BUT now let us return to the farm, and relate the catastrophe of which Pitou's episode was the winding up.
At about six o'clock in the morning an agent of the Paris police, accompanied by two sergeants, arrived at Villers-Cotterets, had presented themselves to the Commissary of Police, and had requested that the residence of Farmer Billot might be pointed out to them.
When they came within about five hundred yards of the farm, the exempt perceived a laborer working in a field. He went to him and asked him whether he should find Monsieur Billot at home. The laborer replied that Monsieur Billot never returned home till nine o'clock,—that is to say, before the breakfast hour. But at that very moment, as chance would have it, the laborer raised his eyes, and pointed to a man on horseback, who was talking with a shepherd at the distance of a quarter of a league from the farm.
“And yonder,” said he, “is the person you are inquiring for.”
“Yes; that is Monsieur Billot.”
“Well, then, my friend,” rejoined the exempt, “do you wish to afford great pleasure to your master?”
“Go and tell him that a gentleman from Paris is waiting for him at the farm.”
“Oh,” cried the laborer, “can it be Doctor Gilbert?”
“Tell him what I say; that is all.”
The countryman did not wait to have the order repeated, but ran as hard as he could across the fields, while the police-officer and the two sergeants went and concealed themselves behind a half-ruined wall which stood facing the gate of the farm-yard.
In a very few minutes the galloping of a horse was heard. It was Billot, who had hastened back.
He went into the farm-yard, jumped from his horse, threw the bridle to one of the stable-boys, and rushed into the kitchen, being convinced that the first person he should see there would be Dr. Gilbert, standing beneath the immense mantel-piece; but he only saw Madame Billot seated in the middle of the room, plucking the feathers from a duck with all the minute care which this difficult operation demands.
Catherine was in her own room, employed in making a cap for the following Sunday. As it appears, Catherine was determined to be prepared in good time; but if the women have one pleasure almost equal to that of being well-dressed, it is that of preparing the articles with which they are to adorn themselves.
Billot paused on the threshold of the kitchen, and looked around inquiringly.
“Who, then, was it sent for me?” said he.
“It was I,” replied a flute-like voice behind him.
Billot turned round, and perceived the gentleman in black and the two sergeants.
“Hey-day!” cried he, retreating three paces from them; “and what do you want with me?”
“Oh, good heavens! almost nothing, my dear Monsieur Billot,” said the man with the flute-like voice; “only to make a perquisition in your farm, that is all.”
“A perquisition?” exclaimed the astonished Billot.
“A perquisition,” repeated the exempt.
Billot cast a glance at his fowling-piece, which was hanging over the chimney.
“Since we have a National Assembly,” said he, “I thought that citizens were no longer exposed to such vexations, which belong to another age, and which appertain to a bygone state of things. What do you want with me? I am a peaceable and loyal man.”
The agents of every police in the world have one habit which is common to them all,—that of never replying to the questions of their victims; but while they are searching their pockets, while they are arresting them, or tying their hands behind, some appear to be moved by pity. These tender-hearted ones are the most dangerous, inasmuch as they appear to be the most kind-hearted.
The one who was exercising his functions in the house of Farmer Billot was of the true Tapin and Desgrés school, made up of sweets, having always a tear for those whom they are persecuting, but who nevertheless do not use their hands to wipe their eyes.
The one in question, although heaving a deep sigh, made a sign with his hand to the two sergeants, who approached Billot. The worthy farmer sprang backward, and stretched out his hand to seize his gun; but it was diverted from the weapon,—a doubly-dangerous act at such a moment, as it might not only have killed the person about to use it, but the one against whom it was to be pointed. His hand was seized and imprisoned between two little hands, rendered strong by terror and powerful by supplication.
It was Catherine, who had run downstairs on hearing the noise, and had arrived in time to save her father from committing the crime of rebelling against the constituted authorities.
