Nobody's Boy. Hector Malot

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СКАЧАТЬ as large as a nut into the pan, where it melted and spluttered. It was a long time since we had smelled that odor. How good that butter smelled! I was listening to it fizzing when I heard footsteps out in our yard.

      Whoever could be coming to disturb us at this hour? A neighbor perhaps to ask for some firewood. I couldn't think, for just at that moment Mother Barberin put her big wooden spoon into the bowl and was pouring a spoonful of the paste into the pan, and it was not the moment to let one's thoughts wander. Somebody knocked on the door with a stick, then it was flung open.

      "Who's there?" asked Mother Barberin, without turning round.

      A man had come in. By the bright flame which lit him up I could see that he carried a big stick in his hand.

      "So, you're having a feast here, don't disturb yourselves," he said roughly.

      "Oh, Lord!" cried Mother Barberin, putting the frying pan quickly on the floor, "is it you, Jerome."

      Then, taking me by the arm she dragged me towards the man who had stopped in the doorway.

      "Here's your father."

CHAPTER II

       Table of Contents

MY ADOPTED FATHER

       Table of Contents

      Mother Barberin kissed her husband; I was about to do the same when he put out his stick and stopped me.

      "What's this? … you told me. … "

      "Well, yes, but it isn't true … because. … "

      "Ah, it isn't true, eh?"

      He stepped towards me with his stick raised; instinctively I shrunk back. What had I done? Nothing wrong, surely! I was only going to kiss him. I looked at him timidly, but he had turned from me and was speaking to Mother Barberin.

      "So you're keeping Shrove Tuesday," he said. "I'm glad, for I'm famished. What have you got for supper?"

      "I was making some pancakes and apple fritters."

      "So I see, but you're not going to give pancakes to a man who has covered the miles that I have."

      "I haven't anything else. You see we didn't expect you."

      "What? nothing else! Nothing for supper!" He glanced round the kitchen.

      "There's some butter."

      He looked up at the ceiling, at the spot where the bacon used to hang, but for a long time there had been nothing on the hook; only a few ropes of onions and garlic hung from the beam now.

      "Here's some onions," he said, knocking a rope down with his big stick; "with four or five onions and a piece of butter we'll have a good soup. Take out the pancakes and fry the onions in the pan!"

      "Take the pancakes out of the frying pan!"

      Without a word, Mother Barberin hurried to do what her husband asked. He sat down on a chair by the corner of the fireplace. I had not dared to leave the place where his stick had sent me. Leaning against the table, I looked at him.

      He was a man about fifty with a hard face and rough ways. His head leaned a little bit towards his right shoulder, on account of the wound he had received, and this deformity gave him a still more forbidding aspect.

      Mother Barberin had put the frying pan again on the fire.

      "Is it with a little bit of butter like that you're going to try and make a soup?" he asked. Thereupon he seized the plate with the butter and threw it all into the pan. No more butter … then … no more pancakes.

      At any other moment I should have been greatly upset at this catastrophe, but I was not thinking of the pancakes and fritters now. The thought that was uppermost in my mind was, that this man who seemed so cruel was my father! My father! Absently I said the word over and over again to myself. I had never thought much what a father would be. Vaguely, I had imagined him to be a sort of mother with a big voice, but in looking at this one who had fallen from heaven, I felt greatly worried and frightened. I had wanted to kiss him and he had pushed me away with his stick. Why? My mother had never pushed me away when I went to kiss her; on the contrary, she always took me in her arms and held me tight.

      "Instead of standing there as though you're made of wood," he said, "put the plates on the table."

      I nearly fell down in my haste to obey. The soup was made. Mother Barberin served it on the plates. Then, leaving the big chimney corner, he came and sat down and commenced to eat, stopping only from time to time to glance at me. I felt so uncomfortable that I could not eat. I looked at him also, but out of the corner of my eye, then I turned my head quickly when I caught his eye.

      "Doesn't he eat more than that usually?" he asked suddenly.

      "Oh, yes, he's got a good appetite."

      "That's a pity. He doesn't seem to want his supper now, though."

      Mother Barberin did not seem to want to talk. She went to and fro, waiting on her husband.

      "Ain't you hungry?"

      "No."

      "Well then, go to bed and go to sleep at once. If you don't I'll be angry."

      My mother gave me a look which told me to obey without answering. But there was no occasion for this warning. I had not thought of saying a word.

      As in a great many poor homes, our kitchen was also the bedroom. Near the fireplace were all the things for the meals—the table, the pots and pans, and the sideboard; at the other end was the bedroom. In a corner stood Mother Barberin's big bed, in the opposite corner, in a little alcove, was my bed under a red figured curtain.

      I hurriedly undressed and got into bed. But to go to sleep was another thing. I was terribly worried and very unhappy. How could this man be my father? And if he was, why did he treat me so badly?

      With my nose flattened against the wall I tried to drive these thoughts away and go to sleep as he had ordered me, but it was impossible. Sleep would not come. I had never felt so wide awake.

      After a time, I could not say how long, I heard some one coming over to my bed. The slow step was heavy and dragged, so I knew at once that it was not Mother Barberin. I felt a warm breath on my cheek.

      "Are you asleep?" This was said in a harsh whisper.

      I took care not to answer, for the terrible words, "I'll be angry" still rang in my ears.

      "He's asleep," said Mother Barberin; "the moment he gets into bed he drops off. You can talk without being afraid that he'll hear."

      I ought, of course, to have told him that I was not asleep, but I did not dare. I had been ordered to go to sleep, I was not yet asleep, so I was in СКАЧАТЬ