Chapter 16 of Nobody's Boy This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Nobody's Boy Hector Malau Translated by Florence Crue-Jones Chapter 16 The Padron 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 tried upon his heels, and to be more sure of him I held a corner of his coat in my hand.  It was the worst-looking place I had seen so far. It's Garifoli 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. Garifoli is the Padron, Remy, I told you about, said Vitalis. This is where he lives. The street, the house, the staircase was not in the nature to reassure me. What would this new master be like? Without knocking, Vitalis pushed open the door at the top of the stairs on the top floor and we found ourselves in a large attic. There was a great empty space in the middle of the room, and all around the walls were beds, a dozen in all. The walls and ceiling that had once been white were now filthy with smoke, dust, and dirt. On the walls was a drawing of a head in charcoal and some flowers and birds. Are you there, Garifoli? asked Vitalis. It is so dark I can't see anyone. It's Vitalis. A weak, drawing voice replied to Vitalis' question. Señor Garifoli 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.  You are sure he will not be back for two hours? asked Vitalis. Quite sure, Señor. That will be dinner time. And no one ever serves dinner but Señor Garifoli. Well, if he comes in before, tell him that Vitalis will be back in two hours. Very well, Señor. 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 Señor Garifoli, 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 Senor Garofoli give you enough to eat? He starves us.  My name is Matia, Garofoli is my uncle. My mother, who lives in Luca in Italy, is very poor and has only enough for herself and my little sister, Cristina. When Garofoli came to beautiful Luca last year, he brought me back with him. Oh, it was hard to leave my little sister, Senor Garofoli has a lot of boys here. Some of them are chimmy sweeps, others rag pickers, and those who are not strong enough to work, sing in the streets, or beg.  As many sue as you are short a day, so many blows you get. It is hard to pick up thirty sue, but the blows are hard too, especially when it's Garofoli who gives them. So I did everything that I could to get the money, but I was often short. Nearly all the other boys had their money when they returned at night, but I scarcely ever had mine, and Garofoli was mad. There is another boy here who also shows mice, and he's taxed forty sue, 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 anymore. A blow hurts, but it hurts more to have things like that said, and before a lot of people.  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 tonight. 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, any cold today? Awful cold.  I got so pale, and then after a time I often heard people say, that poor child is starving to death. A suffering look does what good looks can't do, but you have to be very starved for that. They used to give me food. That was a good time for me. Because Garofoli had stopped giving me blows just then to see if it would hurt me more to go without supper, so when I got something to eat outside I didn't care. But one day Garofoli came along and saw me eating something, a bowl of soup that the fruiterer gave me. Then he knew why I didn't mind going without supper at home. After that he made me stay at home and look after the soup here. Every morning before he goes out he puts the meat and the vegetables into the saucepan and locks the lid on, and all I have to do is to see that it boils. I smell the soup, but that's all. The smell of the soup doesn't feed you. It makes you more hungry. Am I very white? As I never go out now, I don't hear people say so, and there's no mirror here. You don't seem any paler than others, I said. 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.  I shan't be hungry anymore, and there'll be no more beatings. And they do say that when we die we go up and live with God. And if I'm up there, I can look down on Mama 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, drawing 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. Garrafoli will be here shortly, he said. We mustn't talk anymore. Wherely he went round the table, placing the plates and spoons. I counted twenty plates. So Garrafoli 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.  Try to get somewhere else. Where? I don't know. No matter where, you'd be better than here. The door opened and a child came into the room.  Give me that bit of wood, said Mattia, going up to the child. But the little fellow held the piece of wood behind his back. No, he said. Give it me for the fire, the soup will be better. Do you think I brought it for the soup? I've only made thirty-six sous today and I thought this bit of wood might save me a beating. It's to make up for the four sous I'm short. You'll have to pay each in his turn. Mattia said this mechanically as though the thought of the boy being punished gave him satisfaction. I was surprised to see a hard look come into his soft, sad eyes. I knew later that if you live with wicked people, you'd get to be like them in time. One by one the boys returned. Each one, as he came in, hung his instrument on a nail above his bed. Those who were not musicians, but simply exhibitors of trained animals, put their mice and guinea pigs into a cage. Then a heavy step sounded on the stairs and a little man wearing a gray overcoat came into the room. It was Garrafoli. The moment he entered he fixed his eyes on me with a look that scared me. Mattia quickly and politely gave him Vitalis's message. Ah, so Vitalis is here, he said. What does he want? I don't know, replied Mattia. I'm not speaking to you, I'm speaking to this boy. He is coming back and he will tell you himself what he wants. I replied. Ah, here's a little fellow who knows the value of words. You're not Italian? No, I'm French. The moment Garrafoli entered the room two small boys took their places, one on each side of him, and were waiting until he had finished speaking. Then one took his felt hat and placed it carefully on the bed, and the other brought forward a chair. They did this with the same gravity and respect that acquire boy weights upon a priest. When Garrafoli was seated another little boy brought him a pipe stuffed with tobacco and a fourth offered him a lighted match. It smells of sulfur, animal, he cried, throwing it in the grate. The culprit hastened to repair his mistake. Lighting another match he let it burn for a time before offering it to his master. But Garrafoli would not accept it. No, you imbecile, he said, pushing the boy aside roughly. Then he turned to another child and said with an ingratiating smile, Ricardo, dearie, bring a match. The dearie hastened to obey. Now, said Garrafoli, when he was comfortably installed in his pipe burning. Now to business, my little angels. Bring the book, Mattia. Garrafoli made a sign to the boy who had lit the first match. You owe me a sue from yesterday. You promised to bring it today. How much have you brought? The child hesitated for a long time, his face showing distress. I'm one sue short, he said at last. Ah, you're one sue short. It's not the sue for yesterday, it's a sue for today. That makes two sews. I've never seen the like of you. It's not my fault. No excuses. You know the rules. Undo your coat. Two blows for yesterday, two for today, and no supper for your impudence.  