The first moment of anger having passed by, Billot no longer offered any resistance. The exempt ordered that he should be confined in a room on the ground floor, and Catherine in a room on the first story. As to Madame Billot, she was considered so inoffensive that no attention was paid to her, and she was allowed to remain in the kitchen. After this, finding himself master of the place, the exempt began to search the secretaries, wardrobes, and chests-of-drawers.
Billot, on finding himself alone, wished to make his escape. But, like most of the rooms on the ground floor of the farm-house, the windows of the one in which he was imprisoned were secured by iron bars. The gentleman in black had at a glance observed these bars, while Billot, who had had them placed there, had forgotten them.
Then, peeping through the key-hole, he perceived the exempt and his two acolytes, who were ransacking everything throughout the house.
“Hilloa!” cried he; “what is the meaning of all this? What are you doing there?”
“You can very plainly see that, my dear Monsieur Billot,” said the exempt. “We are seeking for something which we have not yet found.”
“But perhaps you are banditti, villains, regular thieves. Who knows?”
“Oh, sir!” replied the exempt, through the door, “you do us wrong. We are honest people, as you are; only that we are in the pay of his Majesty, and consequently compelled to obey his orders.”
“His Majesty's orders!” exclaimed Billot. “The king, Louis XVI., has ordered you to search my secretary, to turn everything topsy-turvy in my closets and my wardrobes?”
“His Majesty,” rejoined Billot, “who last year, when there was such a frightful famine that we were thinking of eating our horses,—his Majesty, who two years ago, when the hail-storm of the 13th of July destroyed our whole harvest, did not then deign to feel any anxiety about us,—what has he now to do with my farm, which he never saw, or with me, whom he does not know?”
“You will pardon me, sir,” said the exempt, opening the door a little, but with great precaution, and exhibiting his order, signed by the lieutenant of police, which, according to the usual form, was headed with these words, “In the king's name,”—“his Majesty has heard you spoken of, although he may not be personally acquainted with you; therefore, do not refuse the honor which he does you, and receive in a fitting manner those who present themselves to you in his name.”
And the exempt, with a polite bow, and a friendly wink of the eye, closed the door again; after which the search was resumed.
Billot said not a word more, but crossed his arms and paced up and down the room, like a lion in a cage. He felt that he was caught, and in the power of these men.
The investigation was silently continued. These men appeared to have dropped from the clouds. No one had seen them, but the laborer who had been sent to fetch Billot. Even the dogs in the yards had not barked on their approach. Assuredly the chief of this expedition must have been considered a skilful man, even by his own fraternity. It was evidently not his first enterprise of this nature.
Billot heard the meanings of his daughter, shut up in the room above his own, and he remembered her prophetic words; for there could not be a doubt that the persecution to which the farmer had been subjected had for its cause the doctor's book.
At length the clock struck nine, and Billot through his grated window could count his laborers as they returned to the farm-house to get their breakfast. On seeing this, he reflected that, in case of any conflict, might, if not right, was not on his side. This conviction made the blood boil in his veins. He had no longer the fortitude to restrain his feelings; and seizing the door with both hands, he shook it so violently, that with two or three efforts of the same nature he would have burst the lock.
The police-agents immediately opened the door, and they saw the farmer standing close by it, with threatening looks. All was confusion in the house.
“But finally,” cried Billot, “ what is it you are seeking for in my house? Tell me, or, zounds! I will make you tell me.”
The successive return of the laborers had not escaped the experienced eye of such a man as the exempt. He had counted the farm-servants, and had admitted to himself that in case of any combat he would not be able to retain possession of the field of battle. He therefore approached Billot with a demeanor more honeyed even than before, and bowing almost to the ground, said:—
“I will tell you what it is, dear Monsieur Billot, although it is against our custom. What we are seeking for in your house is a subversive book, an incendiary pamphlet, placed under ban by our royal censors.”
“A book!—and in the house of a farmer who cannot read?”
“What is there astonishing in that, if you are a friend of the author, and he has sent it to you?”
“I am not the friend of Doctor Gilbert; I am merely his humble servant. The friend of the doctor, indeed!—that would be too great an honor for a poor farmer like me.”
