THE whole of that night Pitou was so absorbed in reflecting on the great honor which had befallen him that he forgot to visit his wires.
The next morning he donned his helmet, and buckled on his great sabre, and set out manfully towards Villers-Cotterets.
It was just striking six o'clock when Pitou reached the square before the château, and he modestly knocked at the small door which opened into the Abbé Fortier's garden.
Pitou had knocked loud enough to satisfy his conscience, but gently enough not to be heard from the house.
He had hoped thus to gain a quarter of an hour's respite, and during that time to summon up some flowers of oratory wherewith to adorn the speech he had prepared for the Abbé Fortier.
But his astonishment was great when, notwithstanding his having knocked so gently, he saw the gate at once opened; but his astonishment soon ceased, when in the person who had opened it he recognized Sebastien Gilbert.
The lad was walking in the garden studying his lesson by the sun's first rays,—or rather, we should say, pretending to study; for the open book was hanging listlessly in his hand, and the thoughts of the youth were capriciously wandering after those whom he most loved in the world.
Sebastien uttered a joyous cry on perceiving Pitou.
They embraced each other. The boy's first words were these:—
“Have you received news from Paris?”
“No; have you any?” inquired Pitou. “Oh! I have received some,” said Sebastien. “My father has written me a delightful letter.”
“And in which,” continued the lad, “there is a word for you.”
And taking the letter from his breast-pocket, he handed it to Pitou.
“P.S.—Billot recommends Pitou not to annoy or distract the attention of the people at the farm.”
“Oh!” said Pitou, “that is a recommendation which, as it regards me, is altogether useless. There is no one at the farm whom I can either annoy or amuse.”
Then he added to himself, sighing still more deeply:
“It was to Monsieur Isidore that these words ought to have been addressed.”
He, however, soon recovered his self-possession, and returned the letter to Sebastien.
“Where is the abbé?” he inquired.
Sebastien bent his ear towards the house, and, although the width of the courtyard and the garden separated him from the staircase, which creaked beneath the footsteps of the worthy priest:—
“Why,” said he, “he is just coming downstairs.”
Pitou went from the garden into the courtyard; and it was only then that he heard the heavy footsteps of the abbé.
The worthy professor was reading the newspaper as he came downstairs. His faithful cat-o'-nine tails was, as usual, hanging by his side.
With his nose close to the newspaper—for he knew by heart the number of steps and every inequality in the wall of his old house—the abbé almost ran against Ange Pitou, who had assumed the most majestic air he could put on, in order to contend with his political antagonist.
But we must first of all say a few words as to the position of the Abbé Fortier, which might have appeared tedious in any other page, but which here find their natural place.
They will explain how it was that the thirty or forty muskets which have been so much talked about happened to be in-the Abbé Fortier's charge,—which muskets had become the object of the ambition of Pitou, and of his two accomplices, Claude and Désiré.
The Abbé Fortier, who had formerly been the almoner or sub-almoner of the château, as we have already had occasion to explain elsewhere, had, in course of time, and above all, with that patient fixity of ideas inherent in ecclesiastics, become sole intendant of what in theatrical language is called the properties of the château.
Besides the sacred vases, besides the library, he had received in charge all the hunting apparatus of the Duke of Orléans, Louis Philippe, the father of Philippe, who was afterwards called Égalité. Some of this apparatus had been in the family as far back as the reigns of Louis XIII. and Henri III. All these articles had been artistically arranged by him in one of the galleries of the chateau, which had been allotted to him for this express purpose. In order to give them a more picturesque appearance, he had formed them into stars, the centre being shields, surrounded by boar-spears, hunting-knives, and short muskets, richly inlaid, and manufactured during the time of the League.
The door of this gallery was formidably defended by two small cannon of plated bronze, given by Louis XIV. to his brother, Monsieur.
