DAME BILLOT, resigned without affectation to undertake the functions of an upper servant, had, without ill-humor, and with good-will, resumed her occupations. Movement, which had for an instant been suspended throughout the agricultural hierarchy, soon returned; and the farm once more resembled the interior of a humming and industrious hive.
While they were getting her horse ready, Catherine re-entered the house; she cast a glance at Pitou, whose body remained motionless, but whose head turned like a weather-cock, following each movement which the young girl made until she went upstairs to her own room.
“What is it Catherine has gone to her room for?” said Pitou to himself.
Poor Pitou! what had she gone there for? She went there to dress her hair, to put on a clean cap and a pair of finer stockings.
Then, when this supplementary toilet was completed, as she heard her horse pawing the ground beneath the window, she came down, kissed her mother, and set out.
Reduced to positive idleness, and feeling but ill-assured from a slight glance, half-indifferent, half-compassionate, which Catherine had addressed to him as she left the door, Pitou could not endure to remain in such a state of anxious perplexity.
Since Pitou had once more seen Catherine, it appeared to him that the life of Catherine was absolutely necessary to him.
And besides, in the depths of his heavy and dreaming mind, something like a suspicion came and went with the regularity of the pendulum of a clock.
It is the peculiar property of ingenuous minds to perceive everything in equal degree. These sluggish natures are not less sensible than others; they feel, but they do not analyze.
Analysis is the habit of enjoying and suffering; a man must have become, to a certain degree, habituated to sensations to see their ebullition in the depth of that abyss which is called the human heart.
There are no old men who are ingenuous.
When Pitou had heard the horse's footsteps at a certain distance from the house, he ran to the door. He then perceived Catherine, who was going along a narrow crossroad, which led from the farm to the high-road to La Ferté-Milon, and terminated at the foot of a hill, whose summit was covered by a forest.
From the threshold of the door, he breathed forth an adieu to the young girl, which was replete with regret and kindly feeling.
But this adieu had scarcely been expressed by his hand and heart when Pitou reflected on one circumstance.
Catherine might have forbidden him to accompany her, but she could not prevent him from following her.
Catherine could, if she pleased, say to Pitou, “I will not see you;" but she could not very well say to him, “I forbid your looking at me.”
Pitou therefore reflected that as he had nothing to do, there was nothing in the world to prevent him from gaining the wood and keeping along the road which Catherine was going; so that without being seen, he would see her from a distance through the trees.
It was only a league and a half from the farm to La Ferté-Milon. A league and a half to go there, and a league and a half to return. What was that to Pitou?
Moreover, Catherine would get to the high-road by a line which formed an angle with the forest. By taking a straight direction, Pitou would gain a quarter of a league, so that the whole distance for him would be only two leagues and a half for the whole journey.
Two leagues and a half was a mere nothing of a walk for a man who appeared to have robbed Tom Thumb or to have at least pilfered the seven-league-boots which Tom had taken from the ogre.
Pitou had scarcely imagined this project before he put it into execution.
While Catherine was going towards the high-road, he, Pitou, stooping down behind the high waving corn, stole across to the forest.
In an instant he had reached the border of the wood; and once there, he jumped across the wide ditch which bounded it, then rushed beneath the trees, less graceful, but as rapid as a terrified deer.
He ran for a quarter of an hour in this way, and at the end of that time he perceived the wood becoming lighter, for he had nearly reached the opposite edge near the road.
There he stopped, leaning against an enormous oak, which completely concealed him behind its knotted trunk. He felt perfectly sure that he had got ahead of Catherine.
He waited ten minutes,—even a quarter of an hour,—but saw no one.
Had she forgotten something that she should have taken with her, and returned to the farm for it? This was possible.
With the greatest possible precaution, Pitou crept near the road, stretched out his head from behind a great beechtree, which grew upon the very edge of the ditch, belonging, as it were, half to the road, half to the forest. From this he had a good view of the plain, and could have perceived anything that was moving upon it; he, however, could discern nothing.
He felt assured, therefore, that Catherine must have returned to the farm.
Pitou retraced his steps. Either she had not yet reached the farm, and he would see her return to it, or she had reached it, and he would see her come out again.
Pitou extended the compass of his long legs, and began to remeasure the distance which separated him from the plain.
He ran along the sandy part of the road which was softer to his feet, when he suddenly paused.
