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 theSwan. 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 uponVitalis 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 theSwan. If I saw a boat in the distance I always thought that it might be theSwan. 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 theSwancould 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 theskin, 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 cametowards 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, andon 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 thefire 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 atZerbino 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 thedogs, 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 fora 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 ofthem! 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 thathe 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 Ireproached 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.
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 inquiringlyat 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 thatthis 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 pieceof 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 thismoment, when he heard the drum, he tried to get up. From the noise and Capi's barks, he seemed to guess that it was to announce our performance.
I had to force him back on his bed; then he made signs to me to give him his general's uniform—the red coat and trousers with gold braid, and hat with the plume. He clasped his hands and went down on his knees to beg me. When he saw that he could get nothing from me by begging, he tried what anger would do, then finally melted into tears. It was evident that we should have a great deal of trouble to convince him that he must give up all idea of playing that night. I thought it would be better not to let him know when we started.
When Vitalis returned, he told me to get my harp ready and all the things we required for the entertainment. Pretty-Heart, who knew what this meant, turned to his master and commenced his entreaties again. He could not have better expressed his desires than by the sounds he uttered, the twisting of his face, and the turns of his body. There were real tears on his cheeks and they were real kisses that he imprinted on Vitalis' hand. "You want to play?" asked Vitalis, who had not been told what happened before.
"Yes, oh, yes!" Pretty-Heart's whole person seemed to cry out. He tried to jump to show that he was no longer sick. We know very well that if we took him out it would be his death.
It was time for us to start. Before going, I made up a good fire and wrapped Pretty-Heart upin his coverlets. He cried again and embraced me as much as he could, then we started.
As we tramped through the snow, my master told me what he expected of me. We could not, of course, give our usual repertoire, as our principal actors were missing, but Capi and I could vie with each other in doing our best. We had to collect forty francs! Forty francs! It was terrible! Impossible!
Vitalis had prepared everything. All we had to do now was to light the candles, but this was an extravagance that we could not indulge in until the room was filled, for our illuminations would not have to come to an end before our entertainment.
Whilst we took possession of our theater, the town crier, with his drum, came through the village streets for the last time. After I had dressed Capi and myself, I went outside and stood behind a pillar to watch the people arrive.
The roll of the drum became louder. It was approaching the market place and I could hear a babble of voices. Behind the drum came a score of youngsters, all keeping step. Without stopping the beating of his drum, the town crier took up his place between the two large lamps that were lit at the entrance of our theater. The public had only to walk in and take their seats for the performance to commence.
Alas! how long they were coming, and yet the drum at the door continued gayly itsrat ta ta ta.All the boys in the village must have been there. But it was not the youngsters who were likely to give us forty francs. There would have to be some important people, open-handed and generous.
At last Vitalis decided that we ought to commence, although the hall was far from being full; but we could not wait longer, worried as we were by the terrible question of candles.
I had to appear first and sing a few songs, accompanying myself on the harp. I must confess the applause that I received was very weak. I had never thought very much of myself as an entertainer, but the marked coolness with which the audience received my efforts discouraged me. If I did not please them they would certainly not give us anything. It was not for the glory that I was singing; it was for poor Pretty-Heart. Ah, how I wanted to stir this public, to make them enthusiastic.... But I could see only too well that they did not consider me a marvel.
Capi was more successful. He received several encores. Thanks to Capi, the entertainment ended in a burst of applause. Not only did they clap their hands, but they stamped their feet.
The decisive moment had arrived. While Capi, with the cup in his jaws, ran through the audience, I danced a Spanish dance on the stage, with Vitalis playing an accompaniment. Would Capi collect forty francs? That was the question which made my heart beat while I smiled at the public in my pleasantest manner.
I was out of breath, but I still continued to dance, for I was not to stop until Capi had returned. He did not hurry himself; when he found that he did not receive a coin, he placed his paw against the person's pocket. At last I saw him about to return, and thought that I might stop, but Vitalis made me a sign to go on.
I continued to dance, and going a few steps nearer Capi, I saw that the cup was not full; far from it. Vitalis had also seen this. Bowing to the audience, he said:
"Ladies and gentlemen, I think that, without flattering ourselves, we have conscientiously carried out our program, yet as our candles are still burning, I will, if the public wishes, sing some songs myself. Our dog, Capi, will make another quest and those who have not yet given will perhaps give this time. Please have your money ready."
