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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.
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.
"Now do that over again," he said severely, when a mistake had been made. "That is bad, Capi. I'll scold you, Pretty-Heart, if you don't pay attention." And that was all, but yet it was enough. "Take the dogs for an example," he said, while teaching me; "compare them with Pretty-Heart. Pretty-Heart has, perhaps, vivacity and intelligence, but he has no patience.
If Vitalis and I were both in prison, whatever would become of the animals? I felt the responsibility of my position. As I walked along quickly the dogs looked up at me in a way I could not fail to understand. They were hungry. Pretty-Heart, whom I carried, pulled my ear from time to time to force me to look at him.
All I have to say is look, listen, and be ready to applaud." What Vitalis called a delightful comedy was really a pantomime; naturally it had to be for the very good reason that two of its principals, Pretty-Heart and Capi, could not speak, and the third, myself, was incapable of uttering two words.
Pretty-Heart pulled my hair and chuckled with glee. We did not go far. At the first tree that we saw I placed my harp against the trunk and sat down on the grass. The dogs sat opposite me, Capi in the middle, Dulcie at one side, Zerbino on the other. Pretty-Heart, who was not tired, stood up on the watch, ready to snatch the first piece that he could. To eke out the meal was a delicate matter.
Pretty-Heart, having got rid of his chain, sprang up into a tree and shook the branches one after the other, as though he were making nuts fall. The dogs lay down beside us. Vitalis took out his knife and, after having smoothed the wood on both sides, began to cut tiny pieces, twelve all of equal size. "I am going to carve a letter out of each piece of wood," he said, looking up at me.
"Now you're ready," said Vitalis, as I placed my hat on my head, "and we'll get to work, because to-morrow is market day and we must give a performance. You must play in a comedy with the two dogs and Pretty-Heart." "But I don't know how to play a comedy," I cried, scared. "That is why I am going to teach you. You can't know unless you learn. These animals have studied hard to learn their part.
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.
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.
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