Nobody's Boy

  CHAPTER II

  MY ADOPTED FATHER

  Mother Barberin kissed her husband; I was about to do the same when heput out his stick and stopped me.

  "What's this?... you told me...."

  "Well, yes, but it isn't true ... because...."

  "Ah, it isn't true, eh?"

  He stepped towards me with his stick raised; instinctively I shrunkback. What had I done? Nothing wrong, surely! I was only going to kisshim. I looked at him timidly, but he had turned from me and was speakingto Mother Barberin.

  "So you're keeping Shrove Tuesday," he said. "I'm glad, for I'mfamished. What have you got for supper?"

  "I was making some pancakes and apple fritters."

  "So I see, but you're not going to give pancakes to a man who hascovered the miles that I have."

  "I haven't anything else. You see we didn't expect you."

  "What? nothing else! Nothing for supper!" He glanced round the kitchen.

  "There's some butter."

  He looked up at the ceiling, at the spot where the bacon used to hang,but for a long time there had been nothing on the hook; only a few ropesof onions and garlic hung from the beam now.

  "Here's some onions," he said, knocking a rope down with his big stick;"with four or five onions and a piece of butter we'll have a good soup.Take out the pancakes and fry the onions in the pan!"

  "Take the pancakes out of the frying pan!"

  Without a word, Mother Barberin hurried to do what her husband asked. Hesat down on a chair by the corner of the fireplace. I had not dared toleave the place where his stick had sent me. Leaning against the table,I looked at him.

  He was a man about fifty with a hard face and rough ways. His headleaned a little bit towards his right shoulder, on account of the woundhe had received, and this deformity gave him a still more forbiddingaspect.

  Mother Barberin had put the frying pan again on the fire.

  "Is it with a little bit of butter like that you're going to try andmake a soup?" he asked. Thereupon he seized the plate with the butterand threw it all into the pan. No more butter ... then ... no morepancakes.

  At any other moment I should have been greatly upset at thiscatastrophe, but I was not thinking of the pancakes and fritters now.The thought that was uppermost in my mind was, that this man who seemedso cruel was my father! My father! Absently I said the word over andover again to myself. I had never thought much what a father would be.Vaguely, I had imagined him to be a sort of mother with a big voice, butin looking at this one who had fallen from heaven, I felt greatlyworried and frightened. I had wanted to kiss him and he had pushed meaway with his stick. Why? My mother had never pushed me away when I wentto kiss her; on the contrary, she always took me in her arms and held metight.

  "Instead of standing there as though you're made of wood," he said, "putthe plates on the table."

  I nearly fell down in my haste to obey. The soup was made. MotherBarberin served it on the plates. Then, leaving the big chimney corner,he came and sat down and commenced to eat, stopping only from time totime to glance at me. I felt so uncomfortable that I could not eat. Ilooked at him also, but out of the corner of my eye, then I turned myhead quickly when I caught his eye.

  "Doesn't he eat more than that usually?" he asked suddenly.

  "Oh, yes, he's got a good appetite."

  "That's a pity. He doesn't seem to want his supper now, though."

  Mother Barberin did not seem to want to talk. She went to and fro,waiting on her husband.

  "Ain't you hungry?"

  "No."

  "Well then, go to bed and go to sleep at once. If you don't I'll beangry."

  My mother gave me a look which told me to obey without answering. Butthere was no occasion for this warning. I had not thought of saying aword.

  As in a great many poor homes, our kitchen was also the bedroom. Nearthe fireplace were all the things for the meals--the table, the pots andpans, and the sideboard; at the other end was the bedroom. In a cornerstood Mother Barberin's big bed, in the opposite corner, in a littlealcove, was my bed under a red figured curtain.

  I hurriedly undressed and got into bed. But to go to sleep was anotherthing. I was terribly worried and very unhappy. How could this man be myfather? And if he was, why did he treat me so badly?

  With my nose flattened against the wall I tried to drive these thoughtsaway and go to sleep as he had ordered me, but it was impossible. Sleepwould not come. I had never felt so wide awake.

  After a time, I could not say how long, I heard some one coming over tomy bed. The slow step was heavy and dragged, so I knew at once that itwas not Mother Barberin. I felt a warm breath on my cheek.

  "Are you asleep?" This was said in a harsh whisper.

  I took care not to answer, for the terrible words, "I'll be angry" stillrang in my ears.

  "He's asleep," said Mother Barberin; "the moment he gets into bed hedrops off. You can talk without being afraid that he'll hear."

  I ought, of course, to have told him that I was not asleep, but I didnot dare. I had been ordered to go to sleep, I was not yet asleep, so Iwas in the wrong.

  "Well, what about your lawsuit?" asked Mother Barberin.

  "Lost it. The judge said that I was to blame for being under thescaffold." Thereupon he banged his fist on the table and began to swear,without saying anything that meant anything.

  "Case lost," he went on after a moment; "money lost, all gone, povertystaring us in the face. And as though that isn't enough, when I get backhere, I find a child. Why didn't you do what I told you to do?"

  "Because I couldn't."

  "You could not take him to a Foundlings' Home?"

  "A woman can't give up a little mite like that if she's fed it with herown milk and grown to love it."

  "It's not your child."

  "Well, I wanted to do what you told me, but just at that very moment hefell ill."

  "Ill?"

  "Yes. Then I couldn't take him to that place. He might have died."

  "But when he got better?"

  "Well, he didn't get better all at once. After that sickness anothercame. He coughed so it would have made your heart bleed to hear him,poor little mite. Our little Nicolas died like that. It seemed to methat if I sent him to the Foundlings' Home he'd died also."

  "But after?... after?"

  "Well, time went on and I thought that as I'd put off going I'd put itoff a bit longer."

