Nobody’s Boy

Chapter XIV The Death of Pretty-Heart

The sun came out brightly. Its rays fell on the white snow, and the forest, which the night before had looked so bleak and livid, was now dazzling with a radiancy that blinded the eyes. Several times Vitalis passed his hand under the coverlet to feel Pretty-Heart, but the poor little monkey did not get warmer, and when I bent over him I could hear him shivering and shaking. The blood in his veins was frozen.

“We must get to a village or Pretty-Heart will die,” said Vitalis. “Let us start at once.”

His wrappings were well heated and the little creature was rolled in them. My master placed him under his vest, next his heart. We were ready.

“This was a shelter,” said Vitalis, looking round the hut as we were going out, “that has made us pay dearly for its hospitality.” His voice trembled.

He went out first, and I followed in his footsteps. When we had gone a few yards we had to call to Capi. Poor dog, he had remained standing outside the hut, his nose turned to the spot where his companions had been taken by the wolves.

Ten minutes later we reached the main road. We passed a cart; the driver told us that within an hour we should reach a village. This was encouraging, yet it was difficult, even painful, to walk. The snow came up to my waist. Many times I asked Vitalis after Pretty-Heart. Each time he told me that he was still shivering. At last we saw the white roofs of a fair sized village. We were not in the habit of putting up at the better class inns. We always chose a poor place, where we were sure we should not be driven away, and where they would not take all we had.

But this time Vitalis went into an inn where a beautiful sign hung outside the kitchen door. The door was open and we could see the great stove covered with shining copper saucepans, from which the steam was rising. Ah, how good that soup smelled to the famished wanderers!

My master, putting on his most “gentlemanly” airs, and with his hat on his head and his head thrown back, asked the landlady for a good bed and a fire. At first the landlady, who was a fine looking woman, had not condescended to notice us, but Vitalis’ grand manner evidently impressed her. She spoke to a maid and told her to take us up to a room.

“Quick, get into bed,” said Vitalis, while the servant was lighting the fire. I looked at him in astonishment. Why go to bed? I would rather sit down and eat something than go to bed.

“Quick, hurry up,” repeated Vitalis.

There was nothing to do but to obey.

There was an eiderdown quilt on the bed. Vitalis pulled it right up to my chin.

“Try and get warm,” he said; “the warmer you are the better.”

It seemed to me that Pretty-Heart needed warming much more than I, because I was not very cold now. While I laid still under the eiderdown trying to get warm, Vitalis, to the servant’s astonishment, turned little Pretty-Heart round and round before the fire as though he were going to roast him.

“Are you warm?” Vitalis asked me after a few minutes.

“I’m suffocating.”

“That’s right.”

He came to the bed quickly. He put Pretty-Heart in, telling me to hold him close to my chest. The poor little animal, who always rebelled when he was made to do something that he did not want, seemed resigned to everything. He let me hold him close to my body without making a movement. But he was not cold now; his body was burning.

My master, who had gone down to the kitchen, soon returned, carrying a bowl of well sweetened wine. He tried to make Pretty-Heart drink a few spoonfuls, but the poor little creature could not unclench his teeth. With his brilliant eyes he looked at us imploringly as though to ask us not to torment him. Then he drew one arm from under the covers and held it out to us.

I wondered what he meant. I looked inquiringly at Vitalis, who explained: Before I had met them Pretty-Heart had had inflammation of the lungs and they had had to bleed him, taking the blood from his arm. Knowing that he was sick now he wanted us to bleed him so that he could get better as before.

Poor little monkey! Vitalis was touched to the heart, and this made him still more anxious. It was evident that Pretty-Heart was ill and he must be very ill indeed to refuse the sugared wine that he liked so much.

“Drink the wine, Remi, and stay in bed,” said Vitalis. “I’ll go for a doctor.”

I must admit that I also liked sugared wine and besides I was very hungry. I did not let him tell me twice to drink it. After I had emptied the bowl I slid down under the eiderdown again, where the heat, aided by the wine, nearly suffocated me.

Vitalis was not gone long. He soon returned, bringing with him a gentleman wearing gold-rimmed spectacles—the doctor. Thinking that the doctor might not put himself out for a monkey, Vitalis had not told him who was his patient. When he saw me in bed, as red as a tomato, the doctor put his hand on my forehead and said at once: “Congestion.”

He shook his head with an air which augured nothing good.

Anxious to undeceive him for fear he might bleed me, I cried: “Why, I’m not ill!”

“Not ill! Why, the child is delirious.”

I lifted the quilt a bit and showed him Pretty-Heart, who had placed his little arm round my neck.

“He’s the one that’s ill,” I said.

“A monkey!” he exclaimed, turning angrily to Vitalis. “You’ve brought me out in such weather to see a monkey!…”

Our master was a smart man who was not easily ruffled. Politely, and with his grand air, he stopped the doctor. Then he explained the situation, how he had been caught in a snowstorm, and how through fear of the wolves Pretty-Heart had jumped up in an oak tree, where he had been almost frozen to death. The patient might be only a monkey, but what a genius! and what a friend and companion to us! How could we confide such a wonderful, talented creature to the care of a simple veterinary surgeon? Every one knew that the village veterinary was an ass, while every one knew that doctors were scientific men, even in the smallest village. If one rings at a door which bears a doctor’s name, one is sure to find a man of knowledge, and of generosity. Although the monkey is only an animal, according to naturalists they are so near like men that often an illness is treated the same for one as for the other. And was it not interesting, from a scientific point of view, to study how these illnesses differed. The doctor soon returned from the door where he had been standing.

Pretty-Heart, who had probably guessed that this person wearing the spectacles was a physician, again pushed out his arm.

“Look,” cried Vitalis, “he wants you to bleed him.”

That settled the doctor.

“Most interesting; a very interesting case,” he murmured.

Alas! after examining him, the doctor told us that poor little Pretty-Heart again had inflammation of the lungs. The doctor took his arm and thrust a lancet into a vein without him making the slightest moan. Pretty-Heart knew that this ought to cure him.