This inconsiderate outbreak, in which Billot betrayed himself by acknowledging that he not only knew the author, which was natural enough, he being his landlord, but that he knew the book, insured the agent's victory. The latter drew himself up, assumed his most amiable air, and touching Billot's arm, said, with a smile which appeared to extend transversely over his face:—
“"Tis thou hast named him.' Do you know that verse, my dear Monsieur Billot?”
“It is by Racine, a very great poet.”
“Well, what is the meaning of that line?” cried Billot.
“It means that you have betrayed yourself.”
“By being the first to mention Monsieur Gilbert, whom we had the discretion not to name.”
“My dear Monsieur Billot, you overwhelm us with kindness: what is it you will do?”
“If it is that book you are hunting after, and I tell you where that book is,” rejoined the farmer, with an uneasiness which he could not altogether control, “you will leave off turning everything topsy-turvy here, will you not?”
The exempt made a sign to his two assistants.
“Most assuredly,” replied the exempt, “since it is that book which is the object of our perquisition. Only,” continued he, with his smiling grimace, “you may perhaps acknowledge one copy of it when you may have ten in your possession.”
“I have only one, and that I swear to you.”
“But it is this we are obliged to ascertain by a most careful search, dear Monsieur Billot,” rejoined the exempt. “Have patience, therefore; in five minutes it will be concluded. We are only poor sergeants obeying the orders of the authorities, and you would not surely prevent men of honor,—there are men of honor in every station of life, dear Monsieur Billot,—you would not throw any impediment in the way of men of honor when they are doing their duty.”
The gentleman in black had adopted the right mode: this was the proper course for persuading Billot.
“Well, do it then,” replied the farmer, “but do it quickly.”
And he turned his back upon them.
The exempt then very gently closed the door, and more gently still turned the key in the lock, at which Billot shrugged his shoulders in disdain, being certain of pulling open the door whenever he might please.
On his side the gentleman in black made a sign to the sergeants, who resumed their investigation, and they set to work much more actively than before. Books, papers, linen, were all opened, examined, unfolded.
Suddenly, at the bottom of a wardrobe which had been completely emptied, they perceived a small oaken casket bound with iron. The exempt darted upon it as a vulture on his prey. At the mere sight, the scent, the handling of this object, he undoubtedly at once recognized that which he was in search of, for he quickly concealed the casket beneath his threadbare coat, and made a sign to the two sergeants that his mission was effected.
Billot was again becoming impatient; he stopped before the locked door.
“Why, I tell you again that you will not find it unless I tell you where it is,” he cried; “it is not worth the while to tumble and destroy all my things for nothing. I am not a conspirator. In the Devil's name listen to me. Do you not hear what I am saying? Answer me, or I will set off for Paris, and will complain to the king, to the National Assembly, to everybody.”
In those days the king was always mentioned before the people.
“Yes, my dear Monsieur Billot, we hear you, and we are quite ready to do justice to your excellent reasoning. Come, now, tell us where is this book And as we are now convinced that you have only that single copy, we will take it, and then we will withdraw, and all will be over.”
“Well,” replied Billot, “the book is in the possession of an honest lad to whom I have given it with the charge of carrying it to a friend.”
“And what is the name of this honest lad?” asked the gentleman in black, in an insinuating tone.
“Ange Pitou; he is a poor orphan whom I have taken into my house from charity, and who does not even know the subject of this book.”
“Thanks, dear Monsieur Billot,” said the exempt.
They threw the linen back into the wardrobe, and locked it up again, but the casket was not there.
“And where is this amiable youth to be found?”
“I think I saw him as I returned, somewhere near the bed of scarlet-runners, close to the arbor. Go, take the book from him; but take care not to do him any injury.”
“Injury! Oh, my dear Monsieur Billot, how little you know us! We would not harm even a fly.”
