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The Lost Child
by
“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.