Nobody's Boy

  CHAPTER XXIII

  ONCE MORE UPON THE WAY

  I had made some friends in the mine. Such terrible experiences, born incommon, unites one. Uncle Gaspard and the professor, in particular, hadgrown very fond of me and, although the engineer had not shared ourcaptivity, he had become attached to me like one is to a child that onehas snatched from death. He invited me to his house. I had to tell hisdaughter all that had happened to us in the mine.

  Every one wanted to keep me at Varses. The engineer told me that if Iwished he would find me a position in the offices; Uncle Gaspard said hewould get me a permanent job in the mine; he seemed to think it quitenatural that I should return to the colliery; he himself was soon goingdown again with that indifference that men show who are accustomed tobrave danger each day. I had no wish to go back. A mine was veryinteresting, and I was very pleased that I had seen one, but I had notthe slightest desire to return. I preferred to have the sky over myhead, even a sky full of snow. The open-air life suited me better, andso I told them. Every one was surprised, especially the professor.Carrory, when he met me, called me a "chicken."

  During the time that they were all trying to persuade me to stay atVarses, Mattia became very preoccupied and thoughtful. I questioned him,but he always answered that nothing was the matter. It was not until Itold him that we were starting off on our tramps in three days' time,that he admitted the cause of his sadness.

  "Oh, I thought that you would stay and that you would leave me," hesaid.

  I gave him a good slap, so as to teach him not to doubt me.

  Mattia was quite able to look after himself now. While I was down in themine he had earned eighteen francs. He was very proud when he handed methis large sum, for with the hundred and twenty-eight that we alreadyhad, this made a total of one hundred and forty-six francs. We onlywanted four francs more to be able to buy the Prince's cow.

  "Forward! March! Children!" With baggage strapped on our back we setforth on the road, with Capi barking and rolling in the dust for joy.

  Mattia suggested that we get a little more money before buying the cow;the more money we had, the better the cow, and the better the cow, themore pleased Mother Barberin would be.

  While tramping from Paris to Varses I had begun to give Mattia readinglessons and elementary music lessons. I continued, these lessons now.Either I was not a good teacher, which was quite possible, or Mattia wasnot a good pupil, which also was quite possible; the lessons were not asuccess. Often I got angry and, shutting the book with a bang, told himthat he was a thickhead.

  "That's true," he said, smiling; "my head is only soft when it's banged.Garofoli found out that!"

  How could one keep angry at this reply. I laughed and we went on withthe lessons. But with music, from the beginning, he made astonishingprogress. In the end, he so confused me with his questions, that I wasobliged to confess that I could not teach him any more. This confessionmortified me exceedingly. I had been a very proud professor, and it washumiliating for me not to be able to answer my pupil's questions. And hedid not spare me, oh, no!

  "I'd like to go and take one lesson from a real master," he said, "onlyjust one, and I'll ask him all the questions that I want answered."

  "Why didn't you take this lesson from a real master while I was in themine?"

  "Because I didn't want to take what he would charge out of your money."

  I was hurt when Mattia had spoken thus of a _real_ master, but my absurdvanity could not hold out against his last words.

  "You're a good boy," I said; "my money is your money; you earn it also,and more than I, very often. You can take as many lessons as you like,and I'll take them with you."

  The master, the _real_ master that we required, was not a villager, butan _artiste_, a great _artiste_, such as might be found only inimportant towns. Consulting our map we found that the next big town wasMendes.

  It was already night when we reached Mendes and, as we were tired out,we decided that we could not take a lesson that evening. We asked thelandlady of the inn where we could find a good music master. She saidthat she was very surprised that we asked such a question; surely, weknew Monsieur Espinassous!

  "We've come from a distance," I said.

  "You must have come from a very great distance, then?"

  "From Italy," replied Mattia.

  Then she was no longer astonished, and she admitted that, coming from sofar then, we might not have heard of M. Espinassous.

  "Is this professor very busy?" I asked, fearing that such a celebratedmusician might not care to give just one lesson to two little urchinslike ourselves.

