PITOU wished, after having fulfilled the first duties of obedience, to satisfy the first feelings of his heart.
It is a very delightful feeling to obey, when the orders of the master are in perfect unison with the secret sympathies of the person who obeys.
He therefore made the best use of his legs; and going along the narrow alley which leads from Pleux to the Rue Lonnet, which forms a sort of green girdle to that portion of the town, he went straight across the fields that he might the sooner arrive at Billot's farm.
But his rapid course was soon slackened; every step he took brought back some recollection to his mind.
When any one returns to the town or to the village in which he was born, he walks upon his youth,—he walks on his past days, which spread themselves, as the English poet says, like a carpet beneath the feet, to do honor to the traveller who returns.
He finds, at each step, a recollection in the beatings of his heart.
Here he has suffered; there he has been happy. Here he has sobbed with grief; there he has wept with joy.
Pitou, who was no analyzer, was compelled to be a man. He discovered traces of the past as he proceeded on his way; and he arrived with his soul replete with sensations at the farm of Dame Billot.
When he perceived at a hundred paces before him the long slated roofs; when he measured with his eyes the old elm-trees bending down over the moss-grown chimneys; when he heard the distant sound of the cattle, the barking of the dogs, the carts lumbering along the road,—he placed his helmet more proudly on his head, grasped his dragoon's sabre with more firmness, and endeavored to give himself a martial appearance, such as was fitting to a lover and a soldier.
At first, no one recognized him,—a proof that his effort was attended with tolerable success.
A stable-boy was standing by the pond watering his horses, and hearing a noise, turned round; and through the tufted head of a withy tree he perceived Pitou, or rather a helmet and a sabre.
The stable-boy seemed struck with stupefaction.
Pitou, on passing him, called out:—
“Hilloa, Barnaut! good-day, Barnaut!”
The boy, astounded that the helmet and sabre knew his name, took off his small hat, and let fall the halter by which he held the horses.
But the boy was by no means reassured; Pitou's benevolent smile had remained concealed beneath his helmet.
At the same moment Dame Billot perceived the approach of this military man through the windows of the dining-room.
In country places, everybody was then on the alert; for alarming rumors were spread abroad, of brigands who were destroying the forest-trees, and cutting down fields of corn, though still unripe.
What did the arrival of this soldier portend? Was it an attack, or was it assistance?
Dame Billot had taken a general survey of Pitou as he approached. She asked herself what could be the meaning of such country-looking garments with so brilliant a helmet; and we must confess her suppositions tended as much towards suspicion as towards hope.
The soldier, whoever he might be, went straight to the kitchen.
Dame Billot advanced two steps towards the newcomer. Pitou, on his side, that he might not be behindhand in politeness, took off his helmet.
“Ange Pitou!” exclaimed Dame Billot; “you here, Ange?”
“Good-day, Ma'am Billot,” replied Pitou.
“Ange! Oh, good Heaven, whoever would have guessed it! Why, you have enlisted, then?”
And he smiled somewhat disdainfully.
Then he looked around, seeking for one he did not find there.
Dame Billot smiled; she guessed the meaning of Pitou's looks.
“You are looking for Catherine?” she said.
“To pay my respects to her,” replied Pitou; “yes, Madame Billot.”
“She is attending to the drying of the linen. Come, now, sit down; look at me; speak to me.”
“Very willingly,” said Pitou. “Good-day—good-day—good-day, Madame Billot.”
Around him were soon grouped, both at the doors and on the steps of the staircases, all the servant-maids and the farm-laborers, to whom the stable-boy had quickly communicated the arrival of the soldier.
And as each of them came in, they might be heard whispering:—
Pitou cast a benign glance on all his former comrades. His smile to most of them was a caress.
“And you have come from Paris, Ange?” said the mistress of the house.
“And how are things going on in Paris?”
And the circle of auditors drew nearer.
“The king?” inquired the farmer's wife.
Pitou shook his head, and gave a clacking sound with his tongue which was very humiliating for the monarchy.
Pitou to this question made no reply at all.
“Oh!” exclaimed Madame Billot.
“Come, now, speak on, Pitou,” said Madame Billot.
“Well, ask me anything you please,” replied Pitou, who did not wish to communicate all the interesting news he brought in the absence of Catherine.
“Why have you a helmet?” asked Madame Billot.
“And what is a trophy, my friend” inquired the good woman.
“Ah! that is true, Madame Billot,” replied Pitou, with a protecting smile; “you cannot know what a trophy is. A trophy is when one has vanquished an enemy, Madame Billot.”
“You have then vanquished an enemy, Pitou?”
