforth be his playmate and friend. You'll trust me now, won't
you? I'll take care both of Zidore and of you, and then I shall ever
remain in your debt, for not only have you found my boy, but you have
also reminded me, who am rich and lived only for myself, that there are
other poor who need to be looked after. I swear by these two sleeping
children, I won't forget them any longer."
Such is the miracle which happened on the 24th of December of last year,
ladies and gentlemen, at Paris, in the full flow of modern egotism. It
doesn't sound likely--that I own; and I am compelled to attribute this
miraculous event to the influence of the Divine Child who came down to
earth nearly nineteen centuries ago to command men to love one another.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Lost Child, by François Edouard Joachim Coppée
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