“Something must have happened,” said Madame Moronval, more indulgent than her impatient husband, who paced up and down the corridor with his rod in his hand, while the hungry schoolboys were quite ready to devour each other. Finally, Madame Moronval sallied forth herself to buy some provisions; and on her return, burdened with packages, she was greeted by an enthusiastic shout from the children, who, when the fierceness of their hunger abated, ventured on surmises as to Mâdou’s whereabouts. Moronval shrewdly suspected the truth. “How much money did he have?” he asked.
“Fifteen francs,” was his wife’s timid answer.
“Fifteen francs! Then it is certain he has run away!”
“But where has he gone?” asked the doctor; “he could hardly reach Dahomey with that amount.”
Moronval scowled fiercely, and went to report to the police, for it was very essential to him that the child should be found, or, at all events, prevented from reaching Marseilles. Moronval was in wholesome fear of Monsieur Bonfils. “The world is so wicked, you know,” he said to his wife; “the boy might make some complaints which would injure the school.” Consequently, in making his report at the police office, he stated that Mâdou had carried away a large sum. “But,” he added, assuming an air of indifference, “the money part of the matter is of very little importance, compared to the dangers that the poor child runs—this dethroned king without country or people;” and Moronval dashed away a tear.
“We will find him, my good sir,” said the official; “have no anxiety.”
But Moronval was anxious, nevertheless, and so agitated, that, instead of awaiting quietly at home the result of the investigations, as he had been advised to do, he started out himself, with all the children to join in the search.
They went to each one of the gates, interrogated the custom-house officers, and gave them a description of Mâdou. Then the party repaired to the police court, for Moronval had the singular idea that in this way his pupils might learn something of Parisian life. The children, fortunately, were too young to understand all they saw, but they carried away with them a most sinister impression. Jack especially, who was the most intelligent of the boys, returned to the academy with a heavy heart, shocked at the glimpse he had caught of this under-current of life. Over and over again he said to himself, “Where can Mâdou be?”
Then the child consoled himself with the thought that the negro was far on the road to Marseilles; which road little Jack pictured to himself as running straight as an arrow, with the sea at its termination, and the vessel lying ready to sail. Only one thing disturbed him in regard to Mâdou’s journey: the weather, that had been so fine the day of his departure, had suddenly changed; and now the rain fell in torrents,—hail too, and even snow; and the wind blew around their frail dwelling, causing the poor little children of the sun to shiver in their sleep, and dream of a rocking ship and a heavy sea. Curled up under his blankets one night, listening to the howling of the fierce wind, Jack thought of his friend, imagined him half frozen lying under a tree, his thin clothing thoroughly wet. But the reality was worse than this.
“He is found!” cried Moronval, rushing into the dining-room, one morning. “He is found; I have just been notified by the police. Give me my hat and my cane!”