‘On four wheels, on the green here. We are vagabonds, and, I suppose, must always be so; but, being one family, we can bear it. I wish the children to have a good supper to-night, in honour of your kindness. I have a good deal to do. I must put these things in order,’ as he spoke he was working; ‘there is the grandmother who lives with us; all this time she is alone, guarded, however, by the dog. I should like them to have meat to-night, if I can get it. Their mother cooks the supper. Then I have got to hear them say their prayers. All this takes time, particularly as we have to rise early, and do many things before we make our first course through the city.’
‘I will come and see you to-morrow,’ said Sidonia, ‘after your first progress.’
‘An hour after noon, if you please,’ said Baroni. ‘It is pleasant for me to become acquainted with a fellow artist, and one so liberal as yourself.’
‘Your name is Baroni,’ said Sidonia, looking at him earnestly.
‘My name is Baroni.’
‘An Italian name.’
‘Yes, I come from Cento.’
‘Well, we shall meet to-morrow. Good night, Baroni. I am going, to send you some wine for your supper, and take care the grandmamma drinks my health.’
II.
It was a sunny morn: upon the green contiguous to the Auberge of St. Nicholas was a house upon wheels, a sort of monster omnibus, its huge shafts idle on the ground, while three fat Flemish horses cropped the surrounding pasture. From the door of the house were some temporary steps, like an accommodation ladder, on which sat Baroni, dressed something like a Neapolitan fisherman, and mending his clarionet; the man in the blouse was eating his dinner, seated between the shafts, to which also was fastened the little dog, often the only garrison, except the grandmother, of this strange establishment.