And they went towards the indicated spot. When they got near the scarlet-runners they perceived Pitou, whose tall stature made him appear more formidable than he was in reality. Thinking that the two sergeants would stand in need of his assistance to master the young giant, the exempt had taken off his cloak, had rolled the casket in it, and had hid the whole in a secret corner, but where he could easily regain possession of it.
But Catherine, who had been listening with her ear glued, as it were, to the door, had vaguely heard the words Book, Doctor, and Pitou. Therefore, finding the storm she had predicted had burst upon them, she had formed the idea of attenuating its effects. It was then that she prompted Pitou to say that he was the owner of the book.
We have related what then passed regarding it: how Pitou, bound and handcuffed by the exempt and his acolytes, had been restored to liberty by Catherine, who had taken advantage of the moment when the two sergeants went into the house to fetch a table to write upon, and the gentleman in black to take his cloak and casket.
We have stated how Pitou made his escape by jumping over a hedge; but that which we did not state is, that, like a man of talent, the exempt had taken advantage of this flight.
And, in fact, the twofold mission intrusted to the exempt having been accomplished, the flight of Pitou afforded an excellent opportunity to the exempt and his two men to make their escape also.
The gentleman in black, although he knew he had not the slightest chance of catching the fugitive, excited the two sergeants by his vociferations and his example to such a degree, that on seeing them racing through the clover, the wheat, and Spanish trefoil fields, one would have imagined that they were the most inveterate enemies of Pitou, whose long legs they were most cordially blessing in their hearts.
But Pitou had scarcely gained the covert of the wood, when the confederates, who had not even passed the skirts of it, halted behind a bush. During their race they had been joined by two other sergeants, who had kept themselves concealed in the neighborhood of the farm, and who had been instructed not to show themselves unless summoned by their chief.
“Upon my word,” said the exempt, “it is very well that our gallant young fellow had not the casket instead of the book, for we should have been obliged to hire post-horses to catch him. By Jupiter! those legs of his are not men's legs, but those of a stag.”
“Yes,” replied one of the sergeants, “but he has not got it, has he, Monsieur Wolfsfoot? for, on the contrary, 't is you who have it.”
“Undoubtedly, my friend, and here it is,” replied the exempt, whose name we have now given for the first time, or we should rather say the nickname which had been given to him on account of the lightness of his step and the stealthiness of his walk.
“Then we are entitled to the reward which was promised us,” observed one of the sergeants.
“Here it is,” said the exempt, taking from his pocket four golden louis, which he divided among his four sergeants, without any distinction as to those who had been actively engaged in the perquisition or those who had merely remained concealed.
“Long live the lieutenant of police!” cried the sergeants.
“There is no harm in crying 'Long live the lieutenant!'“ said Wolfsfoot; “but every time you utter such exclamations you should do it with discernment. It is not the lieutenant who pays.”
“Some gentleman or lady friend of his, I know not which, but who desires that his or her name may not be mentioned in the business.”
“I would wager that it is the person who wishes for the casket,” said one of the sergeants.
“Hear now, Rigold, my friend,” said the gentleman in black; “I have always affirmed that you are a lad replete with perspicacity, but until the day when this perspicacity shall produce its fruits by being amply recompensed, I advise you to be silent. What we have now to do is to make the best of our way on foot out of this neighborhood. That damned farmer has not the appearance of being conciliatory, and as soon as he discovers that the casket is missing, he will despatch all his farm laborers in pursuit of us, and they are fellows who can aim a gun as truly as any of his Majesty's Swiss guards.”
This opinion was doubtless that of the majority of the party, for they all five set off at once, and, continuing to remain within the border of the forest, which concealed them from all eyes, they rapidly pursued their way, until, after walking three quarters of a league, they came out upon the public road.
This precaution was not a useless one, for Catherine had scarcely seen the gentleman in black and his two attendants disappear in pursuit of Pitou, than, full of confidence in the agility of him whom they pursued, who, unless some accident happened to him, would lead them a long dance, she called the husbandmen, who were well aware that something strange was going on, although they were ignorant of the positive facts, to tell them to open her door for her.
