Nobody's boy (Sans famille)
by Hector Malot · English · Gutenberg #25102 · 491,201 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Nobody's boy (Sans famille)
Author: Hector Malot
Illustrator: Johnny Gruelle
Translator: Florence Crewe-Jones
Release date: April 19, 2008 [eBook #25102]
Most recently updated: April 25, 2026
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/25102
Credits: Produced by Free Elf, Martin Pettit and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NOBODY'S BOY (SANS FAMILLE) ***
NOBODY'S BOY
(_Sans Famille_)
BY HECTOR MALOT
TRANSLATED BY FLORENCE CREWE-JONES
_ILLUSTRATED IN COLOR BY_ JOHN B. GRUELLE
NEW YORK MDCCCCXVI
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY
_Copyright, 1916, by_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY
Printed in U. S. A.
[Illustration: "THE FIRST APPEARANCE OF REMI'S COMPANY."
(_See page 230_)]
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I MY VILLAGE HOME 1
II MY ADOPTED FATHER 10
III SIGNOR VITALIS' COMPANY 21
IV THE MATERNAL HOUSE 35
V EN ROUTE 43
VI MY DÉBUT 49
VII CHILD AND ANIMAL LEARNING 61
VIII ONE WHO HAD KNOWN A KING 67
IX ARRESTED 74
X HOMELESS 85
XI ANOTHER BOY'S MOTHER 109
XII THE MASTER'S CONSENT 120
XIII WEARY DREARY DAYS 128
XIV THE DEATH OF PRETTY-HEART 148
XV FAITHFUL FRIENDS 163
XVI THE PADRONE 169
XVII POOR VITALIS 184
XVIII NEW FRIENDS 194
XIX DISASTER 205
XX MATTIA 220
XXI MEETING OLD FRIENDS 236
XXII IMPRISONED IN A MINE 244
XXIII ONCE MORE UPON THE WAY 262
XXIV FRIENDSHIP THAT IS TRUE 270
XXV MOTHER, BROTHERS AND SISTERS 294
XXVI BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT 304
XXVII A DISTRESSING DISCOVERY 312
XXVIII A MYSTERIOUS STRANGER 330
XXIX IN PRISON 335
XXX ESCAPE 345
XXXI HUNTING FOR THE SWAN 353
XXXII FINDING A REAL MOTHER 359
XXXIII THE DREAM COME TRUE 368
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"THE FIRST APPEARANCE OF REMI'S COMPANY" (_See Page 230_)
_Frontispiece_
PAGE
"I'LL GIVE YOU THIRTY FRANCS FOR HIM" 33
"FOR EACH CRY YOU WILL RECEIVE ANOTHER SLASH" 181
"LET US NOW PLAY FOR THOSE WE LOVE" 371
INTRODUCTION
"Nobody's Boy," published in France under the title "Sans Famille," has
become justly famous as one of the supreme juvenile stories of the
world. In the midst of its early popularity, it was crowned by the
Academy as one of the masterpieces of French literature. A few years
later, it was followed by "En Famille," which is published by us as a
companion story under the title "Nobody's Girl."
"Nobody's Boy" is a human document of child experiences that is
fascinating reading for young and old. Parents, teachers and others, who
are careful to have children read inspiring books, will welcome this
beautiful story of Hector Malot, as among the best for them to
recommend.
Such digressions in the original, as do not belong to the heart of the
story, have been eliminated, so that the lost boy's experiences continue
as the undisturbed interest, on through to the happy conclusion.
Loyal friendship and honest conduct are the vital ideals of this story,
and the heart interest is eloquent with noble character.
THE PUBLISHERS.
NOBODY'S BOY
CHAPTER I
MY VILLAGE HOME
I was a foundling. But until I was eight years of age I thought I had a
mother like other children, for when I cried a woman held me tightly in
her arms and rocked me gently until my tears stopped falling. I never
got into bed without her coming to kiss me, and when the December winds
blew the icy snow against the window panes, she would take my feet
between her hands and warm them, while she sang to me. Even now I can
remember the song she used to sing. If a storm came on while I was out
minding our cow, she would run down the lane to meet me, and cover my
head and shoulders with her cotton skirt so that I should not get wet.
When I had a quarrel with one of the village boys she made me tell her
all about it, and she would talk kindly to me when I was wrong and
praise me when I was in the right. By these and many other things, by
the way she spoke to me and looked at me, and the gentle way she scolded
me, I believed that she was my mother.
My village, or, to be more exact, the village where I was brought up,
for I did not have a village of my own, no birthplace, any more than I
had a father or mother--the village where I spent my childhood was
called Chavanon; it is one of the poorest in France. Only sections of
the land could be cultivated, for the great stretch of moors was covered
with heather and broom. We lived in a little house down by the brook.
Until I was eight years of age I had never seen a man in our house; yet
my adopted mother was not a widow, but her husband, who was a
stone-cutter, worked in Paris, and he had not been back to the village
since I was of an age to notice what was going on around me.
Occasionally he sent news by some companion who returned to the village,
for there were many of the peasants who were employed as stone-cutters
in the city.
"Mother Barberin," the man would say, "your husband is quite well, and
he told me to tell you that he's still working, and to give you this
money. Will you count it?"
That was all. Mother Barberin was satisfied, her husband was well and he
had work.
Because Barberin was away from home it must not be thought that he was
not on good terms with his wife. He stayed in Paris because his work
kept him there. When he was old he would come back and live with his
wife on the money that he had saved.
One November evening a man stopped at our gate. I was standing on the
doorstep breaking sticks. He looked over the top bar of the gate and
called to me to know if Mother Barberin lived there. I shouted yes and
told him to come in. He pushed open the old gate and came slowly up to
the house. I had never seen such a dirty man. He was covered with mud
from head to foot. It was easy to see that he had come a distance on bad
roads. Upon hearing our voices Mother Barberin ran out.
"I've brought some news from Paris," said the man.
Something in the man's tone alarmed Mother Barberin.
"Oh, dear," she cried, wringing her hands, "something has happened to
Jerome!"
"Yes, there is, but don't get scared. He's been hurt, but he ain't dead,
but maybe he'll be deformed. I used to share a room with him, and as I
was coming back home he asked me to give you the message. I can't stop
as I've got several miles to go, and it's getting late."
But Mother Barberin wanted to know more; she begged him to stay to
supper. The roads were so bad! and they did say that wolves had been
seen on the outskirts of the wood. He could go early in the morning.
Wouldn't he stay?
Yes, he would. He sat down by the corner of the fire and while eating
his supper told us how the accident had occurred. Barberin had been
terribly hurt by a falling scaffold, and as he had had no business to
be in that particular spot, the builder had refused to pay an indemnity.
"Poor Barberin," said the man as he dried the legs of his trousers,
which were now quite stiff under the coating of mud, "he's got no luck,
no luck! Some chaps would get a mint o' money out of an affair like
this, but your man won't get nothing!"
"No luck!" he said again in such a sympathetic tone, which showed
plainly that he for one would willingly have the life half crushed out
of his body if he could get a pension. "As I tell him, he ought to sue
that builder."
"A lawsuit," exclaimed Mother Barberin, "that costs a lot of money."
"Yes, but if you win!"
Mother Barberin wanted to start off to Paris, only it was such a
terrible affair ... the journey was so long, and cost so much!
The next morning we went into the village and consulted the priest. He
advised her not to go without first finding out if she could be of any
use. He wrote to the hospital where they had taken Barberin, and a few
days later received a reply saying that Barberin's wife was not to go,
but that she could send a certain sum of money to her husband, because
he was going to sue the builder upon whose works he had met with the
accident.
Days and weeks passed, and from time to time letters came asking for
more money. The last, more insistent than the previous ones, said that
if there was no more money the cow must be sold to procure the sum.
Only those who have lived in the country with the peasants know what
distress there is in these three words, "Sell the cow." As long as they
have their cow in the shed they know that they will not suffer from
hunger. We got butter from ours to put in the soup, and milk to moisten
the potatoes. We lived so well from ours that until the time of which I
write I had hardly ever tasted meat. But our cow not only gave us
nourishment, she was our friend. Some people imagine that a cow is a
stupid animal. It is not so, a cow is most intelligent. When we spoke to
ours and stroked her and kissed her, she understood us, and with her big
round eyes which looked so soft, she knew well enough how to make us
know what she wanted and what she did not want. In fact, she loved us
and we loved her, and that is all there is to say. However, we had to
part with her, for it was only by the sale of the cow that Barberin's
husband would be satisfied.
A cattle dealer came to our house, and after thoroughly examining
Rousette,--all the time shaking his head and saying that she would not
suit him at all, he could never sell her again, she had no milk, she
made bad butter,--he ended by saying that he would take her, but only
out of kindness because Mother Barberin was an honest good woman.
Poor Rousette, as though she knew what was happening, refused to come
out of the barn and began to bellow.
"Go in at the back of her and chase her out," the man said to me,
holding out a whip which he had carried hanging round his neck.
"No, that he won't," cried mother. Taking poor Rousette by the loins,
she spoke to her softly: "There, my beauty, come ... come along then."
Rousette could not resist her, and then, when she got to the road, the
man tied her up behind his cart and his horse trotted off and she had to
follow.
We went back to the house, but for a long time we could hear her
bellowing. No more milk, no butter! In the morning a piece of bread, at
night some potatoes with salt.
Shrove Tuesday happened to be a few days after we had sold the cow. The
year before Mother Barberin had made a feast for me with pancakes and
apple fritters, and I had eaten so many that she had beamed and laughed
with pleasure. But now we had no Rousette to give us milk or butter, so
there would be no Shrove Tuesday, I said to myself sadly.
But Mother Barberin had a surprise for me. Although she was not in the
habit of borrowing, she had asked for a cup of milk from one of the
neighbors, a piece of butter from another, and when I got home about
midday she was emptying the flour into a big earthenware bowl.
"Oh," I said, going up to her, "flour?"
"Why, yes," she said, smiling, "it's flour, my little Remi, beautiful
flour. See what lovely flakes it makes."
Just because I was so anxious to know what the flour was for I did not
dare ask. And besides I did not want her to know that I remembered that
it was Shrove Tuesday for fear she might feel unhappy.
"What does one make with flour?" she asked, smiling at me.
"Bread."
"What else?"
"Pap."
"And what else?"
"Why, I don't know."
"Yes, you know, only as you are a good little boy, you don't dare say.
You know that to-day is Pancake day, and because you think we haven't
any butter and milk you don't dare speak. Isn't that so, eh?
"Oh, Mother."
"I didn't mean that Pancake day should be so bad after all for my little
Remi. Look in that bin."
I lifted up the lid quickly and saw some milk, butter, eggs, and three
apples.
"Give me the eggs," she said; "while I break them, you peel the apples."
While I cut the apples into slices, she broke the eggs into the flour
and began to beat the mixture, adding a little milk from time to time.
When the paste was well beaten she placed the big earthenware bowl on
the warm cinders, for it was not until supper time that we were to have
the pancakes and fritters. I must say frankly that it was a very long
day, and more than once I lifted up the cloth that she had thrown over
the bowl.
"You'll make the paste cold," she cried; "and it won't rise well."
But it was rising well, little bubbles were coming up on the top. And
the eggs and milk were beginning to smell good.
"Go and chop some wood," Mother Barberin said; "we need a good clear
fire."
At last the candle was lit.
"Put the wood on the fire!"
She did not have to say this twice; I had been waiting impatiently to
hear these words. Soon a bright flame leaped up the chimney and the
light from the fire lit up all the kitchen. Then Mother Barberin took
down the frying pan from its hook and placed it on the fire.
"Give me the butter!"
With the end of her knife she slipped a piece as large as a nut into the
pan, where it melted and spluttered. It was a long time since we had
smelled that odor. How good that butter smelled! I was listening to it
fizzing when I heard footsteps out in our yard.
Whoever could be coming to disturb us at this hour? A neighbor perhaps
to ask for some firewood. I couldn't think, for just at that moment
Mother Barberin put her big wooden spoon into the bowl and was pouring
a spoonful of the paste into the pan, and it was not the moment to let
one's thoughts wander. Somebody knocked on the door with a stick, then
it was flung open.
"Who's there?" asked Mother Barberin, without turning round.
A man had come in. By the bright flame which lit him up I could see that
he carried a big stick in his hand.
"So, you're having a feast here, don't disturb yourselves," he said
roughly.
"Oh, Lord!" cried Mother Barberin, putting the frying pan quickly on the
floor, "is it you, Jerome."
Then, taking me by the arm she dragged me towards the man who had
stopped in the doorway.
"Here's your father."
CHAPTER II
MY ADOPTED FATHER
Mother Barberin kissed her husband; I was about to do the same when he
put out his stick and stopped me.
"What's this?... you told me...."
"Well, yes, but it isn't true ... because...."
"Ah, it isn't true, eh?"
He stepped towards me with his stick raised; instinctively I shrunk
back. What had I done? Nothing wrong, surely! I was only going to kiss
him. I looked at him timidly, but he had turned from me and was speaking
to Mother Barberin.
"So you're keeping Shrove Tuesday," he said. "I'm glad, for I'm
famished. What have you got for supper?"
"I was making some pancakes and apple fritters."
"So I see, but you're not going to give pancakes to a man who has
covered the miles that I have."
"I haven't anything else. You see we didn't expect you."
"What? nothing else! Nothing for supper!" He glanced round the kitchen.
"There's some butter."
He looked up at the ceiling, at the spot where the bacon used to hang,
but for a long time there had been nothing on the hook; only a few ropes
of onions and garlic hung from the beam now.
"Here's some onions," he said, knocking a rope down with his big stick;
"with four or five onions and a piece of butter we'll have a good soup.
Take out the pancakes and fry the onions in the pan!"
"Take the pancakes out of the frying pan!"
Without a word, Mother Barberin hurried to do what her husband asked. He
sat down on a chair by the corner of the fireplace. I had not dared to
leave the place where his stick had sent me. Leaning against the table,
I looked at him.
He was a man about fifty with a hard face and rough ways. His head
leaned a little bit towards his right shoulder, on account of the wound
he had received, and this deformity gave him a still more forbidding
aspect.
Mother Barberin had put the frying pan again on the fire.
"Is it with a little bit of butter like that you're going to try and
make a soup?" he asked. Thereupon he seized the plate with the butter
and threw it all into the pan. No more butter ... then ... no more
pancakes.
At any other moment I should have been greatly upset at this
catastrophe, but I was not thinking of the pancakes and fritters now.
The thought that was uppermost in my mind was, that this man who seemed
so cruel was my father! My father! Absently I said the word over and
over again to myself. I had never thought much what a father would be.
Vaguely, I had imagined him to be a sort of mother with a big voice, but
in looking at this one who had fallen from heaven, I felt greatly
worried and frightened. I had wanted to kiss him and he had pushed me
away with his stick. Why? My mother had never pushed me away when I went
to kiss her; on the contrary, she always took me in her arms and held me
tight.
"Instead of standing there as though you're made of wood," he said, "put
the plates on the table."
I nearly fell down in my haste to obey. The soup was made. Mother
Barberin served it on the plates. Then, leaving the big chimney corner,
he came and sat down and commenced to eat, stopping only from time to
time to glance at me. I felt so uncomfortable that I could not eat. I
looked at him also, but out of the corner of my eye, then I turned my
head quickly when I caught his eye.
"Doesn't he eat more than that usually?" he asked suddenly.
"Oh, yes, he's got a good appetite."
"That's a pity. He doesn't seem to want his supper now, though."
Mother Barberin did not seem to want to talk. She went to and fro,
waiting on her husband.
"Ain't you hungry?"
"No."
"Well then, go to bed and go to sleep at once. If you don't I'll be
angry."
My mother gave me a look which told me to obey without answering. But
there was no occasion for this warning. I had not thought of saying a
word.
As in a great many poor homes, our kitchen was also the bedroom. Near
the fireplace were all the things for the meals--the table, the pots and
pans, and the sideboard; at the other end was the bedroom. In a corner
stood Mother Barberin's big bed, in the opposite corner, in a little
alcove, was my bed under a red figured curtain.
I hurriedly undressed and got into bed. But to go to sleep was another
thing. I was terribly worried and very unhappy. How could this man be my
father? And if he was, why did he treat me so badly?
With my nose flattened against the wall I tried to drive these thoughts
away and go to sleep as he had ordered me, but it was impossible. Sleep
would not come. I had never felt so wide awake.
After a time, I could not say how long, I heard some one coming over to
my bed. The slow step was heavy and dragged, so I knew at once that it
was not Mother Barberin. I felt a warm breath on my cheek.
"Are you asleep?" This was said in a harsh whisper.
I took care not to answer, for the terrible words, "I'll be angry" still
rang in my ears.
"He's asleep," said Mother Barberin; "the moment he gets into bed he
drops off. You can talk without being afraid that he'll hear."
I ought, of course, to have told him that I was not asleep, but I did
not dare. I had been ordered to go to sleep, I was not yet asleep, so I
was in the wrong.
"Well, what about your lawsuit?" asked Mother Barberin.
"Lost it. The judge said that I was to blame for being under the
scaffold." Thereupon he banged his fist on the table and began to swear,
without saying anything that meant anything.
"Case lost," he went on after a moment; "money lost, all gone, poverty
staring us in the face. And as though that isn't enough, when I get back
here, I find a child. Why didn't you do what I told you to do?"
"Because I couldn't."
"You could not take him to a Foundlings' Home?"
"A woman can't give up a little mite like that if she's fed it with her
own milk and grown to love it."
"It's not your child."
"Well, I wanted to do what you told me, but just at that very moment he
fell ill."
"Ill?"
"Yes. Then I couldn't take him to that place. He might have died."
"But when he got better?"
"Well, he didn't get better all at once. After that sickness another
came. He coughed so it would have made your heart bleed to hear him,
poor little mite. Our little Nicolas died like that. It seemed to me
that if I sent him to the Foundlings' Home he'd died also."
"But after?... after?"
"Well, time went on and I thought that as I'd put off going I'd put it
off a bit longer."
"How old is he now?"
"Eight."
"Well then, he'll go now to the place where he should have gone sooner,
and he won't like it so well now."
"Oh, Jerome, you can't ... you won't do that!"
"Won't I? and who's going to stop me? Do you think we can keep him
always?"
There was a moment's silence. I was hardly able to breathe. The lump in
my throat nearly choked me. After a time Mother Barberin went on:
"How Paris has changed you! You wouldn't have spoken like that to me
before you went away."
"Perhaps not. But if Paris has changed me, it's also pretty near killed
me. I can't work now. We've got no money. The cow's sold. When we
haven't enough to feed ourselves, have we got to feed a child that don't
belong to us?"
"He's mine."
"He's no more yours than mine. Besides, he ain't a country boy. He's no
poor man's child. He's a delicate morsel, no arms, no legs."
"He's the prettiest boy in the village!"
"I don't say he ain't pretty. But sturdy, no! Do you think you can make
a working man out of a chit with shoulders like his? He's a city child
and there's no place for city children here."
"I tell you he's a fine boy and as intelligent and cute as a little cat,
and he's got a good heart, and he'll work for us...."
"In the meantime we've got to work for him, and I'm no good for much
now."
"If his parents claim him, what will you say?"
"His parents! Has he got any parents? They would have found him by now
if he had. It was a crazy thing for me to think that his parents would
come and claim him some day and pay us for his keep. I was a fool.
'Cause he was wrapped up in fine clothes trimmed with lace, that wasn't
to say that his parents were going to hunt for him. Besides, they're
dead."
"Perhaps they're not. And one day they may come...."
"If you women ain't obstinate!"
"But if they do come?"
