"Are you going to let me go to the Foundlings' Home?"
"No, my little Remi, no."
She kissed me and held me tight in her arms. I felt better after that and my tears dried on my cheeks.
"You didn't go to sleep, then?" she asked softly.
"It wasn't my fault."
"I'm not scolding you. You heard what he said, then?"
"Yes, you're not my mamma, but ... he isn't my father."
The last words I had said in a different tone because, although I was unhappy at learning that she was not my mother, I was glad, I was almost proud, to know that he was not my father. This contradiction of my feelings betrayed itself in my voice. Mother Barberin did not appear to notice.
"Perhaps I ought to have told you the truth, but you seemed so much my own boy that I couldn't tell you I was not your real mother. You heard what Jerome said, my boy. He found you one day in a street in Paris, the Avenue de Breteuil. It was in February, early in the morning, he was going to work when he heard a baby cry, and he found you on a step. He looked about to call some one, and as he did so a man came out from behind a tree and ran away. You cried so loud that Jerome didn't like to put you back on the step again. While he was wondering what to do, some more men came along, and they all decided that they'd