After the bleeding he required a good deal of attention. I, of course, had not stayed in bed. I was the nurse, carrying out Vitalis’ instructions.

Poor little Pretty-Heart! he liked me to nurse him. He looked at me and smiled sadly. His look was quite human. He, who was usually so quick and petulant, always playing tricks on one of us, was now quiet and obedient.

In the days that followed he tried to show us how friendly he felt towards us, even to Capi, who had so often been the victim of his tricks. As in the usual trend of inflammation of the lungs, he soon began to cough; the attacks tired him greatly, for his little body shook convulsively. All the money which I had, five sous, I spent on sugar sticks for him, but they made him worse instead of better. With his keen instinct, he soon noticed that every time he coughed I gave him a little piece of sugar stick. He took advantage of this and coughed every moment in order to get the remedy that he liked so much, and this remedy instead of curing him made him worse.

When I found out this trick I naturally stopped giving him the candy, but he was not discouraged. First he begged for it with an appealing look; then when he saw that I would not give it to him, he sat up in his seat and bent his little body with his hand on his stomach, and coughed with all his might. The veins in his forehead stood out, the tears ran from his eyes, and his pretense at choking, in the end, turned to a dreadful attack over which he had no control.

I had to stay at the inn with Pretty-Heart while my master went out alone. One morning upon his return he told me that the landlady had demanded the sum that we owed her. This was the first time that he had ever spoken to me about money. It was quite by chance that I had learned that he had sold his watch to buy my sheepskin. Now he told me that he had only fifty sous left. The only thing to do, he said, was to give a performance that same day. A performance without Zerbino, Dulcie or Pretty-Heart; why, that seemed to me impossible!

“We must get forty francs at once,” he said. “Pretty-Heart must be looked after. We must have a fire in the room, and medicine, and the landlady must be paid. If we pay her what we owe her, she will give us another credit.”

Forty francs in this village! in the cold, and with such poor resources at our command!

While I stayed at home with Pretty-Heart, Vitalis found a hall in the public market, for an out-of-door performance was out of the question. He wrote the announcements and stuck them up all over the village. With a few planks of wood he arranged a stage, and bravely spent his last fifty sous to buy some candles, which he cut in half so as to double the lights.

From the window of our room I saw him come and go, tramping back and forth in the snow. I wondered anxiously what program he could make. I was soon enlightened on this subject, for along came the town crier of the village, wearing a scarlet cap, and stopped before the inn. After a magnificent roll of his drum he read out our program.

Vitalis had made the most extravagant promises! There was to be present a world-renowned artist—that was Capi—and a young singer who was a marvel; the marvel was myself. But the most interesting part of the farce was that there was no fixed price for the entertainment. We relied upon the generosity of the audience, and the public need not pay until after it had seen, heard, and applauded.

That seemed to me extraordinarily bold. Who was going to applaud us? Capi certainly deserved to be celebrated, but I… I was not at all convinced that I was a marvel.

Although Pretty-Heart was very ill at this moment, when he heard the drum, he tried to get up. From the noise and Capi’s barks, he seemed to guess that it was to announce our performance.

I had to force him back on his bed; then he made signs to me to give him his general’s uniform—the red coat and trousers with gold braid, and hat with the plume. He clasped his hands and went down on his knees to beg me. When he saw that he could get nothing from me by begging, he tried what anger would do, then finally melted into tears. It was evident that we should have a great deal of trouble to convince him that he must give up all idea of playing that night. I thought it would be better not to let him know when we started.

When Vitalis returned, he told me to get my harp ready and all the things we required for the entertainment. Pretty-Heart, who knew what this meant, turned to his master and commenced his entreaties again. He could not have better expressed his desires than by the sounds he uttered, the twisting of his face, and the turns of his body. There were real tears on his cheeks and they were real kisses that he imprinted on Vitalis’ hand. “You want to play?” asked Vitalis, who had not been told what happened before.

“Yes, oh, yes!” Pretty-Heart’s whole person seemed to cry out. He tried to jump to show that he was no longer sick. We know very well that if we took him out it would be his death.

It was time for us to start. Before going, I made up a good fire and wrapped Pretty-Heart up in his coverlets. He cried again and embraced me as much as he could, then we started.

As we tramped through the snow, my master told me what he expected of me. We could not, of course, give our usual repertoire, as our principal actors were missing, but Capi and I could vie with each other in doing our best. We had to collect forty francs! Forty francs! It was terrible! Impossible!

Vitalis had prepared everything. All we had to do now was to light the candles, but this was an extravagance that we could not indulge in until the room was filled, for our illuminations would not have to come to an end before our entertainment.

Whilst we took possession of our theater, the town crier, with his drum, came through the village streets for the last time. After I had dressed Capi and myself, I went outside and stood behind a pillar to watch the people arrive.

The roll of the drum became louder. It was approaching the market place and I could hear a babble of voices. Behind the drum came a score of youngsters, all keeping step. Without stopping the beating of his drum, the town crier took up his place between the two large lamps that were lit at the entrance of our theater. The public had only to walk in and take their seats for the performance to commence.

Alas! how long they were coming, and yet the drum at the door continued gayly its rat ta ta ta. All the boys in the village must have been there. But it was not the youngsters who were likely to give us forty francs. There would have to be some important people, open-handed and generous.

At last Vitalis decided that we ought to commence, although the hall was far from being full; but we could not wait longer, worried as we were by the terrible question of candles.

I had to appear first and sing a few songs, accompanying myself on the harp. I must confess the applause that I received was very weak. I had never thought very much of myself as an entertainer, but the marked coolness with which the audience received my efforts discouraged me. If I did not please them they would certainly not give us anything. It was not for the glory that I was singing; it was for poor Pretty-Heart. Ah, how I wanted to stir this public, to make them enthusiastic… But I could see only too well that they did not consider me a marvel.

Capi was more successful. He received several encores. Thanks to Capi, the entertainment ended in a burst of applause. Not only did they clap their hands, but they stamped their feet.