"Well, we've sent him to the Home. But we've said enough. I'll take him
to-morrow. I'm going 'round to see François now. I'll be back in an
hour."
The door was opened and closed again. He had gone. Then I quickly sat up
in bed and began to call to Mother Barberin.
"Say! Mamma!"
She ran over to my bed.
"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 Breuteuil. 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 take you to the
police station. You wouldn't stop crying. Poor mite, you must have been
cold. But then, when they got you warm at the station house, you still
cried, so they thought you were hungry, and they got you some milk. My!
you were hungry! When you'd had enough they undressed you and held you
before the fire. You were a beautiful pink boy, and all dressed in
lovely clothes. The lieutenant wrote down a description of the clothes
and where you were found, and said that he should have to send you to
the Home unless one of the men liked to take charge of you. Such a
beautiful, fine child it wouldn't be difficult to bring up, he said, and
the parents would surely make a search for it and pay any one well for
looking after it, so Jerome said he'd take it. Just at that time I had a
baby the same age. So I was well able to feed both you two mites. There,
dearie, that was how I came to be your mother."
"Oh, Mamma, Mamma!"
"Yes, dearie, there! and at the end of three months I lost my own little
baby and then I got even more fond of you. It was such a pity Jerome
couldn't forget, and seeing at the end of three years that your parents
hadn't come after you, he tried to make me send you to the Home. You
heard why I didn't do as he told me?"
"Oh, don't send me to the Home," I cried, clinging to her, "Mother
Barberin, please, please, don't send me to the Home."
"No, dearie, no, you shan't go. I'll settle it. Jerome is not really
unkind, you'll see. He's had a lot of trouble and he is kind of worried
about the future. We'll all work, you shall work, too."
"Yes, yes, I'll do anything you want me to do, but don't send me to the
Home."
"You shan't go, that is if you promise to go to sleep at once. When he
returns he mustn't find you awake."
She kissed me and turned me over with my face to the wall. I wanted to
go to sleep, but I had received too hard a blow to slip off quietly into
slumberland. Dear good Mother Barberin was not my own mother! Then what
was a real mother? Something better, something sweeter still? It wasn't
possible! Then I thought that a real father might not have held up his
stick to me.... He wanted to send me to the Home, would mother be able
to prevent him?
In the village there were two children from the Home. They were called
"workhouse children." They had a metal plaque hung round their necks
with a number on it. They were badly dressed, and so dirty! All the
other children made fun of them and threw stones at them. They chased
them like boys chase a lost dog, for fun, and because a stray dog has no
one to protect it. Oh, I did not want to be like those children. I did
not want to have a number hung round my neck. I did not want them to
call after me, "Hi, Workhouse Kid; Hi Foundling!" The very thought of it
made me feel cold and my teeth chatter. I could not go to sleep. And
Barberin was coming back soon!
But fortunately he did not return until very late, and sleep came before
he arrived.
CHAPTER III
SIGNOR VITALIS' COMPANY
That night I dreamed that I had been taken to the Home. When I opened my
eyes in the early morning I could scarcely believe that I was still
there in my little bed. I felt the bed and pinched my arms to see if it
were true. Ah, yes, I was still with Mother Barberin.
She said nothing to me all the morning, and I began to think that they
had given up the idea of sending me away. Perhaps she had said that she
was determined to keep me. But when mid day came Barberin told me to put
on my cap and follow him. I looked at Mother Barberin to implore her to
help me. Without her husband noticing she made me a sign to go with him.
I obeyed. She tapped me on the shoulder as I passed her, to let me know
that I had nothing to fear. Without a word I followed him.
It was some distance from our house to the village--a good hour's walk.
Barberin never said a word to me the whole way. He walked along,
limping. Now and again he turned 'round to see if I was following. Where
was he taking me? I asked myself the question again and again. Despite
the reassuring sign that Mother Barberin had made, I felt that something
was going to happen to me and I wanted to run away. I tried to lag
behind, thinking that I would jump down into a ditch where Barberin
could not catch me.
At first he had seemed satisfied that I should tramp along just behind
him, on his heels, but he evidently soon began to suspect what I
intended to do, and he grabbed me by the wrist. I was forced to keep up
with him. This was the way we entered the village. Every one who passed
us turned round to stare, for I looked like a bad dog held on a leash.
As we were about to pass the tavern, a man who was standing in the
doorway called to Barberin and asked him to go in. Barberin took me by
the ear and pushed me in before him, and when we got inside he closed
the door. I felt relieved. This was only the village tavern, and for a
long time I had wanted to see what it was like inside. I had often
wondered what was going on behind the red curtains, I was going to know
now....
Barberin sat down at a table with the boss who had asked him to go in. I
sat by the fireplace. In a corner near me there was a tall old man with
a long white beard. He wore a strange costume. I had never seen anything
like it before. Long ringlets fell to his shoulders and he wore a tall
gray hat ornamented with green and red feathers. A sheepskin, the woolly
side turned inside, was fastened round his body. There were no sleeves
to the skin, but through two large holes, cut beneath the shoulders, his
arms were thrust, covered with velvet sleeves which had once been blue
in color. Woolen gaiters reached up to his knees, and to hold them in
place a ribbon was interlaced several times round his legs. He sat with
his elbow resting on his crossed knees. I had never seen a living person
in such a quiet calm attitude. He looked to me like one of the saints in
our Church. Lying beside him were three dogs--a white spaniel, a black
spaniel, and a pretty little gray dog with a sharp, cute little look.
The white spaniel wore a policeman's old helmet, which was fastened
under its chin with a leather strap.
While I stared at the man in wonder, Barberin and the owner of the
tavern talked in low voices. I knew that I was the subject of their
talk. Barberin was telling him that he had brought me to the village to
take me to the mayor's office, so that the mayor should ask the Charity
Home to pay for my keep. That was all that dear Mother Barberin had been
able to do, but I felt that if Barberin could get something for keeping
me I had nothing to fear.
The old man, who without appearing, had evidently been listening,
suddenly pointed to me, and turning to Barberin said with a marked
foreign accent:
"Is that the child that's in your way?"
"That's him."
"And you think the Home is going to pay you for his keep?"
"Lord! as he ain't got no parents and I've been put to great expense
for him, it is only right that the town should pay me something."
"I don't say it isn't, but do you think that just because a thing is
right, it's done?"
"That, no!"
"Well, then I don't think you'll ever get what you're after."
"Then he goes to the Home, there's no law that forces me to keep him in
my place if I don't want to."
"You agreed in the beginning to take him, so it's up to you to keep your
promise."
"Well, I ain't going to keep him. And when I want to turn him out I'll
do so."
"Perhaps there's a way to get rid of him now," said the old man after a
moment's thought, "and make a little money into the bargain."
"If you'll show me how, I'll stand a drink."
"Order the drinks, the affair's settled."
"Sure?
"Sure."
The old man got up and took a seat opposite Barberin. A strange thing,
as he rose, I saw his sheepskin move. It was lifted up, and I wondered
if he had another dog under his arm.
What were they going to do with me? My heart beat against my side, I
could not take my eyes off the old man.
"You won't let this child eat any more of your bread unless somebody
pays for it, that's it, isn't it?"
"That's it ... because...."
"Never mind the reason. That don't concern me. Now if you don't want
him, just give him to me. I'll take charge of him."
"You? take charge of him!"
"You want to get rid of him, don't you?"
"Give you a child like him, a beautiful boy, for he is beautiful, the
prettiest boy in the village, look at him."
"I've looked at him."
"Remi, come here."
I went over to the table, my knees trembling.
"There, don't be afraid, little one," said the old man.
"Just look at him," said Barberin again.
"I don't say that he is a homely child, if he was I wouldn't want him. I
don't want a monster."
"Ah, now if he was a monster with two ears, or even a dwarf...."
"You'd keep him, you could make your fortune out of a monster. But this
little boy is not a dwarf, nor a monster, so you can't exhibit him: he's
made the same as others, and he's no good for anything."
"He's good for work."
"He's not strong."
"Not strong, him! Land's sakes! He's as strong as any man, look at his
legs, they're that solid! Have you ever seen straighter legs than his?"
Barberin pulled up my pants.
"Too thin," said the old man.
"And his arms?" continued Barberin.
"Like his legs ... might be better. They can't hold out against fatigue
and poverty."
"What, them legs and arms? Feel 'em. Just see for yourself."
The old man passed his skinny hand over my legs and felt them, shaking
his head the while and making a grimace.
I had already seen a similar scene enacted when the cattle dealer came
to buy our cow. He also had felt and pinched the cow. He also had shaken
his head and said that it was not a good cow, it would be impossible to
sell it again, and yet after all he had bought it and taken it away with
him. Was the old man going to buy me and take me away with him? Oh,
Mother Barberin! Mother Barberin!
If I had dared I would have said that only the night before Barberin had
reproached me for seeming delicate and having thin arms and legs, but I
felt that I should gain nothing by it but an angry word, so I kept
silent.
For a long time they wrangled over my good and bad points.
"Well, such as he is," said the old man at last, "I'll take him, but
mind you, I don't buy him outright. I'll hire him. I'll give you twenty
francs a year for him."
"Twenty francs!"
"That's a good sum, and I'll pay in advance."
"But if I keep him the town will pay me more than ten francs a month."
"I know what you'd get from the town, and besides you've got to feed
him."
"He will work."
"If you thought that he could work you wouldn't be so anxious to get rid
of him. It is not for the money that's paid for their keep that you
people take in lost children, it's for the work that you can get out of
them. You make servants of them, they pay you and they themselves get no
wages. If this child could have done much for you, you would have kept
him."
"Anyway, I should always have ten francs a month."
"And if the Home, instead of letting you have him, gave him to some one
else, you wouldn't get anything at all. Now with me you won't have to
run for your money, all you have to do is to hold out your hand."
He pulled a leather purse from his pocket, counting out four silver
pieces of money; he threw them down on the table, making them ring as
they fell.
"But think," cried Barberin; "this child's parents will show up one day
or the other."
"What does that matter?"
"Well, those who've brought him up will get something. If I hadn't
thought of that I wouldn't have taken him in the first place."
Oh! the wicked man! How I did dislike Barberin!
"Now, look here, it's because you think his parents won't show up now
that you're turning him out," said the old man. "Well, if by any chance
they do appear, they'll go straight to you, not to me, for nobody knows
me."
"But if it's you who finds them?"
"Well, in that case we'll go shares and I'll put thirty down for him
now."
"Make it forty."
"No, for what he'll do for me that isn't possible."
"What do you want him to do for you? For good legs, he's got good legs;
for good arms, he's got good arms. I hold to what I said before. What
are you going to do with him?"
Then the old man looked at Barberin mockingly, then emptied his glass
slowly:
"He's just to keep me company. I'm getting old and at night I get a bit
lonesome. When one is tired it's nice to have a child around."
"Well, for that I'm sure his legs are strong enough."
"Oh, not too much so, for he must also dance and jump and walk, and then
walk and jump again. He'll take his place in Signor Vitalis' traveling
company."
"Where's this company?"
"I am Signor Vitalis, and I'll show you the company right here."
With this he opened the sheepskin and took out a strange animal which he
held on his left arm, pressed against his chest. This was the animal
that had several times raised the sheepskin, but it was not a little dog
as I had thought. I found no name to give to this strange creature,
which I saw for the first time. I looked at it in astonishment. It was
dressed in a red coat trimmed with gold braid, but its arms and legs
were bare, for they really were arms and legs, and not paws, but they
were covered with a black, hairy skin, they were not white or pink. The
head which was as large as a clenched fist was wide and short, the
turned-up nose had spreading nostrils, and the lips were yellow. But
what struck me more than anything, were the two eyes, close to each
other, which glittered like glass.
"Oh, the ugly monkey!" cried Barberin.
A monkey! I opened my eyes still wider. So this was a monkey, for
although I had never seen a monkey, I had heard of them. So this little
tiny creature that looked like a black baby was a monkey!
"This is the star of my company," said Signor Vitalis. "This is Mr.
Pretty-Heart. Now, Pretty-Heart,"--turning to the animal--"make your bow
to the society."
The monkey put his hand to his lips and threw a kiss to each of us.
"Now," continued Signor Vitalis, holding out his hand to the white
spaniel, "the next. Signor Capi will have the honor of introducing his
friends to the esteemed company here present."
The spaniel, who up till this moment had not made a movement, jumped up
quickly, and standing on his hind paws, crossed his fore paws on his
chest and bowed to his master so low that his police helmet touched the
ground. This polite duty accomplished, he turned to his companions, and
with one paw still pressed on his chest, he made a sign with the other
for them to draw nearer. The two dogs, whose eyes had been fixed on the
white spaniel, got up at once and giving' each one of us his paw, shook
hands as one does in polite society, and then taking a few steps back
bowed to us in turn.
"The one I call 'Capi,'" said Signor Vitalis, "which is an abbreviation
of _Capitano_ in Italian, is the chief. He is the most intelligent and
he conveys my orders to the others. That black haired young dandy is
Signor Zerbino, which signifies 'the sport.' Notice him and I am sure
you will admit that the name is very appropriate. And that young person
with, the modest air is Miss Dulcie. She is English, and her name is
chosen on account of her sweet disposition. With these remarkable
_artistes_ I travel through the country, earning my living, sometimes
good, sometimes bad, ... it is a matter of luck! Capi!..."
The spaniel crossed his paws.
"Capi, come here, and be on your best behavior. These people are well
brought up, and they must be spoken to with great politeness. Be good
enough to tell this little boy who is looking at you with such big,
round eyes what time it is."
Capi uncrossed his paws, went up to his master, drew aside the
sheepskin, and after feeling in his vest pocket pulled out a large
silver watch. He looked at the watch for a moment, then gave two
distinct barks, then after these two decisive sharp barks, he uttered
three little barks, not so loud nor so clear.
The hour was quarter of three.
"Very good," said Vitalis; "thank you, Signor Capi. And now ask Miss
Dulcie to oblige us by dancing with the skipping rope."
Capi again felt in his master's vest pocket and pulled out a cord. He
made a brief sign to Zerbino, who immediately took his position opposite
to him. Then Capi threw him one end of the cord and they both began to
turn it very gravely. Then Dulcie jumped lightly into the rope and with
her beautiful soft eyes fixed on her master, began to skip.
"You see how intelligent they are," said Vitalis; "their intelligence
would be even more appreciated if I drew comparisons. For instance, if I
had a fool to act with them. That is why I want your boy. He is to be
the fool so that the dogs' intelligence will stand out in a more marked
manner."
"Oh, he's to be the fool...." interrupted Barberin.
"It takes a clever man to play the fool," said Vitalis, "the boy will be
able to act the part with a few lessons. We'll test him at once. If he
has any intelligence he will understand that with me he will be able to
see the country and other countries besides; but if he stays here all he
can do is to drive a herd of cattle in the same fields from morning to
night. If he hasn't any intelligence he'll cry and stamp his feet, and
then I won't take him with me and he'll be sent to the Foundlings' Home,
where he'll have to work hard and have little to eat."
I had enough intelligence to know this, ... the dogs were very funny,
and it would be fun to be with them always, but Mother, Mother
Barberin!... I could not leave her!... Then if I refused perhaps I
should not stay with Mother Barberin.... I might be sent to the Home. I
was very unhappy, and as my eyes filled with tears, Signor Vitalis
tapped me gently on the cheek.
"Ah, the little chap understands because he does not make a great noise.
He is arguing the matter in his little head, and to-morrow...."
"Oh, sir," I cried, "let me stay with Mother Barberin, please let me
stay."
I could not say more, for Capi's loud barking interrupted me. At the
same moment the dog sprang towards the table upon which Pretty-Heart was
seated. The monkey, profiting by the moment when every one was occupied
with me, had quickly seized his master's glass, which was full of wine,
and was about to empty it. But Capi, who was a good watch dog, had seen
the monkey's trick and like the faithful servant that he was, he had
foiled him.
[Illustration: "I'LL GIVE YOU THIRTY FRANCS FOR HIM."]
"Mr. Pretty-Heart," said Vitalis severely, "you are a glutton and a
thief; go over there into the corner and turn your face to the wall, and
you, Zerbino, keep guard: if he moves give him a good slap. As to you,
Mr. Capi, you are a good dog, give me your paw. I'd like to shake hands
with you."
The monkey, uttering little stifled cries, obeyed and went into the
corner, and the dog, proud and happy, held out his paw to his master.
"Now," continued Vitalis, "back to business. I'll give you thirty francs
for him then."
"No, forty."
A discussion commenced, but Vitalis soon stopped it by saying:
"This doesn't interest the child, let him go outside and play."
At the same time he made a sign to Barberin.
"Yes, go out into the yard at the back, but don't move or you'll have me
to reckon with."
I could not but obey. I went into the yard, but I had no heart to play.
I sat down on a big stone and waited. They were deciding what was to
become of me. What would it be? They talked for a long time. I sat
waiting, and it was an hour later when Barberin came out into the yard.
He was alone. Had he come to fetch me to hand me over to Vitalis?
"Come," he said, "back home."
Home! Then I was not to leave Mother Barberin?
I wanted to ask questions, but I was afraid, because he seemed in a
very bad temper. We walked all the way home in silence. But just before
we arrived home Barberin, who was walking ahead, stopped.
"You know," he said, taking me roughly by the ear, "if you say one
single word of what you have heard to-day, you shall smart for it.
Understand?"
CHAPTER IV
THE MATERNAL HOUSE
"Well," asked Mother Barberin, when we entered, "what did the mayor
say?"
"We didn't see him."
"How! You didn't see him?"
"No, I met some friends at the Notre-Dame café and when we came out it
was too late. So we'll go back to-morrow."
So Barberin had given up the idea of driving a bargain with the man with
the dogs.
On the way home I wondered if this was not some trick of his, returning
to the house, but his last words drove all my doubts away. As we had to
go back to the village the next day to see the mayor, it was certain
that Barberin had not accepted Vitalis' terms.
But in spite of his threats I would have spoken of my fears to Mother
Barberin if I could have found myself alone for one moment with her, but
all the evening Barberin did not leave the house, and I went to bed
without getting the opportunity. I went to sleep thinking that I would
tell her the next day. But the next day when I got up, I did not see
her. As I was running all round the house looking for her, Barberin saw
me and asked me what I wanted.
"Mamma."
"She has gone to the village and won't be back till this afternoon."
She had not told me the night before that she was going to the village,
and without knowing why, I began to feel anxious. Why didn't she wait
for us, if we were going in the afternoon? Would she be back before we
started? Without knowing quite why, I began to feel very frightened, and
Barberin looked at me in a way that did not tend to reassure me. To
escape from his look I ran into the garden.
Our garden meant a great deal to us. In it we grew almost all that we
ate--potatoes, cabbages, carrots, turnips. There was no ground wasted,
yet Mother Barberin had given me a little patch all to myself, in which
I had planted ferns and herbs that I had pulled up in the lanes while I
was minding the cow. I had planted everything pell mell, one beside the
other, in my bit of garden: it was not beautiful, but I loved it. It was
mine. I arranged it as I wished, just as I felt at the time, and when I
spoke of it, which happened twenty times a day, it was "My garden."
Already the jonquils were in bud and the lilac was beginning to shoot,
and the wall flowers would soon be out. How would they bloom? I
wondered, and that was why I came to see them every day. But there was
another part of my garden that I studied with great anxiety. I had
planted a vegetable that some one had given to me and which was almost
unknown in our village; it was Jerusalem artichokes. I was told they
would be delicious, better than potatoes, for they had the taste of
French artichokes, potatoes, and turnips combined. Having been told
this, I intended them to be a surprise for Mother Barberin. I had not
breathed a word about this present I had for her. I planted them in my
own bit of garden. When they began to shoot I would let her think that
they were flowers, then one fine day when they were ripe, while she was
out, I would pull them up and cook them myself. How? I was not quite
sure, but I did not worry over such a small detail; then when she
returned to supper I would serve her a dish of Jerusalem artichokes! It
would be something fresh to replace those everlasting potatoes, and
Mother Barberin would not suffer too much from the sale of poor
Rousette. And the inventor of this new dish of vegetables was I, Remi, I
was the one! So I was of some use in the house.