Besides these, there were about fifty musketoons, brought as trophies by Joseph Philippe from the battle of Ushant, and presented by him to the municipality of Villers-Cotterets; and the municipality, as we have said, having furnished the Abbé Fortier with a house free of rent, had placed these muskets, not knowing what to do with them, in the collegiate house.
Such was the treasure guarded by the Dragon, named Fortier, and threatened by the Jason, named Ange Pitou.
The little arsenal of the château was sufficiently celebrated in the country to make people desire to obtain possession of it at little cost.
But, as we have said, the abbé, being a vigilant Dragon, did not appear disposed willingly to give up, to any Jason whatsoever, the golden apples which his Hesperides contained.
Having said this much, let us return to Pitou.
He very gracefully bowed to the Abbé Fortier, accompanying his bow with a slight cough, such as we use to attract the attention of persons who are naturally absent, or who are preoccupied.
The Abbé Fortier raised his nose from the newspaper.
“Well, I declare,” said he, “'t is Pitou.”
“To serve you, should I be capable of doing so,” courteously replied Ange.
The abbé folded up his newspaper, or rather closed it as he would have done a portfolio, for in those happy days the newspapers were still small pamphlets.
Then, having folded up his paper, he stuck it into his belt on the opposite side to his cat-o'-nine-tails.
“Ah, yes! but in that lies the misfortune,” replied the abbé, jeeringly, “seeing that you are not capable.”
“Do you hear me, Mr. Hypocrite?”
“Do you hear me, Mr. Revolutionist?”
“Come now, this is good; for before I have spoken even a single word, you get into a passion with me. This is but a bad beginning, Abbé.”
Sebastien—who well knew what the Abbé Fortier had, for the last two days, been saying to every one who came near him about Pitou, and thinking it better not to be present during the quarrel which must necessarily ensue between his schoolmaster and his friend—stole away as quickly as he could.
Pitou observed Sebastien's escape with a certain degree of sorrow. He was not a very vigorous ally, but he was a youth of the same political communion with himself.
And therefore, when he perceived him stepping through the door, he could not avoid uttering a sigh; then turning to the abbé:—
“Come now, Monsieur Fortier,” said he, “why do you call me a Revolutionist? Would you insinuate that I am the cause of the Revolution?”
“You have lived with those who are carrying it on.”
“Good Monsieur Abbé,” said Pitou, with supreme dignity, “the thoughts of every man are free.”
“Est penes hominem arbitrium et ratio.”
“Why, really,” cried the abbé, “you know Latin, then, you clown?”
“I know what you taught me of it,” modestly replied Pitou.
“Yes, revised, corrected, augmented, and embellished with barbarisms.”
“Good again, Monsieur Abbé,—barbarisms! and who is there who does not commit them?”
“Vile fellow!” cried the abbé, evidently wounded by this apparent tendency of Pitou to generalize. “What! do you believe that I am guilty of barbarisms?”
“You would commit them in the eyes of a man who was a better Latin scholar than yourself.”
“Only hear that!” cried the abbé, turning pale with anger, and yet struck with the reasoning, which was not devoid of point.
“There, in two words, is the system of these vile wretches; they destroy and degrade, and who profits by it? They know not even themselves; it is to the profit of the unknown. Come now, Monsieur Dunce, speak out freely; do you know any one who is a better Latin scholar than I am?”
“No; but there may be many, although I do not know them,—I do not know everything.”
Pitou made the sign of the cross.
“What are you doing there, libertine?”
“You swore, Monsieur Abbé, and I crossed myself.”
“Why, rascal, have you come here to tympanize me?”
“To tympanize you!” repeated Pitou.
“Ah, good; now again you do not comprehend—”
“Oh, yes! I understand it well enough. Ah! thanks to you, I know the roots of words—tympanize—tympanum—drum; it comes from the Greek tympanon, drum or bell.”
The abbé appeared perfectly astounded.
“Root, typos, mark, vestige; and as Lancelot says in his Garden of Greek Roots, typos, the form which impresses itself, which word evidently comes from tupto , strike. There you have it.”
