The country dance having ended,—for Catherine it had scarcely lasted a few seconds, but to Pitou it had appeared a century,—she returned to resume the arm of her cavalier, and could not avoid observing the change which had taken place in his countenance. He was pale; the perspiration stood in beads upon his forehead, and a tear, half dried up by jealousy, shone in his humid eye.
"Ah! good heaven!" she exclaimed, "what is the matter with you, Pitou?"
"The matter is," replied the poor youth, "that I shall never dare to dance with you, after having seen you dance with Monsieur de Charny."
"Pshaw!" said Catherine, "you must not allow yourself to be cast down in this way; you will dance as well as you are able, and I shall not feel the less pleasure in dancing with you."
"Ah!" cried Pitou, "you say that, Mademoiselle, to console me; but I know myself, and I feel assured that you will always feel more pleasure in dancing with this young nobleman than with me."
Catherine made no reply, for she would not utter a falsehood, only, as she was an excellent creature, and had begun to perceive that something extraordinary was passing in the heart of the poor youth, she treated him very kindly; but this kindness could not restore to him his lost joy and peace of mind. Father Billot had spoken truly: Pitou was beginning to be a man,—he was suffering.
Catherine danced five or six country dances after this, one of which was with Monsieur de Charny. This time, without suffering less in reality than before, Pitou was, in appearance, much more calm. He followed with eager eyes each movement of Catherine and her cavalier. He endeavored from the motion of their lips to divine what they were saying to each other, and when, during the figures of the dance, their hands were joined, he tried to discern whether their hands merely touched or pressed each other when thus they came in contact.
Doubtless it was the second dance with De Charny that Catherine had been awaiting, for it was scarcely ended when the young girl proposed to Pitou to return to the farm. Never was proposal acceded to with more alacrity; but the blow was struck, and Pitou, while taking long strides which Catherine from time to time was obliged to restrain, remained perfectly silent.
"What is the matter with you?" at length said Catherine to him, "and why is it that you do not speak to me?"
"I do not speak to you, Mademoiselle," said Pitou, "because I do not know how to speak as Monsieur de Charny does. What would you have me say to you, after all the fine things which he whispered to you while dancing with you?"
"Only see how unjust you are, Monsieur Ange; why, we were speaking of you."
"Of me, Mademoiselle, and how so?"
"Why, Monsieur Pitou, if your protector should not return, you must have another found to supply his place."
"I am then no longer capable of keeping the farm accounts?" inquired Pitou, with a sigh.
"On the contrary, Monsieur Ange, it is the farm accounts which are no longer worthy of being kept by you. With the education that you have received, you can find some more fitting occupation."
"I do not know what I may be fit for, but this I know, that I will not accept anything better if I am to obtain it through the Viscount de Charny."
"And why should you refuse his protection? His brother, the Count de Charny, is, it would appear, in high favor at court, and has married an intimate friend of the Queen. He told me that if it would be agreeable to me he could obtain for you a place in the custom-house."
"Much obliged, Mademoiselle; but I have already told you that I am well satisfied to remain as I am, and unless, indeed, your father wishes to send me away, I will remain at the farm."
"And why in the Devil's name should I send you away?" cried a gruff voice, which Catherine tremblingly recognized to be that of her father.
"My dear Pitou," said Catherine in a whisper, "do not say a word of Monsieur Isidore, I beg of you."
"Well! why don't you answer?"
"Why, really, I don't know," said Pitou, much confused; "perhaps you do not think me sufficiently well informed to be useful to you?"
"Not sufficiently well informed, when you calculate as well as Barême, and when you read well enough to teach our schoolmaster, who notwithstanding thinks himself a great scholar No, Pitou, it is God who brings to my house the people who enter it, and when once they are in it they shall remain there as long as God pleases."
Pitou returned to the farm on this assurance; but although this was something, it was not enough. A great change had taken place in his mind between the time of his going out and returning: he had lost a thing which, once lost, is never recovered; this was confidence in himself, and therefore Pitou, contrary to his usual custom, slept very badly. In his waking moments he recalled to mind Doctor Gilbert's book; this book was written principally against the nobility, against the abuses committed by the privileged classes, against the cowardice of those who submitted to them; it appeared to Pitou that he only then began to comprehend all the fine ideas which he had read that morning, and he promised himself, as soon as it should be daylight, to read again for his own satisfaction, and to himself, the masterpiece which he had read aloud and to everybody,
But as Pitou had slept badly he awoke late. He did not, however, the less determine on carrying into effect his project of reading the book. It was seven o'clock; the farmer would not return until nine; besides, were he to return earlier, he could not but approve an occupation which he had himself recommended.