With such a plan in my head I had to bestow careful attention on my
Jerusalem artichokes. Every day I looked at the spot where I had planted
them, it seemed to me that they would never grow. I was kneeling on both
knees on the ground, supported on my hands, with my nose almost touching
the earth where the artichokes were sown, when I heard Barberin calling
me impatiently. I hurried back to the house. Imagine my surprise when I
saw, standing before the fireplace, Vitalis and his dogs.
I knew at once what Barberin wanted of me. Vitalis had come to fetch me
and it was so that Mother Barberin should not stop me from going that
Barberin had sent her to the village. Knowing full well that I could
expect nothing from Barberin, I ran up to Vitalis.
"Oh, don't take me away. Please, sir, don't take me away." I began to
sob.
"Now, little chap," he said, kindly enough, "you won't be unhappy with
me. I don't whip children, and you'll have the dogs for company. Why
should you be sorry to go with me?"
"Mother Barberin!..."
"Anyhow, you're not going to stay here," said Barberin roughly, taking
me by the ear. "Go with this gentleman or go to the workhouse. Choose!"
"No, no. Mamma! Mamma!"
"So, you're going to make me mad, eh!" cried Barberin. "I'll beat you
good and hard and chase you out of the house."
"The child is sorry to leave his mamma, don't beat him for that. He's
got feelings, that's a good sign."
"If you pity him he'll cry all the more."
"Well, now to business."
Saying that, Vitalis laid eight five franc pieces on the table, which
Barberin with a sweep of his hand cleared up and thrust into his pocket.
"Where's his bundle?" asked Vitalis.
"Here it is," said Barberin, handing him a blue cotton handkerchief
tied up at the four corners. "There are two shirts and a pair of cotton
pants."
"That was not what was agreed; you said you'd give some clothes. These
are only rags."
"He ain't got no more."
"If I ask the boy I know he'll say that's not true. But I haven't the
time to argue the matter. We must be off. Come on, my little fellow.
What's your name?"
"Remi."
"Well, then, Remi, take your bundle and walk along beside Capi."
I held out both my hands to him, then to Barberin. But both men turned
away their heads. Then Vitalis took me by the wrist. I had to go.
Ah, our poor little house! It seemed to me when I passed over the
threshold that I left a bit of my body there. With my eyes full of tears
I looked around, but there was no one near to help me. No one on the
road, and no one in the field close by. I began to call:
"Mamma ... Mother Barberin!"
But no one replied to my call, and my voice trailed off into a sob. I
had to follow Vitalis, who had not let go of my wrist.
"Good-by and good luck," cried Barberin. Then he entered the house. It
was over.
"Come, Remi, hurry along, my child," said Vitalis. He took hold of my
arm and I walked side by side with him. Fortunately he did not walk
fast. I think he suited his step to mine.
We were walking up hill. As I turned I could still see Mother
Barberin's house, but it was getting smaller and smaller. Many a time I
had walked this road and I knew that for a little while longer I should
still see the house, then when we turned the bend, I should see it no
more. Before me the unknown, behind me was the house, where until that
day I had lived such a happy life. Perhaps I should never see it again!
Fortunately the hill was long, but at last we reached the top. Vitalis
had not let go his hold.
"Will you let me rest a bit?" I asked.
"Surely, my boy," he replied.
He let go of me, but I saw him make a sign to Capi and the dog
understood. He came close to me. I knew that Capi would grab me by the
leg if I attempted to escape. I went up a high grassy mound and sat
down, the dog beside me. With tear-dimmed eyes I looked about for Mother
Barberin's cottage. Below was the valley and the wood, and away in the
distance stood the little house I had left. Little puffs of yellow smoke
were coming out of the chimney, going straight up in the sky, and then
on towards us. In spite of the distance and the height, I could see
everything very clearly. On the rubbish heap I could see our big fat hen
running about, but she did not look as big as usual; if I had not known
that it was our hen, I should have taken her for a little pigeon. At the
side of the house I could see the twisted pear tree that I used to ride
as a horse. In the stream I could just make out the drain that I had
had so much trouble in digging, so that it would work a mill made by my
own hands; the wheel, alas! had never turned, despite all the hours I
had spent upon it. I could see my garden. Oh, my dear garden!...
Who would see my flowers bloom? and my Jerusalem artichokes, who would
tend them? Barberin, perhaps, that wicked Barberin! With the next step
my garden would be hidden from me. Suddenly on the road which led to our
house from the village, I saw a white sunbonnet. Then it disappeared
behind some trees, then it came in view again. The distance was so great
that I could only see a white top, like a spring butterfly. It was going
in and out amongst the trees. But there is a time when the heart sees
better and farther than the sharpest eyes. I knew it was Mother
Barberin. It was she. I was sure of it.
"Well," asked Vitalis, "shall we go on now?"
"Oh, sir, no, please no."
"Then it is true what they say, you haven't any legs, tired out already.
That doesn't promise very good days for us."
I did not reply, I was looking....
It _was_ Mother Barberin. It was her bonnet. It was her blue skirt. She
was walking quickly as though she was in a hurry to get home. When she
got to our gate she pushed it open and went quickly up the garden path.
I jumped up at once and stood up on the bank, without giving a thought
to Capi, who sprang towards me. Mother Barberin did not stay long in the
house. She came out and began running to and fro, in the yard, with her
arms stretched out.
She was looking for me. I leaned forwards and, at the top of my voice, I
cried:
"Mamma! Mamma!" But my cry could not reach her, it was lost in the air.
"What's the matter? Have you gone crazy?" asked Vitalis.
I did not reply; my eyes were still fixed on Mother Barberin. But she
did not look up, for she did not know that I was there above her. She
went round the garden, then out into the road, looking up and down. I
cried louder, but like my first call it was useless. Then Vitalis
understood, and he also came up on the bank. It did not take him long to
see the figure with the white sunbonnet.
"Poor little chap," he said softly to himself.
"Oh," I sobbed, encouraged by his words of pity, "do let me go back."
But he took me by the wrist and drew me down and onto the road.
"As you are now rested," he said, "we'll move on."
I tried to free myself, but he held me firmly.
"Capi! Zerbino," he said, looking at the dogs. The two dogs came close
to me; Capi behind, Zerbino in front. After taking a few steps I turned
round. We had passed the bend of the hill and I could no longer see the
valley nor our house.
CHAPTER V
EN ROUTE
Because a man pays forty francs for a child that is not to say that he
is a monster, and that he intends to eat the child. Vitalis had no
desire to eat me and although he bought children he was not a bad man. I
soon had proof of this. We had been walking in silence for some time. I
heaved a sigh.
"I know just how you feel," said Vitalis; "cry all you want. But try and
see that this is for your own good. Those people are not your parents;
the wife has been good to you and I know that you love her, that is why
you feel so badly. But she could not keep you if the husband did not
want you. And he may not be such a bad chap after all; he is ill and
can't do any more work. He'll find it hard to get along...."
Yes, what he said was true, but I had only one thought in my mind,
perhaps I should never again see the one I loved most in the world.
"You won't be unhappy with me," he continued; "it is better than being
sent to the Home. And let me tell you, you must not try to run away,
because if you do Capi and Zerbino would soon catch you."
Run away--I no longer thought of doing so. Where should I go? This tall
old man perhaps would be a kind master after all. I had never walked so
far at a stretch. All around us were barren lands and hills, not
beautiful like I had thought the world would be outside of my village.
Vitalis walked with big regular strides, carrying Pretty-Heart on his
shoulder, or in his bag, and the dogs trotted close to us. From time to
time Vitalis said a word of friendship to them, sometimes in French,
sometimes in a language that I did not understand. Neither he nor the
animals seemed to get tired. But I ... I was exhausted. I dragged my
limbs along and it was as much as I could do to keep up with my new
master. Yet I did not like to ask him to let me stop.
"It's those wooden shoes that tire you," he said, looking down at me.
"When we get to Ussel, I'll buy you some shoes."
These words gave me courage. I had always longed for a pair of shoes.
The mayor's son and the inn-keeper's son wore shoes, so that on Sunday
when they came to church they seemed to slide down the stone aisles,
while we other country boys in our clogs made a deafening noise.
"Is Ussel far?"
"Ah, that comes from your heart," said Vitalis, laughing. "So you want
to have a pair of shoes, do you? Well, I'll promise you them and with
big nails, too. And I'll buy you some velvet pants, and a vest and a
hat. That'll make you dry your tears, I hope, and give you legs to do
the next six miles."
Shoes with nails! I was overcome with pride. It was grand enough to
have shoes, but shoes with nails! I forgot my grief. Shoes with nails!
Velvet pants! a vest! a hat! Oh, if Mother Barberin could see me, how
happy she would be, how proud of me! But in spite of the promise that I
should have shoes and velvet pants at the end of the six miles, it
seemed impossible that I could cover the distance.
The sky, which had been blue when we started, was now filled with gray
clouds and soon a fine rain commenced to fall. Vitalis was covered well
enough with his sheepskin and he was able to shelter Pretty-Heart, who,
at the first drop of rain, had promptly retired into his hiding place.
But the dogs and I had nothing to cover us, and soon we were drenched to
the skin. The dogs from time to time could shake themselves, but I was
unable to employ this natural means, and I had to tramp along under my
water-soaked, heavy garments, which chilled me.
"Do you catch cold easily?" asked my new master.
"I don't know. I don't remember ever having a cold."
"That's good. So there is something in you. But I don't want to have it
worse for you than we are obliged. There is a village a little farther
on and we'll sleep there."
There was no inn in this village and no one wanted to take into their
homes an old beggar who dragged along with him a child and three dogs,
soaked to the skin.
"No lodgings here," they said.
And they shut the door in our faces. We went from one house to another,
but all refused to admit us. Must we tramp those four miles on to Ussel
without resting a bit? The night had fallen and the rain had chilled us
through and through. Oh, for Mother Barberin's house!
Finally a peasant, more charitable than his neighbors, agreed to let us
go into his barn. But he made the condition that we could sleep there,
but must have no light.
"Give me your matches," he said to Vitalis. "I'll give you them back
to-morrow, when you go."
At least we had a roof to cover us from the storm.
In the sack which Vitalis had slung over his back he took out a hunch of
bread and broke it into four pieces. Then I saw for the first time how
he maintained obedience and discipline in his company. Whilst we had
gone from door to door seeking shelter, Zerbino had gone into a house
and he had run out again almost at once, carrying in his jaws a crust.
Vitalis had only said:
"Alright, Zerbino ... to-night."
I had thought no more of this theft, when I saw Vitalis cut the roll;
Zerbino looked very dejected. Vitalis and I were sitting on a box with
Pretty-Heart between us. The three dogs stood in a row before us, Capi
and Dulcie with their eyes fixed on their master. Zerbino stood with
drooping ears and tail between his legs.
"The thief must leave the ranks and go into a corner," said Vitalis in a
tone of command; "he'll go to sleep without his supper."
Zerbino left his place, and in a zigzag went over to the corner that
Vitalis indicated with his finger. He crouched down under a heap of hay
out of sight, but we heard him breathe plaintively, with a little whine.
Vitalis then handed me a piece of bread, and while eating his own he
broke little pieces for Pretty-Heart, Capi and Dulcie. How I longed for
Mother Barberin's soup ... even without butter, and the warm fire, and
my little bed with the coverlets that I pulled right up to my nose.
Completely fagged out, I sat there, my feet raw by the rubbing of my
clogs. I trembled with cold in my wet clothing. It was night now, but I
did not think of going to sleep.
"Your teeth are chattering," said Vitalis; "are you cold?"
"A little."
I heard him open his bag.
"I haven't got much of a wardrobe," he said, "but here's a dry shirt and
a vest you can put on. Then get underneath the hay and you'll soon get
warm and go to sleep."
But I did not get warm as quick as Vitalis thought; for a long time I
turned and turned on my bed of straw, too unhappy to sleep. Would all
my days now be like this, walking in the pouring rain; sleeping in a
loft, shaking with cold, and only a piece of dry bread for supper? No
one to love me; no one to cuddle me; no Mother Barberin!
My heart was very sad. The tears rolled down my cheeks, then I felt a
warm breath pass over my face. I stretched out my hand and my finger
touched Capi's woolly coat. He had come softly to me, stepping
cautiously on the straw, and he smelt me: he sniffed gently, his breath
ran over my cheek and in my hair. What did he want? Presently he laid
down on the straw, quite close to me, and very gently he commenced to
lick my hand. Touched by this caress, I sat up on my straw bed and
throwing my arms round his neck kissed his cold nose. He gave a little
stifled cry, and then quickly put his paw in my hand and remained quite
still. I forgot my fatigue and my sorrows. I was no longer alone. I had
a friend.
CHAPTER VI
MY DÉBUT
We started early the next morning. The sky was blue and a light wind had
come up in the night and dried all the mud. The birds were singing
blithely in the trees and the dogs scampered around us. Now and again
Capi stood up on his hind paws and barked into my face, two or three
times. I knew what he meant. He was my friend. He was intelligent, and
he understood every thing, and he knew how to make you understand. In
his tail only was more wit and eloquence than in the tongue or in the
eyes of many people.
Although I had never left my village and was most curious to see a town,
what I most wanted to see in that town was a boot shop. Where was the
welcome shop where I should find the shoes with nails that Vitalis had
promised me? I glanced about in every direction as we passed down the
old streets of Ussel. Suddenly my master turned into a shop behind the
market. Hanging outside the front were some old guns, a coat trimmed
with gold braid, several lamps, and some rusty keys. We went down three
steps and found ourselves in a large room where the sun could never have
entered since the roof had been put on the house. How could such
beautiful things as nailed shoes be sold in such a terrible place? Yet
Vitalis knew, and soon I had the pleasure of being shod in nailed shoes
which were ten times as heavy as my clogs. My master's generosity did
not stop there. He bought me a blue velvet coat, a pair of trousers, and
a felt hat.
Velvet for me who had never worn anything but cotton! This was surely
the best man in the world, and the most generous. It is true that the
velvet was creased, and that the woolen trousers were well worn, and it
was difficult to guess what had been the original color of the felt hat,
it had been so soaked with rain; but dazzled by so much finery I was
unconscious of the imperfections which were hidden under their aspect.
When we got back to the inn, to my sorrow and astonishment, Vitalis took
a pair of scissors and cut the two legs of my trousers to the height of
the knees, before he would let me get into them. I looked at him with
round eyes.
"That's because I don't want you to look like everybody else," he
explained. "When in France I'll dress you like an Italian; when in
Italy, like a French boy."
I was still more amazed.
"We are _artistes_, are we not? Well, we must not dress like the
ordinary folk. If we went about dressed like the country people, do you
think anybody would look at us? Should we get a crowd around us when we
stop? No! Appearances count for a great deal in life."
I was a French boy in the morning, and by night I had become an Italian.
My trousers reached my knees. Vitalis interlaced red cords all down my
stockings and twisted some red ribbon all over my felt hat, and then
decorated it with a bunch of woolen flowers.
I don't know what others thought of me, but to be frank I must admit
that I thought I looked superb; and Capi was of the same opinion, for he
stared at me for a long time, then held out his paw with a satisfied
air. I was glad to have Capi's approval, which was all the more
agreeable, because, during the time I had been dressing, Pretty-Heart
had seated himself opposite to me, and with exaggerated airs had
imitated every movement I had made, and when I was finished put his
hands on his hips, threw back his head, and laughed mockingly.
It is a scientific question as to whether monkeys laugh or not. I lived
on familiar terms with Pretty-Heart for a long time, and I know that he
certainly did laugh and often in a way that was most humiliating to me.
Of course, he did not laugh like a man, but when something amused him,
he would draw back the corners of his mouth, screw up his eyes, and work
his jaws rapidly, while his black eyes seemed to dart flames.
"Now you're ready," said Vitalis, as I placed my hat on my head, "and
we'll get to work, because to-morrow is market day and we must give a
performance. You must play in a comedy with the two dogs and
Pretty-Heart."
"But I don't know how to play a comedy," I cried, scared.
"That is why I am going to teach you. You can't know unless you learn.
These animals have studied hard to learn their part. It has been hard
work for them; but now see how clever they are. The piece we are going
to play is called, 'Mr. Pretty-Heart's Servant, or The Fool is not
Always the One You Would Think.' Now this is it: Mr. Pretty-Heart's
servant, whose name is Capi, is about to leave him because he is getting
old. And Capi has promised his master that before he leaves he will get
him another servant. Now this successor is not to be a dog, it is to be
a boy, a country boy named Remi."
"Oh...."
"You have just come from the country to take a position with Mr.
Pretty-Heart."
"Monkeys don't have servants."
"In plays they have. Well, you've come straight from your village and
your new master thinks that you're a fool."
"Oh, I don't like that!"
"What does that matter if it makes the people laugh? Well, you have come
to this gentleman to be his servant and you are told to set the table.
Here is one like we shall use in the play; go and set it."
On this table there were plates, a glass, a knife, a fork, and a white
tablecloth. How could I arrange all those things? As I pondered over
this question, leaning forward with hands stretched out and mouth open,
not knowing where to begin, my master clapped his hands and laughed
heartily.
"Bravo!" he cried, "bravo! that's perfect. The boy I had before put on a
sly expression as much as to say, 'See what a fool I can make of
myself'; you are natural; that is splendid."
"But I don't know what I have to do."
"That's why you are so good! After you do know, you will have to pretend
just what you are feeling now. If you can get that same expression and
stand just like you are standing now, you'll be a great success. To play
this part to perfection you have only to act and look as you do at this
moment."
"Mr. Pretty-Heart's Servant" was not a great play. The performance
lasted not more than twenty minutes. Vitalis made us do it over and over
again, the dogs and I.
I was surprised to see our master so patient. I had seen the animals in
my village treated with oaths and blows when they could not learn.
Although the lesson lasted a long time, not once did he get angry, not
once did he swear.
"Now do that over again," he said severely, when a mistake had been
made. "That is bad, Capi. I'll scold you, Pretty-Heart, if you don't pay
attention."
And that was all, but yet it was enough.
"Take the dogs for an example," he said, while teaching me; "compare
them with Pretty-Heart. Pretty-Heart has, perhaps, vivacity and
intelligence, but he has no patience. He learns easily what he is
taught, but he forgets it at once; besides he never does what he is told
willingly. He likes to do just the contrary. That is his nature, and
that is why I do not get angry with him; monkeys have not the same
conscience that a dog has; they don't understand the meaning of the word
'duty,' and that is why they are inferior to the dog. Do you understand
that?"
"I think so."
"You are intelligent and attentive. Be obedient, do your best in what
you have to do. Remember that all through life."
Talking to him so, I summoned up courage to ask him about what had so
astonished me during the rehearsal: how could he be so wonderfully
patient with the dogs, the monkey, and myself?
He smiled.
"One can see that you have lived only with peasants who are rough with
animals, and think that they can only be made to obey by having a stick
held over their heads. A great mistake. One gains very little by being
cruel, but one can obtain a lot, if not all, by gentleness. It is
because I am never unkind to my animals that they are what they are. If
I had beaten them they would be frightened creatures; fear paralyzes
the intelligence. Besides, if I gave way to temper I should not be what
I am; I could not have acquired this patience which has won their
confidence. That shows that who instructs others, instructs himself. As
I have given lessons to my animals, so I have received lessons from
them. I have developed their intelligence; they have formed my
character."