“Ah! ah! rascallion!” cried the abbé, more and more dumfounded. “It seems that you yet know something, even what you did not know.”
“Pooh!” ejaculated Pitou, with affected modesty.
“How did it happen that during the whole time you were with me, you could not answer me as you have now done?”
“Because, during the time I was with you, Abbé Fortier, you brutalized me; because, by your despotism you repelled my intelligence, imprisoned within my memory all that liberty has since brought forth from it. Yes, liberty,” continued Pitou, becoming more energetic as he proceeded; “do you hear me?—liberty!”
“Monsieur Professor,” said Pitou, with an air which was not exempt from threat,—“Monsieur Professor, do not insult me. Contumelia non argumentum, says an orator; insult is not reasoning.”
“I think that the fellow,” cried the abbé, in great fury,—“I think that the fellow imagines it necessary to translate his Latin to me.”
“It is not my Latin, Monsieur Abbé; it is Cicero's,—that is to say, the Latin of a man who assuredly would have thought that you made as many barbarisms in comparison with him as I do in comparison with you.”
“You do not expect, I hope,” cried the Abbé Fortier, somewhat shaken on his pedestal,—“you do not expect, I hope, that I should discuss with you?”
“And why not? If from the discussion light is to proceed, abstrusa in venis silicis.”
“How! how!” exclaimed the Abbé Fortier; “why, really, the fellow has been in the Revolutionary school.”
“How can that be, since you yourself have said that the Revolutionists are fools and ignoramuses?”
“Then you are making a false reasoning, my worthy abbé, and your syllogism is badly founded.”
“Badly founded! What say you? I have badly founded a syllogism?”
“Undoubtedly, Monsieur l'Abbé. Pitou reasons and speaks well; Pitou has been to the Revolutionary school,—the Revolutionists consequently reason and speak well. There is no getting out of that.”
“Do not molest me by your words, Monsieur Abbé. Objurgatio imbellem animum arguit, weakness betrays itself by anger.”
The abbé shrugged his shoulders.
“You say that the Revolutionists speak well and reason well. But tell me the name of any one of those wretches who knows how to read and write.”
“That is blinking the point in discussion; but I will answer you, nevertheless. I can read and write,” cried Pitou, with assurance.
“Read; I will admit that,—and yet I know not,-but as to writing—”
“Yes, you can write; but without orthography.”
“Will you lay a wager that you will write a page under my dictation without making four blunders?”
“Will you lay a wager, you, that you will write half a page under my dictation without making two?”
“Well, let us to work. I will pick you out some participles and reflective verbs. I will season you up all these with a certain number of that's which I know of; I accept the wager.”
“If I had time,” said the abbé.
“Pitou! Pitou! remember the proverb, Pitoueus Angelus asinus est.”
“Pooh! proverbs!—there are proverbs made for everybody. Do you know the one which was sung into my ears by the reeds of the Wualu as I passed by them?”
“No; but I should be curious to know it, Master Midas.”
“Fortierus Abbas forte fortis.”
“A free translation; the Abbé Fortier is not in his forte every day.”
“Fortunately,” said the abbé, “accusing is of slight importance; it is the proof that condemns.”
“Alas! good Monsieur Abbé, that would be perfectly easy; let us see, what do you teach your pupils?”
“Allow me to follow up the argument. What do you teach your pupils?”
“Good! remember that your answer was, 'What I know.'
“Well, yes, what I know,” said the abbé, somewhat shaken; for he felt that during his absence this singular combatant had learned some unknown thrusts. “Yes, I did say so; and what then?”
“Well, then, since you teach your pupils what you know, tell me what it is that you do know?”
“Latin, French, Greek, history, geography, arithmetic, algebra, astronomy, botany, and numismatics—”
“Anything more?” inquired Pitou.
“A branch of mathematics—but that matters not; go on.”
“But tell me, what are you aiming at?”
