“Well, what do you say, boy?” asked the father.
A family! I should have a family. I should not be alone. The man I had lived with for several years, who had been almost a father to me, was dead, and dear, good Capi, my companion and friend, whom I loved so much, was lost. I had thought that all was over for me, and here was this good man offering to take me into his family. Life would begin again for me. He said he offered me food and lodging, but what meant more to me was this home life which would be mine also. These boys would be my brothers. This pretty little Lise would be my sister. I would no longer be nobody’s boy. In my childish dreams I had more than once thought I might find my father and mother, but I had never thought that I should have brothers and sisters! And this was what was being offered to me. I quickly slipped the strap of my harp from off my shoulders.
“There’s his reply,” said the father, laughing. “I can see by your face how pleased you are; no need for you to say anything. Hang your harp up there on the wall and when you get tired of us you may take it down and go on your way again, but you must do like the swallows, choose your season to start on your flight. Don’t go off in the depth of winter.”
My new family consisted of the father, whose name was Pierre Acquin, two boys, Alexix and Benjamin, and two girls, Etiennette, the elder, and Lise, the youngest of the family.
Lise was dumb. She was not born dumb, but just before her fourth birthday, through an illness, she had lost the power of speech. This affliction, fortunately, had not impaired her intelligence; quite the contrary, her intelligence was developed to an extraordinary degree. She seemed to understand everything. And her sweet, pretty ways made her adored by the family.
Since the mother had died, Etiennette had been mother to the family. She had left school early to stay at home to cook and sew and clean the house for her father and brothers. They had quite forgotten that she was the daughter, the sister; they were so accustomed to seeing her doing the work of a servant, for she seldom went out and was never angry. Carrying Lise in her arms, dragging Benny by the hand, getting up at daybreak to get her father’s breakfast, going to bed late after washing the dishes, she had not had time to be a child. At fourteen years her face was serious and sad. It was not the face of a little girl.
Five minutes after I had hung my harp on the wall, I was telling them all what had happened the night before, how we had hoped to sleep on the race-course, when I heard a scratching on the door which opened onto the garden; then there was a plaintive whine.
“Capi! Capi!” I cried, jumping up quickly.
But Lise was before me; she had already opened the door.
Capi sprang upon me. I took him in my arms; with little howls of joy, and his whole body trembling, he licked my face.