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:
“Monsieur 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 gypsies 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 the Eure region ... 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 centered 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 dubious 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 heart beat! 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 boy 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, Levallois-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 a 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 as 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 I 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 around 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 children 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 urchin 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 more money. Such was his reverie as he stood looking at the two sleeping children. Finally, he turned around 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 today—I see that you are not in comfortable circumstances, and I should like to leave a small proof of my thankfulness.”
But the lone hand of the cripple stopped the arm of the banker, who was plunging into his coat pocket where he kept banknotes.
“No, sir; no! Anybody else would 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 in a drawer— 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 tonight, 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, in 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.
1892
THE JUGGLER OF NOTRE DAME
Anatole France
I
In the days of King Louis there was in France a poor juggler of the name of Barnabé, a native of Compiègne, who used to go from city to city playing all sorts of tricks.
Wherever there was a fair he was sure to be seen with his old worn-out carpet spread on the ground, where, after having drawn together a throng of children and loungers by old jokes, which he repeated exactly as he had learned them, he would throw himself into all sorts of strange attitudes and even balance a pewter plate on his nose. The crowd would at first look on carelessly, but when, standing on his hands, he would
toss into the air and catch on his feet six copper balls, sparkling in the sun, or, when throwing himself back till his neck touched his heels, he made himself into a living wheel and played with twelve knives, a murmur of admiration would rise from the spectators, and pieces of money would rain down on the carpet.
Notwithstanding, like most people who live by their talents, Barnabé found it very difficult to live. Earning his bread by the sweat of his brow, he bore more than his just proportion of the wretchedness caused by the sin of Adam, our common father, and he could not even work as much as he would have wished, for, in order to show his skill, he needed warm sun and daylight as much as the trees need them to give us fruit and flowers. In the winters he was like a leafless and half-dead tree: the frozen earth was hard to the poor juggler and, like Marie de France’s grasshopper, in bad weather he always suffered from cold and hunger. But as he had a pure heart he bore these evils in patience.
He had never reflected on the origins of riches and the inequality of human conditions. He never doubted that as this world is bad, the other must be good. This faith kept up his courage, and he did not follow the example of thievish mountebanks and miscreants who have sold their souls to the devil. He never blasphemed the name of God; he lived uprightly and, though he had no wife of his own, never coveted the wife of his neighbor, considering that woman is the enemy of strong men as appeareth in the story of Samson, told in the Holy Scripture. He was not a drunkard, though he loved a drink when it was warm, but an honest fellow, fearing God and especially devoted to the Holy Virgin, and always when he went into a church he would kneel before her image and say devoutly, “Madame, take care of my life till it is God’s will that I die, and when I am dead, arrange it so that I shall have the joys of Paradise.”
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