“Simply at this: you have stated pretty largely the account of what you do know; now state the account of what you do not know.”
“Ah!” said Pitou, “I clearly see that to do this I must assist you; well, then, you do not know either German or Hebrew or Arabic or Sanscrit—four mother languages. I speak not of the sub-divisions, which are innumerable. You know nothing of natural history, of chemistry, of physics—”
“Do not interrupt me: you know nothing of rectilinear trigonometry; you are ignorant of medicine; you know nothing of acoustics, of navigation; you are ignorant of everything that regards the gymnastic sciences.”
“I said gymnastics, from the Greek exercitia gymntastica , which comes from gymnos, naked, because the athletes were naked when they exercised.”
“And yet it was I who taught you all this!” cried the abbé, almost consoled at the victory of his pupil.
“It is fortunate that you even acknowledge it.”
“And with gratitude; we were saying, then, that you are ignorant of—”
“Enough. It is certain that I am ignorant of much more than I know.”
“Therefore you acknowledge that many men know more than you do.”
“It is certain; and the more a man knows, the more does he perceive that he knows nothing. It was Cicero who said this.”
“Let us hear your conclusion; it will be a fine one.”
“I conclude that in virtue of your relative ignorance, you ought to be more indulgent as to the relative knowledge of other men. This constitutes a double virtue,—virtus duplex, which we are assured was that of Fénelon, who assuredly knew quite as much as you do; and that is Christian charity and humility.”
The abbé uttered a perfect roar of anger.
“Serpent!” he exclaimed; “you are a serpent!”
“You insult me, but do not answer me; this was the reply of one of the seven wise men of Greece. I would say it in Greek, but I have already said it, or something nearly to the same purpose, in Latin.”
“Good!” said the abbé, “this is another effect of Revolutionary doctrines.”
“They have persuaded you that you were my equal.”
“And even should they have persuaded me of that, it would not give you the right of making a grammatical error.”
“I say that you have just made an enormous fault, master.”
“Ah! that is very polite indeed; and what fault did I commit?”
“It is this. You said, 'Revolutionary principles have persuaded you that you were my equal.'“
“Well; were is in the imperfect tense.”
“It was the present you should have used.”
“Ah!” cried the abbé, blushing.
“Only translate the phrase into Latin and you will see what an enormous solecism the verb will give you in the imperfect tense.”
“Pitou! Pitou!” exclaimed the abbé, imagining that there was something supernatural in this astounding erudition,—“Pitou! which of the demons is it that inspires you with all these attacks against an old man and against the Church?”
“Why, my good master,” replied Pitou, somewhat moved by the tone of real despair in which these words had been pronounced, “it is not a demon who inspires me, nor do I attack you. Only you treat me as if I were a perfect fool, and you forget that all men are equals.”
“It is that which I never will permit; I cannot allow such blasphemies to be uttered in my presence. You,—you the equal of a man whom God and study have taken sixty years to form? never! never!”
“Well, then, ask Monsieur de Lafayette, who has proclaimed the rights of man.”
“Yes, yes! cite as an authority an unfaithful subject of the king,—the firebrand of all this discord; the traitor!”
“Hey!” cried Pitou, horrified. “Monsieur de Lafayette an unfaithful subject! Monsieur de Lafayette a firebrand of discord! Monsieur de Lafayette a traitor! Why, it is you, Abbé, who are blaspheming. Why, you must have lived shut up in a box during the last three months. You do not know, then, that this unfaithful subject of the king is the only one who serves the king; that this firebrand of discord is the pledge of public peace; that this traitor is the best of Frenchmen?”
“Oh!” exclaimed the abbé, “could I ever have believed that royal authority would fall so low? A worthless fellow like that”—and he pointed to Pitou—“to invoke the name of Lafayette as in ancient times they invoked the names of Aristides and of Phocion.”
“It is very fortunate for you, Monsieur l'Abbé, that the people do not hear you,” said Pitou, imprudently.