I laughed. This seemed strange to me.
"You find that odd," he continued; "odd that a dog could give a lesson
to a man, yet it is true. The master is obliged to watch over himself
when he undertakes to teach a dog. The dog takes after the master. Show
me your dog and I'll tell you what you are. The criminal has a dog who
is a rogue. The burglar's dog is a thief; the country yokel has a
stupid, unintelligent dog. A kind, thoughtful man has a good dog."
I was very nervous at the thought of appearing before the public the
next day. The dogs and the monkey had the advantage over me, they had
played before, hundreds of times. What would Vitalis say if I did not
play my part well? What would the audience say? I was so worried that,
when at last I dropped off to sleep, I could see in my dreams a crowd of
people holding their sides with laughter because I was such a fool.
I was even more nervous the next day, when we marched off in a
procession to the market place, where we were to give our performance.
Vitalis led the way. Holding his head high and with chest thrown out, he
kept time with his arms and feet while gayly playing his fife. Behind
him came Capi, carrying Pretty-Heart on his back, wearing the uniform of
an English general, a red coat and trousers trimmed with gold braid and
helmet topped with a plume. Zerbino and Dulcie came next, at a
respectful distance. I brought up the rear. Our procession took up some
length as we had to walk a certain space apart. The piercing notes of
the fife brought the people running from their houses. Scores of
children ran behind us, and by the time we had reached the square, there
was a great crowd. Our theater was quickly arranged. A rope was fastened
to four trees and in the middle of this square we took our places.
The first numbers on the program consisted of various tricks performed
by the dogs. I had not the slightest notion what they did. I was so
nervous and taken up in repeating my own part. All that I remember was
that Vitalis put aside his fife and took his violin and played
accompaniments to the dogs' maneuvers; sometimes it was dance music,
sometimes sentimental airs.
The tricks over, Capi took a metal cup between his teeth and began to go
the round of the "distinguished audience." When a spectator failed to
drop a coin in, he put his two fore paws upon the reluctant giver's
pocket, barked three times, then tapped the pocket with his paw. At
this every one laughed and shouted with delight.
"If that ain't a cunning spaniel! He knows who's got money and who
hasn't!"
"Say, out with it!"
"He'll give something!"
"Not he!"
"And his uncle left him a legacy! The stingy cuss!"
And, finally, a penny was dug out of a deep pocket and thrown into the
cup. During this time, Vitalis, without saying a word, but with his eyes
following Capi, gayly played his violin. Soon Capi returned to his
master, proudly carrying the full cup.
Now for the comedy.
"Ladies and gentlemen," said Vitalis, gesticulating with his bow in one
hand and his violin in the other, "we are going to give a delightful
comedy, called 'Mr. Pretty-Heart's Servant, or the Fool is not Always
the One You Would Think.' A man of my standing does not lower himself by
praising his plays and actors in advance. All I have to say is look,
listen, and be ready to applaud."
What Vitalis called a delightful comedy was really a pantomime;
naturally it had to be for the very good reason that two of its
principals, Pretty-Heart and Capi, could not speak, and the third,
myself, was incapable of uttering two words. However, so that the
audience would clearly understand the play, Vitalis explained the
various situations, as the piece progressed. For instance, striking up a
warlike air, he announced the entrance of General Pretty-Heart, who had
won his high rank in various battles in India. Up to that day General
Pretty-Heart had only had Capi for a servant, but he now wished to have
a human being as his means allowed him this luxury. For a long time
animals had been the slaves of men, but it was time that such was
changed!
While waiting for the servant to arrive, the General walked up and down,
smoking his cigar. You should see the way he blew the smoke into the
onlookers' faces! Becoming impatient, he began to roll his eyes like a
man who is about to have a fit of temper. He bit his lips, and stamped
on the ground. At the third stamp I had to make my appearance on the
scene, led by Capi. If I had forgotten my part the dog would have
reminded me. At a given moment he held out his paw to me and introduced
me to the General. The latter, upon noticing me, held up his two hands
in despair. What! Was that the servant they had procured for him. Then
he came and looked pertly up into my face, and walked around me,
shrugging his shoulders. His expression was so comical that every one
burst out laughing. They quite understood that the monkey thought I was
a fool. The spectators thought that also. The piece was made to show how
dense was my stupidity, while every opportunity was afforded the monkey
to show his sagacity and intelligence. After having examined me
thoroughly, the General, out of pity, decided to keep me. He pointed to
a table that was already set for luncheon, and signed to me to take my
seat.
"The General thinks that after his servant has had something to eat he
won't be such an idiot," explained Vitalis.
I sat down at the little table; a table napkin was placed on my plate.
What was I to do with the napkin?
Capi made a sign for me to use it. After looking at it thoughtfully for
a moment, I blew my nose. Then the General held his sides with laughter,
and Capi fell over with his four paws up in the air, upset at my
stupidity.
Seeing that I had made a mistake, I stared again at the table napkin,
wondering what I was to do with it. Then I had an idea. I rolled it up
and made a necktie for myself. More laughter from the General. Another
fall from Capi, his paws in the air.
Then, finally overcome with exasperation, the General dragged me from
the chair, seated himself at my place, and ate up the meal that had been
prepared for me.
Ah! he knew how to use a table napkin! How gracefully he tucked it into
his uniform, and spread it out upon his knees. And with what an elegant
air he broke his bread and emptied his glass!
The climax was reached when, luncheon over, he asked for a toothpick,
which he quickly passed between his teeth. At this, applause broke out
on all sides, and the performance ended triumphantly.
What a fool of a servant and what a wonderful monkey!
On our way back to the inn Vitalis complimented me, and I was already
such a good comedian that I appreciated this praise from my master.
CHAPTER VII
CHILD AND ANIMAL LEARNING
Vitalis' small group of actors were certainly very clever, but their
talent was not very versatile. For this reason we were not able to
remain long in the same town. Three days after our arrival in Ussel we
were on our way again. Where were we going? I had grown bold enough to
put this question to my master.
"Do you know this part of the country?" he asked, looking at me.
"No."
"Then why do you ask where we are going?"
"So as to know."
"To know what?"
I was silent.
"Do you know how to read?" he asked, after looking thoughtfully at me
for a moment.
"No."
"Then I'll teach you from a book the names and all about the towns
through which we travel. It will be like having a story told to you."
I had been brought up in utter ignorance. True, I had been sent to the
village school for one month, but during this month I had never once had
a book in my hand. At the time of which I write, there were many
villages in France that did not even boast of a school, and in some,
where there was a schoolmaster, either he knew nothing, or he had some
other occupation and could give little attention to the children
confided to his care.
This was the case with the master of our village school. I do not mean
to say that he was ignorant, but during the month that I attended his
school, he did not give us one single lesson. He had something else to
do. By trade he was a shoe-maker, or rather, a clog maker, for no one
bought shoes from him. He sat at his bench all day, shaving pieces of
beech wood into clogs. So I learnt absolutely nothing at school, not
even my alphabet.
"Is it difficult to read?" I asked, after we had walked some time in
silence.
"Have you got a hard head?"
"I don't know, but I'd like to learn if you'll teach me."
"Well, we'll see about that. We've plenty of time ahead of us."
Time ahead of us! Why not commence at once? I did not know how difficult
it was to learn to read. I thought that I just had to open a book and,
almost at once, know what it contained.
The next day, as we were walking along, Vitalis stooped down and picked
up a piece of wood covered with dust.
"See, this is the book from which you are going to learn to read," he
said.
A book! A piece of wood! I looked at him to see if he were joking. But
he looked quite serious. I stared at the bit of wood. It was as long as
my arm and as wide as my two hands. There was no inscription or drawing
on it.
"Wait until we get to those trees down there, where we'll rest," said
Vitalis, smiling at my astonishment. "I'll show you how I'm going to
teach you to read from this."
When we got to the trees we threw our bags on the ground and sat down on
the green grass with the daisies growing here and there. Pretty-Heart,
having got rid of his chain, sprang up into a tree and shook the
branches one after the other, as though he were making nuts fall. The
dogs lay down beside us. Vitalis took out his knife and, after having
smoothed the wood on both sides, began to cut tiny pieces, twelve all of
equal size.
"I am going to carve a letter out of each piece of wood," he said,
looking up at me. I had not taken my eyes off of him. "You will learn
these letters from their shapes, and when you are able to tell me what
they are, at first sight, I'll form them into words. When you can read
the words, then you shall learn from a book."
I soon had my pockets full of little bits of wood, and was not long in
learning the letters of the alphabet, but to know how to read was quite
another thing. I could not get along very fast, and often I regretted
having expressed a wish to learn. I must say, however, it was not
because I was lazy, it was pride.
While teaching me my letters Vitalis thought that he would teach Capi
at the same time. If a dog could learn to tell the hour from a watch,
why could he not learn the letters? The pieces of wood were all spread
out on the grass, and he was taught that with his paw he must draw out
the letter for which he was asked.
At first I made more progress than he, but if I had quicker
intelligence, he had better memory. Once he learnt a thing he knew it
always. He did not forget. When I made a mistake Vitalis would say:
"Capi will learn to read before you, Remi."
And Capi, evidently understanding, proudly shook his tail.
I was so hurt that I applied myself to the task with all my heart, and
while the poor dog could get no farther than pulling out the four
letters which spelled his name, I finally learned to read from a book.
"Now that you know how to read words, how would you like to read music?"
asked Vitalis.
"If I knew how to read music could I sing like you?" I asked.
"Ah, so you would like to sing like me," he answered.
"I know that would be impossible, but I'd like to sing a little."
"Do you like to hear me sing, then?"
"I like it more than anything. It is better than the nightingales, but
it's not like their song at all. When you sing, sometimes I want to
cry, and sometimes I want to laugh. Don't think me silly, master, but
when you sing those songs, I think that I am back with dear Mother
Barberin. If I shut my eyes I can see her again in our little house, and
yet I don't know the words you sing, because they are Italian."
I looked up at him and saw the tears standing in his eyes; then I
stopped and asked him if what I had said hurt him.
"No, my child," he said, his voice shaking, "you do not pain me; on the
contrary, you take me back to my younger days. Yes, I will teach you to
sing, little Remi, and, as you have a heart, you also will make people
weep with your songs."
He stopped suddenly, and I felt that he did not wish to say more at that
moment. I did not know the reason why he should feel sad.
The next day he cut out little pieces of wood for the music notes the
same as he had for the letters. The notes were more complicated than the
alphabet, and this time I found it much harder and more tedious to
learn. Vitalis, so patient with the dogs, more than once lost patience
with me.
"With an animal," he cried, "one controls oneself, because one is
dealing with a poor dumb creature, but you are enough to drive me mad!"
He threw up his hands dramatically.
Pretty-Heart, who took special delight in imitating gestures he thought
funny, mimicked my master, and as the monkey was present at my lessons
every day, I had the humiliation to see him lift his arms in despair
every time I hesitated.
"See, Pretty-Heart is even mocking you," cried Vitalis.
If I had dared, I would have said that he mocked the master just as much
as the pupil, but respect, as well as a certain fear, forbade me.
Finally, after many weeks of study, I was able to sing an air from a
piece of paper that Vitalis himself had written. That day my master did
not throw up his hands, but instead, patted me on the cheek, declaring
that if I continued thus I should certainly become a great singer.
CHAPTER VIII
ONE WHO HAD KNOWN A KING
Our mode of traveling was very simple: We went straight ahead, anywhere,
and when we found a village, which from the distance looked sufficiently
important, we began preparations for a triumphal entry. I dressed the
dogs, and combed Dulcie's hair; stuck a plaster over Capi's eye when he
was playing the part of an old grouchy man, and forced Pretty-Heart into
his General's uniform. That was the most difficult thing I had to do,
for the monkey, who knew well enough that this was a prelude to work for
him, invented the oddest tricks to prevent me from dressing him. Then I
was forced to call Capi to come to my aid, and between the two of us we
finally managed to subdue him.
The company all dressed, Vitalis took his fife and we went in marching
order into the village. If the number of people who trooped behind us
was sufficient, we gave a performance, but if we had only a few
stragglers, we did not think it worth our while to stop, so continued on
our way. When we stayed several days in a town, Vitalis would let me go
about alone if Capi was with me. He trusted me with Capi.
"You are traveling through France at the age when most boys are at
school," he once said to me; "open your eyes, look and learn. When you
see something that you do not understand, do not be afraid to ask me
questions. I have not always been what you see me now. I have learnt
many other things."
"What?"
"We will speak of that later. For the present listen to my advice, and
when you grow up I hope you will think with a little gratitude of the
poor musician of whom you were so afraid when he took you from your
adopted mother. The change may not be bad for you after all."
I wondered what my master had been in the days gone by.
We tramped on until we came to the plains of Quercy, which were very
flat and desolate. There was not a brook, pond, or river to be seen. In
the middle of the plain we came to a small village called Bastide-Murat.
We spent the night in a barn belonging to the inn.
"It was here in this village," said Vitalis, "and probably in this inn,
that a man was born who led thousands of soldiers to battle and who,
having commenced his life as a stable boy, afterwards became a king. His
name was Murat. They called him a hero, and they named this village
after him. I knew him and often talked with him."
"When he was a stable boy?"
"No," replied Vitalis, laughing, "when he was a king. This is the first
time I have been in this part of the country. I knew him in Naples,
where he was king."
"You have known a king!"
The tone in which I said this must have been rather comical, for my
master laughed heartily.
We were seated on a bench before the stable door, our backs against the
wall, which, was still hot from the sun's rays. The locusts were
chanting their monotonous song in a great sycamore which covered us with
its branches. Over the tops of the houses the full moon, which had just
appeared, rose gently in the heavens. The night seemed all the more
beautiful because the day had been scorchingly hot.
"Do you want to go to bed?" asked Vitalis, "or would you like me to tell
you the story of King Murat?"
"Oh, tell me the story!"
Then he told me the story of Joachim Murat; for hours we sat on the
bench. As he talked, the pale light from the moon fell across him, and I
listened in rapt attention, my eyes fixed on his face. I had not heard
this story before. Who would have told me? Not Mother Barberin, surely!
She did not know anything about it. She was born at Chavanon, and would
probably die there. Her mind had never traveled farther than her eyes.
My master had seen a king, and this king had spoken to him! What was my
master in his youth, and how had he become what I saw him now in his
old age?...
We had been tramping since morning. Vitalis had said that we should
reach a village by night where we could sleep, but night had come, and I
saw no signs of this village, no smoke in the distance to indicate that
we were near a house. I could see nothing but a stretch of plains ahead
of us. I was tired, and longed to go to sleep. Vitalis was tired also.
He wanted to stop and rest by the roadside, but instead of sitting down
beside him, I told him that I would climb a hill that was on the left of
us and see if I could make out a village. I called Capi, but Capi also
was tired, and turned a deaf ear to my call; this he usually did when he
did not wish to obey me.
"Are you afraid?" asked Vitalis.
His question made me start off at once, alone.
Night had fallen. There was no moon, but the twinkling stars in the sky
threw their light on a misty atmosphere. The various things around me
seemed to take on a strange, weird form in the dim light. Wild furze
grew in bushes beside some huge stones which, towering above me, seemed
as though they turned to look at me. The higher I climbed, the thicker
became the trees and shrubs, their tops passing over my head and
interlacing. Sometimes I had to crawl through them to get by. Yet I was
determined to get to the top of the hill. But, when at last I did, and
gazed around, I could see no light anywhere; nothing but strange shadows
and forms, and great trees which seemed to hold out their branches to
me, like arms ready to enfold me.
I listened to see if I could catch the bark of a dog, or the bellow of a
cow, but all was silent. With my ear on the alert, scarcely breathing so
as to hear better, I stood quiet for a moment. Then I began to tremble,
the silence of this lonely, uncultivated country frightened me. Of what
was I frightened? The silence probably ... the night ... anyhow, a
nameless fear was creeping over me. My heart beat quickly, as though
some danger was near. I glanced fearfully around me, and then in the
distance I saw a great form moving amongst the trees. At the same time I
could hear the rustling of branches. I tried to tell myself that it was
fear that made me fancy I saw something unusual. Perhaps it was a shrub,
a branch. But then, the branches were moving and there was not a breath
of wind or a breeze that could shake them. They could not move unless
swayed by the breeze or touched by some one.
Some one?
No, this great, dark form that was coming towards me could not be a
man--some kind of animal that I did not know, or an immense night bird,
a gigantic spider, hovering over the tops of the trees. What was
certain, this creature had legs of unusual length, which brought it
along with amazing bounds. Seeing this, I quickly found my own legs, and
rushed down the hill towards Vitalis. But, strange to say, I made less
haste going down than I had in climbing up. I threw myself into the
thick of the thistles and brambles, scratching myself at every step.
Scrambling out of a prickly bush I took a glance back. The animal was
coming nearer! It was almost upon me!
Fortunately, I had reached the bottom of the hill and I could run
quicker across the grass. Although I raced at the top of my speed, the
Thing was gaining upon me. There was no need for me to look behind, I
knew that it was just at the back of me. I could scarcely breathe. My
race had almost exhausted me; my breath came in gasps. I made one final
effort and fell sprawling at Vitalis' feet. I could only repeat two
words:
"The beast! the beast!"
Above the loud barking of the dogs, I heard a hearty peal of laughter.
At the same time my master put his hands on my shoulders and forced me
to look round.
"You goose," he cried, still laughing, "look up and see it."
His laugh, more than his words, brought me to my senses. I opened one
eye, then the other, and looked where he was pointing. The apparition,
which had so frightened me, had stopped and was standing still in the
road. At the sight of it again, I must confess, I began to shake, but I
was with Vitalis and the dogs were beside me. I was not alone up there
in the trees.... I looked up boldly and fixed my eyes on the Thing.
Was it an animal or a man? It had the body, the head, and arms like a
man, but the shaggy skin which covered it, and the two long thin legs
upon which it seemed to poise, looked as though they belonged to an
animal.
Although the night was dark, I could see this, for the silhouette of
this dark form stood out against the starry sky. I should have remained
a long time undecided as to what it was, if my master had not spoken to
it.
"Can you tell me if we are far from the village?" he asked, politely.
He was a man, then, if one could speak to him! What was my astonishment
when the animal said that there were no houses near, but an inn to which
he would take us. If he could talk, why did he have paws?
If I had had the courage, I would have gone up to him to see how his
paws were made, but I was still somewhat afraid, so I picked up my bag
and followed my master, without saying a word.
"You see now what scared you so," Vitalis said, laughing, as we went on
our way.
"But I don't know what it is, yet. Are there giants in this part of the
country, then?"
"Yes, when men are standing on stilts."
Then he explained to me that the Landais, so as to get over the marshy
plains, and not sink in up to their hips, stride about the country on
stilts.
What a goose I had been!
CHAPTER IX
ARRESTED
I had a pleasant remembrance of Pau, the beautiful winter resort where
the wind scarcely ever blew. We stayed there the whole winter, for we
were taking in quite a lot of money. Our audience consisted mostly of
children, and they were never tired if we did give the same performance
over and over again. They were children of the rich, mostly English and
American. Fat little boys, with ruddy skins, and pretty little girls
with soft eyes almost as beautiful as Dulcie's. It was from these
children that I got a taste for candy, for they always came with their
pockets stuffed with sweets which they divided between Pretty-Heart, the
dogs, and myself. But when the spring approached our audience grew
smaller. One by one, two by two, the little ones came to shake hands
with Pretty-Heart, Capi, and Dulcie. They had come to say good-by. They
were going away. So we also had to leave the beautiful winter resort and
take up our wandering life again.