“One!” replied Pitou, disdainfully. “Ah! my good Madame Billot, you do not know, then, that we two, Monsieur Billot and I, have taken the Bastille?”
This magic sentence electrified the audience. Pitou felt the breath of the astonished auditors upon his hair as they bent forward to gaze at him, and their hands on the back of his chair.
“Tell us,—tell us a little of what our man has done,” said Madame Billot, with pride, but trembling with apprehension at the same time.
Pitou looked around to see if Catherine were coming; but she came not.
It appeared to him absolutely insulting that to hear such recent news, and brought by such a courier, Mademoiselle Billot did not at once leave her linen.
Pitou shook his head; he was beginning to be out of humor.
“Why, you see it would take a long time to tell it all,” said he.
“And you are hungry?” inquired Madame Billot.
Instantly farm-laborers and servants hastened to procure him refreshment, so that Pitou soon had within his reach a goblet, bread, meats, and fruit of every description, before he had even reflected on the bearing of his answer.
Pitou had a warm liver, as they say in the country,—that is to say, he digested quickly; but however quick might be his digestion, it was still amply occupied with Aunt Angélique's fowl and rice, not more than half an hour having elapsed since he had absorbed the last mouthful.
What he had asked for, therefore, did not enable him to gain so much time as he had anticipated, so rapidly had he been served.
He saw that it was necessary for him to make a desperate effort, and he set himself to work to eat.
But whatever may have been his good-will, after a moment or two he was compelled to pause.
“What is the matter with you?” asked Madame Billot.
“Bring Pitou something to drink.”
“I have cider here, Ma'am Billot.”
“But perhaps you like brandy better?”
“Yes; perhaps you are accustomed to drink it in Paris?”
The worthy woman imagined that during twelve days' absence Pitou had had time enough to be corrupted.
Pitou indignantly repelled the supposition.
“Brandy!” cried he, again, “and for me—oh, never!”
“But if I now tell you the whole story,” said Pitou, “I shall have to begin it again for Mademoiselle Catherine; and it is a very long one.”
Two or three persons rushed out towards the laundry, to fetch Mademoiselle Catherine.
But while they were all running about in search of her, Pitou mechanically turned his head towards the staircase which led up to the first story of the house; and being seated precisely opposite this staircase, he saw Mademoiselle Catherine, through an open door, looking out of a window.
Catherine was looking in the direction of the forest; that is to say, towards Boursonne.
Catherine was so much absorbed in contemplation that the unusual movement in the house had not struck her; nothing within it had attracted her attention, which seemed to be wholly engrossed by what was happening without.
“Ah, ah!” cried he, sighing, “looking towards the forest, towards Boursonne, towards Monsieur Isidore de Charny. Yes, that is it.”
And he heaved a second sigh, more melancholy than the first.
And at this moment the messengers returned, not only from the laundry, but from every place in which it was probable Mademoiselle Catherine might be found.
“Well?” inquired Madame Billot.
“We have not seen Mademoiselle.”
“Catherine! Catherine!” cried Madame Billot.
The young girl did not hear her.
“Madame Billot,” said he, “I well know why they did not find Mademoiselle Catherine at the laundry.”
“And why did they not find her?”
“You know, then, where she is?”
And taking Dame Billot by the hand, he made her go up the first three or four steps of the staircase, and showed her Catherine, who was sitting on the sill of the window, half-hidden by ivy and convolvulus.
“She is dressing her hair,” said the good woman.
“Alas! no; her hair is already dressed,” replied Pitou, in a melancholy tone.
The farmer's wife paid no attention to Pitou's melancholy, but in a loud voice she called:—
The young girl started with surprise, quickly closed her window, and said:—
“Come down, then, Catherine!” cried Dame Billot, little doubting the joyful effect her words would produce upon her. “Come down here; here is Ange just arrived from Paris.”
Pitou, with great anxiety, listened for the answer which Catherine would make.
“Ah!” coldly replied Catherine.
So coldly that poor Pitou's heart sank within him.
And she descended the staircase with all the phlegmatic manner of the Flemish women we see in the paintings of Van Ostade and Brauer.
“Well,” said she, when she reached the kitchen floor, “why, it is really Pitou!”
Pitou bowed, blushing deeply, and trembling in every nerve.
“He has a helmet,” said a servant-maid, whispering into her mistress's ear.
Pitou overheard her, and watched the effect produced on Catherine's countenance.
A lovely countenance, perhaps somewhat paler, but still full and peach-like.
But Catherine did not evince any admiration for Pitou's helmet.
“Ah! he has a helmet,” she said; “and for what purpose?”
This time indignation mastered every other feeling in the mind of the bold youth.