  "Oh, yes, I should say he is busy; how couldn't he be?"

  "Do you think that he would receive us to-morrow morning?"

  "Sure! He receives every one, when they have money in their pockets ...naturally."

  We understood that, of course.

  Before going to sleep, we discussed all the questions that we intendedasking the celebrated professor the next day. Mattia was quite elatedat our luck in finding just the kind of musician we wanted.

  Next morning we took our instruments, Mattia his violin and I my harp,and set out to find M. Espinassous. We did not take Capi, because wethought that it would not do to call on such a celebrated person with adog. We tied him up in the inn stables. When we reached the house whichour landlady indicated was the professor's, we thought that we must havemade a mistake, for before the house two little brass plaques wereswinging, which was certainly not the sign of a music professor. Theplace bore every appearance of a barber's shop. Turning to a man, whowas passing, we asked him if he could direct us to M. Espinassous'house.

  "There it is," he said, pointing to the barber's shop.

  After all, why should not a professor live with a barber? We entered.The shop was partitioned off into two equal parts. On the right werebrushes, combs, jars of cream, and barbers' chairs. On the left, hangingon the walls and on the shelves, were various instruments, violins,cornets, trombones, etc.

  "Monsieur Espinassous?" inquired Mattia.

  Fluttering like a bird, the dapper little man, who was in the act ofshaving a man, replied: "I am Monsieur Espinassous."

  I glanced at Mattia as much as to say that the barber musician was notthe man we were looking for, that it would be wasting good money toconsult him, but Mattia, instead of understanding my look, sat down in achair with a deliberate air.

  "Will you cut my hair after you have shaved that gentleman?" he asked.

  "Certainly, young man, and I'll give you a shave also, if you like."

  "Thanks," replied Mattia.

  I was abashed at his assurance. He looked at me out of the corner of hiseye, to ask me to wait before getting annoyed.

  When the man was shaved, M. Espinassous, with towel over his arm,prepared to cut Mattia's hair.

  "Monsieur," said Mattia, while the barber tied the sheet round his neck,"my friend and I had an argument, and as we know that you are acelebrated musician, we thought that you would give us your advice andsettle the matter for us."

  "What is it, young man?"

  Now I knew what Mattia was driving at! First of all, he wanted to see ifthis barber-musician was capable of replying to our questions; if so, heintended to get a music lesson at the price of a hair cut.

  All the while Mattia was having his hair cut, he asked questions. Thebarber-musician was highly amused, but answered each question put to himquickly and with pleasure. When we were ready to leave he asked Mattiato play something on his violin. Mattia played a piece.

  "And you don't know a note of music!" cried the barber, clapping hishands, and looking affectionately at Mattia as though he had known andloved him all his life. "It is wonderful!"

  Mattia took a clarionette from amongst the instruments and played on it;then a cornet.

  "Why, the youngster's a prodigy!" cried M. Espinassous in rapture; "ifyou will stay here with me I'll make you a great musician. In themornings you shall learn to shave my customers and the re
st of the dayyou shall study music. Don't think, because I'm a barber, I don't knowmusic. One has to live!"

  I looked at Mattia. What was he going to reply? Was I to lose my friend,my chum, my brother?

  "Think for your own good, Mattia," I said, but my voice shook.

  "Leave my friend?" he cried, linking his arm in mine; "that I nevercould, but thank you all the same, Monsieur."

  M. Espinassous insisted, and told Mattia that later they would find themeans to send him to the Conservatoire in Paris, because he would surelybe a great musician!

  "Leave Remi? never!"

  "Well, then," replied the barber, sorrowfully, "let me give you a bookand you can learn what you do not know from that." He took a book out ofone of the drawers, entitled, "The Theory of Music." It was old andtorn, but what did that matter? Taking a pen, he sat down and wrote onthe first page:

  "To a child who, when he becomes celebrated, will remember the barber ofMendes."

  I don't know if there were any other professors of music at Mendes, butthat was the only one we knew, and we never forgot him.