Take the strap. Ricardo, the child who had lit the second match, took down from the wall a short handled whip with two leather knotted straps. Meanwhile, the boy who was short to sue was unfastening his coat. Then he dropped his shirt, bearing his body to the waist. Wait a minute, said Garrafoli with an ugly smile. You won't be the only one, perhaps. It's always pleasant to have a companion. The children stood motionless before their master. At his cruel joke they all forced to laugh. The one who laughed most is the one who is short the most, said Garrafoli. I'm sure of that. Who laughed the loudest. All pointed to the boy who had come home first, bringing his piece of wood. How much are you short? You there! Demanded Garrafoli. It's not my fault. And the one who says it's not my fault will get an extra cut. How much is missing?  But go to the bakers and ask him to exchange your wood for bread. Will he do it? How many sue are you missing? Speak out! I've made thirty-six sue.  You can stand there before me like that, down with your shirt. Ricardo, dearie, you're going to have a good time. But the bit of wood, cried the boy, I'll give it to you for supper. This cruel joke made all the children who were not to be punished laugh. All the other boys were then questioned as to how much they had brought home. Ricardo stood with whip in hand until five victims were placed in a row before him.  But I can hear, and from the noise I am able to judge the strength of your blows. Go at it heartily, dearie. You are working for your bread. He turned towards the fire as though it were impossible for him to witness this chastisement. I, in my corner, trembled with indignation and fear. This was the man who was going to be my master.  I understood now how Mattia could speak of death so calmly. The first lash of the whip, as it cut into the flesh, made the tears spring to my eyes. I thought that I was forgotten, but I made a mistake. Garrafoli was looking at me out of the corner of his eye. There's a boy with a heart, he said, pointing to me.   Take this little comrade for an example. I trembled from head to foot. Their comrade. At the second blow, the victim uttered a wail. At the third, a piercing shriek. Garrafoli lifted his hand. Ricardo stopped with raised whip. I thought Garrafoli was going to show mercy, but it was not so. You know how much it hurts me to hear you cry, to Garrafoli gently addressing the victim. You know that if the whip tears your skin, your cries pierce my heart. So then I warn you that for each cry you will receive another slash, and it will be your own fault. If you have any affection or gratitude, you will keep silent. Go on, Ricardo. Ricardo raised his arm and the strap curled on the backs of the victims. Oh, mama, mama, cried one. Thank God I saw no more of this frightening torture, for at this moment the door was thrown open and the talus entered. In a glance he understood all. He had heard the shrieks while climbing the stairs. Trying to Ricardo he snatched the whip from him, then, wheeling round upon Garrafoli, he stood before him with folded arms. It all happened so quickly that, for a moment, I was dumbfounded, but Garrafoli quickly recovered himself and said gently, Isn't it terrible, that child has no heart? Shame, it's a shame, cried the talus. That is just what I say, murmured Garrafoli. Stop that, commanded the talus. It's you, not the child.   It concerns the police, retorted the talus.  Yes, I do, replied my master, no wise intimidated by the bully's fury. Ah, the talus, he hissed, so you'll talk. Well, I can talk also. Your affairs do not concern me, but there are others who are interested in you and if I tell, if I say one name, ah, who will have to hide his head in shame?  I was amazed, but before I had time to think, he had taken me by the hand. Come, Remy, he said, and he drew me to the door. Oh, cried Garrafoli, now laughing, I thought you wanted to talk to me, old fellow. I have nothing to say to you. Then without another word, we went down the stairs. He's still holding me tightly by the hand. With what relief I followed him. I had escaped from that tyrant. If I had dared, I would have thrown my arms around the talus's neck. End of Chapter 16. Chapter 17 of Nobody's Boy. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Nobody's Boy, actor Malo, translated by Florence Crew Jones. Chapter 17, Poor Vitalis. While we were in the street, Vitalis said not a word, but soon we came to a narrow alley and he sat down on a milestone and passed his hand several times across his forehead. It may be fine to listen to the voice of generosity, he said, as though speaking to himself. But now we are in the gutters of Paris, without a zoo, not a bite to eat. Are you hungry? He asked, looking up at me.  Poor, poor child. And you have to go to bed tonight without supper. And where are we going to sleep? Did you count on a sleeping at Garofalis, then? I counted upon you sleeping there, and as he would have given me 20 francs for you for the winter, I could have managed for the time being. But seeing the way he treated those children, I could not give you to him. Oh, you are so good. Perhaps in this old, hard-knit vagabond, there is still a bit of the young man's heart left. This old vagabond calculated shrewdly, but the young man, still in him, upset all. Now, where to go? He murmured. It was already late and the cold had increased. It was going to be a hard night for a long time Vitalis sat on the stone. Cappy and I stood silently before, waiting until he had come to some decision. Finally he rose. Where are we going? To Gentili, to try and find a race course where I've slept sometimes. Are you tired? I rested at Garofalis. The pity is that I haven't rested, and I can't do much more. But we must get along. Forward. March, children. This was his good humor signal for the dogs and myself when we were about to start. But this night he said it sadly. Here