NOBODY'S BOY
(_Sans Famille_)
BY HECTOR MALOT
TRANSLATED BY FLORENCE CREWE-JONES
_ILLUSTRATED IN COLOR BY_ JOHN B. GRUELLE
NEW YORK MDCCCCXVI
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY
_Copyright, 1916, by_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY
Printed in U. S. A.
[Illustration: "THE FIRST APPEARANCE OF REMI'S COMPANY."
(_See page 230_)]
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I MY VILLAGE HOME 1
II MY ADOPTED FATHER 10
III SIGNOR VITALIS' COMPANY 21
IV THE MATERNAL HOUSE 35
V EN ROUTE 43
VI MY DÉBUT 49
VII CHILD AND ANIMAL LEARNING 61
VIII ONE WHO HAD KNOWN A KING 67
IX ARRESTED 74
X HOMELESS 85
XI ANOTHER BOY'S MOTHER 109
XII THE MASTER'S CONSENT 120
XIII WEARY DREARY DAYS 128
XIV THE DEATH OF PRETTY-HEART 148
XV FAITHFUL FRIENDS 163
XVI THE PADRONE 169
XVII POOR VITALIS 184
XVIII NEW FRIENDS 194
XIX DISASTER 205
XX MATTIA 220
XXI MEETING OLD FRIENDS 236
XXII IMPRISONED IN A MINE 244
XXIII ONCE MORE UPON THE WAY 262
XXIV FRIENDSHIP THAT IS TRUE 270
XXV MOTHER, BROTHERS AND SISTERS 294
XXVI BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT 304
XXVII A DISTRESSING DISCOVERY 312
XXVIII A MYSTERIOUS STRANGER 330
XXIX IN PRISON 335
XXX ESCAPE 345
XXXI HUNTING FOR THE SWAN 353
XXXII FINDING A REAL MOTHER 359
XXXIII THE DREAM COME TRUE 368
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"THE FIRST APPEARANCE OF REMI'S COMPANY" (_See Page 230_)
_Frontispiece_
PAGE
"I'LL GIVE YOU THIRTY FRANCS FOR HIM" 33
"FOR EACH CRY YOU WILL RECEIVE ANOTHER SLASH" 181
"LET US NOW PLAY FOR THOSE WE LOVE" 371
INTRODUCTION
"Nobody's Boy," published in France under the title "Sans Famille," has
become justly famous as one of the supreme juvenile stories of the
world. In the midst of its early popularity, it was crowned by the
Academy as one of the masterpieces of French literature. A few years
later, it was followed by "En Famille," which is published by us as a
companion story under the title "Nobody's Girl."
"Nobody's Boy" is a human document of child experiences that is
fascinating reading for young and old. Parents, teachers and others, who
are careful to have children read inspiring books, will welcome this
beautiful story of Hector Malot, as among the best for them to
recommend.
Such digressions in the original, as do not belong to the heart of the
story, have been eliminated, so that the lost boy's experiences continue
as the undisturbed interest, on through to the happy conclusion.
Loyal friendship and honest conduct are the vital ideals of this story,
and the heart interest is eloquent with noble character.
THE PUBLISHERS.
NOBODY'S BOY
CHAPTER I
MY VILLAGE HOME
I was a foundling. But until I was eight years of age I thought I had a
mother like other children, for when I cried a woman held me tightly in
her arms and rocked me gently until my tears stopped falling. I never
got into bed without her coming to kiss me, and when the December winds
blew the icy snow against the window panes, she would take my feet
between her hands and warm them, while she sang to me. Even now I can
remember the song she used to sing. If a storm came on while I was out
minding our cow, she would run down the lane to meet me, and cover my
head and shoulders with her cotton skirt so that I should not get wet.
When I had a quarrel with one of the village boys she made me tell her
all about it, and she would talk kindly to me when I was wrong and
praise me when I was in the right. By these and many other things, by
the way she spoke to me and looked at me, and the gentle way she scolded
me, I believed that she was my mother.
