“PITT,” rejoined Gilbert, “is the son of Pitt.”
“Well, now!” cried Pitou; “that is just as we have it in the Bible. There is then Pitt the First, and Pitt the Second?”
“Yes, and Pitt the First, my friends—listen attentively to what I am going to tell you—”
“We are listening,” replied Billot and Pitou at the same moment.
“This Pitt the First was during thirty years the sworn enemy of France; he combated in the retirement of his cabinet, to which he was nailed by the gout, Montealm and Vaudreuil in America, the Bailly de Suffren and D'Estaing on the seas, Noailles and Broglie on the Continent. This Pitt the First made it a principle with him that it was necessary to destroy the influence which France had gained over the whole of Europe: during thirty years he reconquered from us, one by one, all our colonies; one by one, all our factories, the whole of our possessions in the East Indies, fifteen hundred leagues of territory in Canada; and then, when he saw that France was three fourths ruined, he brought up his son to ruin her altogether.”
“Ah! ah!” exclaimed Billot, evidently much interested, “so that the Pitt we have now—”
“Precisely,” replied Gilbert, “he is the son of the Pitt whom we have had, and whom you already know, Father Billot, whom Pitou knows, whom all the universe knows; and this Pitt Junior was thirty years old this last May.”
“Yes; you see that he has well employed his time, my friends. Notwithstanding his youth he has now governed England for seven years; seven years has he put in practice the theory of his father.”
“Well, then, we are likely to have him for a long time yet,” said Billot.
“And it is the more probable because the vital qualities are very tenacious among the Pitts. Let me give you a proof of it.”
Pitou and Billot indicated by a motion of their heads that they were listening with the greatest attention.
“In 1778, the father of our enemy was dying; his physicians announced to him that his life was merely hanging by a thread, and that the slightest effort would break that thread. The English Parliament was then debating on the question of abandoning the American colonies and yielding to their desire for independence, in order to put a stop to the war, which threatened, fomented as it was by the French, to swallow up the riches and all the soldiers of Great Britain. It was at the moment when Louis XVI., our good king,—he on whom the whole nation has just conferred the title of 'Father of French Liberty,'—had solemnly recognized the independence of America; and on the fields of battle in that country, and in their councils, the swords and genius of the French had obtained the mastery. England had offered to Washington—that is to say, to the chief of the insurgents—the recognition of American nationality, on condition that the new nation should ally itself with England against France.”
“But,” said Billot, “it appears to me this proposition was not a decent one, to be either offered or accepted.”
“My dear Billot, this is what is called diplomacy; and in the political world ideas of this kind are much admired. Well, Billot, however immoral you may consider the matter, in spite of Washington, the most faithful of men, Americans would have been found to accede to this degrading concession to England. But Lord Chatham, the father of Pitt; the man who had been given over by the physicians, this dying man, this phantom who was already standing knee-deep in the grave, this Chatham, who it might be thought could have desired naught more on this earth but repose,—before sleeping beneath his monument, this feeble old man determined on appearing in the Parliament, where the question was about to be discussed.
“On entering the House of Lords, he was leaning on the one side on the arm of his son, William Pitt, then only nineteen years of age, and on the other on that of his son-in-law, Lord Mahon. He was attired in his magnificent robes, which formed a derisive contrast to his own emaciated form. Pale as a spectre, his eyes half-extinguished beneath his languishing eyelids, he desired his friends to lead him to his usual seat on the bench appropriated to earls; while all the lords rose at his entrance, astounded at the unexpected apparition, and bowed to him in admiration, as the Roman Senate might have done had Tiberius, dead and forgotten, returned among them. He listened in silence and with profound attention to the speech of the Duke of Richmond, the mover of the proposition, and when he had concluded, Lord Chatham rose to reply.
“Then this dying man summoned up strength enough to speak for three whole hours; he found fire enough within his heart to lend lightning to his eyes; in his soul he found accents which stirred up the hearts of all who heard him.
“It is true that he was speaking against France; it is true that he was instilling into the minds of his countrymen the hatred which he felt; it is true that he had called up all his energies, all his fervent eloquence, to ruin and devour this country,—the hated rival of his own. He forbade that America should be recognized as independent; he forbade all sort of compromise; he cried, War! war! He spoke as Hannibal spoke against Rome, as Cato against Carthage! He declared that the duty of every loyal Englishman was to perish, ruined, rather than to suffer that a colony, even one single colony, should detach itself from the mother-country. Having concluded his peroration, having hurled his last threat, he fell to the ground as if thunder-stricken.
