My first impulse was an artistic one; that was of Italy. The concealment of it was due to the English side of me—the practical side.
I crept close to the little girl; she drew me to her protectingly.
'What is thy name, p'tit?' she said.
'Anton,' I answered, for that was what the woman Maddalena had called me. Her husband, if he was her husband, never gave me any title, except when he was abusing me, and then my names were many and unmentionable. Nowadays I am the Baron Antonio Antonelli, of the Legion of Honour, but that is merely an extension of the old concise Anton, so far as I know, the only name I ever had.'
'Anton?' repeated the little girl, that is a nice name to say. Mine is
Ninette.'
We sat in silence in our sheltered nook, waiting until the rain should stop, and very soon I began to whimper again.
'I am so hungry, Ninette,' I said; 'I have eaten nothing to-day.'
In the literal sense this was a lie; I had eaten some stale crusts in the early morning, before I gave my taskmasters the slip, but the hunger was true enough.
Ninette began to reproach herself for not thinking of this before. After much fumbling in her pocket, she produced a bit of brioche, an apple, and some cold chestnuts.
'V'la, Anton,' she said, 'pop those in your mouth. When we get home we will have supper together. I have bread and milk at home. And we will buy two hot potatoes from the man on the quai.'