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"Stop that," commanded Vitalis; "it's you, not the child! What a cowardly shame to torture these poor children who cannot defend themselves." "Don't you meddle in what does not concern you, you old fool," cried Garofoli, changing his tone. "It concerns the police," retorted Vitalis. "You threaten me with the police, do you?" cried Garofoli.
I went nearer to see better. Yes, it was Mattia. He recognised me. His pale face broke into a smile. "Ah, it's you," he said. "You came to Garofoli's a long time ago with an old man with a white beard, just before I went to the hospital. Ah! how I used to suffer with my head then." "Is Garofoli still your master?"
If I did not bring him back the thirty or forty sous that he demanded of me, I should have to be whipped by Ricardo. Ah, 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; Garofoli was looking at me out of the corner of his eye.
All that I ask is, that you won't strike me on the head; that also must be understood, because my head is very sore since Garofoli beat me so much on it." I felt like crying, to hear poor little Mattia speak so. How could I refuse to take him with me. Die of hunger! But with me there was also a chance that he might die of hunger. I told him so, but he would not listen to me.
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.
"How lazy you'll be when you're rich," said Mattia. The nearer we got to Paris the gayer I became; and the more melancholy grew Mattia. As I had assured him that we should not be parted I wondered why he should be sad now. Finally, when we reached the gates of Paris, he told me how great was his fear of Garofoli, and that if he saw him he knew that he would take him again.
At last I found one that was so yellow that the man let me have it for fifteen sous. I was able to leave Paris now, and I decided to do so at once. I had a choice between two roads. I chose the road to Fontainebleau. As I went up the Rue Mouffetard, a host of memories rushed upon me. Garofoli! Mattia!
When Garofoli was seated another little boy brought him a pipe stuffed with tobacco, and a fourth offered him a lighted match. "It smells of sulphur, 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 Garofoli would not accept it.
I was amazed, but before I had time to think, he had taken me by the hand. "Come, Remi," he said. And he drew me to the door. "Oh," cried Garofoli, 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 still holding me tightly by the hand. With what relief I followed him!
"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.
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