“He had nothing more to do in this world,—he was carried expiring from the house.
“Some few days afterwards he was dead.”
“Oh! oh!” cried both Billot and Pitou, simultaneously, “what a man this Lord Chatham was!”
“He was the father of the young man of thirty who is now occupying our attention,” pursued Gilbert. “Lord Chatham died at the age of seventy. If the son lives to the same age, we shall have to endure William Pitt for forty years longer. This is the man, Father Billot, with whom we have to contend; this is the man who now governs Great Britain; who well remembers the names of Lameth, of Rochambeau, and Lafayette; who at this moment knows the name of every man in the National Assembly; he who has sworn a deadly hatred to Louis XVI., the author of the treaty of 1778,—the man, in short, who will not breathe freely as long as there shall be a loaded musket in France and a full pocket. Do you begin to understand?”
“I understand that he has a great detestation of France; yes, that is true, but I do not altogether see your meaning.”
“Well, then, read these four words.” And he presented a paper to Pitou.
“Yes; these are the words,—Don't mind the money.”
“I hear the words, but I do not understand them,” rejoined Pitou.
Gilbert translated the words, and then:—
“But more than this: he farther on reiterates the same advice, for he says: 'Tell them not to be sparing of money, and they need not send me any accounts.'“
“Then they are arming,” said Billot.
“But to whom is this letter addressed?”
“To everybody and to nobody. The money which is thus given, thus strewn abroad, thus lavished, is given to peasants, to artisans, to wretches,—to men, in short, who will degrade our Revolution.”
Father Billot held down his head. These words explained many things.
“Would you have knocked down De Launay with the butt-end of a musket, Billot?”
“Would you have killed Flesselles by firing a pistol at him?”
“Would you have hanged Foulon?”
“Would you have carried the still bleeding heart of Berthier and placed it on the table of the electors?”
“Infamy!” exclaimed Billot. “On the contrary, however guilty this man may have been, I would have allowed myself to be torn to pieces could I have saved him by it; and the proof of this is that I was wounded in defending him, and that but for Pitou, who dragged me to the riverside—”
“Oh! that is true,” cried Pitou; “but for me, Father Billot would have had but a bad time of it.”
“Well, then, see you now, Billot, there are many men who would act as you have done, when they feel that they have some one to assist them near them, and who, on the contrary, if abandoned to bad examples, become wicked, then ferocious, then frenzied,—then, when the evil is done, why, 'tis done.”
“But, in short,” observed Billot, objectingly, “admitting that Mr. Pitt, or rather his money, had something to do with the death of Flesselles, of Foulon, and of Berthier, what would he gain by it?”
Gilbert began to laugh with that inaudible laugh which astonishes the simple, but which makes the thinking shudder.
“What would he gain by it!” he exclaimed, “can you ask that?”
“I will tell you. It is this; you were much pleased with the Revolution, were you not,—you who walked in blood to take the Bastille?”
“Well! you now like it less; well! now you long for Villers-Cotterets, your farm, the quietude of your plain, the shades of your great forests.”
“Frigida Tempe,” murmured Pitou.
“Oh, yes, you are right,” sighed Billot.
“Well, then, you, Father Billot; you, a farmer; you, the proprietor of land; you, a child of the Île-de-France, and consequently a Frenchman of the olden time,—you represent the third order; you belong to that which is called the majority. Well, then, you are disgusted.”
“Then the majority will become disgusted as you are.”
“And you will one day open your arms to the soldiers of the Duke of Brunswick or of Mr. Pitt, who will come to you in the name of those two liberators of France to restore wholesome doctrine.”
“Flesselles, Berthier, and Foulon were at bottom villains,” observed Pitou.
“Assuredly, as Monsieur de Sartines and Monsieur de Maurepas were villains; as Monsieur d'Argenson and Monsieur de Philippeaux were before them; as Monsieur Law was; as the Leblancs, the De Paris, the Duverneys were villains; as Fouquet was; as Mazarin was also; as Semblancey, as Enguerrand de Marigny were villains; as Monsieur de Brieune is towards Monsieur de Calonne; as Monsieur de Calonne is towards Monsieur de Necker; as Monsieur de Necker will be to the administration which we shall have in two years.”