“I have a helmet and a sabre,” said he, proudly, “because I have fought and killed German dragoons and Swiss soldiers; and if you doubt it, Mademoiselle Catherine, ask your father, and he will tell you.”
Catherine's mind was so preoccupied that she heard only the last words uttered by Pitou.
“And how is my father?” inquired she. “How happens it that he did not return with you? Is there bad news from Paris?”
“I thought that everything had been arranged,” observed Catherine.
“Yes, that is true; but everything is disarranged again,” rejoined Pitou.
“Was there not a reconciliation between the king and the people, and was not Monsieur Necker recalled?”
“But little is thought of Monsieur Necker,” said Pitou.
“And yet that satisfied the people, did it not?”
“It so well satisfied them that the people are now about to do themselves justice and to kill all their enemies.”
“All their enemies!” exclaimed Catherine, with astonishment; “who, then, are the enemies of the people?”
“The aristocrats, to be sure,” said Pitou.
“But whom do they call aristocrats?” she asked.
“Why, those who have large estates; those who have fine country-seats; those who starve the nation; those who have all while we have nothing.”
“Go on! go on!” impatiently cried Catherine.
“Those who have beautiful horses and fine carriages, when we are obliged to go on foot.”
“Great God!” exclaimed the young girl, becoming so pale as to be positively livid.
Pitou remarked this change in her countenance.
“I call aristocrats some persons of your acquaintance.”
“Of our acquaintance!” said Dame Billot.
“But who is it, then?” said Catherine, persistingly.
“Monsieur Berthier de Sauvigny, for instance.”
“Monsieur Berthier de Sauvigny?”
“Who gave you the gold buckles which you wore the day you danced with Monsieur Isidore!”
“Well; I saw people eating his heart,—I who am now speaking to you.”
A cry of terror was uttered by all present. Catherine threw herself back in the chair which she had taken.
“You saw that?” cried Madame Billot, trembling with horror.
“And Monsieur Billot saw it too.”
“Yes, and by this time they must have killed or burned all the aristocrats of Paris and Versailles.”
“It is frightful!” murmured Catherine.
“Frightful! and why so? You are not an aristocrat,—you, Mademoiselle Billot?”
“Monsieur Pitou,” said Catherine, with gloomy energy, “it appears to me that you were not so ferocious before you went to Paris.”
“And I am not more so now, Mademoiselle,” said Pitou, somewhat staggered; “but—”
“But, then, do not boast of the crimes committed by the Parisians, since you are not a Parisian, and you did not commit these crimes.”
“I was so far from committing them,” said Pitou, “that Monsieur Billot and myself narrowly escaped being murdered while defending Monsieur Berthier.”
“Oh, my good father! my brave father! I recognize him there!” enthusiastically exclaimed Catherine.
“My good, my worthy man!” cried Madame Billot, her eyes streaming with tears. “Tell me, what did he do?”
Pitou then related the whole of the dreadful scene which had occurred on the Place de Grève, the despair of Billot, and his desire to return to VillersCotterets.
“Why did he not return, then?” cried Catherine, in an accent that, like a presentiment of evil, deeply moved Pitou's heart.
Dame Billot clasped her hands.
“Monsieur Gilbert would not allow it,” replied Pitou.
“Does Monsieur Gilbert wish, then, that my husband should be killed?” said Madame Billot, sobbing.
“Does he wish, then, that my father's house should be ruined?” added Catherine, in the same tone of gloomy melancholy.
“Oh, by no means!” cried Pitou; “Monsieur Billot and Monsieur Gilbert understand each other; Monsieur Billot will remain still some time at Paris, to finish the Revolution.”
“What! by themselves,—all alone?” cried Dame Billot.
“No, with Monsieur Bailly and Monsieur de Lafayette,” said Pitou.
“Ah!” cried the farmer's wife, with admiration, “if he indeed is with Monsieur de Lafayette and Monsieur Bailly—”
“When does he think of returning?” inquired Catherine.
“Oh, as to that, Mademoiselle, I cannot tell.”
“And you, Pitou, how happens it, then, that you have returned?”
“Who,—I? Why, I brought back Sebastien Gilbert to the Abbé Fortier, and I have come here to bring you Monsieur Billot's instructions.”
Pitou, while saying these words, rose, not without a certain degree of diplomatic dignity, which was understood, if not by the servants, at all events by their mistresses.
Dame Billot rose, and at once dismissed all the laborers and servants.
Catherine, who had remained seated, studied the thoughts of Pitou, even in the depths of his soul, before they issued from his lips.
“What can he have told him to say to me?” she asked herself.