For a long time, I do not know how many days or weeks, we went through
valleys, over hills, leaving behind the bluish top of the Pyrenees,
which now looked like a mass of clouds.
Then one night we came to a great town with ugly red brick houses and
with streets paved with little pointed stones, hard to the feet of
travelers who had walked a dozen miles a day. My master told me that we
were in Toulouse and that we should stay there for a long time. As
usual, the first thing we did was to look about for a suitable place to
hold the next day's performance. Suitable places were not lacking,
especially near the Botanical Gardens, where there is a beautiful lawn
shaded with big trees and a wide avenue leading to it. It was in one of
the side walks that we gave our first performance.
A policeman stood by while we arranged our things. He seemed annoyed,
either because he did not like dogs, or because he thought we had no
business there; he tried to send us away. It would have been better if
we had gone. We were not strong enough to hold out against the police,
but my master did not think so. Although he was an old man, strolling
about the country with his dogs, he was very proud. He considered that
as he was not breaking the law, he should have police protection, so
when the officer wanted to send us away, he refused to leave.
Vitalis was very polite; in fact he carried his Italian politeness to
the extreme. One might have thought that he was addressing some high and
mighty personage.
"The illustrious gentleman, who represents the police authority," he
said, taking off his hat and bowing low to the policeman, "can he show
me an order emanating from the said authority, which states that it is
forbidden for poor strolling players, like ourselves, to carry on their
humble profession on a public square?"
The policeman replied that he would have no argument. We must obey.
"Certainly," replied Vitalis, "and I promise that I will do as you order
as soon as you let me know by what authority you issue it."
That day the officer turned on his heels, and my master, with hat in
hand, body bent low, smilingly bowed to the retreating form.
But the next day the representative of the law returned, and jumping
over the ropes which inclosed our theater, he sprang into the middle of
the performance.
"Muzzle those dogs," he said roughly to Vitalis.
"Muzzle my dogs!"
"It's an order of the law, you ought to know that!"
The spectators began to protest.
"Don't interrupt!"
"Let him finish the show, cop!"
Vitalis then took off his felt hat, and with his plumes sweeping the
ground, he made three stately bows to the officer.
"The illustrious gentleman representing the law, does he tell me that I
must muzzle my actors?" he asked.
"Yes, and be quick about it!"
"Muzzle Capi, Zerbino, and Dulcie," cried Vitalis, addressing himself
more to the audience than to the officer; "how can the great physician,
Capi, known throughout the universe, prescribe a cure for Mr.
Pretty-Heart, if the said physician wears a muzzle on the end of his
nose?"
The children and parents began to laugh. Vitalis encouraged by the
applause, continued:
"And how can the charming nurse, Dulcie, use her eloquence to persuade
the patient to take the horrible medicine which is to relieve him of his
pains if I am forced to carry out this cruel order of the law? I ask the
audience if this is fair?"
The clapping of hands and shouts of laughter from the onlookers was
answer enough. They cheered Vitalis and hooted the policeman and, above
all, they were amused at the grimaces Pretty-Heart was making. He had
taken his place behind the "illustrious gentleman who represented the
law," and was making ridiculous grimaces behind his back. The officer
crossed his arms, then uncrossed them and stuck his fists on his hips
and threw back his head, so did the monkey. The onlookers screamed with
laughter.
The officer turned round suddenly to see what amused them, and saw the
monkey striking his own attitude to perfection. For some moments the
monkey and the man stared at each other. It was a question which would
lower his eyes first. The crowd yelled with delight.
"If your dogs are not muzzled to-morrow," cried the policeman, angrily
shaking his first, "you'll be arrested. That's all."
"Good-day, until to-morrow, Signor," said Vitalis, bowing, "until
to-morrow...."
As the officer strode away, Vitalis stood with his body almost bent to
the ground in mock respect.
I thought that he would buy some muzzles for the dogs, but he did
nothing of the kind, and the evening passed without him even mentioning
his quarrel with the policeman. I decided at last to broach the subject
myself.
"If you don't want Capi to tear off his muzzle to-morrow during the
performance," I said, "I think it would be a good thing to put it on him
beforehand, and let him get used to it. We can teach him that he must
keep it on."
"You think I am going to put one of those things on their little noses?"
"The officer is down on us."
"You are only a country boy. Like all peasants you are afraid of a
policeman.
"Don't worry," he added, "I'll have matters arranged to-morrow so that
the policeman can't have me arrested, and at the same time so that the
dogs won't be uncomfortable. On the other hand, the public shall be
amused a bit. This officer should be the means of bringing us some more
money and, in the bargain, play the comic rôle in the piece that I shall
prepare for him. Now, to-morrow, you are to go there alone with
Pretty-Heart. You will arrange the ropes, and play a few pieces on your
harp, and when you have a large audience the officer will arrive on the
scene. I will make my appearance with the dogs. Then the farce will
commence."
I did not at all like going alone the next day, but I knew that my
master must be obeyed.
As soon as I got to our usual place I roped off an inclosure and
commenced to play. The people came from all parts and crowded outside
the ropes. By now I had learnt to play the harp and sing very well.
Amongst other songs, I had learnt a Neapolitan _canzonetta_ which was
always greatly applauded. But to-day I knew that the crowd had not come
to pay tribute to my talent. All who had witnessed the dispute with the
officer the day before were present, and had brought their friends with
them. The police are not liked at Toulouse, and the public were curious
to see how the old Italian would come out, and what significance was
attached to his parting words, "Until to-morrow, Signor." Several of the
spectators, seeing me alone with Pretty-Heart, interrupted my song to
ask if the "old Italian" was coming.
I nodded. The policeman arrived. Pretty-Heart saw him first. He at once
put his clenched hands on his hips and began trotting around in a
ridiculously important manner. The crowd laughed at his antics and
clapped their hands. The officer glared at me angrily.
How was it going to end? I was rather ill at ease. If Vitalis were there
he could reply to the officer. But I was alone. If he ordered me away,
what should I say?
The policeman strode back and forth outside the ropes, and when he
passed near me, he had a way of looking at me over his shoulder that did
not reassure me.
Pretty-Heart did not understand the seriousness of the situation, so he
gleefully strutted along inside the ropes, side by side with the
officer, mimicking his every movement. As he passed me, he also looked
at me over his shoulder in such a comical manner that the people laughed
still louder.
I thought the matter had gone far enough, so I called Pretty-Heart, but
he was in no mood to obey, and continued his walk, running and dodging
me when I tried to catch him. I don't know how it happened, but the
policeman, probably mad with rage, thought that I was encouraging the
monkey, for he quickly jumped the ropes. In a moment he was upon me, and
had knocked me to the ground with one blow. When I opened my eyes and
got to my feet Vitalis, who had sprung from I don't know where, stood
before me. He had just seized the policeman's wrist.
"I forbid you to strike that child," he cried, "what a cowardly thing to
do!"
For some moments the two men looked at each other. The officer was
purple with rage. My master was superb. He held his beautiful white head
high; his face expressed indignation and command. His look was enough to
make the policeman sink into the earth, but he did nothing of the kind.
He wrenched his hand free, seized my master by the collar and roughly
pushed him before him. Vitalis stumbled and almost fell, but he drew
himself up quickly and with his free hand struck the officer on the
wrist. My master was a strong man, but still he was an old man, and the
policeman was young and robust. I saw how a struggle would end. But
there was no struggle.
"You come along with me," said the officer, "you're under arrest."
"Why did you strike that child?" demanded Vitalis.
"No talk. Follow me."
Vitalis did not reply, but turned round to me.
"Go back to the inn," he said, "and stay there with the dogs. I'll send
word to you."
He had no chance to say more, for the officer dragged him off. So ended
the performance that my poor master had wanted to make amusing. The dogs
at first had followed their master, but I called them back, and
accustomed to obey, they returned to me. I noticed that they were
muzzled, but instead of their faces being inclosed in the usual
dog-muzzle, they simply wore a pretty piece of silk fastened round their
noses and tied under their chins. Capi, who was white, wore red;
Zerbino, who was black, wore white, and Dulcie, who was gray, wore blue.
My poor master had thus carried out the order of the law.
The public had quickly dispersed. A few stragglers remained to discuss
what had happened.
"The old man was right."
"He was wrong."
"Why did the cop strike the boy? He did nothing to him; never said a
word."
"Bad business. The old fellow will go to jail, for sure!"
I went back to the inn, depressed. I had grown very fond of my master,
more and more every day. We lived the same life together from morning
till night, and often from night to morning, when we had to sleep on the
same bed of straw. No father could have shown more care for his child
than he showed for me. He had taught me to read, to sing, and to write.
During our long tramps he gave me lessons, first on one subject then on
another. On very cold days he shared his coverings with me, on hot days
he had always helped me carry the bags, and the various things which I
was supposed to carry. And when we ate he never served me the worst
piece, keeping the best for himself; on the contrary, he shared it
equally, the good and the bad. It is true, he sometimes pulled my ears
more roughly than I liked, but if I needed the correction, what of that?
In a word, I loved him, and he loved me. For how long would they send
him to prison? What should I do during that time? How should I live?
Vitalis was in the habit of carrying his money on him, and he had not
had time to give me anything before he was dragged off. I had only a
few sous in my pocket. Would it be enough to buy food for Pretty-Heart,
the dogs, and myself? I spent the next two days in agony, not daring to
leave the inn. The monkey and the dogs were also very downcast. At last,
on the third day, a man brought me a letter from him. Vitalis wrote me
that on the following Saturday he was to be tried for resisting police
authority, and for attacking an officer.
"I was wrong to get into a temper," he wrote. "This may cost me dearly,
but it is too late now. Come to the court, you will learn a lesson."
Then he gave me some advice, and sent his love to me, telling me to
caress the animals for him.
While I was reading the letter, Capi, standing between my feet, put his
nose to the paper, and sniffed it. I could see by the way he wagged his
tail that he knew it had come from his master. This was the first time
in three days that he had showed any signs of joy.
I got to the court early on Saturday morning. Many of the people who had
witnessed the scene with the policeman were present. I was so scared at
being in court, that I got behind a large stove and squeezed up as small
as I could against the wall. Some men who had been arrested for robbery,
others for fighting, were tried first. All said that they were innocent,
but all were found guilty. At last Vitalis was brought in. He sat down
on a bench between two policemen. What he said at first, and what they
asked him, I scarcely knew, my emotion was so great. I stared at
Vitalis; he stood upright, his white head thrown back. He looked ashamed
and worried. I looked at the judge.
"You gave blows to the officer who arrested you," said the judge.
"Not blows, your Honor," said Vitalis, "I only struck once. When I got
to the place where we were to give our performance, I was just in time
to see the officer fell a child to the ground with a blow, the little
boy who is with me."
"The child is not yours."
"No, but I love him as my own son. When I saw him struck I lost my
temper and seized the policeman's arm so that he could not strike
again."
"You struck him?"
"When he laid his hands on me I thought of him only as a man, not as a
police officer."
The officer then said what he had to say.
Vitalis' eyes roamed around the room. I knew that he was looking to see
if I were there, so I decided to come out of my hiding place, and
elbowing through the crowd of people, I came and stood beside him. His
face lit up when he saw me. Presently, the trial ended. He was sentenced
to two months' imprisonment and a fine of one hundred francs. Two
months' prison! The door through which Vitalis had entered was opened.
Through my tears I saw him follow a policeman, and the door closed
behind him. Two months' separation!
Where should I go?
CHAPTER X
HOMELESS
When I returned to the inn with heavy heart and red eyes, the landlord
was standing in the yard. I was going to pass him to get to my dogs, but
he stopped me.
"Well, what about your master?" he asked.
"He is sentenced."
"How long?"
"Two months' prison."
"How much fine?"
"One hundred francs."
"Two months ... one hundred francs," he repeated two or three times.
I wanted to go on, but again he stopped me.
"What are you going to do these two months?"
"I don't know, sir."
"Oh, you don't know. You've got some money to live on and to buy food
for your animals, I suppose."
"No, sir."
"Then do you count on me keeping you?"
"No, sir, I don't count on any one."
That was true. I did not count upon any one.
"Your master already owes me a lot of money," he continued. "I can't
board you for two months without knowing if I shall be paid. You'll
have to go."
"Go! Where shall I go, sir?"
"That's not my business. I'm nothing to you. Why should I keep you?"
For a moment I was dazed. The man was right. Why should he give me
shelter?
"Come, take your dogs and monkey and get out! Of course, you must leave
your master's bag with me. When he comes out of jail, he'll come here to
get it, and then he can settle his account."
An idea came to me.
"As you know he will settle his bill then, can't you keep me until then,
and add what I cost to it?"
"Ah, ah! Your master might be able to pay for two days' lodging, but two
months! that's a different thing."
"I'll eat as little as you wish."
"And your dogs and monkey! No, be off! You'll pick up enough in the
villages."
"But, sir, how will my master find me when he comes out of prison? He'll
come to look for me here."
"All you've got to do is to come back on that day."
"And if he writes to me?"
"I'll keep the letter."
"But if I don't answer him?..."
"Oh, stop your talk. Hurry up and get out! I give you five minutes. If I
find you here when I come out again I'll settle you."
I knew it was useless to plead with him. I had to "get out." I went to
the stables to get the dogs and Pretty-Heart, then strapping my harp on
my shoulder I left the inn.
I was in a hurry to get out of town, for my dogs were not muzzled. What
should I say if I met a policeman? That I had no money? It was the
truth; I had only eleven sous in my pocket. That was not enough to buy
muzzles. They might arrest me. If Vitalis and I were both in prison,
whatever would become of the animals? I felt the responsibility of my
position.
As I walked along quickly the dogs looked up at me in a way I could not
fail to understand. They were hungry. Pretty-Heart, whom I carried,
pulled my ear from time to time to force me to look at him. Then he
rubbed his stomach in a manner that was no less expressive than the
looks the dogs cast at me. I also was hungry. We had had no breakfast.
My eleven sous could not buy enough for dinner and supper, so we should
have to be satisfied with one meal, which, if we took it in the middle
of the day, would serve us for two.
I wandered along. I did not care where I went; it was all the same to
me, for I did not know the country. The question of finding a place in
which to sleep did not worry me; we could sleep in the open air.... But
to eat!
We must have walked for about two hours before I dared to stop, and yet
the dogs had looked up at me imploringly and Pretty-Heart had pulled my
ear and rubbed his stomach incessantly. At last I felt that I was far
enough away from the town to have nothing to fear. I went into the first
bakery that I came across. I asked for one pound and a half of bread.
"You'd do well to take a two-pound loaf," said the woman. "That's not
too much for your menagerie. You must feed the poor dogs."
Oh, no, it was not too much for my menagerie, but it was too much for my
purse. The bread was five sous a pound; two pounds would cost ten sous.
I did not think it wise to be extravagant before knowing what I was
going to do the next day. I told the woman in an offhand manner that one
pound and a half was quite enough and politely asked her not to cut
more. I left the shop with my bread clutched tightly in my arms. The
dogs jumped joyfully around me. Pretty-Heart pulled my hair and chuckled
with glee.
We did not go far. At the first tree that we saw I placed my harp
against the trunk and sat down on the grass. The dogs sat opposite me,
Capi in the middle, Dulcie at one side, Zerbino on the other.
Pretty-Heart, who was not tired, stood up on the watch, ready to snatch
the first piece that he could. To eke out the meal was a delicate
matter. I cut the bread into five parts, as near the same size as
possible, and distributed the slices. I gave each a piece in turn, as
though I were dealing cards. Pretty-Heart, who required less food than
we, fared better, for he was quite satisfied while we were still
famished. I took three pieces from his share and hid them in my bag to
give the dogs later. Then, as there still remained a little piece, I
broke it and we each had some; that was for dessert.
After the meal I felt that the moment had come for me to say a few words
to my companions. Although I was their chief, I did not feel that I was
too much above them not to wish them to take part in the grave situation
in which we found ourselves.
Capi had probably guessed my intentions, for he sat with his big,
intelligent eyes fixed on me.
"Yes, Capi," I said, "and you, Dulcie, Zerbino and Pretty-Heart, my
friends, I've bad news for you. We shan't see our master for two whole
months."
"Ouah," barked Capi.
"It's bad for him and it's also bad for us, for we depend on him for
everything, and now he's gone, we haven't any money."
At the mention of the word money, which he perfectly understood, Capi
rose on his hind paws and commenced to trot round as though he were
collecting money from the "distinguished audience."
"I see you want to give a performance, Capi," I continued; "that's good
advice, but should we make anything? That's the question. We have only
three sous left, so you mustn't get hungry. You've all to be very
obedient; that will make it easier for us all. You must help me all you
can, you dogs and Pretty-Heart. I want to feel that I can count on you."
I would not make so bold as to say that they understood all I said, but
they got the general idea. They knew by our master's absence that
something serious had happened, and they had expected an explanation
from me. If they did not understand all that I said to them, they were
at least satisfied that I had their welfare at heart, and they showed
their satisfaction by the attention they gave me.
Attention? Yes, on the part of the dogs only. It was impossible for
Pretty-Heart to keep still for long. He could not fix his mind upon one
subject for more than a minute. During the first part of my discourse he
had listened to me with the greatest interest, but before I had said
twenty words, he had sprung up into a tree, the branches of which hung
over our heads, and was now swinging himself from branch to branch. If
Capi had insulted me in like manner, my pride would certainly have been
hurt; but I was never astonished at anything Pretty-Heart might do. He
was so empty-headed. But after all, it was quite natural that he should
want to have a little fun. I admit that I would liked to have done the
same. I would have gone up that tree with pleasure, but the importance
and dignity of my present office did not permit me any such
distractions.
After we had rested a while I gave the sign to start. We had to find a
place somewhere to lie down for the night and gain a few sous for our
food for the next day. We walked for one hour, then came in sight of a
village. I quickly dressed my troop, and in as good marching order as
possible we made our entry. Unfortunately, we had no fife and we lacked
Vitalis' fine, commanding presence. Like a drum major, he always
attracted the eye. I had not the advantage of being tall, nor was I
possessed of a wonderful head. Quite the reverse, I was small and thin
and I must have worn a very anxious look. While marching I glanced to
the right and to the left to see what effect we were producing. Very
little, I regret to say. No one followed us. Upon reaching the small
square upon which was a fountain shaded with trees, I took my harp and
commenced to play a waltz. The music was gay, my fingers were light, but
my heart was heavy.
I told Zerbino and Dulcie to waltz together. They obeyed me at once and
commenced to whirl round, keeping time. But no one put themselves out to
come and see us, and yet in the doorways I saw several women knitting
and talking. I continued to play, Zerbino and Dulcie went on with their
waltz. Perhaps if one decided to come over to us, a second would come,
then more and more.
I played on and on, Zerbino and Dulcie went round and round, but the
women in the doorways did not even look over at us. It was discouraging.
But I was determined not to be discouraged. I played with all my might,
making the cords of my harp vibrate, almost to breaking them. Suddenly a
little child, taking its first steps, trotted from his home and came
towards us. No doubt the mother would follow him, and after the mother a
friend would come, and we should have an audience, and then a little
money.
I played more softly so as not to frighten the baby, and also to entice
him to come nearer. With hands held out and swaying first on one foot,
then on the other, he came on slowly. A few steps more and he would have
reached us, but at that moment the mother looked round. She saw her baby
at once. But instead of running after him as I had thought she would,
she called to him, and the child obediently turned round and went back
to her. Perhaps these people did not like dance music; it was quite
possible.