“Ah!” exclaimed the abbé, with triumph, “you at length reveal yourself,—you threaten. The people-yes, the people who basely murdered the king's officers—the people, who even tore out the entrails of their victims! Yes, Monsieur de Lafayette's people—Monsieur Bailly's people—Monsieur Pitou's people! Well, then, why do you not instantly denounce me to the Revolutionists of Villers-Cotterets Why do you not drag me to Pleux? Why do you not turn up your sleeves to hang me on the first post? Come now, Pitou; macte animo, Pitou. Sursum! sursum, Pitou! Come, come, where is your rope? Where is your gallows? There is the executioner; macte animo, generose Pitoue!”
“Sic itur ad astra!” added Pitou, muttering, but solely with the intention of finishing the line, and not perceiving that he was making a pun worthy of a cannibal.
But he was compelled to perceive it by the increased exasperation of the abbé.
“Ah! ah!” vociferated the latter; “ah! that is the way you take it! Ah, it is thus that you would send me to the stars, is it? Ah, you intend me for the gallows, do you?”
“Why, I did not say that,” cried Pitou, beginning to be alarmed at the turn the conversation was taking.
“Ah! you promise me the heaven of the unfortunate Foulon, of the unhappy Berthier?”
“Ah, you have the running-noose prepared, sanguinary executioner! It was you, was it not, who on the square before the Hôtel de Ville ascended the lamp-iron, and with your long, hideous, spider-like arms drew the victims to you?”
Pitou uttered a perfect roar of horror and indignation.
“Yes, it was you; and I recognize you,” continued the abbé, in a transport of divination, which made him resemble Joab,—“I recognize thee; thou art Catiline.”
“But really,” exclaimed Pitou, “do you know that you are saying abominable things to me, Monsieur l'abbé Do you know that, in point of fact, you are insulting me?”
“Do you know that if this continues I will complain to the National Assembly? Ah! but—”
The abbé laughed with a sinister irony.
“Lay your information,” said he.
“And that punishment is awarded to ill-disposed persons who insult the good?”
Then he exclaimed, as if suddenly enlightened and struck with a movement of generous indignation:—
“Ah, the helmet! the helmet! 't is he!”
“Well,” said Pitou, “what is the matter with my helmet?”
“The man who tore out the still smoking heart of Berthier—the cannibal who carried it still bleeding, and laid it on the table of the electors—wore a helmet; that man with the helmet was you, Pitou! it was you, monster that you are! avaunt! avaunt! avaunt!”
And each time that the abbé pronounced the word “avaunt,” which he did with much tragic emphasis, he advanced one step towards Pitou, who retreated in the same proportion.
But on hearing this accusation, of which the reader knows Pitou to be perfectly innocent, the poor lad threw far from him the helmet of which he was so proud, which rolled over upon the pavement of the courtyard, with the heavy, hollow sound of copper lined with pasteboard.
“You see, wretch!” cried the abbé, “you acknowledge it.”
And he assumed the attitude of Lekain, in Orosmanes, at the moment when, after finding the letter, he accuses Zaïre.
“Come, now,” said Pitou, completely taken aback by so horrible an accusation, “you are exaggerating, Monsieur l'Abbé.”
“I exaggerate! that is to say, that you only hanged a little; that is to say, that you only ripped up a little; poor, weak child!”
“Monsieur Abbé, you know full well it was not I, you well know that it was Pitt.”
“Pitt the Second, the son of Pitt the First, of Lord Chatham. He who has distributed money, saying, 'Spend it; you need not give any account of it.' If you understood English, I would tell it you in English, but you do not know that language.”
“Monsieur Gilbert taught it me.”
“In three weeks? Monsieur Impostor!”
Pitou saw that he had made a false step.
“Hear me, Monsieur Abbé,” said he, “I will not contend with you any farther. You have your own ideas—”
“You acknowledge that: Monsieur Pitou allows me to have my own ideas! Thanks, Monsieur Pitou”
“Good! There, you are getting angry again. You must comprehend that if this continues I shall not be able to tell you the object which brought me here.”