Although Vitalis had been my teacher, I had never really heard him sing, or at least not as he sung that evening. He selected two songs, an air from "Joseph" and one from "Richard the Lion Hearted."
Although I was only a little boy and was no judge as to whether one sang with technique or without, Vitalis' singing stirred me strangely. I went into a corner of the stage, for my eyes filled with tears as I listened to his beautiful notes.
Through a mist, I saw a young lady, who occupied the first row, clap her hands with all hermight. I had already noticed that she was not a peasant like the rest of the people in the hall. She was a lady, young and beautiful, and from her handsome fur coat I took her to be the richest woman in the village. She had with her a little child who had applauded Capi heartily. It was probably her son for the likeness was striking.
After the first song, Capi went the round again. I saw with surprise that the lady had not put anything into his cup.
When my master had finished the air from the second opera, she beckoned me to her.
"I want to speak to that gentleman," she said.
I was surprised, I thought she would have done better to have dropped something into the cup. Capi returned. He had collected very little more on this second round.
"What does the lady want?" asked Vitalis.
"To speak to you."
"I have nothing to say."
"She did not give anything to Capi, perhaps she would like to give it now."
"Then it is for Capi to go to her, not for me."
However, he decided to go, and took the dog with him. I followed them. By now a servant had appeared, carrying a lantern and a rug. He stood beside the lady and the child. Vitalis bowed coldly to her.
"Forgive me for having disturbed you," she said, "but I wanted to congratulate you."
Vitalis bowed, without saying a word.
"I am a musician," continued the lady; "I am telling you this so that you will know how much I appreciate your superb talent."
Superb talent! My master! The dog trainer! I was amazed.
"An old man like me has no talent," he replied coldly.
"Do not think that I am inquisitive, but...." began the lady.
"I am quite willing to satisfy your curiosity, Madam," he said; "you are surprised that a dog trainer is able to sing a little. But I have not always been what I am now. When I was younger I was ... the servant of a great singer, and like a parrot I imitated him. I began to repeat some of the songs he practiced in my presence. That is all."
The lady did not reply. She looked hard at Vitalis. He seemed embarrassed.
"Good-by, sir," she said at last, laying a stress on the word "sir." "Good-by, and once more let me thank you for the exquisite delight you have given me this evening." And leaning towards Capi she dropped a gold piece in his cup.
I thought that Vitalis would escort her to the door, but he did nothing of the kind, and when she was out of hearing I heard him swear softly in Italian.
"She gave Capi a louis," I said.
I thought he was going to give me a blow, but he let his raised hand fall to his side.
"A louis," he said, as though he were coming out of a dream. "Ah, yes, poor Pretty-Heart. I had forgotten him. Let us go back to the little creature at once."
I climbed the stairs of the inn first and went into the room. The fire was not out, but there were no flames. I lit a candle quickly. I was surprised not to hear any sound from Pretty-Heart. I found him, lying under his coverlets, stretched out his full length, dressed in his general's uniform. He appeared to be asleep. I leaned over him and took his hand gently to wake him up. His hand was cold. Vitalis came into the room. I turned to him.
"Pretty-Heart is cold," I said.
My master came to my side and also leaned over the bed.
"He is dead," he said. "It was to be. Ah, Remi, boy, I did wrong to take you away from Mrs. Milligan. I am punished. Zerbino, Dulcie, and now Pretty-Heart and ... this is not the end!"
We were still a long way from Paris. We had to go by roads covered with snow, and walk from morning till night, the north wind blowing in our faces. How sad and weary were those long tramps.
Vitalis walked ahead, I at his heels, and Capi behind me. Thus in line we went onward without exchanging a word, for hours and hours, faces blue with cold, feet wet, stomachs empty. The people who passed us on the way turned round to gaze at us. Evidently they thought it strange.... Where was this old man leading his child and the dog?
The silence seemed terrible to me, and so sad. I would liked to have talked just for company, but when I did venture to make a remark, Vitalis replied briefly, without even turning his head. Fortunately, Capi was more sociable, and as I trudged along I often felt his warm tongue on my hand. He licked me as much as to say, "Your friend, Capi, is here with you." Then I stroked him gently, without stopping. We understood each other; we loved each other.