The laborers instantly obeyed her, and Catherine, again free, hastened to set her father at liberty.
Billot appeared to be in a dream. Instead of at once rushing out of the room, he seemed to walk mistrustfully, and returned from the door into the middle of the apartment. It might have been imagined that he did not dare to remain in the same spot, and yet that he was afraid of casting his eyes upon the articles of furniture which had been broken open and emptied by the sergeants.
“But,” cried he on seeing his daughter, “tell me, did they take the book from him?”
“I believe so, Father,” she replied, “but they did not take him.”
“Pitou; he has escaped from them, and they are still running after him. They must already have got to Cayolles or Vauciennes.”
“So much the better! Poor fellow! It is I who have brought this upon him.”
“Oh, Father, do not feel uneasy about him, but think only of what we have to do! Pitou, you may rest assured, will get out of this scrape. But what disorder! good heaven! only look, mother.”
“Oh, my linen wardrobe!” cried Madame Billot; “they have not even respected my linen wardrobe! What villains they must be!”
“They have searched the wardrobe where the linen was kept!” exclaimed Billot.
And he rushed towards the wardrobe, which the exempt, as we have before stated, had carefully closed again, and plunged his hands into piles of towels and table napkins, all confusedly huddled together.
“Oh,” cried he, “it cannot be possible!”
“What are you looking for, Father?” inquired Catherine.
Billot gazed around him as if completely bewildered.
“Search,—search if you can see it anywhere! But no; not in that chest-of-drawers,—not in that secretary. Besides, it was there,—there; it was I myself who put it there. I saw it there only yesterday. It was not the book they were seeking for,—the wretches!—but the casket!”
“What casket?” asked Catherine.
“What! Doctor Gilbert's casket?” inquired Madame Billot, who always, in matters of transcendent importance, allowed others to speak and act.
“Yes, Doctor Gilbert's casket!” cried Billot, plunging his fingers into his thick hair; “that casket which was so precious to him.”
“You terrify me, my dear father,” said Catherine.
“Unfortunate man that I am!” cried Billot, with furious anger; “and I, who had not in the slightest imagined such a thing,—I, who did not even for a moment think of that casket! Oh, what will the doctor say? What will he think of me? That I am a traitor, a coward, a miserable wretch!”
“But, good heaven! what did this casket contain, Father?”
“I do not know; but this I know, that I had engaged, even at the hazard of my life, to keep it safe; and I ought to have allowed myself to be killed in order to defend it.”
And Billot made a gesture of such despair, that his wife and daughter started back with terror.
“Oh God! oh God! are you losing your reason, my poor father ” said Catherine.
“Answer me, then,” she cried; “for the love of Heaven, answer me!”
“Pierre, my friend,” said Madame Billot, “answer your daughter; answer your wife.”
“My horse! my horse!” cried the farmer; “bring out my horse!”
“Where are you going, Father?”
“To let the doctor know. The doctor must be informed of this.”
“But where will you find him?”
“At Paris. Did you not read in the letter he wrote to us that he was going to Paris? He must be there by this time. I will go to Paris. My horse! my horse!”
“And you will leave us thus, my dear father? You will leave us in such a moment as this? You will leave us full of anxiety and anguish?”
“It must be so, my child; it must be so,” said the farmer, taking his daughter's face between his hands and convulsively fixing his lips upon it. “'If ever you should lose this casket,' said the doctor to me, 'or rather, should it ever be surreptitiously taken from you, the instant you discover the robbery, set off at once, Billot, and inform me of it, wherever I may be. Let nothing stop you, not even the life of a man.'“
“Good Lord! what can this casket contain?”
“Of that I know nothing; all that I know is, that it was placed under my care, and that I have allowed it to be taken from me. Ah, here is my horse! From the son, who is at college, I shall learn where to find the father.”
And kissing his wife and daughter for the last time, the farmer jumped into his saddle, and galloped across the country, in the direction of the high-road to Paris.