My village, or, to be more exact, the village where I was brought up,
for I did not have a village of my own, no birthplace, any more than I
had a father or mother--the village where I spent my childhood was
called Chavanon; it is one of the poorest in France. Only sections of
the land could be cultivated, for the great stretch of moors was covered
with heather and broom. We lived in a little house down by the brook.
Until I was eight years of age I had never seen a man in our house; yet
my adopted mother was not a widow, but her husband, who was a
stone-cutter, worked in Paris, and he had not been back to the village
since I was of an age to notice what was going on around me.
Occasionally he sent news by some companion who returned to the village,
for there were many of the peasants who were employed as stone-cutters
in the city.
"Mother Barberin," the man would say, "your husband is quite well, and
he told me to tell you that he's still working, and to give you this
money. Will you count it?"
That was all. Mother Barberin was satisfied, her husband was well and he
had work.
Because Barberin was away from home it must not be thought that he was
not on good terms with his wife. He stayed in Paris because his work
kept him there. When he was old he would come back and live with his
wife on the money that he had saved.
One November evening a man stopped at our gate. I was standing on the
doorstep breaking sticks. He looked over the top bar of the gate and
called to me to know if Mother Barberin lived there. I shouted yes and
told him to come in. He pushed open the old gate and came slowly up to
the house. I had never seen such a dirty man. He was covered with mud
from head to foot. It was easy to see that he had come a distance on bad
roads. Upon hearing our voices Mother Barberin ran out.
"I've brought some news from Paris," said the man.
Something in the man's tone alarmed Mother Barberin.
"Oh, dear," she cried, wringing her hands, "something has happened to
Jerome!"
"Yes, there is, but don't get scared. He's been hurt, but he ain't dead,
but maybe he'll be deformed. I used to share a room with him, and as I
was coming back home he asked me to give you the message. I can't stop
as I've got several miles to go, and it's getting late."
But Mother Barberin wanted to know more; she begged him to stay to
supper. The roads were so bad! and they did say that wolves had been
seen on the outskirts of the wood. He could go early in the morning.
Wouldn't he stay?
Yes, he would. He sat down by the corner of the fire and while eating
his supper told us how the accident had occurred. Barberin had been
terribly hurt by a falling scaffold, and as he had had no business to
be in that particular spot, the builder had refused to pay an indemnity.
"Poor Barberin," said the man as he dried the legs of his trousers,
which were now quite stiff under the coating of mud, "he's got no luck,
no luck! Some chaps would get a mint o' money out of an affair like
this, but your man won't get nothing!"
"No luck!" he said again in such a sympathetic tone, which showed
plainly that he for one would willingly have the life half crushed out
of his body if he could get a pension. "As I tell him, he ought to sue
that builder."
"A lawsuit," exclaimed Mother Barberin, "that costs a lot of money."
"Yes, but if you win!"
Mother Barberin wanted to start off to Paris, only it was such a
terrible affair ... the journey was so long, and cost so much!
The next morning we went into the village and consulted the priest. He
advised her not to go without first finding out if she could be of any
use. He wrote to the hospital where they had taken Barberin, and a few
days later received a reply saying that Barberin's wife was not to go,
but that she could send a certain sum of money to her husband, because
he was going to sue the builder upon whose works he had met with the
accident.
Days and weeks passed, and from time to time letters came asking for
more money. The last, more insistent than the previous ones, said that
if there was no more money the cow must be sold to procure the sum.
Only those who have lived in the country with the peasants know what
distress there is in these three words, "Sell the cow." As long as they
have their cow in the shed they know that they will not suffer from
hunger. We got butter from ours to put in the soup, and milk to moisten
the potatoes. We lived so well from ours that until the time of which I
write I had hardly ever tasted meat. But our cow not only gave us
nourishment, she was our friend. Some people imagine that a cow is a
stupid animal. It is not so, a cow is most intelligent. When we spoke to
ours and stroked her and kissed her, she understood us, and with her big
round eyes which looked so soft, she knew well enough how to make us
know what she wanted and what she did not want. In fact, she loved us
and we loved her, and that is all there is to say. However, we had to
part with her, for it was only by the sale of the cow that Barberin's
husband would be satisfied.