On the slippery snow we went straight ahead, without stopping, sleeping at night in a stable or in a sheepfold, with a piece of bread, alas, very small, for our meal in the evening. This was our dinner and supper in one.
We did not tell the shepherds that we were dying of hunger, but Vitalis, with his usual cleverness, would say insinuatingly that "the little chap was very fond of sheep's milk, because, when he was a baby, he used to drink it." This story did not always take effect, but it was a good night for me when it did. Yes, I was very fond of sheep's milk and when they gave me some I felt much stronger the next day.
It seemed strange to me that, as we neared Paris, the country ceased to be beautiful. The snow was not white and dazzling now. I had heard what a wonderful place Paris was, and I expected something extraordinary. I did not know exactly what. I should not have been surprised to see trees of gold, streets of marble, palaces everywhere.
What were we poor things going to do when we reached Paris? I wanted to question Vitalis, but I did not dare, he seemed so gloomy. When we were in sight of the roofs and the church towers of the capital, he slackened his step to walk beside me.
"Remi," he said suddenly, "we are going to part when we get to Paris."
I looked at him. He looked at me. The sudden pallor of my face and the trembling of my lipstold him what effect his words had on me. For a moment I could not speak.
"Going to part!" I murmured at last.
"Poor little chap, yes, we must part."
The tone in which he said this brought the tears to my eyes. It was so long since I had heard a kind word.
"Oh, you are so good," I cried.
"It is you who are good. You brave little heart. There comes a time in one's life when one feels these things. When all goes well, one goes along through life without thinking much who is with one, but when things go wrong, when one is on the wrong track, and above all when one is old, one wants to lean on somebody. You may be surprised that I have wanted to lean on you. And yet it is so. But only to see that your eyes are moist as you listen to me, comforts me, little Remi. I am very unhappy."
I did not know what to say. I just stroked his hand.
"And the misfortune is that we have to part just at the time when we are getting nearer to each other."
"But you're not going to leave me all alone in Paris?" I asked timidly.
"No, certainly not. What would you do in the big city, all by yourself, poor child. I have no right to leave you, remember that. The day when I would not let that good lady take you and bring you up as her son, that day I bound myself to dothe best I could for you. I can do nothing at this moment, and that is why I think it is best to part. It is only for a time. We can do better if we separate during the last months of the bad season. What can we do in Paris with all gone but Capi?"
Hearing his name mentioned, dear Capi came beside us: he put his paw to his ear in military salute, then placed it on his heart, as though to tell us that we could count on his devotion. My master stopped to pass his hand affectionately over the dog's head.
"Yes, Capi, you're a good, faithful friend, but, alas! without the others we can't do much now."
"But my harp...."
"If I had two children like you it would be better. But an old man with just one little boy is bad business. I am not old enough. Now, if I were only blind or broken down! I am not in a pitiful state enough for people to stop and notice us. So, my boy, I have decided to give you to apadrone, until the end of the winter. He will take you with other children that he has, and you will play your harp...."
"And you?" I asked.
"I am known in Paris, I have stayed there several times. I will give violin lessons to the Italian children who play on the streets. I have only to say that I will give lessons to find all the pupils I want. And, in the meantime, I will train two dogs that will replace poor Zerbino and Dulcie.Then in the spring we will be together again, my little Remi. We are only passing through a bad time now; later, I will take you through Germany and England, then you will grow big and your mind will develop. I will teach you a lot of things and make a man of you. I promised this to Mrs. Milligan. I will keep my promise. That is the reason why I have already commenced to teach you English. You can speak French and Italian, that is something for a child of your age."
Perhaps it was all for the best as my master said, but I could only think of two things.
We were to be parted, and I was to have apadrone.
During our wanderings I had met severalpadroneswho used to beat the children who worked for them. They were very cruel, and they swore, and usually they were drunk. Would I belong to one of those terrible men?
And then, even if fate gave me a kind master, it was another change. First, my foster mother, then Vitalis, then another.... Was it to be always so? Should I never find anyone that I could love and stay with always? Little by little I had grown attached to Vitalis. He seemed almost what I thought a father would be. Should I never have a father, have a family? Always alone in this great world! Nobody's boy!
Vitalis had asked me to be brave. I did not wish to add to his sorrows, but it was hard, so hard, to leave him.
