But, inevitably, as in all admirable works, in all excellent reforms, there are drawbacks; and in this particular case they are obvious. For instance, a whole “set” of the First Act of _Chantecler_: innumerable chicks and chickens, the Blackbird in his cage, the dog Patou in his kennel, proud, majestic Chantecler on the hedge of the farm-yard, the radiant Hen Pheasant, the lurid-eyed Night Birds, trees, haystacks, a pump... price 300 francs. “Papa, do please buy me all this, immediately,” demands Yvonne tremulously, passionately, her eyes shining, her cheeks aflame. “Papa, I want all this,” shouts Edouard, pointing to a vast array of soldiers, cannon, ambulances, aeroplanes and air-ships engaged in military manœuvres. Price 420 francs. “But you have only five francs each to spend. For the love of heaven, be reasonable. Ah, _nom d’un nom_, all the world is looking and laughing at us,” cries the unfortunate father. Scowls and sulkiness from Edouard; tears and shrill hysterics from Yvonne. When informed of these tragic scenes, M. Lépine exclaims: “Poor little dears! But what can I do? Impossible to buy a whole farm-yard or an army with a piece of five francs.” After toys, let me take pictures—the incomparable Monna Lisa, who, when She vanished, disturbed even the proverbial calm of M. Lépine. All France sent him “clues.” Every post brought him shoals of letters that strangely and severally denounced a Woman in a Shawl, Three Men in Blue Aprons, a Man with a Sack, a Negro with a Diamond Ring, a Turk in a Fez, and a Man Dressed as a Woman, as Monna Lisa’s base abductor. In each case these singular beings were said to have been seen carrying an object of the exact dimensions of the stolen picture. Also, their demeanour “was excited,” their “hands trembled” as they clutched the precious masterpiece, and they jumped into a passing cab or hurled themselves into a train just as it was steaming out of the station. “Believe me, M. le Préfet,” concluded M. Lépine’s incoherent informants, “believe me, I have given you an exact description of the culprit.” Then, letters of abuse, threatening letters, letters from practical jokers, letters demanding interviews—all of which had (under French law) to be considered and classified. Again, telegram upon telegram, and the telephone bell always ringing. “If I cannot speak to M. Lépine himself, I won’t speak to anyone. And then the picture will be lost for ever,” stated a voice through the telephone. “Well, what is it?” demanded M. Lépine, at last coming to the machine. “_Ecoutez-moi bien_, M. le Préfet. My name is Charles Henri Durand. I am forty-seven years of age. I am a papermaker by profession. And I live on the third floor of No. 16 rue de Rome,” related the voice through the telephone. “After that, after that! Quickly! _Au galop!_” cried M. Lépine.