"I'd like to go and take one lesson from a real master," he said, "only just one, and I'll ask him all the questions that I want answered."
"Why didn't you take this lesson from a real master while I was in the mine?"
"Because I didn't want to take what he would charge out of your money."
I was hurt when Mattia had spoken thus of a real master, but my absurd vanity could not hold out against his last words.
"You're a good boy," I said; "my money is your money; you earn it also, and more than I, very often. You can take as many lessons as you like, and I'll take them with you."
The master, the real master that we required, was not a villager, but an artiste, a great artiste, such as might be found only in important towns. Consulting our map we found that the next big town was Mendes.
It was already night when we reached Mendes and, as we were tired out, we decided that we could not take a lesson that evening. We asked the landlady of the inn where we could find a good music master. She said that she was very surprised that we asked such a question; surely, we knew Monsieur Espinassous!
"We've come from a distance," I said.
"You must have come from a very great distance, then?"
"From Italy," replied Mattia.