As we walked down a dirty street, with heaps of snow on either side covered with cinders and rotten vegetables, I asked: "Where are we?"
"In Paris, my boy."
Where were my marble houses? And the trees of gold, and the finely dressed people. Was this Paris! Was I to spend the winter in a place like this, parted from Vitalis and Capi?
Although I knew later how beautiful was the city of Paris, the slums, being my first glimpse, created anything but a favorable impression.
Vitalis, who seemed to know his way, pushed through the groups of people who obstructed his passage along the narrow street we had just turned down.
"Mind, you don't lose me," cautioned Vitalis.
But his warning was not necessary, for I trod upon his heels, and to be more sure of him I held a corner of his coat in my hand.
We crossed a big courtyard to a dirty, dismal house where surely the sun had never penetrated. It was the worst looking place I had seen so far.
"Is Garofoli in?" asked Vitalis of a man who, by the light from a lantern, was hanging rags against the door.
"I don't know; go up and see for yourself," he growled; "the door's at the top of the stairs; it faces you."
"Garofoli is thepadrone, Remi, I told you about," said Vitalis; "this is where he lives."
The street, the house, the staircase was not inthe nature to reassure me. What would this new master be like?
Without knocking, Vitalis pushed open the door at the top of the stairs, on the top floor, and we found ourselves in a large attic. There was a great empty space in the middle of the room, and all around the walls were beds, a dozen in all. The walls and ceiling that had once been white were now filthy with smoke, dust, and dirt. On the walls was a drawing of a head in charcoal and some flowers and birds.
"Are you there, Garofoli?" asked Vitalis; "it is so dark I can't see any one. It's Vitalis."
A weak, drawling voice replied to Vitalis' question.
"Signor Garofoli has gone out; he will not be back for two hours."
A boy about twelve years of age came forward. I was struck by his strange looks. Even now, as I write, I can see him as I saw him then. He had no body, so to speak, for he seemed all legs and head. His great head was out of all proportion. Built so, he could not have been called handsome, yet there was something in his face which attracted one strangely, an expression of sadness and gentleness and, yes ... hopelessness. His large eyes held your own with sympathy.
"You are sure he will not be back for two hours?" asked Vitalis.
"Quite sure, Signor. That will be dinner time, and no one ever serves dinner but Signor Garofoli."
"Well, if he comes in before, tell him that Vitalis will be back in two hours."
"Very well, Signor."
I was about to follow Vitalis, when he stopped me.
"Stay here," he said; "you can rest.
"Oh, I'll come back," he added, reassuringly, noticing my look of anxiety.
"Are you Italian?" asked the boy, when Vitalis' heavy step could no longer be heard on the stairs.
"No," I replied in French, "I'm French."
"That's a good thing."
"What! you like the French better than the Italians?"
"Oh, no, I was thinking of you when I said 'that's a good thing,' because if you were Italian you would probably come here to work for Signor Garofoli, and I'd be sorry for you."
"Is he wicked, then?"
The boy did not reply, but the look he gave me spoke more than words. As though he did not wish to continue the conversation, he went over to the fireplace. On a shelf in the fireplace was an immense earthenware saucepan. I drew nearer to the fire to warm myself, and I noticed that the pot had something peculiar about it. The lid, through which a straight tube projected to allow the steam to escape, was fixed on the saucepan on one side with a hinge and on the other with a padlock.
"Why is that closed with a padlock?" I asked, inquisitively.
"So that I shan't take any of the soup. I have to look after it, but the boss doesn't trust me."
I could not help smiling.
"You laugh," he said sadly, "because you think that I'm a glutton. Perhaps, if you were in my place, you'd do the same as I've done. I'm not a pig, but I'm famished, and the smell of the soup as it comes out through the spout makes me still hungrier."
"Doesn't Signor Garofoli give you enough to eat?"
"He starves us...."
"Oh...."