we were, wandering in the streets of Ferris. The night was dark and the gas jets, which flickered in the wind, lit the alleys but dimly. At each step we slipped on the ice-covered pavement. Vitalis held me by the hand and Cappy followed at our heels. From time to time the poor dog stopped behind to look amongst a heap of garbage to see if he could find a bone or a crust. For he was so hungry. But the garbage was covered with frozen snow and he searched in vain. With drooping ears he trotted on to catch up with us. After the big streets, more alleys. After the alleys, more big streets. We walked on and on. The few pedestrians that we met stared at us in astonishment. Was it our costumes? Was it the tired way we plowed it along which arrested their attention? The policemen that we passed turned around and followed us with a glance. Without saying a word, Vitalis trampled on. His back almost bent double. But despite the cold his hand burned it in mine. It seemed to me that he was trembling. Sometimes when he stopped to lean for a minute against my shoulder, I felt all his body shaking with trembling. Ordinarily I would not dare to have questioned him, but I felt a must tonight. Besides I had a great wish to tell him how much I loved him or at least that I wanted to do something for him. You are ill? I said when he stopped again. I'm afraid so. Anyway, I'm very tired. The cold is too severe for my old blood. I need a good bed and a supper before a fire. But there is a dream. Forward, march, children. Forward, march. We had left to the city behind us. We were now in the suburbs. We saw no people or policemen or streetlights. Only a lighted window here and there and over our heads, the dark blue sky dotted with a few stars. The wind, which blew more bitter and more violently, stuck our clothes into our bodies. Fortunately, it was at our backs. But as the sleeves of my coat were all torn near the shoulders, it blew in and slipped along my arms, chilling me to the bone. Although it was dark and the streets continually crossed each other, Vitalis walked like a man who knows his way and was perfectly sure of his road. So I followed, feeling sure that we should not lose ourselves. Suddenly he stopped. Do you see a group of trees? He asked. I don't see anything. You don't see a big black mass? I looked on all sides before answering. I saw no trees or houses, space all around us. There was no other sound. Save the whistle of the wind. See down there. He stretched out his right hand before him. Then as I did not reply, for I was afraid to say that I saw nothing, he trudged on again. Some minutes passed in silence. Then he stopped once more and asked me if I did not see a group of trees. A vague fear made my voice tremble when I replied that I saw nothing. It is fear, my boy, that makes your eyes dance. Look again. I tell you, I do not see any trees. Not on the big road? I can't see anything. We've made a mistake. I could say nothing, for I did not know where we were, nor where we were going. Let us walk for another five minutes. And if we do not see the trees, we will come back here. I might have made a mistake on the road. Now that I knew that we had gone astray, I seem to have no more strength left. Vitalis pulled me by the arm. Come, come. I can't walk any farther. And do you think I'm going to carry you? I followed him. Are there any deep ruts in the road? No. Then we must turn back. We turned. Now we face the wind. It stung our faces like a lash. It seemed that my face was being scorched with a flame. We have to take a road leading from the crossroads, said my master Fibli. Tell me when you see it. For a quarter of an hour we went on, struggling against the wind in the dullful silence of the night. The noise of our footsteps echoed on the dry, hard earth. Aldo was scarcely able to put one foot before the other. It was I who dragged Vitalis. How anxiously I looked to the left. In the dark shadows I suddenly saw a little red light. See, there's a light, I said, pointing. Where? Vitalis looked. Although the light was but a short distance off, he saw nothing. I knew then that his sight was going. What is that light to us? He asked. It is a lamp burning on the table of some worker, or it's near the bed of a dying person. We cannot go and knock at those doors. Away in the country during the night, you can ask hospitality, but so near Paris. We must not expect hospitality here. Come. A few steps more, and I thought I could make out the crossroads and a black mass which must be the trees. I let go of my master's hand to go ahead quicker. There were deep ruts in the road. See, here are the ruts. I cried. Give me your hand. We are saved, said Vitalis. Look, now you can see the group of trees. I told him that I thought I could see the trees. In five minutes, we shall be there, he murmured. We trudged along, but the five minutes seemed an eternity. Where are the ruts? They are still on the right. We must have passed the entrance to the race course without seeing it. I think we'd better go back. Once more, we turn it back. Do you see the trees? Yes, there on the left, on the ruts. There are not any. Am I blind? Asked Vitalis in a low voice as he passed his hands across his eyes. Walk straight along by the trees and give me your hand. Here is a wall. No, it's a heap of stones. No, I am sure it's a wall. Vitalis took a step aside to see if it really was, as I said. He stretched out his two hands and touched the wall. Yes, it's a wall, he murmured. Where is the entrance? Look for the track. I stooped down to the ground and felt all along to the end of the wall, but I found no entrance. Then, turning back to where Vitalis stood, I continued to feel along the wall on the other side. The result was the same. There was no opening, no gate. There is nothing, I said. The situation was terrible. Without doubt, my master was delirious. Perhaps there was no race course here at all. Vitalis stood for a moment, at though in a dream. Cappy began to bark impatiently. Shall we look further? I asked. No, the race course is walled up. Walled up? Yes, they have closed the opening and it is impossible for us to get inside. Well then, what to do, huh? I don't know. Die here. Oh, master, master. Yes, you don't want to die. You are so young. Life seems good to you. Let us walk on. Can you still walk a bit further, my child? Oh, but you? When I can go no further, I shall fall down like an old horse. Where shall we go? Return to Paris. When we meet a policeman, we will let him take us to the police station. I did not want that, but I cannot let you die of cold, boy. Come, little Remy, come. On my children, courage. We turned back the same way that we had come. What time was it? I had no