was the sky; a superb season, limpid air, gilded by the dust of the
sun, refreshed by the good smell of the sea. M. Mouchel entered the
only street of the village, where he came very often; and as he passed
before Rouget's house, he went in. The house was empty. Then he cast
his eye toward Fouasse's--Tupain's--Brisemotte's. Not a soul; all the
doors open, and no one in the rooms. What did it mean? A light chill
began to creep over his flesh. Then he thought of the authorities.
Certainly, the Emperor would reassure him. But the Emperor's house
was empty like the others. Even to the _garde champêtre_, there was
failure! That village, silent and deserted, terrified him now. He ran
to the Mayor's. There another surprise awaited him: the house was found
in an abominable mess; they had not made the beds in three days; dirty
dishes littered the place; chairs seemed to indicate a fight. His
mind upset, dreaming of cataclysms, M. Mouchel determined to go on to
the end, and he entered the church. No more curé than mayor. All the
authorities, even religion itself had vanished. Coqueville abandoned,
slept without a breath, without a dog, without a cat. Not even a fowl;
the hens had taken themselves off. Nothing, a void, silence, a leaden
sleep under the great blue sky.
Parbleu! It was no wonder that Coqueville brought no more fish!
Coqueville had moved away. Coqueville was dead. He must notify the
police. The mysterious catastrophe exalted M. Mouchel, when, with the
idea of descending to the beach, he uttered a cry. In the midst of the
sands, the whole population lay stretched. He thought of a general
massacre. But the sonorous snores came to undeceive him. During the
night of Sunday Coqueville had feasted so late that it had found itself
in absolute inability to go home to bed. So it had slept on the sand,
just where it had fallen, around the nine casks, completely empty.
Yes, all Coqueville was snoring there; I hear the children, the women,
the old people, and the men. Not one was on his feet. There were
some on their stomachs, there were some on their backs; others held
themselves _en chien de fusils_.[3] As one makes his bed so must one
lie on it. And the fellows found themselves, happen what may, scattered
in their drunkenness like a handful of leaves driven by the wind. The
men had rolled over, heads lower than heels. It was a scene full of
good-fellowship; a dormitory in the open air; honest family folk taking
their ease; for where there is care, there is no pleasure.
It was just at the new moon. Coqueville, thinking it had blown out its
candle, had abandoned itself to the darkness. Then the day dawned;
and now the sun was flaming, a sun which fell perpendicularly on the
sleepers, powerless to make them open their eyelids. They slept rudely,
all their faces beaming with the fine innocence of drunkards. The hens
at early morning must have strayed down to peck at the casks, for they
were drunk; they, too, sleeping on the sands. There were also five cats
and five dogs, their paws in the air, drunk from licking the glasses
glistening with sugar.
For a moment M. Mouchel walked about among the sleepers, taking care
not to step on any of them. He understood, for at Grandport they, too,
had received casks from the wreck of the English ship. All his wrath
left him. What a touching and moral spectacle!
Coqueville reconciled, the Mahés and the Floches sleeping together!
With the last glass the deadliest enemies had embraced. Tupain and
Fouasse lay there snoring, hand in hand, like brothers, incapable of
coming to dispute a legacy. As to the Rouget household, it offered a
still more amiable picture, Marie slept between Rouget and Brisemotte,
as much as to say that henceforth they were to live thus, happy, all
the three.
But one group especially exhibited a scene of family tenderness. It
was Delphin and Margot; one on the neck of the other, they slept
cheek to cheek, their lips still opened for a kiss. At their feet the
Emperor, sleeping crosswise, guarded them. Above them La Queue snored
like a father satisfied at having settled his daughter, while the Abbé
Radiguet, fallen there like the others, with arms outspread, seemed to
bless them. In her sleep Margot still extended her rosy muzzle like an
amorous cat who loves to have one scratch her under the chin.
The fête ended with a marriage. And M. Mouchel himself later married
the Widow Dufeu, whom he beat to a jelly. Speak of that in Lower
Normandy, they will tell you with a laugh, "Ah! yes, the fête at
Coqueville!"
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Naval term signifying a rickety old concern.
[2] Watchman.
[3] Primed for the event.
THE LOST CHILD
BY FRANÇOIS ÉDOUARD JOACHIM COPPÉE
[Illustration]
_François Coppée, Poet of the Humble, was born at Paris in
1842. His first collection of poems was called "Le Reliquaire,"
1866, and already exhibited to an astonishing degree the full
equipment of a poet, much as Keats did in his first work.
But Coppée's great reputation began to grow from the date of
"Passant," 1869, exquisite comedies in verse, and "Le Luthier
de Crèmone," an agreeable and touching little piece, and his
brilliantly written romantic dramas, full of fine bursts of
eloquence._
_Besides poems and plays, he has written five or six volumes of
short stories remarkable for grace of sentiment, and a number
of novels, chronicles, etc._
_Coppée's happy vein seems to be the familiar narrative, the
genre picture. He shows a fine sympathy for the miseries and
the virtues of the obscure._
[Illustration]
THE LOST CHILD
BY FRANÇOIS 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 _himself_. 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
trustworthy 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 Crœsus, 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 to-night?"
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 castors--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
30,000,000 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
Marignan, 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?"