“Wretch! You had an object in coming here, then You were deputed, perhaps”
And the abbé laughed ironically.
“Sir,” said Pitou, placed by the abbé himself upon the, footing in which he wished to find himself since the commencement of the discussion, “you know the great respect I have always had for your character.”
“Ah, yes! let us talk of that.”
“And the admiration I have always entertained for your knowledge,” added Pitou.
“Serpent!” exclaimed the abbé.
“What! I?” cried Pitou; “that, for example!”
“Come, now, let us hear what you have to ask of me! That I should take you back here? No, no; I would not spoil my scholars. No; you would still retain the noxious venom; you would infect my young plants. Infecit pabula tabo.”
“No, do not ask me that; if you must absolutely eat,—for I presume that the hangers of Paris eat as well as honest people. They eat—oh, God! In short, if you require that I should throw you your portion of raw meat, you shall have it, but at the door on the spatula, as at Rome the masters did to their dogs.”
“Monsieur Abbé,” cried Pitou, drawing himself up proudly, “I do not ask you for my food; I have wherewith to provide food, God be thanked; I will not be a burden to any one.”
“Ah!” exclaimed the abbé, with surprise.
“I live as all living beings do, and that without begging, and by that industry which Nature has implanted in me; I live by my own labor; and more than that, I am so far from being chargeable on my fellowcitizens, that several among them have elected me their chief.”
“Hey!” cried the abbé, with so much surprise, mingled with so much terror, that it might have been thought that he had trod upon a viper.
“Yes, yes; they have elected me their chief,” repeated Pitou, complacently.
“Chief of what” inquired the abbé.
“Chief of a troop of freemen,” said Pitou.
“Ah! good Heaven!” cried the abbé, “the unfortunate boy has gone mad.”
“Chief of the National Guard of Haramont,” concluded Pitou, affecting modesty.
The abbé leaned towards Pitou in order to gain from his features a confirmation of his words.
“There is a National Guard at Haramont” cried he.
“And you are the chief of it?”
The abbé raised his outstretched arms towards heaven, like Phineas the high-priest.
“Abomination of desolation!” murmured he.
“You are not ignorant, Monsieur abbé,” said Pitou, with gentleness, “that the National Guard is an institution destined to protect the life, the liberty, and the property of the citizens.”
“Oh! oh!” continued the abbé, overwhelmed by his despair.
“And that,” continued Pitou, “too much vigor cannot be given to that institution, above all, in the country, on account of the very numerous bands—”
“Bands of which you are the chief!” cried the abbé,—“bands of plunderers, bands of incendiaries, bands of assassins!”
“Oh, do not confound things in this manner, dear Monsieur Abbé; you will see my soldiers, I hope, and never were there more honest citizens.”
“You must consider, on the contrary, that we are your natural protectors; and the proof of this is that I have come straight to you.”
“And for what purpose?” inquired the abbé.
“Ah! that is precisely it,” said Pitou, scratching his ear and looking anxiously at the spot where his helmet was lying, in order to ascertain whether in going to pick up this very necessary portion of his military equipment, he would not place himself at too great a distance from his line of retreat.
The helmet had rolled to within some few paces only of the great gate which opened on to the Rue de Soissons.
“I asked you for what purpose,” repeated the abbé.
“Well,” said Pitou, retreating backwards two steps towards his helmet, “this is the object of my mission, good Monsieur Abbé; permit me to develop it to your sagacity.”
“Exordium!” muttered the abbé.
Pitou backed two steps more towards his helmet.
But by a singular manæuvre, which did not fail to give Pitou some uneasiness, whenever he made two steps nearer to his helmet, the abbé, in order to remain at the same distance from him, advanced two steps towards Pitou.
“Well,” said Pitou, beginning to feel more courageous from his proximity to his defensive headpiece, “all soldiers require muskets, and we have not any.”