I told Zerbino and Dulcie to lie down, and I began to sing my
_canzonetta_. Never did I try so hard to please.
I had reached the end of the second line, when I saw a man in a round
jacket, and I felt that he was coming towards me. At last! I tried to
sing with even more fervor.
"Hello, what are you doing here, young rogue?" he cried.
I stopped, amazed at his words, and watched him coming nearer, with my
mouth open.
"What are you doing here, I say?"
"Singing, sir."
"Have you got permission to sing on a public square in our village?"
"No, sir."
"Well, be off; if you don't I'll have you arrested."
"But, sir...."
"Be off, you little beggar."
I knew from my poor master's example what it would cost me if I went
against the town authorities. I did not make him repeat his order; I
hurried off.
Beggar! That was not fair. I had not begged; I had sung. In five minutes
I had left behind me this inhospitable, but well guarded, village. My
dogs followed me with their heads lowered, and their tails between their
legs. They certainly knew that some bad luck had befallen us. Capi, from
time to time, went ahead of us and turned round to look at me
questioningly with his intelligent eyes. Any one else in his place would
have questioned me, but Capi was too well bred to be indiscreet. I saw
his lip tremble in the effort he made to keep back his protests.
When we were far enough away from the village, I signed to them to stop,
and the three dogs made a circle round me, Capi in the middle, his eyes
on mine.
"As we had no permission to play, they sent us away," I explained.
"Well, then?" asked Capi, with a wag of his head.
"So then we shall have to sleep in the open air and go without supper."
At the word "supper" there was a general bark. I showed them my three
sous.
"You know that is all we have. If we spend those three sous to-night, we
shall have nothing left for breakfast to-morrow. So, as we have had
something to-day, it is better to save this." And I put my three sous
back in my pocket.
Capi and Dulcie bent their heads resignedly, but Zerbino, who was not so
good, and who besides was a gourmand, continued to growl. I looked at
him severely.
"Capi, explain to Zerbino, he doesn't seem to understand," I said to
faithful _Capitano_.
Capi at once tapped Zerbino with his paw. It seemed as though an
argument was taking place between the two dogs. One may find the word
argument too much, when applied to dogs, but animals certainly have a
peculiar language of their kind. As to dogs, they not only know how to
speak, they know how to read. Look at them with their noses in the air
or, with lowered head, sniffing at the ground, smelling the bushes and
stones. Suddenly they'll stop before a clump of grass, or a wall, and
remain on the alert for a moment. We see nothing on the wall, but the
dog reads all sorts of curious things written in mysterious letters
which we do not understand.
What Capi said to Zerbino I did not hear, for if dogs can understand the
language of men, men do not understand their language. I only saw that
Zerbino refused to listen to reason, and that he insisted that the three
sous should be spent immediately. Capi got angry, and it was only when
he showed his teeth that Zerbino, who was a bit of a coward, lapsed into
silence. The word "silence" is also used advisedly. I mean by silence
that he laid down.
The weather was beautiful, so that to sleep in the open air was not a
serious matter. The only thing was to keep out of the way of the wolves,
if there were any in this part of the country.
We walked straight ahead on the white road until we found a place. We
had reached a wood. Here and there were great blocks of granite. The
place was very mournful and lonely, but there was no better, and I
thought that we might find shelter from the damp night air amongst the
granite. When I say "we," I mean Pretty-Heart and myself, for the dogs
would not catch cold sleeping out of doors. I had to be careful of
myself, for I knew how heavy was my responsibility. What would become of
us all if I fell ill, and what would become of me if I had Pretty-Heart
to nurse?
We found a sort of grotto between the stones, strewn with dried leaves.
This was very nice. All that was lacking was something to eat. I tried
not to think that we were hungry. Does not the proverb say, "He who
sleeps, eats."
Before lying down I told Capi that I relied upon him to keep watch, and
the faithful dog, instead of sleeping with us on the pine leaves, laid
down like a sentinel at the entrance of our quarters. I could sleep in
peace, for I knew that none would come near without me being warned by
Capi. Yet, although, at rest on this point, I could not sleep at once.
Pretty-Heart was asleep beside me, wrapped up in my coat; Zerbino and
Dulcie were stretched at my feet. But my anxiety was greater than my
fatigue.
This first day had been bad; what would the next day be? I was hungry
and thirsty, and yet I only had three sous. How could I buy food for all
if I did not earn something the next day? And the muzzles? And the
permission to sing? Oh, what was to be done! Perhaps we should all die
of hunger in the bushes. While turning over these questions in my mind,
I looked up at the stars, which shone in the dark sky. There was not a
breath of wind. Silence everywhere. Not the rustle of a leaf or the cry
of a bird, nor the rumble of a cart on the road. As far as my eye could
see, stretched space. How alone we were; how abandoned! The tears filled
my eyes. Poor Mother Barberin! poor Vitalis.
I was lying on my stomach, crying into my hands, when suddenly I felt a
breath pass through my hair. I turned over quickly, and a big soft
tongue licked my wet cheek. It was Capi who had heard me crying and had
come to comfort me as he had done on the first day of my wanderings.
With my two hands I took him by the neck and kissed him on his wet
nose. He uttered two or three little mournful snorts, and it seemed to
me that he was crying with me. I slept. When I awoke it was full day and
Capi was sitting beside me, looking at me. The birds were singing in the
trees. In the distance I could hear a church bell ringing the Angelus,
the morning prayer. The sun was already high in the sky, throwing its
bright rays down to comfort heart and body.
We started off, going in the direction of the village where we should
surely find a baker: when one goes to bed without dinner or supper one
is hungry early in the morning. I made up my mind to spend the three
sous, and after that we would see what would happen.
Upon arriving in the village there was no need for me to ask where the
baker lived; our noses guided us straight to the shop. My sense of smell
was now as keen as that of my dogs. From the distance I sniffed the
delicious odor of hot bread. We could not get much for three sous, when
it costs five sous a pound. Each of us had but a little piece, so our
breakfast was soon over.
We _had_ to make money that day. I walked through the village to find a
favorable place for a performance, and also to note the expressions of
the people, to try and guess if they were enemies or friends. My
intention was not to give the performance at once. It was too early, but
after finding a place we would come back in the middle of the day and
take a chance.
I was engrossed with this idea, when suddenly I heard some one shouting
behind me. I turned round quickly and saw Zerbino racing towards me,
followed by an old woman. It did not take me long to know what was the
matter. Profiting by my preoccupation, Zerbino had run into a house and
stolen a piece of meat. He was racing alone, carrying his booty in his
jaws.
"Thief! thief!" cried the old woman; "catch him! Catch all of 'em!"
When I heard her say this, I felt that somehow I was guilty, or at
least, that I was responsible for Zerbino's crime, so I began to run.
What could I say to the old woman if she demanded the price of the
stolen meat? How could I pay her? If we were arrested they would put us
in prison. Seeing me flying down the road, Dulcie and Capi were not long
following my example; they were at my heels, while Pretty-Heart, whom I
carried on my shoulder, clung round my neck so as not to fall.
Some one else cried: "Stop thief!" and others joined in the chase. But
we raced on. Fear gave us speed. I never saw Dulcie run so fast; her
feet barely touched the ground. Down a side street and across a field we
went, and soon we had outstripped our pursuers, but I did not stop
running until I was quite out of breath. We had raced at least two
miles. I turned round. No one was following us. Capi and Dulcie were
still at my heels, Zerbino was in the distance. He had stopped probably
to eat his piece of meat. I called him, but he knew very well that he
deserved a severe punishment, so instead of coming to me, he ran away as
fast as he could. He was famished, that was why he had stolen the meat.
But I could not accept this as an excuse. He had stolen. If I wanted to
preserve discipline in my troop, the guilty one must be punished. If
not, in the next village Dulcie would do the same, and then Capi would
succumb to the temptation. I should have to punish Zerbino publicly. But
in order to do that I should have to catch him, and that was not an easy
thing to do.
I turned to Capi.
"Go and find Zerbino," I said gravely.
He started off at once to do what I told him, but it seemed to me that
he went with less ardor than usual. From the look that he gave me, I saw
that he would far rather champion Zerbino than be my envoy. I sat down
to await his return with the prisoner. I was pleased to get a rest after
our mad race. When we stopped running we had reached the bank of a canal
with shady trees and fields on either side.
An hour passed. The dogs had not returned. I was beginning to feel
anxious when at last Capi appeared alone, his head hanging down.
"Where is Zerbino?"
Capi laid down in a cowed attitude. I looked at him and noticed that one
of his ears was bleeding. I knew what had happened. Zerbino had put up a
fight. I felt that, although Capi had obeyed my orders, he had
considered that I was too severe and had let himself be beaten. I could
not scold him. I could only wait until Zerbino chose to return. I knew
that sooner or later he would feel sorry and would come back and take
his punishment.
I stretched myself out under a tree, holding Pretty-Heart tight for fear
he should take it into his head to join Zerbino. Dulcie and Capi slept
at my feet. Time passed. Zerbino did not appear. At last I also dropped
off to sleep.
Several hours had passed when I awoke. By the sun I could tell that it
was getting late, but there was no need for the sun to tell me that. My
stomach cried out that it was a long time since I had eaten that piece
of bread. And I could tell from the looks of the two dogs and
Pretty-Heart that they were famished. Capi and Dulcie fixed their eyes
on me piteously; Pretty-Heart made grimaces. But still Zerbino had not
come back. I called to him, I whistled, but in vain. Having well lunched
he was probably digesting his meal, cuddled up in a bush.
The situation was becoming serious. If I left this spot, Zerbino perhaps
would get lost, for he might not be able to find us; then if I stayed,
there was no chance of me making a little money to buy something to eat.
Our hunger became more acute. The dogs fixed their eyes on me
imploringly, and Pretty-Heart rubbed his stomach and squealed angrily.
Still Zerbino did not return. Once more I sent Capi to look for the
truant, but at the end of half an hour he came back alone. What was to
be done?
Although Zerbino was guilty, and through his fault we were put into this
terrible position, I could not forsake him. What would my master say if
I did not take his three dogs back to him? And then, in spite of all, I
loved Zerbino, the rogue! I decided to wait until evening, but it was
impossible to remain inactive. If we were doing something I thought we
might not feel the pangs of hunger so keenly. If I could invent
something to distract us, we might, for the time being, forget that we
were so famished. What could we do?
I pondered over the question. Then I remembered that Vitalis had told me
that when a regiment was tired out by a long march, the band played the
gayest airs so that the soldiers should forget their fatigue. If I
played some gay pieces on my harp, perhaps we could forget our hunger.
We were all so faint and sick, yet if I played something lively and made
the two poor dogs dance with Pretty-Heart the time might pass quicker. I
took my instrument, which I had placed up against a tree and, turning my
back to the canal I put my animals in position and began to play a
dance.
At first neither the dogs nor the monkey seemed disposed to dance. All
they wanted was food. My heart ached as I watched their pitiful
attitude. But they must forget their hunger, poor little things! I
played louder and quicker, then, little by little, the music produced
its customary effect. They danced and I played on and on.
Suddenly I heard a clear voice, a child's voice, call out: "Bravo." The
voice came from behind me. I turned round quickly.
A barge had stopped on the canal. The two horses which dragged the boat
were standing on the opposite bank. It was a strange barge. I had never
seen one like it. It was much shorter than the other boats on the canal,
and the deck was fashioned like a beautiful veranda, covered with plants
and foliage. I could see two people, a lady, who was still young, with a
beautiful sad face, and a boy about my own age, who seemed to be lying
down. It was evidently the little boy who had called out "Bravo!"
I was very surprised at seeing them. I lifted my hat to thank them for
their applause.
"Are you playing for your own pleasure?" asked the lady, speaking French
with a foreign accent.
"I am keeping the dogs in practice and also ... it diverts their
attention."
The child said something. The lady bent over him.
"Will you play again?" she then asked, turning round to me.
Would I play? Play for an audience who had arrived at such a moment! I
did not wait to be asked twice.
"Would you like a dance or a little comedy?" I asked.
"Oh, a comedy," cried the child. But the lady said she preferred a
dance.
"A dance is too short," said the boy.
"If the 'distinguished audience' wishes, after the dance, we will
perform our different rôles."
This was one of my master's fine phrases. I tried to say it in the same
grand manner as he. Upon second thought, I was not sorry that the lady
did not wish for a comedy, for I don't see how I could have given a
performance; not only was Zerbino absent, but I had none of the "stage
fittings" with me.
I played the first bars of a waltz. Capi took Dulcie by the waist with
his two paws and they whirled round, keeping good time. Then
Pretty-Heart danced alone. Successively, we went through all our
repertoire. We did not feel tired now. The poor little creatures knew
that they would be repaid with a meal and they did their best. I also.
Then, suddenly, in the midst of a dance in which all were taking part,
Zerbino came out from behind a bush, and as Capi and Dulcie and
Pretty-Heart passed near him, he boldly took his place amongst them.
While playing and watching my actors, I glanced from time to time at
the little boy. He seemed to take great pleasure in what we were doing,
but he did not move. He looked as though he was lying on a stretcher.
The boat had drifted right to the edge of the bank, and now I could see
the boy plainly. He had fair hair. His face was pale, so white that one
could see the blue veins on his forehead. He had the drawn face of a
sick child.
"How much do you charge for seats at your performance?" asked the lady.
"You pay according to the pleasure we have given you."
"Then, Mamma, you must pay a lot," said the child. He added something in
a language that I did not understand.
"My son would like to see your actors nearer."
I made a sign to Capi. With delight, he sprang onto the boat.
"And the others!" cried the little boy.
Zerbino and Dulcie followed Capi's example.
"And the monkey!"
Pretty-Heart could have easily made the jump, but I was never sure of
him. Once on board he might do some tricks that certainly would not be
to the lady's taste.
"Is he spiteful?" she asked.
"No, madam, but he is not always obedient, and I am afraid that he will
not behave himself."
"Well, bring him on yourself."
She signed to a man who stood near the rail. He came forward and threw a
plank across to the bank. With my harp on my shoulder and Pretty-Heart
in my arms I stepped up the plank.
"The monkey! the monkey!" cried the little boy, whom the lady addressed
as Arthur.
I went up to him and, while he stroked and petted Pretty-Heart, I
watched him. He was strapped to a board.
"Have you a father, my child?" asked the lady.
"Yes, but I am alone just now."
"For long?"
"For two months."
"Two months! Oh, poor little boy. At your age how is it that you happen
to be left all alone?"
"It has to be, madam."
"Does your father make you take him a sum of money at the end of two
months? Is that it?"
"No, madam, he does not force me to do anything. If I can make enough to
live with my animals, that is all."
"And do you manage to get enough?"
I hesitated before replying. I felt a kind of awe, a reverence for this
beautiful lady. Yet she talked to me so kindly and her voice was so
sweet, that I decided to tell her the truth. There was no reason why I
should not. Then I told her how Vitalis and I had been parted, that he
had gone to prison because he had defended me, and how since he had gone
I had been unable to make any money.
While I was talking, Arthur was playing with the dogs, but he was
listening to what I said.
"Then how hungry you all must be!" he cried.
At this word, which the animals well knew, the dogs began to bark and
Pretty-Heart rubbed his stomach vigorously.
"Oh, Mamma!" cried Arthur.
The lady said a few words in a strange language to a woman, whose head I
could see through a half open door. Almost immediately the woman
appeared with some food.
"Sit down, my child," said the lady.
I did so at once. Putting my harp aside I quickly sat down in the chair
at the table; the dogs grouped themselves around me. Pretty-Heart jumped
on my knee.
"Do your dogs eat bread?" asked Arthur.
"Do they eat bread!"
I gave them a piece which they devoured ravenously.
"And the monkey?" said Arthur.
But there was no occasion to worry about Pretty-Heart, for while I was
serving the dogs he had taken a piece of crust from a meat pie and was
almost choking himself underneath the table. I helped myself to the pie
and, if I did not choke like Pretty-Heart, I gobbled it up no less
gluttonously than he.
"Poor, poor child!" said the lady.
Arthur said nothing, but he looked at us with wide open eyes, certainly
amazed at our appetites, for we were all as famished as one another,
even Zerbino, who should have been somewhat appeased by the meat that he
had stolen.
"What would you have eaten to-night if you had not met us?" asked
Arthur.
"I don't think we should have eaten at all."
"And to-morrow?"
"Perhaps to-morrow we should have had the luck to meet some one like we
have to-day."
Arthur then turned to his mother. For some minutes they spoke together
in a foreign language. He seemed to be asking for something which at
first she seemed not quite willing to grant. Then, suddenly, the boy
turned his head. His body did not move.
"Would you like to stay with us?" he asked.
I looked at him without replying; I was so taken back by the question.
"My son wants to know if you would like to stay with us?" repeated the
lady.
"On this boat?"
"Yes, my little boy is ill and he is obliged to be strapped to this
board. So that the days will pass more pleasantly for him, I take him
about in this boat. While your master is in prison, if you like, you may
stay here with us. Your dogs and your monkey can give a performance
every day, and Arthur and I will be the audience. You can play your harp
for us. You will be doing us a service and we, on our side, may be
useful to you."
To live on a boat! What a kind lady. I did not know what to say. I took
her hand and kissed it.
"Poor little boy!" she said, almost tenderly.
She had said she would like me to play my harp: this simple pleasure I
would give her at once. I wanted to show how grateful I was. I took my
instrument and, going to the end of the boat, I commenced to play
softly. The lady put a little silver whistle to her lips and blew it.
I stopped playing, wondering why she had whistled. Was it to tell me
that I was playing badly, or to ask me to stop? Arthur, who saw
everything that passed around him, noticed my uneasiness.
"My mamma blew the whistle for the horses to go on," he said.
That was so; the barge, towed by the horses, glided over the soft waters
which lapped gently against the keel; on either side were trees and
behind us fell the oblique rays from the setting sun.
"Will you play?" asked Arthur.
He beckoned to his mother. She sat down beside him. He took her hand and
kept it in his, and I played to them all the pieces that my master had
taught me.
CHAPTER XI
ANOTHER BOY'S MOTHER
Arthur's mother was English. Her name was Mrs. Milligan. She was a
widow, and Arthur was her only son; at least, it was supposed that he
was her only son living, for she had lost an elder child under
mysterious conditions. When the child was six months old it had been
kidnaped, and they had never been able to find any trace of him. It is
true that, at the time he was taken, Mrs. Milligan had not been able to
make the necessary searches. Her husband was dying, and she herself was
dangerously ill and knew nothing of what was going on around her. When
she regained consciousness her husband was dead and her baby had
disappeared. Her brother-in-law, Mr. James Milligan, had searched
everywhere for the child. There being no heir, he expected to inherit
his brother's property. Yet, after all, Mr. James Milligan inherited
nothing from his brother, for seven months after the death of her
husband, Mrs. Milligan's second son, Arthur, was born.
But the doctors said that this frail, delicate child could not live. He
might die at any moment. In the event of his death, Mr. James Milligan
would succeed to the fortune. He waited and hoped, but the doctors'
predictions were not fulfilled. Arthur lived. It was his mother's care
that saved him. When he had to be strapped to a board, she could not
bear the thought of her son being closed up in a house, so she had a
beautiful barge built for him, and was now traveling through France on
the various canals.
Naturally, it was not the first day that I learned all this about the
English lady and her son. I learned these details little by little,
while I was with her.
I was given a tiny cabin on the boat. What a wonderful little room it
appeared to me! Everything was spotless. The only article of furniture
that the cabin contained was a bureau, but what a bureau: bed, mattress,
pillows, and covers combined. And attached to the bed were drawers
containing brushes, combs, etc. There was no table or chairs, at least
not in their usual shape, but against the wall was a plank, which when
pulled down was found to be a little square table and chair. How pleased
I was to get into that little bed. It was the first time in my life that
I had felt soft sheets against my face. Mother Barberin's were very hard
and they used to rub my cheeks, and Vitalis and I had more often slept
without sheets, and those at the cheap lodging houses at which we stayed
were just as rough as Mother Barberin's.
