One by one the boys returned; each one as he came in hung his instrument on a nail above his bed. Those who were not musicians, but simply exhibitors of trained animals, put their mice and guinea pigs into a cage.
Then a heavy step sounded on the stairs and a little man wearing a gray overcoat came into the room. It was Garofoli. The moment he entered he fixed his eyes on me with a look that scared me. Mattia quickly and politely gave him Vitalis' message.
"Ah, so Vitalis is here," he said; "what does he want?"
"I don't know," replied Mattia.
"I'm not speaking to you, I'm speaking to this boy."
"He is coming back and he will tell you himself what he wants," I replied.
"Ah, here's a little fellow who knows the value of words. You're not Italian?"
"No, I'm French."
The moment Garofoli entered the room two small boys took their places, one on each side of him, and were waiting until he had finished speaking. Then one took his felt hat and placed it carefully on the bed, and the other brought forward a chair. They did this with the same gravity and respect that a choir boy waits upon a priest. When Garofoli was seated another little boy brought him a pipe stuffed with tobacco, and a fourth offered him a lighted match.