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The Lost Child
by
“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 Asnieres 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, Levailois-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.