A cattle dealer came to our house, and after thoroughly examining
Rousette,--all the time shaking his head and saying that she would not
suit him at all, he could never sell her again, she had no milk, she
made bad butter,--he ended by saying that he would take her, but only
out of kindness because Mother Barberin was an honest good woman.
Poor Rousette, as though she knew what was happening, refused to come
out of the barn and began to bellow.
"Go in at the back of her and chase her out," the man said to me,
holding out a whip which he had carried hanging round his neck.
"No, that he won't," cried mother. Taking poor Rousette by the loins,
she spoke to her softly: "There, my beauty, come ... come along then."
Rousette could not resist her, and then, when she got to the road, the
man tied her up behind his cart and his horse trotted off and she had to
follow.
We went back to the house, but for a long time we could hear her
bellowing. No more milk, no butter! In the morning a piece of bread, at
night some potatoes with salt.
Shrove Tuesday happened to be a few days after we had sold the cow. The
year before Mother Barberin had made a feast for me with pancakes and
apple fritters, and I had eaten so many that she had beamed and laughed
with pleasure. But now we had no Rousette to give us milk or butter, so
there would be no Shrove Tuesday, I said to myself sadly.
But Mother Barberin had a surprise for me. Although she was not in the
habit of borrowing, she had asked for a cup of milk from one of the
neighbors, a piece of butter from another, and when I got home about
midday she was emptying the flour into a big earthenware bowl.
"Oh," I said, going up to her, "flour?"
"Why, yes," she said, smiling, "it's flour, my little Remi, beautiful
flour. See what lovely flakes it makes."
Just because I was so anxious to know what the flour was for I did not
dare ask. And besides I did not want her to know that I remembered that
it was Shrove Tuesday for fear she might feel unhappy.
"What does one make with flour?" she asked, smiling at me.
"Bread."
"What else?"
"Pap."
"And what else?"
"Why, I don't know."
"Yes, you know, only as you are a good little boy, you don't dare say.
You know that to-day is Pancake day, and because you think we haven't
any butter and milk you don't dare speak. Isn't that so, eh?
"Oh, Mother."
"I didn't mean that Pancake day should be so bad after all for my little
Remi. Look in that bin."
I lifted up the lid quickly and saw some milk, butter, eggs, and three
apples.
"Give me the eggs," she said; "while I break them, you peel the apples."
While I cut the apples into slices, she broke the eggs into the flour
and began to beat the mixture, adding a little milk from time to time.
When the paste was well beaten she placed the big earthenware bowl on
the warm cinders, for it was not until supper time that we were to have
the pancakes and fritters. I must say frankly that it was a very long
day, and more than once I lifted up the cloth that she had thrown over
the bowl.
"You'll make the paste cold," she cried; "and it won't rise well."
But it was rising well, little bubbles were coming up on the top. And
the eggs and milk were beginning to smell good.
"Go and chop some wood," Mother Barberin said; "we need a good clear
fire."
At last the candle was lit.
"Put the wood on the fire!"
She did not have to say this twice; I had been waiting impatiently to
hear these words. Soon a bright flame leaped up the chimney and the
light from the fire lit up all the kitchen. Then Mother Barberin took
down the frying pan from its hook and placed it on the fire.
"Give me the butter!"
With the end of her knife she slipped a piece as large as a nut into the
pan, where it melted and spluttered. It was a long time since we had
smelled that odor. How good that butter smelled! I was listening to it
fizzing when I heard footsteps out in our yard.
Whoever could be coming to disturb us at this hour? A neighbor perhaps
to ask for some firewood. I couldn't think, for just at that moment
Mother Barberin put her big wooden spoon into the bowl and was pouring
a spoonful of the paste into the pan, and it was not the moment to let
one's thoughts wander. Somebody knocked on the door with a stick, then
it was flung open.
"Who's there?" asked Mother Barberin, without turning round.
A man had come in. By the bright flame which lit him up I could see that
he carried a big stick in his hand.
"So, you're having a feast here, don't disturb yourselves," he said
roughly.
"Oh, Lord!" cried Mother Barberin, putting the frying pan quickly on the
floor, "is it you, Jerome."
Then, taking me by the arm she dragged me towards the man who had
stopped in the doorway.
"Here's your father."