The decisive moment had arrived. While Capi, with the cup in his jaws, ran through the audience, I danced a Spanish dance on the stage, with Vitalis playing an accompaniment. Would Capi collect forty francs? That was the question which made my heart beat while I smiled at the public in my pleasantest manner.

I was out of breath, but I still continued to dance, for I was not to stop until Capi had returned. He did not hurry himself; when he found that he did not receive a coin, he placed his paw against the person’s pocket. At last I saw him about to return, and thought that I might stop, but Vitalis made me a sign to go on.

I continued to dance, and going a few steps nearer Capi, I saw that the cup was not full; far from it. Vitalis had also seen this. Bowing to the audience, he said:

“Ladies and gentlemen, I think that, without flattering ourselves, we have conscientiously carried out our program, yet as our candles are still burning, I will, if the public wishes, sing some songs myself. Our dog, Capi, will make another quest and those who have not yet given will perhaps give this time. Please have your money ready.”

Although Vitalis had been my teacher, I had never really heard him sing, or at least not as he sung that evening. He selected two songs, an air from “Joseph” and one from “Richard the Lion Hearted.”

Although I was only a little boy and was no judge as to whether one sang with technique or without, Vitalis’ singing stirred me strangely. I went into a corner of the stage, for my eyes filled with tears as I listened to his beautiful notes.

Through a mist, I saw a young lady, who occupied the first row, clap her hands with all her might. I had already noticed that she was not a peasant like the rest of the people in the hall. She was a lady, young and beautiful, and from her handsome fur coat I took her to be the richest woman in the village. She had with her a little child who had applauded Capi heartily. It was probably her son for the likeness was striking.

After the first song, Capi went the round again. I saw with surprise that the lady had not put anything into his cup.

When my master had finished the air from the second opera, she beckoned me to her.

“I want to speak to that gentleman,” she said.

I was surprised, I thought she would have done better to have dropped something into the cup. Capi returned. He had collected very little more on this second round.

“What does the lady want?” asked Vitalis.

“To speak to you.”

“I have nothing to say.”

“She did not give anything to Capi, perhaps she would like to give it now.”

“Then it is for Capi to go to her, not for me.”

However, he decided to go, and took the dog with him. I followed them. By now a servant had appeared, carrying a lantern and a rug. He stood beside the lady and the child. Vitalis bowed coldly to her.

“Forgive me for having disturbed you,” she said, “but I wanted to congratulate you.”

Vitalis bowed, without saying a word.

“I am a musician,” continued the lady; “I am telling you this so that you will know how much I appreciate your superb talent.”

Superb talent! My master! The dog trainer! I was amazed.

“An old man like me has no talent,” he replied coldly.

“Do not think that I am inquisitive, but…” began the lady.

“I am quite willing to satisfy your curiosity, Madam,” he said; “you are surprised that a dog trainer is able to sing a little. But I have not always been what I am now. When I was younger I was… the servant of a great singer, and like a parrot I imitated him. I began to repeat some of the songs he practiced in my presence. That is all.”

The lady did not reply. She looked hard at Vitalis. He seemed embarrassed.

“Good-by, sir,” she said at last, laying a stress on the word “sir.” “Good-by, and once more let me thank you for the exquisite delight you have given me this evening.” And leaning towards Capi she dropped a gold piece in his cup.

I thought that Vitalis would escort her to the door, but he did nothing of the kind, and when she was out of hearing I heard him swear softly in Italian.

“She gave Capi a louis,” I said.

I thought he was going to give me a blow, but he let his raised hand fall to his side.

“A louis,” he said, as though he were coming out of a dream. “Ah, yes, poor Pretty-Heart. I had forgotten him. Let us go back to the little creature at once.”

I climbed the stairs of the inn first and went into the room. The fire was not out, but there were no flames. I lit a candle quickly. I was surprised not to hear any sound from Pretty-Heart. I found him, lying under his coverlets, stretched out his full length, dressed in his general’s uniform. He appeared to be asleep. I leaned over him and took his hand gently to wake him up. His hand was cold. Vitalis came into the room. I turned to him.

“Pretty-Heart is cold,” I said.

My master came to my side and also leaned over the bed.

“He is dead,” he said. “It was to be. Ah, Remi, boy, I did wrong to take you away from Mrs. Milligan. I am punished. Zerbino, Dulcie, and now Pretty-Heart and… this is not the end!”

Chapter XVFAITHFUL FRIENDS

We were still a long way from Paris. We had to go by roads covered with snow, and walk from morning till night, the north wind blowing in our faces. How sad and weary were those long tramps.

Vitalis walked ahead, I at his heels, and Capi behind me. Thus in line we went onward without exchanging a word, for hours and hours, faces blue with cold, feet wet, stomachs empty. The people who passed us on the way turned round to gaze at us. Evidently they thought it strange… Where was this old man leading his child and the dog?

The silence seemed terrible to me, and so sad. I would liked to have talked just for company, but when I did venture to make a remark, Vitalis replied briefly, without even turning his head. Fortunately, Capi was more sociable, and as I trudged along I often felt his warm tongue on my hand. He licked me as much as to say, “Your friend, Capi, is here with you.” Then I stroked him gently, without stopping. We understood each other; we loved each other.

On the slippery snow we went straight ahead, without stopping, sleeping at night in a stable or in a sheepfold, with a piece of bread, alas, very small, for our meal in the evening. This was our dinner and supper in one.

We did not tell the shepherds that we were dying of hunger, but Vitalis, with his usual cleverness, would say insinuatingly that “the little chap was very fond of sheep’s milk, because, when he was a baby, he used to drink it.” This story did not always take effect, but it was a good night for me when it did. Yes, I was very fond of sheep’s milk and when they gave me some I felt much stronger the next day.

It seemed strange to me that, as we neared Paris, the country ceased to be beautiful. The snow was not white and dazzling now. I had heard what a wonderful place Paris was, and I expected something extraordinary. I did not know exactly what. I should not have been surprised to see trees of gold, streets of marble, palaces everywhere.