Pitou had raised his eyes, and at the opposite end of the road he saw at a great distance, blending as it were with the blue horizon of the forest, the white horse and the red jacket of Catherine.
The pace of Catherine's horse was an amble.
The horse, ambling along, had left the high-road, having turned into a bridle-path, at the entrance of which was a direction-post, bearing the following inscription:—
“Path leading from the road of La Ferté-Milon to Boursonne.”
It was, as we have said, from a great distance that Pitou perceived this, but we know that distance was of no consequence to Pitou.
“Ah!” cried he, again darting into the forest, “it is not then to La Ferté-Milon that she was going, but to Boursonne! And yet I am not mistaken; she said La Ferté-Milon more than ten times; she had a commission given to her to make purchases at La Ferté-Milon. Dame Billot herself spoke of La Ferté-Milon.”
And while saying these words, Pitou continued running. Pitou ran faster and faster still. Pitou ran like a madman.
For Pitou, urged on by doubt, the first symptom of jealousy, was no longer biped. Pitou appeared to be one of those winged machines, which Dædalus in particular, and the great mechanicians of antiquity in general, imagined so well, but, alas! executed so badly.
He greatly resembled at that moment those figures stuffed with straw, with long reed arms, placed over toyshops, which the wind keeps turning in every direction.
Arms, legs, head, all are in motion; all are turning; all seem to be flying.
Pitou's immensely long legs measured paces of at least five feet, so widely could he distend them; his hands, like two broad bats at the end of two long sticks, struck upon the air like oars. His head—all mouth, all nostrils, and all eyes—absorbed the air, which it sent forth again in noisy breathing.
No horse could have been animated to so great a fury of speed.
No lion could have had a more ferocious desire of coming up with his prey.
Pitou had more than half a league to run when he perceived Catherine; he did not give her time enough to go a quarter of a league, while he was running twice that distance.
His speed was therefore double that of a horse that was trotting.
At length he came to a line with the object of his pursuit.
The extremity of the forest was then not more than five hundred paces from him. He could see the light more clearly through the trees, and just beyond them was the estate of Boursonne.
It was no longer merely for the purpose of seeing Catherine that Pitou followed her; it was to watch her!
She had spoken that which was false. What could be her object?
That mattered not. In order to gain a certain degree of authority over her, it was necessary to surprise her, and prove that she had uttered a flagrant falsehood.
Pitou threw himself head foremost into the underwood and thorns, breaking through them with his helmet, and using his sabre to clear the way when it was necessary.
However, as Catherine was now only moving on at a walk, from time to time the crackling noise of a branch being broken reached her ear, which made both the horse and the mistress prick up their ears.
Then Pitou, whose eyes never for a moment lost sight of Catherine, stopped, which was of some advantage to him, as it enabled him to recover his breath, and it destroyed at the same time any suspicion that Catherine might entertain.
This, however, could not last long, nor did it.
Pitou suddenly heard Catherine's horse neigh, and this neighing was replied to by the neighing of another horse. The latter could not yet be seen.
But however this might be, Catherine gave hers a smart cut with her holly switch; and the animal, which had taken breath a few moments, set off again in full trot.
In about five minutes, thanks to this increase of speed, she had come up with a horseman, who had hastened towards her with as much eagerness as she had shown to reach him.
Catherine's movement had been so rapid and unexpected that poor Pitou had remained motionless, standing in the same place, only raising himself on his tiptoes that he might see as far as possible.
The distance was too great to enable him to see clearly.
But if he did not see, what Pitou felt, as if it had been an electric shock, was the delight and the blushing of the young girl. It was the sudden start which agitated her whole body. It was the sparkling of her eyes, usually so gentle, but which then became absolutely flashing.
Neither could he see who was the cavalier. He could not distinguish his features; but recognizing by his air, by his green velvet hunting-coat, by his hat with its broad loop, by the easy and graceful motion of his head, that he must belong to the very highest class of society, his memory at once reverted to the very handsome young man, the elegant dancer of Villers-Cotterets; his heart, his mouth, every fibre of his nerves, murmured the name of Isidore de Charny.
Pitou heaved a sigh which was very much like a roar; and, rushing anew into the thicket, he advanced within twenty paces of the two young people, then too much occupied with each other to remark whether the noise they heard was caused by the rushing of a quadruped or of a biped through the underwood.
The young man, however, turned his head towards Pitou, raised himself up in his stirrups, and cast a vague look around him.
