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Updated: May 23, 2025
He was no longer the poor, pale boy whom I had found leaning up against the church; much less was he the monster whom I had seen for the first time in Garofoli's attic, looking after the soup, and from time to time clasping his hands over his poor aching head. Mattia never had a headache now. He was never unhappy, neither was he thin or sad.
They wanted a child for dislocation, and Garofoli sold me to Mr. Gassot. I stayed with him until last Monday, when he sent me off because my head was too big to go into the box. After leaving the circus I went back to find Garofoli, but the place was all shut up, and a neighbor told me what had happened. Now that Garofoli's in prison I don't know where to go.
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.
Before going to the Hotel du Cantal I went to Garofoli's place to see if I could find out something about him so that I could take back some news to poor Mattia. When I reached the yard I saw, as on my first visit, the same old man hanging up dirty rags outside the door. "Has Garofoli returned?" I asked. The old man looked at me without replying, then began to cough.
"Did you count on sleeping at Garofoli's, then?" "I counted upon you sleeping there, and as he would have given me twenty 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, hardened vagabond there is still a bit of the young man's heart left.
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?"
"To Gentilly, to try and find a race-course where I've slept sometimes. Are you tired?" "I rested at Garofoli's." "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.
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