What were we poor things going to do when we reached Paris? I wanted to question Vitalis, but I did not dare, he seemed so gloomy. When we were in sight of the roofs and the church towers of the capital, he slackened his step to walk beside me.

“Remi,” he said suddenly, “we are going to part when we get to Paris.”

I looked at him. He looked at me. The sudden pallor of my face and the trembling of my lips told him what effect his words had on me. For a moment I could not speak.

“Going to part!” I murmured at last.

“Poor little chap, yes, we must part.”

The tone in which he said this brought the tears to my eyes. It was so long since I had heard a kind word.

“Oh, you are so good,” I cried.

“It is you who are good. You brave little heart. There comes a time in one’s life when one feels these things. When all goes well, one goes along through life without thinking much who is with one, but when things go wrong, when one is on the wrong track, and above all when one is old, one wants to lean on somebody. You may be surprised that I have wanted to lean on you. And yet it is so. But only to see that your eyes are moist as you listen to me, comforts me, little Remi. I am very unhappy.”

I did not know what to say. I just stroked his hand.

“And the misfortune is that we have to part just at the time when we are getting nearer to each other.”

“But you’re not going to leave me all alone in Paris?” I asked timidly.

“No, certainly not. What would you do in the big city, all by yourself, poor child. I have no right to leave you, remember that. The day when I would not let that good lady take you and bring you up as her son, that day I bound myself to do the best I could for you. I can do nothing at this moment, and that is why I think it is best to part. It is only for a time. We can do better if we separate during the last months of the bad season. What can we do in Paris with all gone but Capi?”

Hearing his name mentioned, dear Capi came beside us: he put his paw to his ear in military salute, then placed it on his heart, as though to tell us that we could count on his devotion. My master stopped to pass his hand affectionately over the dog’s head.

“Yes, Capi, you’re a good, faithful friend, but, alas! without the others we can’t do much now.”

“But my harp…”

“If I had two children like you it would be better. But an old man with just one little boy is bad business. I am not old enough. Now, if I were only blind or broken down! I am not in a pitiful state enough for people to stop and notice us. So, my boy, I have decided to give you to a padrone, until the end of the winter. He will take you with other children that he has, and you will play your harp…”

“And you?” I asked.

“I am known in Paris, I have stayed there several times. I will give violin lessons to the Italian children who play on the streets. I have only to say that I will give lessons to find all the pupils I want. And, in the meantime, I will train two dogs that will replace poor Zerbino and Dulcie. Then in the spring we will be together again, my little Remi. We are only passing through a bad time now; later, I will take you through Germany and England, then you will grow big and your mind will develop. I will teach you a lot of things and make a man of you. I promised this to Mrs. Milligan. I will keep my promise. That is the reason why I have already commenced to teach you English. You can speak French and Italian, that is something for a child of your age.”

Perhaps it was all for the best as my master said, but I could only think of two things.

We were to be parted, and I was to have a padrone.

During our wanderings I had met several padrones who used to beat the children who worked for them. They were very cruel, and they swore, and usually they were drunk. Would I belong to one of those terrible men?

And then, even if fate gave me a kind master, it was another change. First, my foster mother, then Vitalis, then another… Was it to be always so? Should I never find anyone that I could love and stay with always? Little by little I had grown attached to Vitalis. He seemed almost what I thought a father would be. Should I never have a father, have a family? Always alone in this great world! Nobody’s boy!

Vitalis had asked me to be brave. I did not wish to add to his sorrows, but it was hard, so hard, to leave him.

As we walked down a dirty street, with heaps of snow on either side covered with cinders and rotten vegetables, I asked: “Where are we?”

“In Paris, my boy.”

Where were my marble houses? And the trees of gold, and the finely dressed people. Was this Paris! Was I to spend the winter in a place like this, parted from Vitalis and Capi?

Chapter XVITHE PADRONE

Although I knew later how beautiful was the city of Paris, the slums, being my first glimpse, created anything but a favorable impression.

Vitalis, who seemed to know his way, pushed through the groups of people who obstructed his passage along the narrow street we had just turned down.

“Mind, you don’t lose me,” cautioned Vitalis.

But his warning was not necessary, for I trod upon his heels, and to be more sure of him I held a corner of his coat in my hand.

We crossed a big courtyard to a dirty, dismal house where surely the sun had never penetrated. It was the worst looking place I had seen so far.

“Is Garofoli in?” asked Vitalis of a man who, by the light from a lantern, was hanging rags against the door.

“I don’t know; go up and see for yourself,” he growled; “the door’s at the top of the stairs; it faces you.”

“Garofoli is the padrone, Remi, I told you about,” said Vitalis; “this is where he lives.”

The street, the house, the staircase was not in the nature to reassure me. What would this new master be like?

Without knocking, Vitalis pushed open the door at the top of the stairs, on the top floor, and we found ourselves in a large attic. There was a great empty space in the middle of the room, and all around the walls were beds, a dozen in all. The walls and ceiling that had once been white were now filthy with smoke, dust, and dirt. On the walls was a drawing of a head in charcoal and some flowers and birds.

“Are you there, Garofoli?” asked Vitalis; “it is so dark I can’t see any one. It’s Vitalis.”

A weak, drawling voice replied to Vitalis’ question.

“Signor Garofoli has gone out; he will not be back for two hours.”

A boy about twelve years of age came forward. I was struck by his strange looks. Even now, as I write, I can see him as I saw him then. He had no body, so to speak, for he seemed all legs and head. His great head was out of all proportion. Built so, he could not have been called handsome, yet there was something in his face which attracted one strangely, an expression of sadness and gentleness and, yes… hopelessness. His large eyes held your own with sympathy.

“You are sure he will not be back for two hours?” asked Vitalis.

“Quite sure, Signor. That will be dinner time, and no one ever serves dinner but Signor Garofoli.”

“Well, if he comes in before, tell him that Vitalis will be back in two hours.”

“Very well, Signor.”

I was about to follow Vitalis, when he stopped me.

