"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?" 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 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_.