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 _concièrge_.
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 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 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, 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 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 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--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.
PUTOIS
BY ANATOLE FRANCE
[Illustration]
_The gentle Anatole France, with "vast learning worn with an
almost mocking air," conserver of pure, unaffected French,
chief of the school inaugurating the sociological novel, the
fiction of ideas, was born at Paris in 1844. Since his first
attempt at verse, he has written only in prose, "The Crime
of Sylvestre Bonnard," in 1881, giving him at once his place
in literature and winning a crown from the Academy. Besides
"Thäis," a masterpiece of color and construction, he has
written volumes of contemporary criticism and history--but in
all he writes he figures forth the soul of Anatole France, a
complex, subtle soul of varied moods, attached to no religion,
with sympathy for all. His style, pure as spring water, is
flavored with a delicate irony. Anatole France, or Anatole
François Thibault, to use his real name, succeeded Jules
Claretie on "Le Temps," and in 1896 was elected to the Academy._
[Illustration]
_Dedicated to Georges Brandes_
PUTOIS
BY ANATOLE FRANCE
Translated by William Patten.
Copyright, 1907, by P. F. Collier & Son.
I
This garden of our childhood, said Monsieur Bergeret, this garden that
one could pace off in twenty steps, was for us a whole world, full of
smiles and surprises.
"Lucien, do you recall Putois?" asked Zoe, smiling as usual, the lips
pressed, bending over her work.
"Do I recall Putois! Of all the faces I saw as a child that of Putois
remains the clearest in my remembrance. All the features of his face
and his character are fixed in my mind. He had a pointed cranium...."
"A low forehead," added Mademoiselle Zoe.
And the brother and sister recited alternately, in a monotonous voice,
with an odd gravity, the points in a sort of description:
"A low forehead."
"Squinting eyes."
"A shifty glance."
"Crow's-feet at the temples."
"The cheek-bones sharp, red and shining."
"His ears had no rims to them."
"The features were devoid of all expression."
"His hands, which were never still, alone expressed his meaning."
"Thin, somewhat bent, feeble in appearance...."
"In reality he was unusually strong."
"He easily bent a five-franc piece between the first finger and the
thumb...."
"Which was enormous."
"His voice was drawling...."
"And his speech mild."
Suddenly Monsieur Bergeret exclaimed: "Zoe! we have forgotten 'Yellow
hair and sparse beard.' Let us begin all over again."
Pauline, who had listened with astonishment to this strange recital,
asked her father and aunt how they had been able to learn by heart this
bit of prose, and why they recited it as if it were a litany.
Monsieur Bergeret gravely answered:
"Pauline, what you have heard is a text, I may say a liturgy, used
by the Bergeret family. It should be handed down to you so that it
may not perish with your aunt and me. Your grandfather, my daughter,
your grandfather, Eloi Bergeret, who was not amused with trifles,
thought highly of this bit, principally because of its origin.
He called it 'The Anatomy of Putois.' And he used to say that he
preferred, in certain respects, the anatomy of Putois to the anatomy of
Quaresmeprenant. 'If the description by Xenomanes,' he said, 'is more
learned and richer in unusual and choice expressions, the description
of Putois greatly surpasses it in clarity and simplicity of style.'
He held this opinion because Doctor Ledouble, of Tours, had not yet
explained chapters thirty, thirty-one, and thirty-two of the fourth
book of Rabelais."
"I do not understand at all," said Pauline.
"That is because you did not know Putois, my daughter. You must
understand that Putois was the most familiar figure in my childhood and
in that of your Aunt Zoe. In the house of your grandfather Bergeret we
constantly spoke of Putois. Each believed that he had seen him."
Pauline asked:
"Who was this Putois?"
Instead of replying, Monsieur Bergeret commenced to laugh, and
Mademoiselle Bergeret also laughed, her lips pressed tight together.
Pauline looked from one to the other. She thought it strange that her
aunt should laugh so heartily, and more strange that she should laugh
with and in sympathy with her brother. It was indeed singular, as the
brother and sister were quite different in character.
"Papa, tell me what was Putois? Since you wish me to know, tell me."
"Putois, my daughter, was a gardener. The son of honest
market-gardeners, he set up for himself as nurseryman at Saint-Omer.
But he did not satisfy his customers and got in a bad way. Having given
up business, he went out by the day. Those who employed him could not
always congratulate themselves."
At this, Mademoiselle Bergeret, laughing, rejoined:
"Do you recall, Lucien, when our father could not find his ink, his
pens, his sealing-wax, his scissors, he said: 'I suspect Putois has
been here'?"
"Ah!" said Monsieur Bergeret, "Putois had not a good reputation."
"Is that all?" asked Pauline.
"No, my daughter, it is not all. Putois was remarkable in this, that
while we knew him and were familiar with him, nevertheless--"
"--He did not exist," said Zoe.
Monsieur Bergeret looked at his sister with an air of reproach.
"What a speech, Zoe! and why break the charm like that? Do you dare say
it, Zoe? Zoe, can you prove it? To maintain that Putois did not exist,
that Putois never was, have you sufficiently considered the conditions
of existence and the modes of being? Putois existed, my sister. But it
is true that his was a peculiar existence."
"I understand less and less," said Pauline, discouraged.
"The truth will be clear to you presently, my daughter. Know then that
Putois was born fully grown. I was still a child and your aunt was a
little girl. We lived in a little house, in a suburb of Saint-Omer.