“Stay here,” he said; “you can rest.

“Oh, I’ll come back,” he added, reassuringly, noticing my look of anxiety.

“Are you Italian?” asked the boy, when Vitalis’ heavy step could no longer be heard on the stairs.

“No,” I replied in French, “I’m French.”

“That’s a good thing.”

“What! you like the French better than the Italians?”

“Oh, no, I was thinking of you when I said ‘that’s a good thing,’ because if you were Italian you would probably come here to work for Signor Garofoli, and I’d be sorry for you.”

“Is he wicked, then?”

The boy did not reply, but the look he gave me spoke more than words. As though he did not wish to continue the conversation, he went over to the fireplace. On a shelf in the fireplace was an immense earthenware saucepan. I drew nearer to the fire to warm myself, and I noticed that the pot had something peculiar about it. The lid, through which a straight tube projected to allow the steam to escape, was fixed on the saucepan on one side with a hinge and on the other with a padlock.

“Why is that closed with a padlock?” I asked, inquisitively.

“So that I shan’t take any of the soup. I have to look after it, but the boss doesn’t trust me.”

I could not help smiling.

“You laugh,” he said sadly, “because you think that I’m a glutton. Perhaps, if you were in my place, you’d do the same as I’ve done. I’m not a pig, but I’m famished, and the smell of the soup as it comes out through the spout makes me still hungrier.”

“Doesn’t Signor Garofoli give you enough to eat?”

“He starves us…”

“Oh…”

“I’ll tell you what I have done,” went on the boy, “ ’cause if he’s going to be your master, it will be a lesson for you. My name is Mattia. Garofoli is my uncle. My mother, who lives in Lucca in Italy, is very poor and has only enough for herself and my little sister, Christina. When Garofoli came to beautiful Lucca last year he brought me back with him. Oh, it was hard to leave my little sister… Signor Garofoli has a lot of boys here, some of them are chimney sweeps, others rag pickers, and those who are not strong enough to work, sing in the streets or beg. Garofoli gave me two little white mice to show to the public and I had to bring him back thirty sous every night. As many sous as you are short a day, so many blows you get. It is hard to pick up thirty sous, but the blows are hard, too, especially when it’s Garofoli who gives them. So I did everything that I could to get the money, but I was often short. Nearly all the other boys had their money when they returned at night, but I scarcely ever had mine and Garofoli was mad! There is another boy here, who also shows mice, and he’s taxed forty sous, and he brings that sum back every night. Several times I went out with him to see how he made it…”

He paused.

“Well?” I asked.

“Oh, the ladies always said, ‘Give it to the pretty little one, not the ugly boy.’ The ugly one, of course, was I; so I did not go out with him any more. A blow hurts, but it hurts more to have things like that said, and before a lot of people! You don’t know that because no one has ever told you that you are ugly. Well, when Garofoli saw that beating me didn’t do any good, he tried another way. Each night he took away some of my supper. It’s hard, but I can’t say to the people in the streets, who are watching my mice: ‘Give me something or I won’t get any supper to-night!’ They don’t give for that reason.”

“Why do they give?”

“Because you are pretty and nice, or because you remind them of a little boy they’ve lost, not because they think you’re hungry. Oh, I know their ways. Say, ain’t it cold to-day?”

“Awful cold.”

“I didn’t get fat on begging,” went on the boy. “I got so pale and then, after a time, I often heard people say: ‘That poor child is starving to death.’ A suffering look does what good looks can’t do. But you have to be very starved for that. They used to give me food. That was a good time for me, because Garofoli had stopped giving me blows just then to see if it would hurt me more to go without supper, so when I got something to eat outside I didn’t care. But one day Garofoli came along and saw me eating something, a bowl of soup that the fruiterer gave me, then he knew why I didn’t mind going without supper at home. After that he made me stay at home and look after the soup here. Every morning before he goes out he puts the meat and the vegetables into the saucepan and locks the lid on, and all I have to do is to see that it boils. I smell the soup, but that’s all. The smell of the soup doesn’t feed you; it makes you more hungry. Am I very white? As I never go out now I don’t hear people say so, and there’s no mirror here.”

“You don’t seem any paler than others,” I said.

“Ah, you say that because you don’t want to frighten me, but I’m glad I’m sick. I want to be very ill.”

I looked at him in amazement.

“You don’t understand,” he said, with a pitiful smile. “When one is very ill, they take care of you or they let you die. If they let me die it will be all over, I shan’t be hungry any more, and there’ll be no more beatings. And they do say that when we die we go up and live with God. Then, if I’m up there, I can look down on Mamma and Christina, and I can ask God not to let my little sister be unhappy. Also, if they send me to the Hospital, I shall be pleased.”

The Hospital! No matter how sick I felt while tramping across the country, if I thought I might be sent to the hospital I always found strength to go on.

“I’m quite ill now, but not ill enough to be in Garofoli’s way,” he went on in his weak, drawling voice, “but I’m getting weaker. Garofoli, fortunately, hasn’t given up beating me entirely. He beat me on the head eight days ago and, look, it’s all swelled out now. You see here, this big bump? He told me yesterday it was a tumor, and the way that he spoke I believe that it’s something serious. It hurts awful. I’m so giddy at night when I put my head on the pillow I moan and cry. So I think in two or three days he’ll decide to send me to the hospital. I was in the hospital once, and the Sisters speak so kind to you. They say, ‘Put out your tongue, little boy,’ and ‘There’s a good boy,’ every time you do anything they tell you to do. I think I am almost had enough now to be sent there.”

He came and stood quite close to me, fixing his great eyes on me. Even though I had not the same reason for hiding the truth from him, I did not like to tell him how terrible he looked with his great glittering eyes, his hollow cheeks, and his bloodless lips.

“I should think you’re ill enough to go to the hospital,” I said.

“At last!”

With dragging limbs he went slowly over to the table and began to wipe it.

“Garofoli will be here shortly,” he said; “we mustn’t talk any more.”

