"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. And, if you're a good boy, which I think you are, you will be one of the family."

Lise 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 Lise 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 Capi, my companion and friend, whom I 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 Lise would be my sister. I would no longer be n.o.body'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 harp 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. Don't go off in the depth of winter."

My new family consisted of the father, whose name was Pierre Acquin, two boys, Alexix and Benjamin, and two girls, Etiennette, the elder, and Lise, the youngest of the family.

Lise 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.

Since the mother had died, Etiennette had been mother to the family. She had left school early to stay at home to cook and sew 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 Lise 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. At fourteen years her face was serious and sad. It was not the face of a little girl.

Five minutes after I had hung my harp on the wall, I was telling 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 onto the garden; then there was a plaintive whine.

"Capi! Capi!" I cried, jumping up quickly.

But Lise was before me; she had already opened the door.

Capi sprang upon me. I took him in my arms; with little howls of joy, and his whole body trembling, he licked my face.

"And Capi?..." I asked.

My question was understood.

"Well, Capi will remain with you, of course," said the father.

As though he knew what we were saying, the dog jumped to the ground and putting his paw straight on his heart, he bowed. It made the children laugh, especially Lise, and to amuse them I wanted Capi to perform some of his tricks, but he had no wish to obey me; he jumped on my knee and commenced to lick my face; 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 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, Monsieur Acquin 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 my 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 trap persons into telling what they wish 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 mentions, 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 only come 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. His name was not Vitalis. He was Carlo Balzini, and if you had lived thirty-five or forty years ago in Italy, that name alone would tell you all you want to know. Carlo Balzini 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!

CHAPTER XIX

DISASTER

Vitalis had to be buried the next day, and M. Acquin 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-Heart's 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 would not hear of it. It was during this illness that I learned to appreciate Etiennette'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, Lise took her place, and many times in my delirium I saw little Lise sitting at the foot of my bed with her big eyes fixed on me anxiously. In my delirium I thought that 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 some one to sit up with me; then Alexix and Benny would take turns. At last I was convalescent, and then it was Lise who replaced Etiennette and walked with me down by the river. Of course during these walks she could not talk, but 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, for 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 pa.s.sed, I had to lift the gla.s.s frames and at night, before it got chilly, I had to close them again. During the day I had to shade the wall flowers 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 gla.s.ses to move twice daily.

Days and months pa.s.sed. I was very happy. Sometimes I thought that I was too happy, it could not last. M. Acquin was considered one of the cleverest florists round about Paris. After the wall flower 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 were all to go and have dinner on Sunday, August 5th, with one of M. Acquin's friends, who was also a florist. Capi 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 Arcueil. 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 M. Acquin gayly. "I'm going to lock the gates."

"Come, Capi."

Taking Lise by the hand, I began to run with her; Capi jumped around us, barking. We were all dressed up in our best, and looking forward to a good dinner. Some people turned round to watch us as we pa.s.sed. I don't know what I looked like, but Lise in her blue dress and white shoes was the prettiest little girl that one could see. Time pa.s.sed 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 M. Acquin, "there's going to be a storm."

"Go, already!" came the chorus.

"If the wind rises, all the gla.s.ses will be upset."

We all knew the value of those gla.s.s frames and what they mean to a florist. It would be terrible for us if the wind broke ours.

"I'll hurry ahead with Benny and Alexix," the father said. "Remi can come on with Etiennette and Lise."