We all set briskly to prepare the ingredients and before long Mattia and I were cramming pancakes down our throats. Mattia declared that he had never tasted anything so fine. As soon as we had finished one we held out our plates for another, and Capi came in for his share. Mother Barberin was scandalized that we should give a dog pancakes, but we explained to her that he was the chief actor in our company and a genius, and that he was treated by us with every consideration. Later, while Mattia was out getting some wood ready for the next morning, she told me why Barberin had gone to Paris. "Your family is looking for you," she said, almost in a whisper. "That's what Barberin has gone up to Paris about. He's looking for you." "My family," I exclaimed. "Oh, have I a family of my own? Speak, tell all, Mother Barberin, dear Mother Barberin!" Then I got frightened. I did not believe that my family was looking for me. Barberin was trying to find me so that he could sell me again. I would not be sold! I told my fears to Mother Barberin, but she said no, my family was looking for me. Then she told me that a gentleman came to the house who spoke with a foreign accent, and he asked Barberin what had become of the little baby that he had found many years ago in Paris. Barberin asked him what business that was of his. This answer was just like Barberin would give. "You know from the bakehouse one can hear everything that is said in the kitchen," said Mother Barberin, "and when I knew that they were talking about you, I naturally listened. I got nearer and then I trod on a twig of wood that broke." "'Oh, we're not alone,' said the gentleman to Barberin. "'Yes, we are; that's only my wife,' he replied. The gentleman then said it was very warm in the kitchen and that they could talk better outside. They went out and it was three hours later when Barberin came back alone. I tried to make him tell me everything, but the only thing he would say was that this man was looking for you, but that he was not your father, and that he had given him one hundred francs. Probably he's had more since. From this, and the fine clothes you wore when he found you, we think your parents must be rich. "Then Jerome said he had to go off to Paris," she continued, "to find the musician who hired you. This musician said that a letter sent to Rue Mouffetard to a man named Garofoli would reach him." "And haven't you heard from Barberin since he went?" I asked, surprised that he had sent no news. "Not a word," she said. "I don't even know where he is living in the city."