"I'll tell you what I have done," went on the boy, "'cause if he's going to be your master, it will be a lesson for you. My name is Mattia. Garofoli is my uncle. My mother, who lives in Lucca in Italy, is very poor and has only enough for herself and my little sister, Christina. When Garofoli came to beautiful Lucca last year he brought me back with him. Oh, it was hard to leave my little sister.... Signor Garofoli has a lot of boys here, some of them are chimney sweeps, others rag pickers, and those who are not strong enough to work, sing in the streets or beg. Garofoli gave me two little white mice to show to the public and I had to bring him back thirty sous every night. As many sous as you are short a day, so many blows you get. It is hard to pick up thirty sous, but the blows are hard, too, especially when it's Garofoli who gives them. So I did everything that I could to get themoney, but I was often short. Nearly all the other boys had their money when they returned at night, but I scarcely ever had mine and Garofoli was mad! There is another boy here, who also shows mice, and he's taxed forty sous, and he brings that sum back every night. Several times I went out with him to see how he made it...."
He paused.
"Well?" I asked.
"Oh, the ladies always said, 'Give it to the pretty little one, not the ugly boy.' The ugly one, of course, was I; so I did not go out with him any more. A blow hurts, but it hurts more to have things like that said, and before a lot of people! You don't know that because no one has ever told you that you are ugly. Well, when Garofoli saw that beating me didn't do any good, he tried another way. Each night he took away some of my supper. It's hard, but I can't say to the people in the streets, who are watching my mice: 'Give me something or I won't get any supper to-night!' They don't give for that reason."
"Why do they give?"
"Because you are pretty and nice, or because you remind them of a little boy they've lost, not because they think you're hungry. Oh, I know their ways. Say, ain't it cold to-day?"
"Awful cold."
"I didn't get fat on begging," went on the boy. "I got so pale and then, after a time, I often heard people say: 'That poor child is starving todeath.' A suffering look does what good looks can't do. But you have to be very starved for that. They used to give me food. That was a good time for me, because Garofoli had stopped giving me blows just then to see if it would hurt me more to go without supper, so when I got something to eat outside I didn't care. But one day Garofoli came along and saw me eating something, a bowl of soup that the fruiterer gave me, then he knew why I didn't mind going without supper at home. After that he made me stay at home and look after the soup here. Every morning before he goes out he puts the meat and the vegetables into the saucepan and locks the lid on, and all I have to do is to see that it boils. I smell the soup, but that's all. The smell of the soup doesn't feed you; it makes you more hungry. Am I very white? As I never go out now I don't hear people say so, and there's no mirror here."
"You don't seem any paler than others," I said.
"Ah, you say that because you don't want to frighten me, but I'm glad I'm sick. I want to be very ill."
I looked at him in amazement.
"You don't understand," he said, with a pitiful smile. "When one is very ill, they take care of you or they let you die. If they let me die it will be all over, I shan't be hungry any more, and there'll be no more beatings. And they do say that when we die we go up and live with God. Then, ifI'm up there, I can look down on Mamma and Christina, and I can ask God not to let my little sister be unhappy. Also, if they send me to the Hospital, I shall be pleased."
The Hospital! No matter how sick I felt while tramping across the country, if I thought I might be sent to the hospital I always found strength to go on.
"I'm quite ill now, but not ill enough to be in Garofoli's way," he went on in his weak, drawling voice, "but I'm getting weaker. Garofoli, fortunately, hasn't given up beating me entirely. He beat me on the head eight days ago and, look, it's all swelled out now. You see here, this big bump? He told me yesterday it was a tumor, and the way that he spoke I believe that it's something serious. It hurts awful. I'm so giddy at night when I put my head on the pillow I moan and cry. So I think in two or three days he'll decide to send me to the hospital. I was in the hospital once, and the Sisters speak so kind to you. They say, 'Put out your tongue, little boy,' and 'There's a good boy,' every time you do anything they tell you to do. I think I am almost had enough now to be sent there."
He came and stood quite close to me, fixing his great eyes on me. Even though I had not the same reason for hiding the truth from him, I did not like to tell him how terrible he looked with his great glittering eyes, his hollow cheeks, and his bloodless lips.
"I should think you're ill enough to go to the hospital," I said.
"At last!"
With dragging limbs he went slowly over to the table and began to wipe it.
"Garofoli will be here shortly," he said; "we mustn't talk any more."
Wearily he went round the table, placing the plates and spoons. I counted twenty plates. So Garofoli had twenty boys. As I only saw twelve beds, they evidently slept, some of them, two in a bed. What beds! what sheets! the coverlets must have been brought from the stables when they were too old and not warm enough for the horses!