idea. We had walked it for hours, a long, long time. And so slowly. Perhaps it was midnight or one o'clock. The sky was still a somber blue without moon and with but few stars. And the few that had appeared seemed to me to be smaller than usual. The wind had increased, the snow beat in our faces. The houses that we passed were closed for the night. It seemed to me that if the people who slept there, warmly beneath the sheets knew how cold we were outside, they would have opened their doors to us. Vitalis walked it slower and slower. When I spoke to him, he made a sign to me to be silent. We were now near in the city. Vitalis stopped. I knew that he had come to the end of his strength. Shall I knock at one of the doors? I asked. No, they will not let us in. They are gardeners who live here. They supply the market. They would not get up at this hour to take us in. Let us go on. But he had more will than strength. After a moment, he stopped again. I must rest a little. He said feebly, I can't go on. There was a gate leading to a big garden. The wind had blown a lot of straw that covered a manure heap near the gate into the street. I am going to sit here, said Vitalis. You said that if we sat down, we should get too cold to get up again. He made no reply but sign it for me to hip up the straw against the door. Then he fell, rather than sat down upon it. His teeth chattered and all his body shook. Bring some more straw, he said. With a lot of straw, we can keep the wind from us. The wind, yes, but not the cold. When I had gathered up all the straw that I could, I sat down beside Vitalis. Come quite close to me, he said, and lift capi on your lap. He will give you some warmth from his body. Vitalis was ill. Did he know how ill? As I crept close up against him, he bent over and kissed me. That was the second time he had kissed me. Alas, it was the last. Scarcely had I gathered up against Vitalis, then I felt my eyes close. I tried to keep them open, but I could not. I pinched my arms, but there was no feeling in my flesh. On my legs, which were drawn up to my chest, capi slept already. The wind blew the wisps of straw upon us, like dried leaves that fall from the tree. There was not a soul in the street, and around us was the silence of death. This silence frightened me. Of what was I afraid? I did not know, but a vague fear came over me. It seemed to me that I was dying there, and then I felt very sad. I thought of Chavanon, of poor mother Barbarine.  Then I was no longer cold. It seemed that I was back in my little garden. The sun was shining and was so warm. The junk wheels were opening their golden petals. The birds were singing in the trees and on the hedges. Yes, and mother Barbarine was hanging out the clothes that she had just washed in the brook, which rippled over the pebbles. Then I left Chavanon and joined at Arthur and Mrs. Milligan on the swan. Then my eyes closed again. My heart seemed to grow heavy, and I remembered no more. The books are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librabox.org. Recording by Shasta Oakland, California. Nobody's Boy. Hector Mallotte, translated by Florence Crue-Jones. Chapter 18. New Friends.  I had never seen this room before, nor the people who stood near the bed. There was a man in a gray smock and clogs and three or four children. One, which I noticed particularly, was a little girl, about six years old, with great big eyes that were so expressive, they seemed as though they could speak. I raised myself on my elbow. They all came closer. By talus, I ask, he is asking for his father, said a girl, who seemed to be the eldest of the children. He is not my father, he is my master, I said. Where is he? Where's Cappy? If my talus had been my father, they perhaps would have broken the news to me gently. But as he was only my master, they thought that they could tell me the truth at once.  The gardener, who lived on the grounds outside of which we had fallen exhausted, had found us early the next morning when he and his son were starting off with their vegetables and flowers to the markets. They found us lying, huddled together in the snow with a little covering of their straw over us. The talus was already dead. And I should have died, but Cappy had crept up to my chest and kept my heart warm. They had carried us into the house, and I had been placed in one of the children's warm beds. And Cappy, I asked when the gardener stopped talking, Cappy, 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 who carried the stretcher. He kept his head down. And now and again he jumped up on the body. And when they made him get down, he moaned and howled something terrible. Poor Cappy, how many times as an actor had he not followed Zorbino's funeral? Even the most serious children had been obliged to laugh at his display of grief. The more he moaned, the more they had laughed. The gardener and his children left me alone, not knowing quite what to do or what I was going to do. I got up and dressed. My harp had been placed at the foot of the bed upon which I was lying. I passed the strap over my shoulder and went into the room where the family were. I should have to go, but where? While in bed I had not felt very weak, but now I could scarcely stand. I was obliged to hold on to a chair to keep from falling. The odor of the soup was too much for me. I was reminded brutally that I had eaten nothing the night before. I felt faint and staggering. 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 sit by the fire for a little while. But it was not the heat that I wanted, it was food. I felt weaker as I watched the family take their soup. If I had dared, I would have asked for a bowl, but the talus had taught me not to beg. I could not tell them I was hungry. Why? I don't know quite, unless it was that I could not ask for anything that I was unable to return. The little girl with the strange look in her eyes and whose name was Lisa 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 and placed it on my knees. Weekly, for I could no longer speak, I nodded my head to thank her. The father did not give me time to speak even if I had been able. Take it, my boy, he said. What Lisa 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 I put down the soup, Lisa, who had remained standing before me, heaved a little sigh of content. Then she took my bowl and held it out to her father to have it refilled. And when it was full, she brought it to me with such a sweet smile that in spite of my hunger, I sat staring at her without thinking to take it from her. The second bowlful disappeared promptly, like the first. It was no longer a smile that curbed Lisa's pretty lips. She burst out laughing. Well, my boy, said her father, you've got an appetite and no mistake. I was much ashamed, but after a moment I thought it better to confess the truth than to be thought a glutton. So I told them that I had not had 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?  