“Oh, oh, Doctor!” murmured Billot, “Monsieur de Necker a villain—never!”
“As you will be, my good Billot, a villain in the eyes of little Pitou here, in case one of Mr. Pitt's agents should teach him certain theories, backed by the influence of a pint of brandy and ten livres per day for getting up disturbances. This word 'villain,' do you see, Billot, is the word by which in revolutions we designate the man who thinks differently from us; we are all destined to bear that name more or less. Some will bear it so far that their countrymen will inscribe it on their tombs, others so much farther that posterity will ratify the epithet. This, my dear Billot, is what I see, and which you do not see. Billot, Billot! people of real worth must therefore not withdraw.”
“Bah!” cried Billot, “even were honest people to withdraw, the Revolution would still run its course; it is in full motion.”
Another smile rose to the lips of Gilbert.
“Great child!” cried he, “who would abandon the handle of the plough, unyoke the horses from it, and then say: 'Good! the plough has no need of me; the plough will trace its furrow by itself.' But, my friends, who was it undertook the Revolution? honest people, were they not?”
“France flatters herself that it is so. It appears to me that Lafayette is an honest man; it appears to me that Bailly is an honest man; it appears to me that Monsieur de Necker is an honest man; it appears to me that Monsieur Elie, Monsieur Hullin, and Monsieur Maillard, who fought side by side with me, are honest people; it appears to me that you yourself—”
“Well, Billot, if honest people, if you, if I, if Maillard, if Hullin, if Elie, if Necker, if Bailly, if Lafayette should withdraw, who would carry on the work? Why, those wretches, those assassins, those villains whom I have pointed out to you,—the agents, the agents of Mr. Pitt!”
“Try to answer that, Father Billot,” said Pitou, convinced of the justice of the doctor's argument.
“Well, then,” replied Billot, “we will arm ourselves, and shoot these villains down as if they were dogs.”
“Wait a moment; who will arm themselves?”
“Billot, Billot! remember one thing, my good friend, and it is this, that what we are doing at this moment is called—what do you call what we are now doing, Billot?”
“Talking politics, Monsieur Gilbert.”
“Well! in politics there is no longer any absolute crime; one is a villain or an honest man, as we favor or thwart the interests of the man who judges us. Those whom you call villains will always give some specious reasons for their crimes; and to many honest people, who may have had a direct or an indirect interest in the commission of these crimes, these very villains will appear honest men also. From the moment that we reach that point, Billot, we must beware. There will then be men to hold the plough-handle. It will move onward, Billot; it will move onward, and without us.”
“It is frightful,” said the farmer; “but if it moves onward without us, where will it stop?”
“God only knows!” exclaimed Gilbert; “as to myself, I know not.”
“Well, then, if you do not know,—you who are a learned man, Monsieur Gilbert,—I, who am an ignoramus, cannot be expected to know anything of the matter. I augur from it—”
“Well, what do you augur from it? Let us hear.”
“I augur from it that what we had better do—I mean Pitou and myself—is to return to the farm. We will again take to the plough, the real plough,—that of iron and wood, with which we turn up the earth, and not the one of flesh and blood, called the French people, and which is as restive as a vicious horse. We will make our corn grow instead of shedding blood, and we shall live free, joyous, and happy as lords in our own domain. Come with us; come with us, Monsieur Gilbert I The deuce! I like to know where I am going!”
“One moment, my stout-hearted friend,” cried Gilbert. “No, I know not whither I am going. I have told you so, and I repeat it to you; however, I still go on, and I will continue to do so. My duty is traced out to me; my life belongs to God; but my works are the debt which I shall pay to my country. If my conscience says to me, 'Go on, Gilbert, you are in the right road; go on,' that is all that I require. If I am mistaken, men will punish me; but God will absolve me.”
“But sometimes men punish those who are not mistaken. You said so yourself just now.”