Our parents led a peaceful, retired life, until they were discovered
by an old lady named Madame Cornouiller, who lived at the manor of
Montplaisir, twelve miles from town, and proved to be a great-aunt of
my mother's. By right of relationship she insisted that our father
and mother come to dine every Sunday at Montplaisir, where they were
excessively bored. She said that it was the proper thing to have a
family dinner on Sunday and that only people of common origin failed to
observe this ancient custom. My father was bored to the point of tears
at Montplaisir. His desperation was painful to contemplate. But Madame
Cornouiller did not notice it. She saw nothing. My mother was braver.
She suffered as much as my father, and perhaps more, but she smiled."
"Women are made to suffer," said Zoe.
"Zoe, every living thing is destined to suffer. In vain our parents
refused these fatal invitations. Madame Cornouiller came to take
them each Sunday afternoon. They had to go to Montplaisir; it was
an obligation from which there was absolutely no escape. It was an
established order that only a revolt could break. My father finally
revolted and swore not to accept another invitation from Madame
Cornouiller, leaving it to my mother to find decent pretexts and varied
reasons for these refusals, for which she was the least capable. Our
mother did not know how to pretend."
"Say, Lucien, that she did not like to. She could tell a fib as well as
any one."
"It is true that when she had good reasons she gave them rather than
invent poor ones. Do you recall, my sister, that one day she said at
table: 'Fortunately, Zoe has the whooping-cough; we shall not have to
go to Montplaisir for some time'?"
"That was true!" said Zoe.
"You got over it, Zoe. And one day Madame Cornouiller said to my
mother: 'Dearest, I count on your coming with your husband to dine
Sunday at Montplaisir.' Our mother, expressly bidden by her husband to
give Madame Cornouiller a good reason for declining, invented, in this
extremity, a reason that was not the truth. 'I am extremely sorry,
dear Madame, but that will be impossible for us. Sunday I expect the
gardener.'
"On hearing this, Madame Cornouiller looked through the glass door of
the salon at the little wild garden, where the prickwood and the lilies
looked as though they had never known the pruning-knife and were likely
never to know it. 'You expect the gardener! What for?'
"'To work in the garden.'
"And my mother, having involuntarily turned her eyes on this little
square of weeds and plants run wild, that she had called a garden,
recognized with dismay the improbability of her excuse.
"'This man,' said Madame Cornouiller, 'could just as well work in your
garden Monday or Tuesday. Moreover, that will be much better. One
should not work on Sunday.'
"'He works all the week.'
"I have often noticed that the most absurd and ridiculous reasons are
the least disputed: they disconcert the adversary. Madame Cornouiller
insisted, less than one might expect of a person so little disposed to
give up. Rising from her armchair, she asked:
"'What do you call your gardener, dearest?'
"'Putois,' answered my mother without hesitation.
"Putois was named. From that time he existed. Madame Cornouiller took
herself off, murmuring: 'Putois! It seems to me that I know that name.
Putois! Putois! I must know him. But I do not recollect him. Where does
he live?'
"'He works by the day. When one wants him one leaves word with this one
or that one.'
"'Ah! I thought so, a loafer and a vagabond--a good-for-nothing. Don't
trust him, dearest.'
"From that time Putois had a character."
II
Messieurs Goubin and Jean Marteau having arrived, Monsieur Bergeret put
them in touch with the conversation.
"We were speaking of him whom my mother caused to be born gardener at
Saint-Omer and whom she christened. He existed from that time on."
"Dear master, will you kindly repeat that?" said Monsieur Goubin,
wiping the glass of his monocle.
"Willingly," replied Monsieur Bergeret. "There was no gardener.
The gardener did not exist. My mother said: 'I am waiting for the
gardener.' At once the gardener was. He lived."
"Dear master," said Monsieur Goubin, "how could he live since he did
not exist?"
"He had a sort of existence," replied Monsieur Bergeret.
"You mean an imaginary existence," Monsieur Goubin replied,
disdainfully.
"Is it nothing then, but an imaginary existence?" exclaimed the master.
"And have not mythical beings the power to influence men? Consider
mythology, Monsieur Goubin, and you will perceive that they are not
real beings but imaginary beings that exercise the most profound and
lasting influence on the mind. Everywhere and always, beings who have
no more reality than Putois have inspired nations with hatred and love,
terror and hope, have advised crimes, received offerings, made laws and
customs. Monsieur Goubin, think of the eternal mythology. Putois is a
mythical personage, the most obscure, I grant you, and of the lowest
order. The coarse satyr, who in olden times sat at the table with our
peasants in the North, was considered worthy of appearing in a picture
by Jordaens and a fable by La Fontaine. The hairy son of Sycorax
appeared in the noble world of Shakespeare. Putois, less fortunate,
will be always neglected by artists and poets. He lacks bigness and the
unusual style and character. He was conceived by minds too reasonable,
among people who knew how to read and write, and who had not that
delightful imagination in which fables take root. I think, Messieurs,
that I have said enough to show you the real nature of Putois."
"I understand it," said Monsieur Goubin.
And Monsieur Bergeret continued his discourse.
"Putois was. I can affirm it. He was. Consider it, gentlemen, and
you will admit that a state of being by no means implies substance,
and means only the bonds attributed to the subject, expresses only a
relation."
[Illustration: =Anatole France=]