In Paris? You had better return to your parents in the country. Where do they live? I haven't any parents. My master bought me from my foster parents. You have been good to me, and I thank you with all my heart.  While speaking, I had walked toward the door, but I had taken only a few steps when Lisa, who followed me, took my hand and pointed to my heart. 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 by prettiest waltz for this little girl. At first she listened with her big beautiful eyes fixed on me. Then she began to keep time with her feet and very soon was dancing daily around the kitchen, while her brothers and sisters watched her. Her father was delighted. When the waltz was finished, the child came and made me a pretty curtsy. I would have played for her all day, but the father thought she had danced enough, so instead. I sang the Neapolitan song that Natalis had taught me. Lisa stood opposite me, moving her lips as though repeating the words. Then suddenly she turned round and threw 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? First she dances and then she cries. She's not so silly as you retorted the elder sister, leaning over the little one affectionately. She understands, while Lisa cried on her father's knee, I again strapped my heart to my shoulder and made for the door. Where are you going? asked the gardener. Wouldn't you like to stay here and work? It won't be an easy life. You'll have to get up very early in the morning and work hard all day. But you may be sure that you won't have to go through what you did last night. You will have a bed and food and you will have the satisfaction of knowing that you have earned it.  Lisa turned round and through her tears, she looked at me and smiled. I could hardly believe what I heard. I just stared at the gardener. Then Lisa 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 had lived with for several years who had been almost a father to me was dead. And dear good Cappy, my companion and friend whom I'd loved so much was lost. I had thought that all was over for me and here was this good man offering to take me into his family. Life would begin again for me. He said he offered me food and lodging, but what meant more to me was this home life which would be mine also. These boys would be my brothers. This pretty little Lisa would be my sister. I would no longer be nobody's boy. In my childish dreams I had more than once thought I might find my father and mother, but I had never thought that I should have brothers and sisters and this was what was being offered to me. I quickly slipped the strap of my heart from off my shoulders. There's his reply, said the father, laughing. I can see by your face how pleased you are. No need for you to say anything. Hang your harp up there on the wall and when you get tired of us you may take it down and go on your way again, but you must do like the swallows. Choose your season to start on your flight.  My new family consisted of the father whose name was Pierre Aquinn, two boys, Alexic and Benjamin, and two girls, Entianette the Elder and Lisa, the youngest of the family. Lisa was dumb. She was not born dumb, but just before her fourth birthday, through an illness, she had lost the power of speech. This affliction, fortunately, had not impaired her intelligence. Quite the contrary, her intelligence was developed to an extraordinary degree. She seemed to understand everything and her sweet, pretty ways made her adored by the family.  She had left school early to stay at home to cook and so and clean the house for her father and brothers. They had quite forgotten that she was the daughter, the sister. They were so accustomed to seeing her doing the work of a servant, for she seldom went out and was never angry. Carrying Lisa in her arms, dragging Benny by the hand, getting up at daybreak to get her father's breakfast, going to bed late after washing the dishes. She had not had time to be a child.  It was not the face of a little girl. Five minutes after I had hung my harp on the wall, I was telling them all what had happened the night before, how we had hoped to sleep on the race course when I heard a scratching on the door which opened into the garden. Then there was a plaintiff whine. Cappy, Cappy, I cried, jumping up quickly. But Lisa was before me. She had already opened the door. Cappy sprang up on me. I took him in my arms with little howls of joy and his whole body trembling. He licked my face. And Cappy, I asked, my question was understood. Well, Cappy will remain with you, of course, said the father. As though he knew what we were saying, the dog jumped to the ground and putting his paw straight on his heart, he bowed. It made the children laugh, especially Lisa. And to amuse them, I wanted Cappy to perform some of his tricks, but he had no wish to obey me.  Then he sprung down and began to drag me by the 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 to question me when I was better. It was very uncertain as to when they would come and I was anxious to have the news. Perhaps Vitalis was not dead, as they had thought. Perhaps there was still a spark of life left in my master's body. Upon seeing my anxiety, Monsour Aquinn offered to take me to the police station. When we arrived there, I was questioned at length, but I would give no information until they had declared that poor Vitalis was really dead. Then I told them what I knew. It was very little of myself I was able to say that I had no parents and that Vitalis had hired me for a sum of money, which he had paid in advance to my foster mother's husband. And now, inquired the commissioner, we are going to take care of him interrupted by new friend, that is, if you will let us. The commissioner was willing to confide me to his care and complimented him upon his kind act. It is not easy for a child to hide much from a police officer who knows his business. They very soon trapped persons into telling what they wished to hide. This was so in my case. The commissioner had quickly gleaned from me all about Garofoli. There is nothing to do but to take him to this chap Garofoli, he said to one of his men. Once in the street he mentioned, he will soon recognize 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 street and the house. We went up to the fourth floor. I did not see Mattia. He had probably been taken off to the hospital. Upon seeing the officer and recognizing me, Garofoli paled and looked frightened, but he soon recovered