Wearily he went round the table, placing the plates and spoons. I counted twenty plates. So Garofoli had twenty boys. As I only saw twelve beds, they evidently slept, some of them, two in a bed. What beds! what sheets! the coverlets must have been brought from the stables when they were too old and not warm enough for the horses!

“Don’t you come here,” said the boy, “Try to get somewhere else.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. No matter where, you’d be better than here.”

The door opened and a child came into the room. He carried a violin under his arm and a big piece of wood in his hand.

“Give me that bit of wood,” said Mattia, going up to the child.

But the little fellow held the piece of wood behind his back.

“No,” he said.

“Give it me for the fire; the soup’ll be better.”

“Do you think I brought it for the soup? I’ve only made thirty-six sous to-day and I thought this bit of wood might save me a beating. It’s to make up for the four sous I’m short.”

“You’ll have to pay. Each in his turn.”

Mattia said this mechanically, as though the thought of the boy being punished gave him satisfaction. I was surprised to see a hard look come into his soft, sad eyes. I knew later that if you live with wicked people you get to be like them in time.

One by one the boys returned; each one as he came in hung his instrument on a nail above his bed. Those who were not musicians, but simply exhibitors of trained animals, put their mice and guinea pigs into a cage.

Then a heavy step sounded on the stairs and a little man wearing a gray overcoat came into the room. It was Garofoli. The moment he entered he fixed his eyes on me with a look that scared me. Mattia quickly and politely gave him Vitalis’ message.

“Ah, so Vitalis is here,” he said; “what does he want?”

“I don’t know,” replied Mattia.

“I’m not speaking to you, I’m speaking to this boy.”

“He is coming back and he will tell you himself what he wants,” I replied.

“Ah, here’s a little fellow who knows the value of words. You’re not Italian?”

“No, I’m French.”

The moment Garofoli entered the room two small boys took their places, one on each side of him, and were waiting until he had finished speaking. Then one took his felt hat and placed it carefully on the bed, and the other brought forward a chair. They did this with the same gravity and respect that a choir boy waits upon a priest. When Garofoli was seated another little boy brought him a pipe stuffed with tobacco, and a fourth offered him a lighted match.

“It smells of sulphur, animal,” he cried, throwing it in the grate.

The culprit hastened to repair his mistake; lighting another match he let it burn for a time before offering it to his master. But Garofoli would not accept it.

“No, you imbecile,” he said, pushing the boy aside roughly. Then he turned to another child and said with an ingratiating smile:

“Ricardo, dearie, bring a match.”

The “dearie” hastened to obey.

“Now,” said Garofoli, when he was comfortably installed and his pipe burning; “now to business, my little angels. Bring the book, Mattia.”

Garofoli made a sign to the boy who had lit the first match.

“You owe me a sou from yesterday; you promised to bring it to-day. How much have you brought?”

The child hesitated for a long time, his face showing distress, “I’m one sou short,” he said at last.

“Ah, you’re one sou short.”

“It’s not the sou for yesterday; it’s a sou for to-day.”

“That makes two sous! I’ve never seen the like of you!”

“It’s not my fault.”

“No excuses. You know the rules. Undo your coat; two blows for yesterday, two for to-day, and no supper, for your impudence. Ricardo, dearie, you’re a good boy and you deserve some recreation. Take the strap.”

Ricardo, the child who had lit the second match, took down from the wall a short-handled whip with two leather-knotted straps. Meanwhile, the boy who was short two sous was unfastening his coat. Then he dropped his shirt, baring his body to the waist.

“Wait a minute,” said Garofoli, with an ugly smile; “you won’t be the only one, perhaps; it’s always pleasant to have a companion.”

The children stood motionless before their master. At his cruel joke they all forced a laugh.

“The one who laughed most is the one who is short the most,” said Garofoli; “I’m sure of that. Who laughed the loudest?”

All pointed to the boy who had come home first, bringing his piece of wood.

“How much are you short, you there?” demanded Garofoli.

“It’s not my fault.”

“And the one who says ‘it’s not my fault’ will get an extra cut. How much is missing?”

“I brought back a big piece of wood, a beautiful piece of wood…”

“That’s something. But go to the baker’s and ask him to exchange your wood for bread, will he do it? How many sous are you missing? Speak out!”

“I’ve made thirty-six sous.”

“You’re four short, you rogue. And you can stand there before me like that! Down with your shirt! Ricardo, dearie, you’re going to have a good time.”

“But the bit of wood?” cried the boy.

“I’ll give it to you for supper.”

This cruel joke made all the children who were not to be punished laugh. All the other boys were then questioned as to how much they had brought home. Ricardo stood with whip in hand until five victims were placed in a row before him.

“You know, Ricardo,” said Garofoli, “I don’t like to look on, because a scene like this always makes me feel ill. But I can hear, and from the noise I am able to judge the strength of your blows. Go at it heartily, dearie; you are working for your bread.”

He turned towards the fire, as though it were impossible for him to witness this chastisement.

I, in my corner, trembled with indignation and fear. This was the man who was going to be my master. If I did not bring him back the thirty or forty sous that he demanded of me, I should have to be whipped by Ricardo. Ah, I understood now how Mattia could speak of death so calmly.

The first lash of the whip, as it cut into the flesh, made the tears spring to my eyes. I thought that I was forgotten, but I made a mistake; Garofoli was looking at me out of the corner of his eye.

“There’s a boy with a heart,” he said, pointing to me; “he is not like you other rogues; you laugh when you see your comrades suffer. Take this little comrade for an example.”

I trembled from head to foot. Their comrade!

At the second blow the victim uttered a wail, at the third a piercing shriek. Garofoli lifted his hand; Ricardo stopped with raised whip. I thought Garofoli was going to show mercy, but it was not so.

“You know how much it hurts me to hear you cry,” said Garofoli, gently, addressing the victim. “You know that if the whip tears your skin, your cries pierce my heart. So then I warn you that for each cry you will receive another slash, and it will be your own fault. If you have any affection or gratitude you will keep silent. Go on, Ricardo.”

