Ange Pitou (Volume 1)

  "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.

  And it was he in fact.

  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.

  "Yes."

  "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?"

  "By Pitou."

  "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."

  "Where you are not going?"

  "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.

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  Chapter XXXII

  Pitou an Orator

  HOWEVER, on arriving at Villers-Cotterets, towards ten o'clock at night, after having had the long run we have endeavored to describe, Pitou felt that however melancholy he might be, it was much better to stop at the Dauphin Hotel and sleep in a good bed, than to sleep canopied by the stars, under some beech or oak in the forest.

  For as to sleeping in a house at Haramont, arriving there at half-past ten at night, it was useless to think of it. For more than an hour and a half every light had been extinguished, and every door closed in that peaceful village.

  Pitou therefore, put up at the Dauphin Hotel, where, for a thirty-sous piece, he had an excellent bed, a four-pound loaf, a piece of cheese, and a pot of cider.

  Pitou was both fatigued and in love, tired out and in despair. The result of this was a struggle between his moral and physical feelings, in which the moral were in the first instance victorious, but at length succumbed.

  That is to say, that from eleven o'clock to two in the morning, Pitou groaned, sighed, turned and twisted in his bed, without being able to sleep a wink; but at two o'clock, overcome by fatigue, he closed his eyes, not to open them again till seven.

  As at Haramont every one was in bed at half-past ten at night, so at Villers-Cotterets everybody was stirring at seven in the morning.

  Pitou, on leaving the Dauphin Hotel, again found that his helmet and sabre attracted public attention.

  After going about a hundred paces, he consequently found himself the centre of a numerous crowd.

  Pitou had decidedly acquired an enormous popularity.

  There are few travellers who have such good luck. The sun, which, it is said, shines for the whole world, does not always shine with a favorable brilliancy for peoplewho return to their own native place with the desire of being considered prophets.

  But also it does not happen to every one to have an aunt crabbed and avaricious to so ferocious a degree as Aunt Angélique; it does not happen to every Gargantua capable of swallowing an old cock boiled with rice, to be able to offer a half-crown to the proprietor of the victim.

  But that which happens still less often to returning persons, whose origin and traditions can be traced back to the Odyssey, is to return with a helmet on their heads and a sabre by their sides; above all, when the rest of their accoutrements are far from being military.

  For we must avow that it was, above all, this helmet and this sabre which recommended Pitou to the attention of his fellow-citizens.

  But for the vexations which Pitou's love encountered on his return, it has been seen that all sorts of good fortune awaited him. This was undoubtedly a compensation.

  And immediately on seeing him, some of the inhabitants of Villers-Cotterets, who had accompanied Pitou from the Abbé Fortier's door in the Rue de Soissons to Dame Angélique's door at Pleux, resolved, in order to continue the ovation, to accompany him from Villers-Cotterets to Haramont.

  And they did as they had resolved; on seeing which, the above-mentioned inhabitants of Haramont began to appreciate their compatriot at his just value.

  It is, however, only justice to them to say that the soil was already prepared to receive the seed. Pitou's first passage through Haramont, rapid as it had been, had left some traces in the minds of its inhabitants; his helmet and his sabre had remained impressed on the memories of those who had seen him appearing before them as a luminous apparition.

  In consequence, the inhabitants of Haramont, seeing themselves favored by this second return of Pitou, which they no longer hoped for, received him with every manifestation of respect and consideration, entreating him to doff for a time his warlike accoutrements, and fix his tent under the four linden-trees which overshadowed the little village square, as the Thessalians used to entreat Mars on the anniversary of his great triumphs.

  Pitou deigned the more readily to consent to this, from its being his intention to fix his domicile at Haramont. He therefore accepted the shelter of a bedroom which a warlike person of the village let to him ready furnished.

  It was furnished with a deal bedstead, a paillasse, and a mattress, two chairs, a table, and a water-jug.

  The rent of the whole of this was estimated by the proprietor himself at six livres per annum; that is to say, the value of two dishes of fowl and rice.

  The rent being agreed upon, Pitou took possession of his domicile, and supplied those who had accompanied him with refreshments at his own charge; and as these events—without speaking of the cider he had imbibed—had somewhat excited his brain, he pronounced an harangue to them, standing on the threshold of his new residence.

  This harangue of Pitou was a great event, and consequently all Haramont was assembled round the house.

  Pitou was somewhat of a clerk, and knew what fine language was; he knew the eight words by which at that period the haranguers of nations—it was thus Homer called them—stirred up the popular masses.

  Between Monsieur de Lafayette and Pitou there was undoubtedly a great distance, but between Haramont and Paris the distance was greater still; morally speaking, it will be clearly understood.

  Pitou commenced by an exordium with which the Abbé Fortier, critical as he was, would not have been dissatisfied.

  "Citizens," said he, "citizens,—this word is sweet to pronounce,—I have already addressed other Frenchmen by it, for all Frenchmen are brothers; but on this spot I am using it, I believe, towards real brothers, and I find my whole family here in my compatriots of Haramont."

  The women—there were some few among the auditory, and they were not the most favorably disposed towards the orator, for Pitou's knees were still too thick, and the calves of his legs too thin, to produce an impression in his favor on a feminine audience—the women, on hearing the word "family," thought of that poor Pitou, the orphan child, the poor abandoned lad, who, since the death of his mother, had never had a meal that satisfied his hunger. And this word "family," uttered by a youth who had none, moved in some among them that sensitive fibre which closes the reservoir of tears.
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  The exordium being finished, Pitou began the narrative, the second head of an oration.

  He related his journey to Paris, the riots with regard to the busts, the taking of the Bastille, and the vengeance of the people; he passed lightly over the part he had taken in the combats on the Place Vendôme, the square before the Palais Royal, and in the Faubourg St. Antoine. But the less he boasted, the greater did he appear in the eyes of his compatriots; and at the end of Pitou's narrative, his helmet had become as large as the dome of the Invalides, and his sabre as long as the steeple of Haramont church.

  The narrative being ended, Pitou then proceeded to the confirmation, that delicate operation by which Cicero recognized a real orator.

  He proved that popular indignation had been justly excited against speculators; he said two words of Messieurs Pitt, father and son; he explained the Revolution by the privileges granted to the nobility and to the clergy; finally, he invited the people of Haramont to do that in particular which the people of France had done generally,—that is to say, to unite against the common enemy.

  Then he went on from the confirmation to the peroration, by one of those sublime changes common to all great orators.

  He let fall his sabre; and while picking it up, he accidentally drew it from its scabbard.

  This accident furnished him with a text for an incendiary resolution, calling upon the inhabitants of Haramont to take up arms, and to follow the example of the revolted Parisians.

  The people of Haramont were enthusiastic, and replied energetically.

  The Revolution was proclaimed with loud acclamation throughout the village.

  The men from Villers-Cotterets who had remained at the meeting, returned home, their hearts swelling with the patriotic leaven, singing in the most threatening tones towards the aristocrats, and with savage fury:

  "Vive Henri Quatre,

  Vive ce roi vaillant—"

  Rouget de l'Isle had not then composed the "Marseillaise," and the Federalists of '90 had not yet re-awakened the old popular "Ça ira," seeing that they were then only in the year of grace 1789.