by Hector Malot
CHAPTER XVIII
NEW FRIENDS
When I awoke I was in a bed, and the flames from a big fire lit up theroom in which I was lying. I had never seen this room before, nor thepeople who stood near the bed. There was a man in a gray smock andclogs, and three or four children. One, which I noticed particularly,was a little girl about six years old, with great big eyes that were soexpressive they seemed as though they could speak.
I raised myself on my elbow. They all came closer.
"Vitalis?" I asked.
"He is asking for his father," said a girl, who seemed to be the eldestof the children.
"He is not my father; he is my master," I said; "where is he? where'sCapi?"
If Vitalis had been my father they perhaps would have broken the news tome gently, but as he was only my master, they thought that they couldtell me the truth at once.
They told me that my poor master was dead. The gardener, who lived onthe grounds outside of which we had fallen exhausted, had found us earlythe next morning, when he and his son were starting off with theirvegetables and flowers to the markets. They found us lying, huddledtogether in the snow, with a little covering of their straw over us.Vitalis was already dead, and I should have died but Capi had crept upto my chest and kept my heart warm. They had carried us into the houseand I had been placed in one of the children's warm beds.
"And Capi?" I asked, when the gardener stopped talking.
"Capi?"
"Yes, the dog."
"I don't know, he's disappeared."
"He followed the body," said one of the children. "Didn't you see him,Benjamin?"
"Should say I did," answered another boy; "he walked behind the men whocarried the stretcher. He kept his head down, and now and again hejumped up on the body, and when they made him get down he moaned andhowled something terrible."
Poor Capi! how many times, as an actor, had he not followed Zerbino'sfuneral. Even the most serious children had been obliged to laugh at hisdisplay of grief. The more he moaned, the more they had laughed.
The gardener and his children left me alone. Not knowing quite what todo or what I was going to do, I got up and dressed. My harp had beenplaced at the foot of the bed upon which I was lying. I passed the strapover my shoulder and went into the room where the family were. I shouldhave to go, but where? While in bed I had not felt very weak, but now Icould scarcely stand; I was obliged to hold on to a chair to keep fromfalling. The odor of the soup was too much for me. I was remindedbrutally that I had eaten nothing the night before. I felt faint, andstaggering, I dropped into a chair by the fire.
"Don't you feel well, my boy?" asked the gardener.
I told him that I did not feel very well, and I asked him to let me sitby the fire for a little while.
But it was not the heat that I wanted; it was food. I felt weaker as Iwatched the family take their soup. If I had dared, I would have askedfor a bowl, but Vitalis had taught me not to beg. I could not tell themI was hungry. Why? I don't know, quite, unless it was that I could notask for anything that I was unable to return.
The little girl with the strange look in her eyes, and whose name wasLise, sat opposite to me. Suddenly, she got up from the table and,taking her bowl which was full of soup, she brought it over to me andplaced it on my knees. Weakly, for I could no longer speak, I nodded myhead to thank her. The father did not give me time to speak even if Ihad been able.
"Take it, my boy," he said. "What Lise gives is given with a kind heart.There is more if you want more."
If I want more! The bowl of soup was swallowed in a few seconds. When Iput down the soup, Lise, who had remained standing before me, heaved alittle sigh of content. Then she took my bowl and held it out to herfather to have it refilled, and when it was full she brought it to mewith such a sweet smile, that in spite of my hunger, I sat staring ather, without thinking to take it from her. The second bowlfuldisappeared promptly like the first. It was no longer a smile thatcurved Lise's pretty lips; she burst out laughing.
"Well, my boy," said her father, "you've got an appetite and nomistake."
I was much ashamed, but after a moment I thought it better to confessthe truth than to be thought a glutton, so I told them that I had nothad any supper the night before.
"And dinner?"
"No dinner, either."
"And your master?"
"He hadn't eaten, either."
"Then he died as much from starvation as from cold."
The hot soup had given me strength. I got up to go.
"Where are you going?" asked the father.
"I don't know."
"Got any friends or relations in Paris?"
"No."
"Where do you live?"
"We hadn't any home. We only got to the city yesterday."
"What are you going to do, then?"
"Play my harp and get a little money."
"In Paris? You had better return to your parents in the country. Wheredo they live?"
"I haven't any parents. My master bought me from my foster parents. Youhave been good to me and I thank you with all my heart and, if you like,I'll come back here on Sunday and play my harp while you dance."
While speaking I had walked towards the door, but I had only taken a fewsteps when Lise, who followed me, took my hand and pointed to my harp.
"You want me to play now?" I asked, smiling at her.
She nodded and clapped her hands.
Although I had no heart to play, I played my prettiest waltz for thislittle girl. At first she listened with her big, beautiful eyes fixed onme, then she began to keep time with her feet, and very soon was dancinggayly round the kitchen, while her brothers and sisters watched her. Herfather was delighted. When the waltz was finished the child came andmade me a pretty curtsy. I would have played for her all day, but thefather thought she had danced enough so, instead, I sang the Neapolitansong that Vitalis had taught me. Lise stood opposite me, moving her lipsas though repeating the words. Then, suddenly, she turned round andthrew herself into her father's arms, crying.
"That's enough music," said the father.
"Isn't she a silly?" said the brother named Benjamin, scoffingly; "firstshe dances, and then she cries!"
"She's not so silly as you!" retorted the elder sister, leaning over thelittle one affectionately. "She understands...."
While Lise cried on her father's knee, I again strapped my harp to myshoulder, and made for the door.
