o Fontainebleau. As I went
up the Rue Mouffetard, a host of memories rushed upon me. Garofoli!
Mattia! Ricardo! the soup pot fastened with a padlock, the whip, and
Vitalis, my poor, good master, who had died because he would not rent me
to the _padrone_. As I passed the church I saw a little boy leaning
against the wall, and I thought I recognized him. Surely it was Mattia,
the boy with the big head, the great eyes and the soft, resigned look.
But then he had not grown one inch! I went nearer to see better. Yes, it
was Mattia. He recognised me. His pale face broke into a smile.

"Ah, it's you," he said. "You came to Garofoli's a long time ago with an
old man with a white beard, just before I went to the hospital. Ah! how
I used to suffer with my head then."

"Is Garofoli still your master?"

He glanced round before replying, then lowering his voice he said:
"Garofoli is in prison. They took him because he beat Orlando to death."

I was shocked at this. I was pleased to hear that they had put Garofoli
in prison, and for the first time I thought the prisons, which inspired
me with so much horror, had their use.

"And the other boys?" I asked.

"Oh, I don't know. I was not there when Garofoli was arrested. When I
came out of the hospital, Garofoli, seeing that it was no good to beat
me 'cause I got ill, wanted to get rid of me, so he sold me for two
years to the Gassot Circus. They paid him in advance. D'ye know the
Gassot Circus? No? Well, it's not much of a circus, but it's a circus
all the same. They wanted a child for dislocation, and Garofoli sold me
to Mr. Gassot. I stayed with him until last Monday, when he sent me off
because my head was too big to go into the box. After leaving the circus
I went back to find Garofoli, but the place was all shut up, and a
neighbor told me what had happened. Now that Garofoli's in prison I
don't know where to go.

"And I haven't any money," he added, "and I haven't had a bite to eat
since yesterday."

I was not rich, but I had enough to give something to poor Mattia. How I
would have blessed one who would have given me a crust of bread when I
was wandering round Toulouse, famished like Mattia now.

"Stay here until I come back," I said.

I ran to a bakery at the corner of the street and soon returned with a
roll, which I offered him. He devoured it in a moment.

"Now," I said, "what do you want to do?"

"I don't know. I was trying to sell my violin when you spoke to me