No command of Giovanni nor persuasion of Miss Lorini, who was an artist, could induce Natale to say: “Thank you, signora, for your kindness.” His revolt had been beforehand hushed into silence by some very plain threats of punishment by his mother, but nothing could make him say that he was glad to stay in Cutigliano and go to school every day.
He stood before them all, miserable as a child could be, his face very clean and pale, and a new pair of shoes already upon his feet. They pinched his toes woefully, but his heart ached more than his feet.
“You will love the signora very much, some day, when you are a man and remember how good she was to the poor little boy who knew nothing but how to turn somersaults,” Miss Lorini had said caressingly in her softest Italian, studying the piteous face meanwhile with an eye to painting it some day, when it should smile again.
“I shall learn to do something besides the capitomboli,[6] when I am a man,” Natale had said eagerly. “I shall be like our Antonio some day.” Perhaps these foreigners would be willing to leave him in peace if he could convince them that he wished to be a strolling player all his life.
“He speaks as if he does not exactly understand,” said Miss Lorini, looking at Giovanni inquiringly. “Does he not know that he is to give up the circus now?”
Giovanni shrugged his shoulders, then shook Natale’s slender shoulder, muttering:
“No more of your silly talk, boy!” Then louder, “If you will not thank the lady, I do, with all my heart.” And with that he bowed low, then pushing Natale before him, went quickly away. He was, in secret, rather sorry for the boy, who had never before given any trouble with foolish willfulness, and who had moreover such high ambitions! It did seem a stupid life to which they were leaving the poor child, but then there was to be considered the roll of money already sewed into his own belt, with more to accumulate there, if Natale should be left still another year with the priest Luigi. If rich forestieri had nothing else to do with their money but give it away in this frantic fashion, the stepfather was not unwilling to share the bounty, and Elvira, the mother, had seemed not to mind.
So now Natale sat alone on the wall, feeling very much out of it all, and longing to hear some one say, “Natalino, do fetch me this”, or “Carry that”; but no one said anything of the kind. They seemed to feel that he was no longer one of them, and his little heart swelled to breaking.
He was too young to long harbor ill-will and of too sunny a spirit to sulk for many minutes at a time, so presently he slipped off the wall and ran to meet Olga, who was struggling over to the traveling house-on-wheels, dragging two stools behind her. The very last things were being done, and already the horses were standing by, ready to be hitched at the last moment.
“Do let me carry the stools, Olga,” Natale pleaded with unwonted entreaty in his voice. “Well, one of them, then.”