himself when he learned that they had come only to question him 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. This name was not Vitalis. He was Carlo Balzini. And if you had lived 35 or 40 years ago in Italy, that name alone would tell you all what you want to know. Carlo Balzini was the greatest singer of the day. He sang in Naples, Rome, Milan, Venice, Florence, London and Paris. Then came the time when he lost his magnificent voice and as he could not be the greatest of singers, he would not dim his fame by singing on cheaper stages, unworthy of his great reputation. Instead, he preferred to hide himself from the world and from all who had known him in his triumph. Yet he had to live. He tried several professions but could not succeed. Then finally he took to training dogs. But in his poverty, he was still very proud and he would have died of shame if the public could have known that the brilliant Carlo Balzini had sunk to the depths he had. It was just a matter of chance that I learned his secret. Poor Carlo Balzini. Dear, dear Vitalis, end of chapter 18. Chapter 19 of Nobody's Boy. This is a Lieberbach's recording. All Lieberbach's recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Lieberbachs.org. Recording by Shasta Oakland, California. Nobody's Boy. Hector Mullough, translated by Florence Crew Jones. Chapter 19, Disaster. Vitalis had to reburied the next day and M. Aquinn promised to take me to the funeral, but the next day I could not rise from my bed. For in the night I was taken very ill. My chest seemed to burn like poor little pretty hearts after he had spent the night in the tree. The doctor was called in. I had pneumonia. The doctor wanted me sent to the hospital, but the family wouldn't hear of it. It was during this illness that I learned to appreciate Etianette's goodness. She devoted herself to nursing me. How good and kind she was during that terrible sickness. When she was obliged to leave me to attend to her household duties, Lisa took her place and many times in my delirium, I saw little Lisa sitting at the foot of my bed with her big eyes fixed on me anxiously. In my delirium I thought she was my guardian angel and I would speak to her and tell her of all my hopes and desires. It was from this time that I began to consider her as something ideal, as a different being from the other people I met. It seemed surprising that she could live in our life in my boyish imagination. I could picture her flying away with big white wings to a more beautiful world. I was ill for a very long time. At night when I was almost suffocating, I had to have someone to sit up with me. Then, Alexis and Benny would take turns. At last I was convalescent and then it was Lisa who replaced Etianette and walked with me down by the river. Of course, during these walks, she could not talk. It's strange to say we had no need of words. We seemed to understand each other so well without talking. Then came the day when I was strong enough to work with the others in the garden. I had been impatient to commence or I wanted to do something for my kind friends who had done so much for me. As I was still weak, the task that was given to me was in proportion to my strength. Every morning after the frost had passed, I had to lift the glass frames and at night before it got chilly, I had to close them again. During the day, I had to shade the wallflowers with straw coverings to protect them from the sun. This was not difficult to do, but it took all my time for I had several hundred glasses to move twice daily. Days and months passed. I was very happy. Sometimes I thought I was too happy. It could not last. M. Aquinn was considered one of the cleverest forests around about Paris. After the wallflower season was over, other flowers replaced them. For many weeks, we had been working very hard as the season promised to be an especially good one. We had not even taken a rest on Sunday, but as all the flowers were now perfect and ready for the approaching season, it was decided that for a reward, we would all go and have dinner on Sunday, August 5th with one of M. Aquinn's friends, who was also a florist. Cappy was to be one of the party. We were to work until four o'clock and when all was finished, we were to lock the gates and go to Arquil. Supper was for six o'clock. After supper, we were to come home at once, so as not to be late in getting to bed. As Monday morning, we had to be up, bright and early, ready for work. A few minutes before four, we were all ready. Come on, all of you, cried Mr. Aquinn gaily. I'm going to lock the gates. Come, Cappy. Taking Lisa by the hand, I began to run with her. Cappy jumped around us, barking. We were all dressed up in our best and looking forward to a good dinner. Some people turned around to watch us as we passed. I don't know what I looked like, but Lisa in her blue dress and white shoes was the prettiest little girl that one could see. Time passed quickly. We were having dinner out of doors, when, just as we had finished, one of us remarked how dark it was getting. Clouds were gathering quickly in the sky. Children, we must go home, said Mr. Aquinn. There's going to be a storm. Go already came the chorus. If the wind rises, all the glasses will be upset. We all knew the value of those glass frames and what they meant to a forest. It would be terrible for us if the wind broke ours. I'll hurry ahead with Benny and Alexei, the father said. Remy can come on with Antionet and Lisa. They rushed off. Antionet and I followed more slowly with Lisa. No one laughed now. The sky grew darker. The storm was coming quickly. Clouds of dust swirled around us. We had to turn our backs and cover our eyes with our hands where the dust blinded us. There was a streak of lightning across the sky. Then came a heavy clap of thunder. Antionet and I had taken Lisa by the hands. We were trying to drag her along faster, but she could scarcely keep up with us. With the father, Benny and Alexei at home before the storm broke, if they were only in time to close the glass cases so that the wind could not get under them and upset them. The thunder increased. The clouds were so heavy that it seemed almost night. Then, suddenly, there was a downpour of hail. The stones struck us in the face and we had to race to take shelter under a big gateway. In a minute, the road was covered with white like in winter. The hailstones were as large as pigeon eggs. As they fell, they made a deafening sound and every now and again, you could hear the crash of broken glass. With the hailstones, as they slid from the roof to the street, fell all sorts of things, pieces of slate, chimney pots, tiles, et cetera. Oh, the glass frames cried at me enough. I had