I woke early, for I wanted to know how my animals had passed the night.
I found them all at the place where I had installed them the night
before, and sleeping as though the beautiful barge had been their home
for several months. The dogs jumped up as I approached, but
Pretty-Heart, although he had one eye half open, did not move; instead
he commenced to snore like a trombone.
I guessed at once what was the matter: Pretty-Heart was very sensitive;
he got angry very quickly and sulked for a long time. In the present
circumstances he was annoyed because I had not taken him into my cabin,
and he showed his displeasure by pretending to be asleep.
I could not explain to him why I had been forced to leave him on deck,
and as I felt that I had, at least in appearances, done him an injury, I
took him in my arms and cuddled him, to show him that I was sorry. At
first he continued to sulk, but soon, with his changeable temper, he
thought of something else, and by his signs made me understand that if I
would take him for a walk on land he would perhaps forgive me. The man
who was cleaning the deck was willing to throw the plank across for us,
and I went off into the fields with my troop.
The time passed, playing with the dogs and chasing Pretty-Heart; when we
returned the horses were harnessed and the barge in readiness to start.
As soon as we were all on the boat the horses began to trot along the
towing path; we glided over the water without feeling a movement, and
the only sound to be heard was the song of the birds, the swish of the
water against the boat, and the tinkle of bells around the horses'
necks.
Here and there the water seemed quite black, as though it was of great
depth; in other parts it was as clear as crystal and we could see the
shiny pebbles and velvety grass below.
I was gazing down into the water when I heard some one call my name. It
was Arthur. He was being carried out on his board.
"Did you sleep well?" he asked, "better than in the field?"
I told him that I had, after I had politely spoken to Mrs. Milligan.
"And the dogs?" asked Arthur.
I called to them; they came running up with Pretty-Heart; the latter
making grimaces as he usually did when he thought that we were going to
give a performance.
Mrs. Milligan had placed her son in the shade and had taken a seat
beside him.
"Now," she said to me, "you must take the dogs and the monkey away; we
are going to work."
I went with the animals to the front of the boat.
What work could that poor little boy do?
I looked round and saw that his mother was making him repeat a lesson
from a book she held in her hand. He seemed to be having great
difficulty in mastering it, but his mother was very patient.
"No," she said at last, "Arthur, you don't know it, at all."
"I can't, Mamma, I just can't," he said, plaintively. "I'm sick."
"Your head is not sick. I can't allow you to grow up in utter ignorance
because you're an invalid, Arthur."
That seemed very severe to me, yet she spoke in a sweet, kind way.
"Why do you make me so unhappy? You know how I feel when you won't
learn."
"I cannot, Mamma; I cannot." And he began to cry.
But Mrs. Milligan did not let herself be won over by his tears, although
she appeared touched and even more unhappy.
"I would have liked to have let you play this morning with Remi and the
dogs," she said, "but you cannot play until you know your lessons
perfectly." With that she gave the book to Arthur and walked away,
leaving him alone.
From where I stood I could hear him crying. How could his mother, who
appeared to love him so much, be so severe with the poor little fellow.
A moment later she returned.
"Shall we try again?" she asked gently.
She sat down beside him and, taking the book, she began to read the
fable called "The Wolf and the Sheep." She read it through three times,
then gave the book back to Arthur and told him to learn it alone. She
went inside the boat.
I could see Arthur's lips moving. He certainly was trying very hard.
But soon he took his eyes off the book; his lips stopped moving. His
look wandered everywhere, but not back to his book. Suddenly he caught
my eye; I made a sign to him to go on with his lesson. He smiled, as
though to thank me for reminding him, and again fixed his eyes on his
book. But as before, he could not concentrate his thoughts; his eyes
began to rove from first one side of the canal to the other. Just then a
bird flew over the boat, swiftly as an arrow. Arthur raised his head to
follow its flight. When it had passed he looked at me.
"I can't learn this," he said, "and yet I want to."
I went over to him.
"It is not very difficult," I said.
"Yes, it is, it's awfully difficult."
"It seems to me quite easy. I was listening while your mother read it,
and I almost learned it myself."
He smiled as though he did not believe it.
"Do you want me to say it to you?"
"You can't."
"Shall I try? You take the book."
He took up the book again, and I began to recite the verse. I had it
almost perfect.
"What! you know it?"
"Not quite, but next time I could say it without a mistake, I believe."
"How did you learn it?"
"I listened while your mother read it, but I listened attentively
without looking about to see what was going on round about me."
He reddened, and turned away his eyes.
"I will try, like you," he said, "but tell me, what did you do to
remember the words?"
I did not quite know how to explain, but I tried my best.
"What is the fable about?" I said. "Sheep. Well, first of all, I thought
of sheep; the sheep were in a field. I could see them lying down and
sleeping in the field; picturing them so, I did not forget."
"Yes, yes," he said, "I can see them, black and white ones! in a green
field."
"What looks after the sheep usually?"
"Dogs."
"And?..."
"A shepherd."
"If they thought the sheep were quite safe, what did they do?"
"The dog slept while the shepherd played his flute in the distance with
the other shepherds."
Little by little Arthur had the entire fable pictured in his mind's eye.
I explained every detail, as well as I was able. When he was thoroughly
interested we went over the lines together and at the end of half an
hour he had mastered it.
"Oh, how pleased mamma will be!" he cried.
When his mother came out she seemed displeased that we were together.
She thought that we had been playing, but Arthur did not give her time
to say a word.
"I know it!" he cried. "Remi has taught it to me."
Mrs. Milligan looked at me in surprise, but before she could say a word
Arthur had commenced to recite the fable. I looked at Mrs. Milligan: her
beautiful face broke into a smile; then I thought I saw tears in her
eyes, but she bent her head quickly over her son and put her arms about
him. I was not sure if she was crying.
"The words mean nothing," said Arthur; "they are stupid, but the things
that one sees! Remi made me see the shepherd with his flute, and the
fields, and the dogs, and the sheep, then the wolves, and I could even
hear the music that the shepherd was playing. Shall I sing the song to
you, Mamma?"
And he sang a little sad song in English.
This time Mrs. Milligan did really cry, for when she got up from her
seat, I saw that Arthur's cheeks were wet with her tears. Then she came
to me and, taking my hand in hers, pressed it gently.
"You are a good boy," she said.
The evening before I had been a little tramp, who had come on the barge
with his animals to amuse a sick child, but this lesson drew me apart
from the dogs and the monkey. I was, from now, a companion, almost a
friend, to the sick boy.
From that day there was a change in Mrs. Milligan's manner toward me,
and between Arthur and myself there grew a strong friendship. I never
once felt the difference in our positions; this may have been due to
Mrs. Milligan's kindness, for she often spoke to me as though I were her
child.
When the country was interesting we would go very slowly, but if the
landscape was dreary, the horses would trot quickly along the towing
path. When the sun went down the barge stopped; when the sun rose the
barge started on again.
If the evenings were damp we went into the little cabin and sat round a
bright fire, so that the sick boy should not feel chilly, and Mrs.
Milligan would read to us and show us pictures and tell us beautiful
stories.
Then, when the evenings were beautiful, I did my part. I would take my
harp and when the boat had stopped I would get off and go at a short
distance and sit behind a tree. Then, hidden by the branches, I played
and sang my best. On calm nights Arthur liked to hear the music without
being able to see who played. And when I played his favorite airs he
would call out "Encore," and I would play the piece over again.
That was a beautiful life for the country boy, who had sat by Mother
Barberin's fireside, and who had tramped the high roads with Signor
Vitalis. What a difference between the dish of boiled potatoes that my
poor foster mother had given me and the delicious tarts, jellies, and
creams that Mrs. Milligan's cook made! What a contrast between the long
tramps in the mud, the pouring rain, the scorching sun, trudging behind
Vitalis, ... and this ride on the beautiful barge!
The pastry was delicious, and yes, it was fine, oh, so fine not to be
hungry, nor tired, nor too hot, nor too cold, but in justice to myself,
I must say that it was the kindness and love of this lady and this
little boy that I felt the most. Twice I had been torn from those I
loved, ... first from dear Mother Barberin, and then from Vitalis. I was
left with only the dogs and the monkey, hungry and footsore, and then a
beautiful lady, with a child of about my own age, had taken me in and
treated me as though I were a brother.
Often, as I looked at Arthur strapped to his bench, pale and drawn, I
envied him, I, so full of health and strength, envied the little sick
boy. It was not the luxuries that surrounded him that I envied, not the
boat. It was his mother. Oh, how I wanted a mother of my own! She kissed
him, and he was able to put his arms around her whenever he
wished,--this lady whose hand I scarcely dared touch when she held it
out to me. And I thought sadly that I should never have a mother who
would kiss me and whom I could kiss. Perhaps one day I should see Mother
Barberin again, and that would make me very happy, but I could not call
her mother now, for she was not my mother....
I was alone.... I should always be alone.... Nobody's boy.
I was old enough to know that one should not expect to have too much
from this world, and I thought that, as I had no family, no father or
mother, I should be thankful that I had friends. And I was happy, so
happy on that barge. But, alas! it was not to last long. The day was
drawing near for me to take up my old life again.
CHAPTER XII
THE MASTER'S CONSENT
It was all to end,--this beautiful trip that I had made on the barge. No
nice bed, no nice pastry, no evenings listening to Mrs. Milligan. Ah! no
Mrs. Milligan or Arthur!
One day I decided to ask Mrs. Milligan how long it would take me to get
back to Toulouse. I wanted to be waiting at the prison door when my
master came out. When Arthur heard me speak of going back, he began to
cry.
"I don't want him to go! I don't want Remi to go," he sobbed.
I told him that I belonged to Vitalis, and that he had paid a sum of
money for me, and that I must return to him the moment he wanted me. I
had spoken of my foster parents, but had never said that they were not
really my father and mother. I felt ashamed to admit that I was a
foundling,--a child picked up in the streets! I knew how the children
from the Foundlings' Hospital had been scorned. It seemed to me that it
was the most abject thing in the world to be a foundling. I did not want
Mrs. Milligan and Arthur to know. Would they not have turned from me in
disdain!
"Mamma, we must keep Remi," continued Arthur.
"I should be very pleased to keep Remi with us," replied Mrs. Milligan;
"we are so fond of him. But there are two things; first, Remi would have
to want to stay...."
"Oh, he does! he does!" cried Arthur, "don't you, Remi? You don't want
to go back to Toulouse?"
"The second is," continued Mrs. Milligan, "will his master give him up?"
"Remi comes first; he comes first," Arthur insisted.
Vitalis had been a good master, and I was very grateful for all he had
taught me, but there was no comparison between my life with him and that
which I should have with Arthur, and at the same time, there was also no
comparison between the respect I had for Vitalis and the affection which
I felt for Mrs. Milligan and her invalid boy. I felt that it was wrong
for me to prefer these strangers to my master, but it was so. I loved
Mrs. Milligan and Arthur.
"If Remi stays with us it will not be all pleasure," went on Mrs.
Milligan; "he would have to do lessons the same as you; he would have to
study a great deal; it would not be the free life that he would have in
going tramping along the roads."
"Ah, you know what I would like,..." I began.
"There, there, you see, Mamma!" interrupted Arthur.
"All that we have to do now," continued Mrs. Milligan, "is to get his
master's consent. I will write and ask him if he will come here, for we
cannot return to Toulouse. I will send him his fare, and explain to him
the reason why we cannot take the train. I'll invite him here, and I do
hope he will accept.
"If he agrees to my proposition," added Mrs. Milligan, "I will then make
arrangements with your parents, Remi, for of course they must be
consulted."
Consult my parents! They will tell her what I have been trying to keep
secret. That I am a foundling! Then neither Arthur nor Mrs. Milligan
would want me!
A boy who did not know his own father or mother had been a companion to
Arthur! I stared at Mrs. Milligan in affright. I did not know what to
say. She looked at me in surprise. I did not dare reply to her question
when she asked me what was the matter. Probably thinking that I was
upset at the thought of my master coming, she did not insist.
Arthur looked at me curiously all the evening. I was glad when bedtime
came, and I could close myself in my cabin. That was my first bad night
on board the _Swan_. What could I do? What say?
Perhaps Vitalis would not give me up, then they would never know the
truth. My shame and fear of them finding out the truth was so great that
I began to hope that Vitalis would insist upon me staying with him.
Three days later Mrs. Milligan received a reply to the letter she had
sent Vitalis. He said that he would be pleased to come and see her, and
that he would arrive the following Saturday, by the two o'clock train. I
asked permission to go to the station with the dogs and Pretty-Heart to
meet him.
In the morning the dogs were restless as though they knew that something
was going to happen. Pretty-Heart was indifferent. I was terribly
excited. My fate was to be decided. If I had possessed the courage I
would have implored Vitalis not to tell Mrs. Milligan that I was a
foundling, but I felt that I could not utter the word, even to him.
I stood on a corner of the railway station, holding my dogs on a leash,
with Pretty-Heart under my coat, and I waited. I saw little of what
passed around me. It was the dogs who warned me that the train had
arrived. They scented their master. Suddenly there was a tug at the
leash. As I was not on my guard, they broke loose. With a bark they
bounded forward. I saw them spring upon Vitalis. More sure, although
less supple than the other two, Capi had jumped straight into his
master's arms, while Zerbino and Dulcie jumped at his feet.
When Vitalis saw me, he put Capi down quickly, and threw his arms around
me. For the first time he kissed me.
"God bless you, my boy," he said again, and again.
My master had never been hard with me, but neither had he ever been
affectionate, and I was not used to these effusions. I was touched, and
the tears came to my eyes, for I was in the mood when the heart is
easily stirred. I looked at him. His stay in prison had aged him
greatly. His back was bent, his face paler, and his lips bloodless.
"You find me changed, don't you, Remi?" he said; "I was none too happy
in prison, but I'll be better now I'm out."
Then, changing the subject, he added:
"Tell me about this lady who wrote to me; how did you get to know her?"
I told him how I had met Mrs. Milligan and Arthur in their barge, the
_Swan_, on the canal, and of what we had seen, and what we had done. I
rambled along hardly knowing what I said. Now that I saw Vitalis, I felt
that it would be impossible to tell him that I wanted to leave him and
stay with Mrs. Milligan.
We reached the hotel where Mrs. Milligan was staying, before my story
was ended. Vitalis had not mentioned what she had proposed to him in her
letter, so I said nothing of her plan.
"Is this lady expecting me?" he asked, as we entered the hotel.
"Yes, I'll take you up to her apartment," I said.
"There's no occasion for that," he replied; "I'll go up alone; you wait
here for me with Pretty-Heart and the dogs."
I had always obeyed him, but in this case I felt that it was only fair
for me to go up with him to Mrs. Milligan's apartment. But with a sign
he stopped the words on my lips, and I was forced to stay below with the
dogs.
Why didn't he want me to be present when he spoke to Mrs. Milligan? I
asked myself this question again and again. I was still pondering over
it when he returned.
"Go and say good-by to the lady," he said, briefly. "I'll wait for you
here. We shall go in ten minutes."
I was thunderstruck.
"Well," he said, "didn't you understand me? You stand there like a
stupid! Hurry up!"
He had never spoken so roughly to me. Mechanically I got up to obey, not
seeming to understand. "What did you say to her?" I asked, after I had
gone a few steps.
"I said that I needed you and that you needed me, and consequently I was
not going to give up my rights to you. Go; I give you ten minutes to say
good-by."
I was so possessed by the fact that I was a foundling, that I thought
that if I had to leave immediately it was because my master had told
them about my birth.
Upon entering Mrs. Milligan's apartment I found Arthur in tears and his
mother bending over him.
"You won't go, Remi! Oh, Remi, tell me you won't go," he sobbed.
I could not speak. Mrs. Milligan replied for me, telling Arthur that I
had to do as I was told.
"Signor Vitalis would not consent to let us have you," said Mrs.
Milligan in a voice so sad.
"He's a wicked man!" cried Arthur.
"No, he is not a wicked man," continued Mrs. Milligan; "he loves you ...
and he needs you. He speaks like a man far above his position. He told
me,--let me see, these were his words:
"'I love that child, and he loves me. The apprenticeship in the life
that I give him is good for him, better, far better, than he would have
with you. You would give him an education, that is true; you would form
his mind, but not his character. It is the hardships of life that alone
can do that. He cannot be your son; he will be mine. That is better than
to be a plaything for your sick child, however sweet he may be. I also
will teach the boy.'"
"But he isn't Remi's father," cried Arthur.
"That is true, but he is his master, and Remi belongs to him. For the
time being, Remi must obey him. His parents rented him to Signor
Vitalis, but I will write to them and see what I can do."
"Oh, no, no, don't do that," I cried.
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, no, please don't."
"But that is the only thing to do, my child."
"Oh, please, please don't."
If Mrs. Milligan had not spoken of my parents, I should have taken much
more than the ten minutes to say good-by that my master had given me.
"They live in Chavanon, do they not?" asked Mrs. Milligan.
Without replying, I went up to Arthur and, putting my arms round him,
clung to him for a moment then, freeing myself from his weak clasp, I
turned and held out my hand to Mrs. Milligan.
"Poor child," she murmured, kissing me on the forehead.
I hurried to the door.
"Arthur, I will love you always," I said, choking back my sobs, "and I
never, never will forget you, Mrs. Milligan."
"Remi! Remi!" cried Arthur.
I closed the door. One moment later I was with Vitalis.
"Off we go," he said.
And that was how I parted from my first boy friend.
CHAPTER XIII
WEARY DREARY DAYS
Again I had to tramp behind my master with the harp strapped to my
shoulder, through the rain, the sun, the dust, and the mud. I had to
play the fool and laugh and cry in order to please the "distinguished
audience."
More than once in our long walks I lagged behind to think of Arthur, his
mother, and the _Swan_. When I was in some dirty village how I would
long for my pretty cabin on the barge. And how rough the sheets were
now. It was terrible to think that I should never again play with
Arthur, and never hear his mother's voice.
Fortunately in my sorrow, which was very deep, I had one consolation;
Vitalis was much kinder, kinder than he had ever been before. His manner
with me had quite changed. I felt that he was more to me than a master
now. Often, if I dared, I would have embraced him, I so needed love. But
I had not the courage, for Vitalis was not a man with whom one dared be
familiar. At first it had been fear that kept me at a distance, but now
it was something vague, which resembled a sentiment of respect.
When I left the village I had looked upon Vitalis the same as the other
men of the poorer class. I was not able to make distinctions, but the
two months that I had lived with Mrs. Milligan had opened my eyes and
developed my intelligence. Looking at my master with more attention, it
seemed to me that in manner and bearing he appeared to be very superior.
His ways were like Mrs. Milligan's ways....
Weeks passed. On our tramps, now, my eyes were always turned in the
direction of the water, not to the hills. I was always hoping that one
day I should see the _Swan_. If I saw a boat in the distance I always
thought that it might be the _Swan_. But it was not.
We passed several days at Lyons, and all my spare time I spent on the
docks, looking up and down the river. I described the beautiful barge to
the fishermen and asked them if they had seen it, but no one had seen
it.
We had to leave Lyons at last and went on to Dijon; then I began to give
up hope of ever seeing Mrs. Milligan again, for at Lyons I had studied
all the maps of France, and I knew that the _Swan_ could not go farther
up the river to reach the Loire. It would branch off at Chalon. We
arrived at Chalon, and we went on again without seeing it. It was the
end of my dream.