  "How old is he now?"

  "Eight."

  "Well then, he'll go now to the place where he should have gone sooner,and he won't like it so well now."

  "Oh, Jerome, you can't ... you won't do that!"

  "Won't I? and who's going to stop me? Do you think we can keep himalways?"

  There was a moment's silence. I was hardly able to breathe. The lump inmy throat nearly choked me. After a time Mother Barberin went on:

  "How Paris has changed you! You wouldn't have spoken like that to mebefore you went away."

  "Perhaps not. But if Paris has changed me, it's also pretty near killedme. I can't work now. We've got no money. The cow's sold. When wehaven't enough to feed ourselves, have we got to feed a child that don'tbelong to us?"

  "He's mine."

  "He's no more yours than mine. Besides, he ain't a country boy. He's nopoor man's child. He's a delicate morsel, no arms, no legs."

  "He's the prettiest boy in the village!"

  "I don't say he ain't pretty. But sturdy, no! Do you think you can makea working man out of a chit with shoulders like his? He's a city childand there's no place for city children here."

  "I tell you he's a fine boy and as intelligent and cute as a little cat,and he's got a good heart, and he'll work for us...."

  "In the meantime we've got to work for him, and I'm no good for muchnow."

  "If his parents claim him, what will you say?"

  "His parents! Has he got any parents? They would have found him by nowif he had. It was a crazy thing for me to think that his parents wouldc
ome and claim him some day and pay us for his keep. I was a fool.'Cause he was wrapped up in fine clothes trimmed with lace, that wasn'tto say that his parents were going to hunt for him. Besides, they'redead."

  "Perhaps they're not. And one day they may come...."

  "If you women ain't obstinate!"

  "But if they do come?"

  "Well, we've sent him to the Home. But we've said enough. I'll take himto-morrow. I'm going 'round to see Francois now. I'll be back in anhour."

  The door was opened and closed again. He had gone. Then I quickly sat upin bed and began to call to Mother Barberin.

  "Say! Mamma!"

  She ran over to my bed.

  "Are you going to let me go to the Foundlings' Home?"

  "No, my little Remi, no."

  She kissed me and held me tight in her arms. I felt better after thatand my tears dried on my cheeks.

  "You didn't go to sleep, then?" she asked softly.

  "It wasn't my fault."

  "I'm not scolding you. You heard what he said, then?"

  "Yes, you're not my mamma, but ... he isn't my father."

  The last words I had said in a different tone because, although I wasunhappy at learning that she was not my mother, I was glad, I was almostproud, to know that he was not my father. This contradiction of myfeelings betrayed itself in my voice. Mother Barberin did not appear tonotice.

  "Perhaps I ought to have told you the truth, but you seemed so much myown boy that I couldn't tell you I was not your real mother. You heardwhat Jerome said, my boy. He found you one day in a street in Paris, theAvenue de Breuteuil. It was in February, early in the morning, he wasgoing to work when he heard a baby cry, and he found you on a step. Helooked about to call some one, and as he did so a man came out frombehind a tree and ran away. You cried so loud that Jerome didn't like toput you back on the step again. While he was wondering what to do, somemore men came along, and they all decided that they'd take you to thepolice station. You wouldn't stop crying. Poor mite, you must have beencold. But then, when they got you warm at the station house, you stillcried, so they thought you were hungry, and they got you some milk. My!you were hungry! When you'd had enough they undressed you and held youbefore the fire. You were a beautiful pink boy, and all dressed inlovely clothes. The lieutenant wrote down a description of the clothesand where you were found, and said that he should have to send you tothe Home unless one of the men liked to take charge of you. Such abeautiful, fine child it wouldn't be difficult to bring up, he said, andthe parents would surely make a search for it and pay any one well forlooking after it, so Jerome said he'd take it. Just at that time I had ababy the same age. So I was well able to feed both you two mites. There,dearie, that was how I came to be your mother."

  "Oh, Mamma, Mamma!"

  "Yes, dearie, there! and at the end of three months I lost my own littlebaby and then I got even more fond of you. It was such a pity Jeromecouldn't forget, and seeing at the end of three years that your parentshadn't come after you, he tried to make me send you to the Home. Youheard why I didn't do as he told me?"

  "Oh, don't send me to the Home," I cried, clinging to her, "MotherBarberin, please, please, don't send me to the Home."

  "No, dearie, no, you shan't go. I'll settle it. Jerome is not reallyunkind, you'll see. He's had a lot of trouble and he is kind of worriedabout the future. We'll all work, you shall work, too."

  "Yes, yes, I'll do anything you want me to do, but don't send me to theHome."

  "You shan't go, that is if you promise to go to sleep at once. When hereturns he mustn't find you awake."

  She kissed me and turned me over with my face to the wall. I wanted togo to sleep, but I had received too hard a blow to slip off quietly intoslumberland. Dear good Mother Barberin was not my own mother! Then whatwas a real mother? Something better, something sweeter still? It wasn'tpossible! Then I thought that a real father might not have held up hisstick to me.... He wanted to send me to the Home, would mother be ableto prevent him?

  In the village there were two children from the Home. They were called"workhouse children." They had a metal plaque hung round their neckswith a number on it. They were badly dressed, and so dirty! All theother children made fun of them and threw stones at them. They chasedthem like boys chase a lost dog, for fun, and because a stray dog has noone to protect it. Oh, I did not want to be like those children. I didnot want to have a number hung round my neck. I did not want them tocall after me, "Hi, Workhouse Kid; Hi Foundling!" The very thought of itmade me feel cold and my teeth chatter. I could not go to sleep. AndBarberin was coming back soon!

  But fortunately he did not return until very late, and sleep came beforehe arrived.