the same thought. Even if they get there before the hail, they will never have time to cover the glasses with straw. Everything will be ruined. They say that hail only falls in places, I said, trying to hope still. Oh, this is too near home for us to escape. If it falls on the garden the same as here, poor father will be ruined and he counted so much on those flowers. He needs the money so badly. I had heard that the glass frames cost as much as 1,800 francs a hundred and I knew what a disaster it would be if a hail broke our five or 600 without counting the plants and the conservatories. I would like to have questions at Yannette but we could scarcely hear each other speak and she did not seem disposed to talk. She looked at the hail falling with a hopeless expression like a person would look upon his house burning. The hurricane lasted but a short while it stopped as suddenly as it had commenced. It lasted perhaps six minutes. The clouds swept over Paris and we were able to leave our shelter. The hailstones were thick on the ground. Lisa could not walk in them in her thin shoes so I took her on my back and carried her. Her pretty face which was so bright when going to the party was now brief stricken and the tears rolled down her cheeks. Before long we reached the house. The big gates were open and we went quickly into the garden.  All the glass frames were smashed to atoms. Flowers, pieces of glass and hailstones were all heaped together in our once beautiful garden. Everything was shattered. Where was the father? We searched for him. Last of all, we found him in the big conservatory of which every pane of glass was broken. He was seated on a wheelbarrow in the midst of the dreary which covered the ground. Alexek and Benjamin stood beside him silently. My children, my poor little ones, they cried when we all were there. He took Lisa in his arms and began to sob. He said nothing more. What could he have said? It was a terrible catastrophe but the consequences were still more terrible. I soon learned this from Etinette. 10 years ago, their father had walked the garden and had built the house himself. The man who had sold him the ground had also lent him the money to buy the necessary materials required by a florist. The amount was payable in yearly payments for 15 years. The man was only waiting for an occasion when the florist would be late in payment to take back the ground, house, material, keeping, of course, the 10 year payments he had already received. This was a speculation on the man's part he had hoped that before the 15 years expired, there would come a day when the florist would be unable to meet his notes. This day had come at last. Now what was going to happen? We were not left long in doubt. The day after the notes fell due, the sum which was to have been paid from the sale of his season's flowers, a gentleman dressed all in black came to the house and handed us a stamped paper. It was the process server. He came often, so many times that he soon began to know us by name. How do you do, Amsel Etinette? Hello, Remy. Hello, Lexix. And he handed us his stamped paper smilingly as though we were friends. The father did not stay in the house. He was always out. He never told us where he went. Probably he went to call on businessmen or he might have been at court. What was the result be? A part of the winter past as we were unable to repair the conservatories and renew the glass frames, recultivated vegetables and hardier flowers that did not demand shelter. They were not very productive, but at least it was something and it was work for us. One evening, the father returned home more depressed than usual. Children, he said, it is all over. I was about to leave the room, for I felt that he had something serious to say to his children. He signed to me to stop. You are one of the family, Remy, he said sadly, and although you are not very old, you know what trouble is. Children, I am going to leave you. It was a cry on all sides. Lisa flung her arms around her father's neck. He held her very tight. Ah, it's hard to leave you, dear children, he said, but the courts have ordered me to pay and as I have no money, everything here has to be sold and as that is not enough, I have to go to prison for five years, as I am not able to pay with my money. I have to pay with my liberty. We all began to cry. Yes, it's sad, he continued brokenly, but a man can't do anything against the law. My attorney says that it used to be worse than it is. There was a tearful silence. This is what I have decided is the best thing to do, continued the father. Remy, who is the best scholar, will write to my sister, Catherine, and explain the matter to her and ask her to come to us. Aunt Catherine has plenty of common sense and she will be able to decide what should be done for the best. It was the first time I had written a letter and this was a very painful one, but we still had a ray of hope. We were very ignorant children and the fact that Aunt Catherine was coming and that she was practical made us hope that everything would be made right, but she did not come as soon as we had hoped. A few days later, the father had just left the house to call on one of his friends when he met the police face to face coming for him. He returned to the house with them. He was very pale. He had come to say goodbye to his children. Don't be so downcast man, said one of them who had come to take him. To be in prison for debt is not so good for it as you seem to think. You'll find some very good fellows there. I went to fetch the two boys who were in the garden. Little Lisa was sobbing. One of the men souped down and whispered something in her ear, but I did not hear what he said. The parting was over very quickly. M. Aquinn caught Lisa up in his arms and kissed her again and again. Then he put her down, but she clung to his hand. Then he kissed Etienneette, Alexis and Benny and gave Lisa into her sister's care. I stood a little apart, but he came to me and kissed me affectionately just like the others. And then they took him away. We all stood in the middle of the kitchen crying. Not one of us had a word to say. Aunt Catherine arrived an hour later. We were still crying bitterly for a countrywoman who had no education or money. The responsibility that had fallen upon her was heavy.  