“And I say it again. It matters not, I persist, Billot; be it an error or not, I shall go on. To guarantee that the events will not prove my inability, God forbid that I should pretend to do so! But before all, Billot, the Lord has said, 'Peace be to the man of good intentions!' Therefore, be one of those to whom God has promised peace. Look at Monsieur de Lafayette, in America as well as France; this is the third white charger he has worn out, without counting those he will wear out in future. Look at Monsieur de Bailly, who wears out his lungs. Look at the king, who wears out his popularity. Come, come, Billot, let us not be egotistical. Let us also wear ourselves out a little. Remain with me, Billot.”
“But to do what, if we do not prevent evil being done?”
“Billot, remember never to repeat those words; for I should esteem you less. You have been trampled under foot, you have received hard fisticuffs, hard knocks from the butt-ends of muskets, and even from bayonets, when you wished to save Foulon and Berthier.”
“Yes, and even a great many,” replied the farmer, passing his hand over his still painful body.
“And as to me,” said Pitou, “I had one eye almost put out.”
“And all that for nothing,” added Billot.
“Well, my children, if instead of there being only ten, fifteen, twenty of your courage, there had been a hundred, two hundred, three hundred, you would have saved the unhappy man from the frightful death which was inflicted on him; you would have spared the nation the blot which has sullied it. And that is the reason why, instead of returning to the country, which is tolerably tranquil,—that is why, Billot, I exact as far as I can exact anything of you, my friend, that you should remain at Paris; that I may have always near me a vigorous arm, an upright heart; that I may test my mind and my works on the faithful touchstone of your good sense and your pure patriotism; and, in fine, that we may strew around us, not gold, for that we have not, but our love of country and of the public welfare, in which you will be my agent with a multitude of misled, unfortunate men,—my staff, should my feet slip; my staff, should I have occasion to strike a blow.”
“A blind man's dog,” said Billot, with sublime simplicity.
“Precisely,” said Gilbert, in the same tone.
“Well,” said Billot, “I accept your proposal. I will be whatever you may please to make me.”
“I know that you are abandoning everything,—fortune, wife, child, and happiness,—Billot. But you may be tranquil; it will not be for long.”
“And I,” said Pitou, “what am I to do?”
“You?” said Gilbert, looking at the ingenuous and hardy youth who boasted not much of his intelligence,—“you will return to the farm, to console Billot's family, and explain to them the holy mission he has undertaken.”
“Instantly!” cried Pitou, trembling with joy at the idea of returning to Catherine.
“Billot,” said Gilbert, “give him your instructions.”
“They are as follows,” said Billot.
“Catherine is appointed by me as mistress of the house. Do you understand?”
“And Madame Billot?” exclaimed Pitou, somewhat surprised at this slight offered to the mother, to the advancement of the daughter.
“Pitou,” said Gilbert, who had at once caught the idea of Billot, from seeing a slight blush suffuse the face of the honest farmer, “remember the Arabian proverb, 'to hear is to obey.'“
Pitou blushed in his turn. He had almost understood, and felt the indiscretion of which he had been guilty.
“Catherine has all the judgment of the family,” added Billot, unaffectedly, in order to explain his idea.
Gilbert bowed in token of assent.
“Is that all?” inquired the youth.
“All that I have to say,” replied Billot.”
“But not as regards me,” said Gilbert.
“I am listening,” observed Pitou, well disposed to attend to the Arabian proverb cited by Gilbert.
“You will go with a letter I shall give you to the College Louis-le-Grand,” added Gilbert. “You will deliver that letter to the Abbé Bérardier; he will intrust Sebastien to you, and you will bring him here. After I have embraced him, you will take him to Villers-Cotterets, where you will place him in the hands of the Abbé Fortier, that he may not altogether lose his time. On Sunday and Thursdays he will go out with you. Make him walk frequently in the meadows and in the woods. It will be more conducible to my tranquillity and his health that he should be in the country yonder than here.”
“I have understood you perfectly,” said Pitou, delighted to be thus restored to the friend of his childhood, and to the vague aspirations of a sentiment somewhat more adult, which had been awakened within him by the magic name of Catherine.
He rose and took leave of Gilbert, who smiled, and of Billot, who was dreaming.
Then he set off, running at full speed, to fetch Sebastien Gilbert, his foster-brother, from the college.
“And now we,” said Gilbert to Billot,—“we must set to work.”