"Where are you going?" asked the gardener. "Wouldn't you like to stayhere and work? It won't be an easy life. You'll have to get up veryearly in the morning and work hard all day. But you may be sure that youwon't have to go through what you did last night. You will have a bedand food and you will have the satisfaction of knowing that you haveearned it. And, if you're a good boy, which I think you are, you will beone of the family."
Lise turned round and, through her tears, she looked at me and smiled. Icould hardly believe what I heard. I just stared at the gardener. ThenLise jumped off her father's knee and came up and took my hand.
"Well, what do you say, boy?" asked the father.
A family! I should have a family. I should not be alone. The man I hadlived with for several years, who had been almost a father to me, wasdead, and dear, good Capi, my companion and friend, whom I loved somuch, was lost. I had thought that all was over for me, and here wasthis good man offering to take me into his family. Life would beginagain for me. He said he offered me food and lodging, but what meantmore to me was this home life which would be mine also. These boys wouldbe my brothers. This pretty little Lise would be my sister. I would nolonger be nobody's boy. In my childish dreams I had more than oncethought I might find my father and mother, but I had never thought thatI should have brothers and sisters! And this was what was being offeredto me. I quickly slipped the strap of my harp from off my shoulders.
"There's his reply," said the father, laughing. "I can see by your facehow pleased you are; no need for you to say anything. Han
g your harp upthere on the wall and when you get tired of us you may take it down andgo on your way again, but you must do like the swallows, choose yourseason to start on your flight. Don't go off in the depth of winter."
My new family consisted of the father, whose name was Pierre Acquin, twoboys, Alexix and Benjamin, and two girls, Etiennette, the elder, andLise, the youngest of the family.
Lise was dumb. She was not born dumb, but just before her fourthbirthday, through an illness, she had lost the power of speech. Thisaffliction, fortunately, had not impaired her intelligence; quite thecontrary, her intelligence was developed to an extraordinary degree. Sheseemed to understand everything. And her sweet, pretty ways made heradored by the family.
Since the mother had died, Etiennette had been mother to the family. Shehad left school early to stay at home to cook and sew and clean thehouse for her father and brothers. They had quite forgotten that she wasthe daughter, the sister; they were so accustomed to seeing her doingthe work of a servant, for she seldom went out and was never angry.Carrying Lise in her arms, dragging Benny by the hand, getting up atdaybreak to get her father's breakfast, going to bed late after washingthe dishes, she had not had time to be a child. At fourteen years herface was serious and sad. It was not the face of a little girl.
Five minutes after I had hung my harp on the wall, I was telling themall what had happened the night before, how we had hoped to sleep on therace-course, when I heard a scratching on the door which opened onto thegarden; then there was a plaintive whine.
"Capi! Capi!" I cried, jumping up quickly.
But Lise was before me; she had already opened the door.
Capi sprang upon me. I took him in my arms; with little howls of joy,and his whole body trembling, he licked my face.
"And Capi?..." I asked.
My question was understood.
"Well, Capi will remain with you, of course," said the father.
As though he knew what we were saying, the dog jumped to the ground andputting his paw straight on his heart, he bowed. It made the childrenlaugh, especially Lise, and to amuse them I wanted Capi to perform someof his tricks, but he had no wish to obey me; he jumped on my knee andcommenced to lick my face; then he sprung down and began to drag me bythe sleeve of my coat.
"He wants me to go out."
"To take you to your master."
The police, who had taken Vitalis away, had said that they wished toquestion me when I was better. It was very uncertain as to when theywould come, and I was anxious to have news. Perhaps Vitalis was not deadas they had thought. Perhaps there was still a spark of life left in mymaster's body.
Upon seeing my anxiety, Monsieur Acquin offered to take me to the policestation. When we arrived there I was questioned at length, but I wouldgive no information until they had declared that poor Vitalis was reallydead. Then I told them what I knew. It was very little. Of myself I wasable to say that I had no parents and that Vitalis had hired me for asum of money, which he had paid in advance to my foster mother'shusband.
"And now?..." inquired the commissioner.
"We are going to take care of him," interrupted my new friend; "thatis, if you will let us."
The commissioner was willing to confide me to his care and complimentedhim upon his kind act.
It is not easy for a child to hide much from a police officer who knowshis business. They very soon trap persons into telling what they wish tohide. This was so in my case. The commissioner had quickly gleaned fromme all about Garofoli.
"There is nothing to do but to take him to this chap, Garofoli," he saidto one of his men. "Once in the street he mentions, he will soonrecognize the house. You can go up with him and question the man."
The three of us started. As the officer had said, we found the streetand the house. We went up to the fourth floor. I did not see Mattia. Hehad probably been taken off to the hospital. Upon seeing the officer andrecognizing me, Garofoli paled and looked frightened, but he soonrecovered himself when he learned that they had only come to questionhim about Vitalis.
"So the old fellow is dead?" he said.
"You know him? Well, tell us all you can about him."
"There is not much to tell. His name was not Vitalis. He was CarloBalzini, and if you had lived thirty-five or forty years ago in Italy,that name alone would tell you all you want to know. Carlo Balzini wasthe greatest singer of the day. He sang in Naples, Rome, Milan, Venice,Florence, London and Paris. Then came the time when he lost hismagnificent voice, and as he could not be the greatest of singers, hewould not dim his fame by singing on cheaper stages unworthy of hisgreat reputation. Instead he preferred to hide himself from the worldand from all who had known him in his triumph. Yet he had to live. Hetried several professions, but could not succeed, then finally he tookto training dogs. But in his poverty he was still very proud and hewould have died of shame if the public could have known that thebrilliant Carlo Balzini had sunk to the depths he had. It was just amatter of chance that I learned his secret."
Poor Carlo Balzini; dear, dear Vitalis!