He descended by a small staircase, and seated himself on a low bench which happened to be under Catherine's window. Was it accident that had led Pitou to seat himself precisely in that spot, or did he know the relative positions of that window and that bench?
Be that as it may, Pitou was attired in his old everyday clothes, which there had not yet been time to get replaced, and which were composed of his black breeches, his green cassock, and his rusty-looking shoes. He drew the pamphlet from his pocket and began to read.
We would not venture to say that on beginning to read, the eyes of Pitou were not, from time to time, turned from his book to the window; but as the window did not exhibit the fair face of the young girl in its framework of nasturtiums and convolvuli, Pitou's eyes at length fixed themselves intently on his book.
It is true that as his hand neglected to turn over the leaves, and that the more fixed his attention appeared to be, the less did his hand move, it might be believed that his mind was fixed upon some other object, and that he was meditating instead of reading.
Suddenly it appeared to Pitou that a shade was thrown over the pages of the pamphlet, until then illuminated by the morning sun. This shadow, too dense to be that of a cloud, could therefore only be produced by some opaque body. Now, there are opaque bodies which are so delightful to look upon, that Pitou quickly turned round to ascertain what it was that thus intercepted his sunshine.
Pitou's hopes were, however, delusive. There was in fact an opaque body which robbed him of the daylight and heat which Diogenes desired Alexander not to deprive him of. But this opaque body, instead of being delightful, presented to his view a sufficiently disagreeable appearance.
It was that of a man about forty-five years old, who was taller and thinner than Pitou himself, dressed in a coat almost as threadbare as his own, and who was leaning his head over his shoulder, and appeared to be reading the pamphlet with a curiosity equal to Pitou's absence of mind.
Pitou was very much astonished; a gracious smile was playing round the lips of the dark-looking gentleman, exhibiting a mouth which had only retained four teeth, two in the upper and two in the lower jaw, crossing and sharpening themselves against each other, like the tusks of the wild boar.
"An American edition," said the man, with a strong nasal twang; "an octavo: 'On the Liberty of Man and the Independence of Nations, Boston, 1788.'"
While the black man was talking, Pitou opened his eyes with progressively increasing astonishment, so that when the man ceased speaking, Pitou's eyes had attained the greatest possible development of which they w
ere capable.
"Boston, 1788. That is right, sir," replied Pitou.
"It is the treatise of Doctor Gilbert," said the gentleman in black.
"Yes, sir," politely replied Pitou, rising from his seat, for he had been told that it was uncivil to remain sitting when speaking to a superior; and in the still ingenuous mind of Pitou this man had the right to claim superiority over him.
But on getting up, Pitou observed something of a rosy color moving towards the window, and which gave him a significant glance. This rosy something was Mademoiselle Catherine. The young girl looked at him with an extraordinary expression, and made strange signs to him.
"Sir, if it is not being indiscreet," said the gentleman in black, who, having his back turned towards the window, was altogether ignorant of what was passing, "may I ask to whom this book belongs?"
And he pointed with his finger to the pamphlet which Pitou held in his hand.
Pitou was about to say that the book belonged to Monsieur Billot, when he heard the following words uttered in an almost supplicating tone:—
"Say that it is your own."
The gentleman in black, who was at that moment all eyes, did not hear these words.
"Sir," replied Pitou majestically, "this book belongs to me."
The gentleman in black raised his head, for he began to remark that the amazed looks of Pitou were from time to time diverted from him, to fix themselves on one particular spot. He saw the window, but Catherine had divined the movement of the gentleman in black, and, rapid as a bird, she had disappeared.
"What are you looking at, up yonder " inquired the gentleman in black.
"Well, now," replied Pitou, smiling, "permit me to observe to you that you are very inquisitive,—curiosus, or rather avidus cognoscendi, as the Abbé Fortier, my preceptor, used to say."
"You say, then," rejoined the interrogator, without appearing in the slightest degree intimidated by the proof of learning which Pitou had just given, with the intention of affording the gentleman in black a higher idea of his acquirements than he had before entertained,—"you say, then, that this book is yours?"
Pitou gave his eyes a furtive glance, so that the window came within the scope of his visual organs. Catherine's head again appeared at it, and made him an affirmative sign.
"Yes, sir," replied Pitou. "You are, perhaps, anxious to read it,—Avidus legendi libri, or legendæ historiæ."
