Nobody's Boy (1878)

THE PADRONE

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 trod upon his heels, and to be more sure of him I held a corner of his coat in my hand.

We crossed a big courtyard to a dirty, dismal house where surely the sun had never penetrated. It was the worst looking place I had seen so far.

"Is Garofoli 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."

"Garofoli is the padrone, Remi, 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, Garofoli?" asked Vitalis; "it is so dark I can't see any one. It's Vitalis."

A weak, drawling voice replied to Vitalis' question.

"Signor Garofoli 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. His large eyes held your own with sympathy.

"You are sure he will not be back for two hours?" asked Vitalis.

"Quite sure, Signor. That will be dinner time, and no one ever serves dinner but Signor Garofoli."

"Well, if he comes in before, tell him that Vitalis will be back in two hours."

"Very well, Signor."

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 Signor Garofoli, 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.