But at the same moment, and in order to escape this investigation, Pitou threw himself flat on his face.
Then, like a serpent, he glided along the ground about ten paces more, and having then got within hearing distance, he listened.
“Good-day, Monsieur Isidore,” said Catherine.
“Monsieur Isidore!” murmured Pitou; “I was sure of that.”
He then felt in all his limbs the immense fatigue of the race he had run, and which doubt, mistrust, and jealousy had urged him to during a whole hour.
The two young people had each let fall their bridle, and had grasped each other's hands and remained thus, mute and smiling at each other, while the two horses, no doubt accustomed to each other, were rubbing their noses together, and pawing the green turf by the roadside.
“You are behind your time to-day,” said Catherine, who was the first to speak.
“To-day!” exclaimed Pitou to himself; “it seems that on other days he was not behind time.”
“It is not my fault, dear Catherine,” replied the young man, “for I was detained by a letter from my brother, which reached me only this morning, and to which I was obliged to reply by return of post. But fear nothing; to-morrow I will be more punctual.”
Catherine smiled, and Isidore pressed still more tenderly the hand which had been left in his.
Alas! all these proofs of affection were so many thorns which made poor Pitou's heart bleed.
“You have then very late news from Paris” she asked.
“Well, then,” continued she, smiling, “so have I. Did you not tell me the other day when similar things happened to two persons who loved each other, that it is called sympathy?”
“Precisely. And how did you receive your news, my lovely Catherine?”
“And whom do you mean by Pitou?” asked the young nobleman, with a free and joyous air, which changed to scarlet the color which had already overspread Pitou's cheeks.
“Why, you know full well,” said she. “Pitou is the poor lad whom my father took at the farm, and who gave me his arm one Sunday.”
“Ah, yes,” said the young gentleman, “he whose knees are like knots tied in a table-napkin.”
Catherine laughed. Pitou felt himself humiliated, and was in perfect despair. He looked at the knees, which were in fact like knots, raising himself on both hands and getting up; but he again fell flat on his face with a sigh.
“Come, now,” said Catherine, “you must not so sadly ill-treat my poor Pitou. Do you know what he proposed to me just now?”
“No; but tell me what it was, my lovely one.”
“Well, then, he proposed to accompany me to La Ferté-Milon.”
“No, because I thought you were waiting for me here; while, on the contrary, it was I who almost had to wait for you.”
“Ah! do you know you have uttered royal sentence, Catherine?”
“Really! well, I am sure I did not imagine I was doing so.”
“And why did you not accept the offer of this handsome cavalier? He would have amused us.”
“Not always, perhaps,” replied Catherine, laughing.
“You are right, Catherine,” said Isidore; fixing his eyes which beamed with love, on the beautiful girl.
And he caught the blushing face of the young girl in his arms, which he clasped round her neck.
Pitou closed his eyes that he might not see, but he had forgotten to shut his ears that he might not hear, and the sound of a kiss reached them.
Pitou clutched his hair in despair, as does the man afflicted with the plague in the foreground of Gros' picture, representing Bonaparte visiting the soldiers attacked by the plague in the hospital at Jaffa.
When Pitou had somewhat recovered his equanimity, he found that the two young people had moved off to a little distance, and were proceeding on their way, walking their horses.
The last words which Pitou could catch were these:
“Yes, you are right, Monsieur Isidore; let us ride together for an hour; my horse's legs shall make up the lost time. And,” added she, laughing, “it is a good animal, who will not mention it to any one.”
And this was all; the vision faded away. Darkness reigned in the soul of Pitou, as it began to reign over all Nature; and rolling upon the heather, the poor lad abandoned himself to the overwhelming feelings which oppressed his heart.
He remained in this state for some time; but the coolness of the evening at length restored him to himself.
“I will not return to the farm,” said he. “I should only be humiliated, scoffed at. I should eat the bread of a woman who loves another man, and a man, I cannot but acknowledge, who is handsomer, richer, and more elegant than I am. No, my place is no longer at the farm, but at Haramont,—at Haramont, my own country, where I shall perhaps find people who will not think that my knees are like knots made in a table-napkin.”
Having said this, Pitou trotted his good long legs towards Haramont, where, without his at all suspecting it, his reputation and that of his helmet and sabre had preceded him, and where awaited him, if not happiness, at least a glorious destiny.
But, it is well known, it is not an attribute of humanity to be perfectly happy.