“Ah! you have no muskets!” cried the abbé, dancing with joy; “ah! they have no muskets! Soldiers without muskets! Ah! by my faith! they must be very pretty soldiers.”
“But, Monsieur Abbé,” said Pitou, taking again two steps nearer to his helmet, “when men have not muskets, they seek for them.”
“Yes,” said the abbé; “and you are in search of some?”
Pitou was able to reach his helmet, and brought it near him with his foot. Being thus occupied, he did not at once reply to the abbé.
“You look, then, for some?” repeated the latter.
“In your house,” said Pitou, placing the helmet on his head.
“Guns in my house?” asked the abbé. “Yes. You have many.”
“Ah! my museum; you come to rob my museum. Only fancy the cuirasses of old heroes on the backs of such creatures. Pitou, I told you just now that you were mad. The swords of the Spaniards of Almanza, the pikes of the Swiss of Marignan, were never made for such a troop as yours.”
The abbé laughed so scornfully that a cold shudder ran through Pitou's veins.
“No, abbé!” said Pitou, “the Spanish swords and Swiss pikes would be of no use.”
“Not those arms, abbé, but those capital muskets I cleaned so often when I studied under you.
'Dum me Galatea tenebat,'“
added Pitou, with a most insinuating smile.
“Indeed,” said the abbé; and he felt his few hairs stand erect as Pitou spoke; “you want my old marine muskets?”
“They are the only weapons you have without any historical interest, and really fit for service.”
“Indeed,” said the abbé, placing his hand on the handle of his lash, as the soldier would have seized his sword. “Back, now! the traitor unveils himself.”
“Abbé,” said Pitou, passing from menace to prayer,
“Go back!” The abbé advanced towards Pitou.
“And you will have the glory of having contributed to rescue the country from its oppressors.”
“Furnish arms to be used against me and mine! Never!” said the abbé.
“Monsieur,” said Pitou, “your name shall be placed in the journal of Monsieur Prudhomme.”
“I had rather be sent to the galleys.”
“What! you refuse?” asked Pitou.
“That would be very wrong, for you would be accused of treason. Monsieur, I beg you not to expose yourself to that.”
“Make me a martyr, Nero! I ask but that.” And his eye glared so that he looked more like the executioner than the victim.
So Pitou thought, for he began to fall back.
“Abbé,” said he, stepping back, “I'm an ambassador of peace, a quiet deputy. I come—”
“You come to rob my armory, as your accomplices did that of the Invalides.”
“Which was most laudable,” said Pitou.
“And which will here expose you to a shower of lashes from my cat-o'-nine-tails.”
“Monsieur,” said Pitou, who recognized an old acquaintance in the tool, “you will not thus violate the law of nations.”
“I am protected by my character of ambassador.”
The abbé continued to advance.
“Abbé! Abbé! Abbé!” said Pitou.
He was at the street door, face to face with his dangerous enemy, and Pitou had either to fight or run.
To run he had to open the door, to open the door, turn.
If he turned, Pitou exposed to danger the part of his body the least protected by the cuirass.
“You want my guns? you want my guns, do you?” said the abbé, “and you say, 'I will have them or you die!'“
“On the contrary, Monsieur, I say nothing of the kind.”
“Well, you know where they are; cut my throat and take them.”
“I am incapable of such a deed.”
Pitou stood at the door with his hand on the latch, and thought not of the abbé's muskets, but of his whip.
“Then you will not give me the muskets?”
“Then keep them!” and he dashed through the halfopen door.
His movement was not quick enough to avoid the whip, which hissed through the air and fell on the small of the back of Pitou; and great as was the courage of the conqueror of the Bastille, he uttered a cry of pain.
On hearing the cry, many of the neighbors rushed out, and to their surprise saw Pitou running away with his sword and helmet, and the Abbé Fortier at the door brandishing his whip, as the angel of destruction wields his sword of flame.