Ricardo raised his arm and the strap curled on the backs of the victims.

“Oh, Mamma, Mamma,” cried one.

Thank God, I saw no more of this frightful torture, for at this moment the door was thrown open and Vitalis entered.

In a glance, he understood all. He had heard the shrieks while climbing the stairs. Running to Ricardo, he snatched the whip from him, then, wheeling round upon Garofoli, he stood before him with folded arms.

It all happened so quickly that, for a moment, I was dumbfounded, but Garofoli quickly recovered himself and said gently:

“Isn’t it terrible? That child has no heart.”

“Shame! It’s a shame!” cried Vitalis.

“That is just what I say,” murmured Garofoli.

“Stop that,” commanded Vitalis; “it’s you, not the child! What a cowardly shame to torture these poor children who cannot defend themselves.”

“Don’t you meddle in what does not concern you, you old fool,” cried Garofoli, changing his tone.

“It concerns the police,” retorted Vitalis.

“You threaten me with the police, do you?” cried Garofoli.

“Yes, I do,” replied my master, nowise intimidated by the bully’s fury.

“Ah, Vitalis,” he hissed, “so you’ll talk? Well, I can talk also. Your affairs do not concern me, but there are others who are interested in you and if I tell, if I say one name… Ah, who will have to hide his head in shame?”

My master was silent. Shame! His shame! I was amazed, but before I had time to think, he had taken me by the hand.

“Come, Remi,” he said. And he drew me to the door.

“Oh,” cried Garofoli, now laughing, “I thought you wanted to talk to me, old fellow.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

Then, without another word, we went down the stairs, he still holding me tightly by the hand. With what relief I followed him! I had escaped from that tyrant! If I had dared I would have thrown my arms around Vitalis’ neck.

Chapter XVIIPOOR VITALIS

While we were in the street Vitalis said not a word, but soon we came to a narrow alley and he sat down on a mile-stone and passed his hand several times across his forehead.

“It may be fine to listen to the voice of generosity,” he said, as though speaking to himself, “but now we’re in the gutters of Paris, without a sou; not a bite to eat… Are you hungry?” he asked, looking up at me.

“I haven’t eaten anything since that little roll you gave me this morning.”

“Poor, poor child, and you’ll have to go to bed to-night without supper. And where are we going to sleep?”

“Did you count on sleeping at Garofoli’s, then?”

“I counted upon you sleeping there, and as he would have given me twenty francs for you for the winter, I could have managed for the time being. But, seeing the way he treated those children, I could not give you to him.”

“Oh, you are so good!”

“Perhaps in this old, hardened vagabond there is still a bit of the young man’s heart left. This old vagabond calculated shrewdly, but the young man still in him upset all… Now, where to go?” he murmured.

It was already late and the cold had increased. It was going to be a hard night. For a long time Vitalis sat on the stone. Capi and I stood silently before, waiting until he had come to some decision. Finally he rose.

“Where are we going?”

“To Gentilly, to try and find a race-course where I’ve slept sometimes. Are you tired?”

“I rested at Garofoli’s.”

“The pity is that I haven’t rested, and I can’t do much more. But we must get along. Forward! March! Children!”

This was his good humor signal for the dogs and myself when we were about to start, but this night he said it sadly.

Here we were, wandering in the streets of Paris; the night was dark and the gas jets, which flickered in the wind, lit the alleys but dimly. At each step we slipped on the ice-covered pavement. Vitalis held me by the hand, and Capi followed at our heels. From time to time, the poor dog stopped behind to look amongst a heap of garbage to see if he could find a bone or a crust, for he was oh, so hungry, but the garbage was covered with frozen snow and he searched in vain. With drooping ears he trotted on to catch up with us.

After the big streets, more alleys; after the alleys, more big streets; we walked on, and on; the few pedestrians that we met stared at us in astonishment. Was it our costumes? Was it the tired way we plodded along which arrested their attention? The policemen that we passed turned round and followed us with a glance.

Without saying a word, Vitalis tramped on, his back almost bent double, but despite the cold, his hand burned in mine. It seemed to me that he was trembling. Sometimes, when he stopped to lean for a minute against my shoulder, I felt all his body shaken with trembling. Ordinarily, I would not dare to have questioned him, but I felt I must to-night. Besides, I had a great wish to tell him how much I loved him or, at least, that I wanted to do something for him.

“You are ill?” I said, when he stopped again.

“I’m afraid so; anyway, I’m very tired. This cold is too severe for my old blood. I need a good bed and a supper before a fire. But that’s a dream. Forward! March! Children.”

Forward! March! We had left the city behind us; we were now in the suburbs. We saw no people or policemen or street lights, only a lighted window here and there, and over our heads the dark-blue sky dotted with a few stars. The wind, which blew more bitter and more violently, stuck our clothing to our bodies. Fortunately, it was at our backs, but as the sleeves of my coat were all torn near the shoulders, it blew in and slipped along my arms, chilling me to the bone.

Although it was dark and the streets continually crossed each other, Vitalis walked like a man who knows his way, and was perfectly sure of his road. So I followed, feeling sure that we should not lose ourselves. Suddenly, he stopped.

“Do you see a group of trees?” he asked.

“I don’t see anything.”

“You don’t see a big black mass?”

I looked on all sides before answering. I saw no trees or houses. Space all around us. There was no other sound save the whistle of the wind.

“See, down there!” He stretched out his right hand before him, then, as I did not reply, for I was afraid to say that I saw nothing, he trudged on again.

Some minutes passed in silence; then he stopped once more and asked me if I did not see a group of trees. A vague fear made my voice tremble when I replied that I saw nothing.

“It is fear, my boy, that makes your eyes dance; look again.”

“I tell you, I do not see any trees.”

“Not on the big road?”

“I can’t see anything.”

“We’ve made a mistake.”

I could say nothing, for I did not know where we were, nor where we were going.

“Let us walk for another five minutes and, if we do not see the trees, we will come back here. I might have made a mistake on the road.”