Aunt Catherine had been a nurse in a lawyer's family. She had once called upon this man to ask his advice and it was he who decided our fate. When she returned from the lawyers, she told us what had been arranged. Lisa was to go and live with her. Alexis was to go to an uncle at Varsus, Benny to another uncle who was a florist at St. Quentin, and Etienneette to an aunt who lived at the seashore. I listened to these plans waiting until they came to me. When Catherine ceased speaking, I had not been mentioned. I said, and me? Why, you don't belong to the family. I'll work for you. You're not one of a family. Ask Alexis and Benny if I can't work. I like work and soup also, huh? But he's one of a family. Yes, aunt. Each one of the family came from all sides. Lisa came forwards and clasped her hands before her aunt with an expression that said more than words. Poor might, said aunt Catherine. I know you'd like him to come and live with us, but we can't always get what we want. You're my niece.  It will be like that with your uncles and aunts. They will take a relation, but not strangers. I felt there was nothing to say. What she said was only too true. I was not one of a family. I could claim nothing, ask nothing, that would be begging. And yet I loved them all and they all loved me. Aunt Catherine sent us to bed after telling us that we were to be parted the next day. Scarcely had we got upstairs and they all crowded round me. Lisa clung to me crying. Then I knew that in spite of their grief and parting from one another, it was me they thought that he pitied me because I was alone. I felt indeed then that I was their brother. Suddenly an idea came to me. Listen, I said, even if your aunts and uncles don't want me, I can see that you considered me one of a family. Yes, yes, they all cried. Lisa, who could not speak, just squeezed my hand and looked up at me with her big beautiful eyes. Well, I'm a brother and I'll prove it, I said stoutly. There's a job with her name. Shall I go over and speak to him tomorrow as at the Annette? I don't want a job. If I take a job, I shall have to stay in Paris and I shan't see you again.  I shall see you all one after the other and I'll hurry the news from one to the other so you'll all be in touch. I haven't forgotten my songs nor my dance music and I'll get enough money to live. Every face beamed. I was glad they were so pleased with my idea for a long time we talked then at Annette made each one go to bed but no one slept much that night. I leased the ball. The next day at daybreak, Lisa took me into the garden. You want to speak to me? I asked. She nodded her head. You are unhappy because we are going to be parted. You need not tell me.  I am unhappy too. She made a sign that it was something else she wanted to say. In 15 days I shall be at Druze where you are going to live. She shook her head. You don't want to go to Druze? In order for us to understand each other I made more progress by questioning. She replied either with a nod or a shake of the head. She told me that she wanted to see me at Druze but pointing her finger in three directions she made me understand that I must first go and see her brothers and sister. You want me first to go to Pharsus, then and now this and then Saint Quentin. She smiled and nodded. Leased that I understood. Why? Then with her lips and hands and above all with her eyes she explained to me why she wished this. She wanted me to go and see her sister and brothers first so that when I reached Druze I could tell her news of them. They had to start at 8 o'clock and Aunt Catherine had ordered a cab to take them first of all to the prison to say goodbye to their father and then each with their baggage through the different depots where they had to take their trains. At 7 o'clock Aunt Annette and her tongue took me in the garden. I want to give you a little keepsake remedy. She said take this little case. My godfather gave it to me. You'll find thread, needles and scissors in it. When you're trampling along the roads you'll need them for I shan't be there to put a patch on the clothes nor sew a button eye. When you use my scissors think of us all. While Aunt Annette was speaking to me Alexis loitered here when she left me to return to the house. He came up. Say, Remy, he began, I've got two five frank pieces. Take one. I'll be so pleased if you will. Of the five of us, Alexis was the only one who cared very much for money. We always made fun of his greed. He saved up soon by soon counting his horde continually. He was always very proud when he had a brand new piece. His offer touched me to the heart. I wanted to refuse, but he insisted and slipped a shiny silver piece into my hand. I knew that his friendship for me must be very strong if he were willing to share his treasure with me. Benjamin neither had forgotten me. He also wanted to give me a present. He gave me his knife and in exchange he exacted the suit because he said, a knife cuts friendship. The time passed quickly. The moment had come for us apart as the cab was drawing up at the house. Lisa again made a sign for me to follow her into the garden. Lisa called her aunt. She made no reply, but ran quickly down the path. She stopped at a big bangle of rose tree and cut off a branch. Then, turning to me, she divided the stalk in two. There was a rose on either side. The language of the lips is a small thing compared with the language of the eyes. How cold and empty are words compared with lips. Lisa! Lisa cried her aunt. The baggage was already in the cab. I took down my harp and called Cappy. At the sight of my old suit he jumped and barked with joy. He loved his liberty on the high roads more than being closed up in the garden. They all got into the cab. I lifted Lisa onto her aunt's lap. I stood there half dazed. Then the aunt gently pushed me away and closed the door.  It was a mist. I watched Lisa as she leaned out of the window waving her hand to me. Then the cab sharply turned the corner of the street and all I could see was a cloud of dust. Leaning on my harp with Cappy sprawling at my feet I stayed there looking absently down the street. A neighbor who had been asked to lock up the house and keep the key called to me. Are you going to stay there all day? No, I'm off now. Where are you going? Straight ahead. If you'd like to stay, he said, perhaps out of pity. I'll keep you, but I can't pay you because you're not very strong. Later I might give you something. I thanked him but said no. Well, as you like. I was only thinking for your own good. Goodbye and good luck. He went away. The cab had gone. The house was locked up. I turned away from the home where I had lived for two years and where I had hoped always to live. The sky was clear. The weather warm. Very different from the icy night and poor Vitaus and I had fallen exhausted by the wall. So these two years had only been a halt. I must go on my way again. But the stay had done me good. It had given me strength and I had made dear friends. I was not now alone in the world and I had an object in life to be useful and give pleasure to those I loved. End of chapter 19.