"Sir," said the gentleman in black, "you appear to be much above the position which your attire would indicate. Non dives vestitu sed ingenio. Consequently, I arrest you."
"How! you arrest me " cried Pitou, completely astounded.
"Yes, sir; follow me, I beg of you."
Pitou no longer looked up in the air, but around him, and perceived two police sergeants who were awaiting the orders of the gentleman in black. The two sergeants seemed to him to have sprung up from beneath the ground.
"Let us draw up our report, gentlemen," said the gentleman in black.
The sergeants tied Pitou's hands together with a rope, while they took care to secure Doctor Gilbert's book.
Then they fastened Pitou himself to a ring which was in the wall under the window.
Pitou was about to exclaim against this treatment, but he heard the low voice which had so much influence over him, saying, "Let them do what they please."
Pitou therefore allowed them to do as they pleased, with a docility which perfectly enchanted the sergeants, and above all the gentleman in black; so that without the slightest mistrust they entered the farm-house, the two sergeants to fetch a table, the gentleman in black to—but this we shall learn by-and-by.
The sergeants and the gentleman in black had scarcely entered the house when the soft voice was again heard.
"Hold up your hands," said the voice.
Pitou not only held up his hands but his head, and he perceived the pale and terrified face of Catherine; she had a knife in her hand.
"Higher! higher!" said she.
Pitou raised himself on tiptoe. Catherine leaned out of the window, the knife touched the rope, and Pitou recovered the liberty of his hands.
"Take the knife," said Catherine, " and in your turn cut the rope which fastens you to the ring."
It was not necessary to repeat this to Pitou. He cut the cord, and was then completely free.
"And now," said Catherine, "here is a double louis. You have good legs; make your escape. Go to Paris and acquaint the doctor—"
She could not complete the sentence. The two sergeants reappeared, and the double louis fell at Pitou's feet.
Pitou quickly snatched it up. The sergeants were on the threshold of the door, where they remained for a moment or two, astonished at seeing the man at liberty, whom so short a time before they had so securely tied up. On seeing them, Pitou's hair stood on end, and he confusedly remembered the in crinibus angues of the Eumenides.
The two sergeants and Pitou remained for a short time in the position of two pointer dogs and a hare,—motionless, and looking at each other. But as at the slightest movement of the dogs the hare springs off, at the first movement of the sergeants Pitou gave a prodigious bound, and leaped over a high hedge.
The sergeants uttered a cry which made the exempt rush out of the house, carrying a small casket under his arm. The exempt did not lose any time in parleying, but instantly ran after Pitou; the two sergeants imitated his example; but they were not active enough to jump, as he had done, over a hedge three feet and a half in height. They were therefore compelled to go round to a gate.
But when they reached the corner of the hedge, they perceived Pitou five hundred yards off in the plain, and hastening towards the forest, from which he was distant scarcely a quarter of a league, and which he would doubtless reach in some six or seven minutes.
At that moment Pitou turned round and on perceiving the sergeants, who were pursuing him rather from a desire to perform their duty than with the hope of catching him, he redoubled his speed, and soon disappeared in the skirts of the wood.
Pitou ran on at this rate for another quarter of an hour. He could have run two hours had it been necessary, for he had the wind of a stag, as well as its velocity.
But at the end of a quarter of an hour he felt instinctively that he must be out of danger. He stopped, drew breath, and listened; and having assured himself that he had completely distanced his pursuers, he said to himself,—
"It is incredible that so many events can have been crowded into three days;" and he looked alternately at his double louis and his knife.
"Oh," said he, "I wish I had only time to change my double louis, and give two sous to Mademoiselle Catherine, for I am much afraid that this knife will cut our friendship. No matter," added he, "since she has desired me to go to Paris, let us go there."
And Pitou, having looked about him to ascertain what part of the country he had reached, and finding that he was between Bouronne and Yvors, took a narrow path which would lead him straight to Gondreville Heaths, which path was crossed by the road which led direct to Paris.
| Go to Contents |
Chapter VIII
Showing why the Gentleman in Black had gone into the Farm at the same time with the Two Sergeants
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 sh
epherd at the distance of a quarter of a league from the farm.
"And yonder," said he, "is the person you are inquiring for."
"Monsieur Billot?"
"Yes."
"That horseman?"
"Yes; that is Monsieur Billot."
"Well, then, my friend," rejoined the exempt, "do you wish to afford great pleasure to your master?"
"I should like it vastly."
"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.