Now that I knew that we had gone astray, I seemed to have no more strength left. Vitalis pulled me by the arm.

“Come, come.”

“I can’t walk any farther.”

“Ah, and do you think I’m going to carry you?”

I followed him.

“Are there any deep ruts in the road?”

“No.”

“Then we must turn back.”

We turned. Now we faced the wind. It stung our faces like a lash. It seemed that my face was being scorched with a flame.

“We have to take a road leading from the cross-roads,” said my master feebly; “tell me when you see it.”

For a quarter of an hour we went on, struggling against the wind; in the doleful silence of the night the noise of our footsteps echoed on the dry, hard earth. Although scarcely able to put one foot before the other, it was I who dragged Vitalis. How anxiously I looked to the left! In the dark shadows I suddenly saw a little red light.

“See, there’s a light,” I said, pointing.

“Where?”

Vitalis looked; although the light was but a short distance off, he saw nothing. I knew then that his sight was going.

“What is that light to us?” he asked; “it is a lamp burning on the table of some worker, or it’s near the bed of a dying person. We cannot go and knock at those doors. Away in the country, during the night, you can ask hospitality, but so near Paris… we must not expect hospitality here. Come.”

A few steps more and I thought I could make out the cross-roads and a black mass which must be the trees. I let go of my master’s hand to go ahead quicker. There were deep ruts in the road.

“See, here are the ruts?” I cried.

“Give me your hand, we are saved,” said Vitalis; “look, now you can see the group of trees.”

I told him that I thought I could see the trees.

“In five minutes we shall be there,” he murmured.

We trudged along, but the five minutes seemed an eternity.

“Where are the ruts?”

“They are still on the right.”

“We must have passed the entrance to the race-course without seeing it. I think we’d better go back.”

Once more we turned back.

“Do you see the trees?”

“Yes, there on the left.”

“And the ruts?”

“There are not any.”

“Am I blind?” asked Vitalis in a low voice, as he passed his hands across his eyes; “walk straight along by the trees, and give me your hand.”

“Here is a wall.”

“No, it’s a heap of stones.”

“No, I am sure it’s a wall.”

Vitalis took a step aside to see if it really was as I said. He stretched out his two hands and touched the wall.

“Yes, it’s a wall,” he murmured. “Where is the entrance. Look for the track.”

I stooped down to the ground and felt all along to the end of the wall, but I found no entrance; then, turning back to where Vitalis stood, I continued to feel along the wall on the other side. The result was the same; there was no opening, no gate.

“There is nothing,” I said.

The situation was terrible. Without doubt my master was delirious. Perhaps there was no race-course here at all! Vitalis stood for a moment as though in a dream. Capi began to bark impatiently.

“Shall we look further?” I asked.

“No, the race-course is walled up.”

“Walled up?”

“Yes, they have closed the opening, and it is impossible for us to get inside.”

“Well, then?”

“What to do, eh? I don’t know. Die here.”

“Oh, Master! Master!”

“Yes, you don’t want to die, you are so young. Life seems good to you. Let us walk on. Can you still walk a bit further, my child.”

“Oh, but you?”

“When I can go no farther, I shall fall down like an old horse.”

“Where shall we go?”

“Return to Paris. When we meet a policeman we will let him take us to the police station. I did not want that, but I cannot let you die of cold, boy. Come, little Remi, come. On, my children. Courage!”

We turned back the same way that we had come. What time was it? I had no idea. We had walked for hours, a long, long time, and so slowly. Perhaps it was midnight or one o’clock. The sky was still a somber blue, without moon, and with but few stars, and the few that had appeared seemed to me to be smaller than usual. The wind had increased; the snow beat in our faces; the houses that we passed were closed for the night. It seemed to me that if the people who slept there, warmly beneath the sheets, knew how cold we were outside, they would have opened their doors to us.

Vitalis walked slower and slower; when I spoke to him he made a sign to me to be silent. We were now nearing the city. Vitalis stopped. I knew that he had come to the end of his strength.

“Shall I knock at one of the doors?” I asked.

“No, they will not let us in. They are gardeners who live here. They supply the market. They would not get up at this hour to take us in. Let us go on.”

But he had more will than strength. After a moment he stopped again.

“I must rest a little,” he said, feebly; “I can’t go on.”

There was a gate leading to a big garden. The wind had blown a lot of straw, that covered a manure heap near the gate, into the street.

“I am going to sit here,” said Vitalis.

“You said that if we sat down we should get too cold to get up again.”

He made no reply, but signed for me to heap up the straw against the door; then he fell, rather than sat down upon it. His teeth chattered and all his body shook.

“Bring some more straw,” he said; “with a lot of straw we can keep the wind from us.”

The wind, yes, but not the cold. When I had gathered up all the straw that I could, I sat down beside Vitalis.

“Come quite close to me,” he said, “and lift Capi on your lap. He will give you some warmth from his body.”

Vitalis was ill. Did he know how ill? As I crept close up against him, he bent over and kissed me. That was the second time he had kissed me. Alas! it was the last.

Scarcely had I cuddled up against Vitalis than I felt my eyes close. I tried to keep them open, but I could not. I pinched my arms, but there was no feeling in my flesh. On my legs, which were drawn up to my chest, Capi slept already. The wind blew the wisps of straw upon us like dried leaves that fall from a tree. There was not a soul in the street, and around us was the silence of death.

This silence frightened me. Of what was I afraid? I did not know, but a vague fear came over me. It seemed to me that I was dying there. And then I felt very sad. I thought of Chavanon, of poor Mother Barberin. Must I die without seeing her again, and our little house, and my little garden! Then, I was no longer cold; it seemed that I was back in my little garden. The sun was shining and was so warm. The jonquils were opening their golden petals; the birds were singing in the trees and on the hedges. Yes, and Mother Barberin was hanging out the clothes that she had just washed in the brook, which rippled over the pebbles. Then I left Chavanon, and joined Arthur and Mrs. Milligan on the Swan. Then my eyes closed again, my heart seemed to grow heavy, and I remembered no more.