To make things worse, the winter was now upon us, and we had to tramp
along wearily in the blinding rain and slush. At night, when we arrived
at a wretched inn, or in a barn, tired out, wet to the skin, I could
not drop off to sleep with laughter on my lips. Sometimes we were frozen
to the bone, and Pretty-Heart was as sad and mournful as myself.
My master's object was to get to Paris as quickly as possible, for it
was only in Paris that we had a chance to give performances during the
winter. We were making very little money now, so we could not afford to
take the train.
After the cold sleet, the wind turned to the north. It had been very
damp for several days. At first we did not mind the biting north wind in
our faces, but soon the sky filled with great black clouds and the
wintry sun disappeared altogether. We knew that a snowstorm was coming.
Vitalis was anxious to get to the next big town, where we could stay and
give several performances, if very bad weather overtook us.
"Go to bed quickly," he said, when we got to an inn that night; "we are
going to start at a very early hour to-morrow, because I don't want to
be caught in a snowstorm."
He did not go to bed at once, but sat down by a corner of the kitchen
fire to warm Pretty-Heart, who was suffering terribly from the cold. The
monkey had not ceased moaning, although we had wrapped him up in plenty
of coverlets.
The next morning I got up early as I had been told. It was not yet day,
the sky was lowering and black, and there was not a star to be seen.
When we opened the door a strong wind almost took us off our feet.
"If I were in your place," said the innkeeper to Vitalis, "I wouldn't
venture out. We're going to have a terrible snowstorm."
"I'm in a hurry," replied Vitalis, "and I want to get to Troyes before
it comes on."
"Thirty miles."
Nevertheless, we started.
Vitalis held Pretty-Heart tight against his body so as to give him some
of his own warmth, and the dogs, pleased with the hard dry roads, raced
before us. My master had bought a sheepskin for me at Dijon, and I
wrapped myself up in it with the wool inside.
It was anything but agreeable when we opened our mouths, so we walked
along in silence, hurrying as much to get warm as to get ahead. Although
it was long past the hour of daybreak, the sky was still quite black.
Although to the east a whitish band cut the clouds, yet the sun would
not come out. Looking across the country, objects were now becoming more
distinct. We could see the trees stripped of their leaves, and the
shrubs and bushes with dry foliage rustling and cracking with the heavy
gusts of wind. There was no one on the roads, nor in the fields, not a
sound of cart wheels, nor the crack of a whip.
Suddenly, in the distance, we could see a pale streak which got larger
and larger as it came towards us. Then we heard a sort of hissing
murmur, the strange, harsh cry of the wild geese. The maddened flock
flew over our heads; on they went, wildly fleeing from the north towards
the south. Before they were out of sight, soft flakes were dropping
gently from the skies and floating in the atmosphere.
The country through which we tramped was desolate and bleak, the
mournful aspect seemed to add to the silence; only the shrill whistling
of the north wind was heard. Snowflakes, like tiny butterflies,
fluttered around us, whirling incessantly without touching the ground.
We made little headway. It seemed impossible that we could reach Troyes
before the storm was fully upon us. But I did not worry; I thought that
if the snow fell it would not be so cold.
I did not know what a snow storm could be. It was not long before I
learned, and in a way that I shall never forget. The clouds were
gathering from the northwest. The flakes no longer hovered in the air,
but fell straight and swift, covering us from head to foot.
"We shall have to take shelter in the first house we come to," murmured
Vitalis; "we cannot make Troyes."
I was pleased to hear him say that, but where could we find shelter? As
far as the eye could reach there was not a house to be seen, nor
anything to indicate that we were nearing a village.
Before us lay a forest with its dark depths, and on either side of us
the hills. The snow came down faster and thicker.
We tramped in silence. My master lifted his sheepskin now and again for
Pretty-Heart to breathe more easily. From time to time we had to turn
our heads to one side, so that we also could breathe. The dogs no longer
raced ahead; they walked at our heels asking for the shelter that we
were unable to give them.
We went slowly and painfully on, blinded, wet and frozen, and, although
we were now in the heart of the forest, the road through it was exposed
to the full wind. Several times I saw my master glance to the left, as
though he were looking for something, but he said nothing. What did he
hope to find? I looked straight before me, down the long road. As far as
my eye could reach, I could see nothing but woods on either side. I
thought we should never come to the end of that forest.
I had seen the snow falling only through the window panes of a warm
kitchen. How far off that warm kitchen seemed now! Our feet sunk into
the white bed of snow, deeper and deeper. Then, suddenly, without saying
a word, Vitalis pointed to the left. I looked and saw indistinctly a
little hut made of branches.
We had to find the track that led to the hut. This was difficult, for
the snow was already thick enough to efface all trace of a path. We
scrambled through the bushes, and after crossing a ditch, we managed at
last to reach the hut and get inside. The dogs, in ecstasy, rolled over
and over on the dry ground, barking. Our satisfaction was no less keen
than theirs.
"I thought there would be a wood-cutter's cabin somewhere in the
forest," said Vitalis. "Now, it can snow!"
"Yes, let it snow," I said defiantly; "I don't care!"
I went to the door, or rather to the opening of the hut, for there was
neither door nor window, and shook my coat and hat, so as not to wet the
inside of our apartment.
Our quarters were very simply but strongly built. Its furniture
consisted of a heap of dirt and some big stones for seats.
In a house like this it was not difficult to find fuel; we had only to
take it down from the walls and the roof, dragging out a few faggots
here and there. This was quickly done, and soon we had a bright flaming
fire. It is true that the hut was soon filled with smoke, but what did
that matter? There was a flame, and it was heat that we wanted. I lay
down, supporting myself on my two hands, and blew the fire; the dogs sat
around the grate gravely; with necks stretched out they presented their
wet sides to the flames.
Pretty-Heart soon ventured to peep from under Vitalis' coat; prudently
putting the end of his nose outside, he looked about to take in his
surroundings. Evidently satisfied, he jumped quickly to the ground and
taking the best place before the fire he held out his two little
trembling hands to the flames.
That morning before I had risen, Vitalis had packed some provisions.
There was some bread and a piece of cheese. We all expressed
satisfaction at the sight of the food. Unfortunately, we were only able
to have a very small piece, for not knowing how long we should have to
stay in the hut, Vitalis thought it advisable to keep some for supper. I
understood, but the dogs did not, and when they saw the bread put back
in the bag before they had scarcely eaten, they held out their paws to
their master, scratching his neck, and performing pantomime gestures to
make him open the bag upon which their eyes were fixed. But Vitalis took
no notice of them; the bag was not opened. The dogs settled themselves
to go to sleep, Capi with his nose in the cinders. I thought that I
would follow their example.
I do not know how long I slept; when I awoke the snow had stopped
falling. I looked outside. It was very deep; if we ventured out it would
come above our knees.
What time was it? I could not ask Vitalis. His big silver watch, by
which Capi had told the hour, had been sold. He had spent all his money
to pay his prison fine, and when he bought my sheepskin at Dijon he had
parted with his big watch to pay for it. From the misty atmosphere it
was impossible for me to tell what hour it might be.
There was not a sound to be heard; the snow seemed to have petrified
every movement of life. I was standing in the opening of our cabin when
I heard my master calling.
"Do you want to get on your way?" he asked.
"I don't know; I want to do what you wish."
"Well, I think we ought to stay here; we are at least sheltered and have
warmth."
That was true, but I remembered that we had no food. However, I said
nothing.
"I'm afraid it will snow again," continued Vitalis. "We don't want to
spend the night outside. Better stay here."
Yes, we should have to stay in the hut and tighten our belts round our
stomachs, that was all.
At supper Vitalis divided the remainder of the bread. Alas, there was
but little, and it was quickly eaten; we gobbled up every crumb. When
our frugal supper was over I thought that the dogs would begin making
signs for more as they had done before, for they were ravenous. But they
did nothing of the kind, and once again I realized how great was their
intelligence.
When Vitalis thrust his knife into his trouser pocket, which indicated
that the feast was over, Capi got up and smelled the bag in which the
food was kept. He then placed his paw on the bag to feel it. This double
investigation convinced him that there was nothing left to eat. Then,
coming back to his place before the fire, he looked at Zerbino and
Dulcie. The look clearly signified that they would get nothing more;
then he stretched himself out his entire length with a sigh of
resignation. "There is nothing more. It is useless to beg." He said this
to them as plainly as though he had spoken aloud.
His companions, understanding this language, also stretched out before
the fire sighing, but Zerbino's sigh in no wise betokened resignation,
for added to a large appetite, Zerbino was very much of a gourmand, and
this was a greater sacrifice for him than for the others.
The snow had commenced to fall again; it fell persistently. We could see
the white carpet on the ground rise higher and higher until the small
shrubs and bushes were hidden beneath it. When night came, big flakes
were still falling from the black sky onto the shimmering earth.
As we had to sleep there, the best thing to do was to go to sleep as
quickly as possible. I wrapped myself up in my sheepskin, which I had
dried by the fire during the day, and I laid down beside the fire, my
head on a flat stone which served for a pillow.
"You go to sleep," said Vitalis; "I'll wake you when it's my turn, for
although we have nothing to fear from animals or people in this cabin,
one of us must keep awake to see that the fire does not go out. We must
be careful not to get cold, for it will be bitter when the snow stops."
I slept. In the small hours of the night my master woke me. The fire
was still burning, and the snow had stopped falling.
"It's my turn to sleep now," said Vitalis; "as the fire goes down you
throw on this wood that I've got already here."
He had piled up a heap of small wood by the grate. My master, who slept
much lighter than I, did not wish me to wake him by pulling down the
wood from the walls each time I needed it. So from this heap that he had
prepared, I could take the wood and throw on the fire without making a
noise. It was a wise thing to do, but alas, Vitalis did not know what
the result would be.
He stretched out now before the fire with Pretty-Heart in his coverlet
cuddled up against him, and soon, from his deep breathing, I knew that
he had fallen asleep. Then I got up softly and went to the opening to
see how it looked outside.
All the grass, the bushes, and the trees were buried in snow. Everywhere
the eye rested was a dazzling white. The sky was dotted with twinkling
stars, but although they were so bright it was the snow which shed the
pale light over the earth. It was much colder now; it was freezing hard.
Oh! what should we have done in the depths of the forest in the snow and
the cold if we had not found this shelter?
Although I had walked on tiptoe to the opening without scarcely making a
sound, I had roused the dogs, and Zerbino had followed me. The splendor
of the night was nothing to him; he looked on the scene for a moment,
and then became bored and wanted to go outside. I ordered him to return
to his place. Foolish dog, wasn't it better to stay by the warm fire in
this terrible cold than to go prowling around. He obeyed me, but with a
very bad grace, and kept his eyes fixed on the entrance. I stayed there
for a few minutes longer, looking at the white night. It was beautiful,
but although I enjoyed it, somehow I felt a vague sadness. I could have
gone inside and not looked, of course, but the white, mysterious scene
held me fascinated.
At last I went back to the fire and having placed two or three long
pieces of wood crossways upon one another, I sat down on the stone which
had served me for a pillow. My master was sleeping calmly; the dogs and
Pretty-Heart also slept, and the flames leaped from the fire and swirled
upward to the roof, throwing out bright sparks. The spluttering flame
was the only sound that broke the silence of the night. For a long time
I watched the sparks, then little by little I began to get drowsy,
without my being aware.
If I had been compelled to busy myself with getting the wood, I could
have kept awake, but seated before the fire with nothing to do, I became
so sleepy, and yet all the time I thought that I could manage to keep
awake.
I sprang up suddenly, awakened by a violent barking! It was night. I
probably had slept for a long time and the fire was almost out. No
flames lit the hut now. Capi was barking loudly, furiously. But,
strange! there was no sound from Zerbino or Dulcie.
"What's the matter?" cried Vitalis, waking up.
"I don't know."
"You've been to sleep, and the fire's gone out."
Capi had run to the opening, but had not ventured outside. He stood on
the threshold barking.
"What has happened?" I asked in my turn.
In answer to Capi's barks came two or three mournful howls. I recognized
Dulcie's voice. These howls came from behind our hut and at a very short
distance.
I was going out. But Vitalis put his hand on my shoulder and stopped me.
"First," he said, in a tone of command, "put some wood on the fire."
While I obeyed, he took a sprig from the fire and blew it out until only
the point remained burning. He held the torch in his hand.
"Come and see what is the matter," he said; "you walk behind me. Go
ahead, Capi."
As we went out there was a frightful howl. Capi drew back, cowering
behind us in terror.
"Wolves! Where are Zerbino and Dulcie?"
What could I say? The two dogs must have gone out while I slept. Zerbino
had waited until I was asleep and had then crept out, and Dulcie had
followed him. The wolves had got hold of them! There was fear in my
master's voice when he asked for the dogs.
"Take a torch," he said, "we must go to their aid."
In our village I had heard them tell terrible stories of wolves, yet I
could not hesitate. I ran back for a torch, then followed my master.
But outside we could see neither dogs nor wolves. On the snow we could
see only the imprint of the two dogs' paws. We followed these traces
around the hut, then at a certain distance we could see a space in the
snow which looked as though some animals had been rolling in it.
"Go and look for them, Capi," said my master; at the same time he
whistled to attract Zerbino and Dulcie.
But there was no barking in reply; no sound disturbed the mournful
silence of the forest, and Capi, instead of running off as he was told,
kept close to us, giving every sign of fear. Capi who was usually so
obedient and brave!
There was not sufficient light for us to follow the imprints any
distance. The snow around us was dazzling, but beyond seemed all vague
and obscure.
Again Vitalis whistled and shouted for the missing dogs. There was no
answering bark.
Oh, poor Zerbino; poor Dulcie!
"The wolves have got them," said Vitalis; "why did you let them go out?"
Yes? why? I had nothing to say.
"We must go and look for them," I said after a pause.
I went before him, but he stopped me.
"Where will you look for them?" he asked.
"I don't know; everywhere."
"We can't tell, in this dim light, where they have gone."
That was true, and the snow came up above our knees. Our two torches
together could not penetrate the shadows.
"If they do not reply, it is because they are a long way off," he said.
"We must not go on; the wolves might attack us also. We cannot defend
ourselves."
It was dreadful to have to leave the poor dogs to their fate--our two
friends; friends particularly to me. And the terrible part of it was
that I knew that I was responsible. If I had not slept they would not
have gone out.
My master had turned back to the hut. I followed, looking back at each
step, stopping to listen. I heard nothing, and saw nothing but the snow.
When we reached the hut another surprise awaited us. The branches that I
had thrown on the fire were aflame and lit up the darkest corners of the
cabin, but Pretty-Heart was nowhere to be seen. His coverlets were there
before the fire, but he was not in them. I called. Vitalis called, but
he did not appear.
My master said that when he awoke the monkey was beside him, so it was
while we were out that he had disappeared. With our burning torches
held down to the snowy earth we started out to look for him. We found no
trace of him.
We returned to the hut to see if he were hidden behind some faggots. We
searched for a long time; ten times we looked in the same place, the
same corners. I climbed up on Vitalis' shoulders to look amongst the
branches of which the roof was made. We called again and again, but
there was no answer.
Vitalis seemed angry. I was in despair. I asked my master if he thought
that the wolves could have taken him also.
"No," he said, "the wolves would not dare come into the hut. I am afraid
they got Zerbino and Dulcie when they went out, but they did not come in
here. It is quite likely that Pretty-Heart was terrified and has hidden
himself somewhere while we were outside; that is why I am so anxious. In
this terrible weather he will catch cold, and cold is fatal for him."
"Well, let us keep on looking."
We went over the ground again, but all in vain.
"We must wait till day," said Vitalis.
"When will it be day?"
"In two or three hours, I think."
Vitalis sat down before the fire, with his head in his hands. I did not
dare disturb him. I stood quite close to him, only moving occasionally
to put some branches on the fire. Once or twice he got up and went to
the door. He looked at the sky, listened attentively, then came back
and sat down. I would rather that he had been angry with me, than that
he should be so silent and sad.
The three hours passed slowly. It seemed that the night would never end.
The stars were fading from the heavens, the sky was getting lighter. Day
was breaking. But as morning came the cold grew more intense; the air
which came through the door froze us to the bone.
If we did find Pretty-Heart, would he be alive?
The snow had quite stopped falling now and there was a pinkish light in
the sky which foretold fine weather. As soon as it was quite light,
Vitalis and I, armed with a stout stick, left the hut.
Capi did not appear so terrified as he had been the night before. With
his eyes fixed on his master, he only waited for a sign from him to rush
forward. As we were examining the ground for Pretty-Heart's footprints,
Capi threw back his head and began to bark joyfully. He signified that
we must look up, not on the ground.
In the great oak standing by the hut we found him.
Poor Pretty-Heart! Frightened by the howling of the dogs, he had jumped
onto the roof of the cabin when we had gone out, and from there he had
climbed to the top of an oak, where, feeling that he was in a safe
place, he had remained crouching, without replying to our calls.
The poor little frail creature, he must be frozen!
My master called him gently. He did not move. We thought that he was
already dead. For several minutes Vitalis continued to call him, but the
monkey gave no sign of life. My heart ached with remorse. How severely I
was being punished! I must atone.
"I'll go up and get him," I said.
"You'll break your neck."
"No, there is no danger. I can do it easily."
That was not true. There was danger. It was very difficult, for the
large tree was covered with ice and snow.
When I was quite small I had learned to climb trees, and I was quite an
adept in this art. I jumped and caught hold of the lowest branches. I
held onto these, and, although blinded by the snow that fell in my eyes,
I managed to climb up the trunk to the stronger branches. Once up there
I had only to be careful not to lose my footing.
As I climbed I spoke softly to Pretty-Heart. He did not move, but looked
at me with shining eyes. I had almost reached him and was about to
stretch out my hand, when, with a spring, he had jumped to another
branch. I followed him to this branch, but men, alas, and even
youngsters are very inferior to monkeys when it comes to climbing trees.
It is quite possible that I should never have caught him if the snow had
not wet his feet. He did not like this and soon got tired of dodging me;
then, letting himself drop from branch to branch, he jumped straight
onto his master's shoulders and hid himself inside his coat.
It was a great thing to have found Pretty-Heart, but that was not all.
Now we had to look for the dogs.
It was day now and easy for us to see what had happened. In the snow we
read the death of our dogs. We followed their footprints for thirty
yards. They had come out of the hut, one behind the other, Dulcie
following Zerbino. Then we saw other footprints. On one side there were
signs of a struggle where the wolves had sprung upon the dogs, and on
the other sides were the footprints of the wolves where they trotted
off, carrying their prey with them, to be devoured at their leisure.
There was no trace of the dogs except a red trail of blood which here
and there stained the snow.
The two poor dogs had gone to their death while I slept!
We had to get busy as quickly as possible with warming Pretty-Heart. We
hurried back to the hut. While Vitalis held out the little creature's
feet and hands to the fire, as one holds a tiny baby, I warmed his
coverlets and we rolled him up in them. But he needed more than the
coverlets; he needed a warm drink. My master and I sat by the fire,
silent, watching the wood burn.
"Poor Zerbino; poor Dulcie!"
Each of us murmured these words; first he, then I.
The dogs had been our friends, our companions, in good and bad fortune,
and to me in my loneliness they had meant so much. How deeply I
reproached myself for not having kept watch. The wolves would not have
come to attack us in our cabin; they would have stayed in the distance,
frightened by the fire.
If only Vitalis would have scolded me! I wished that he would beat me.
But he said nothing. He did not even look at me. He sat with his head
bent over the fire; probably wondering what would become of us without
the dogs.
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
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