Ange Pitou

by Alexandre Dumas

  And moreover, Tityrus, reclining at the foot of a beech-tree, of whom Virgil speaks, and who congratulates himself, in such beautiful verses, on the repose which Augustus has granted to him,—he also was a shepherd. And, finally, Melibæus was a shepherd, who so poetically bewails having left his domestic hearth.

  Certainly, all these persons spoke Latin well enough to have been abbés, and yet they preferred seeing their goats browse on the bitter cytisus to saying mass or to chanting vespers. Therefore, taking everything into consideration, the calling of a shepherd had its charms. Moreover, what was to prevent Pitou from restoring to it the poetry and the dignity it had lost? who could prevent Pitou from proposing trials of skill in singing, to the Menalcas and the Palemons of the neighboring villages? No one, undoubtedly. Pitou had more than once sung in the choir; and but for his having once been caught drinking the wine out of the Abbé Fortier's cruet, who, with his usual rigor, had on the instant dismissed the singing boy, this talent might have become transcendent. He could not play upon the pipe, 't is true, but he could imitate the note of every bird, which is very nearly the same thing. He could not make himself a lute with pipes of unequal thickness, as did the lover of Syrinx; but from the linden-tree or the chestnut he could cut whistles whose perfection had more than once aroused the enthusiastic applause of his companions. Pitou therefore could become a shepherd without great derogation of his dignity. He did not lower himself to this profession, so ill appreciated in modern days; he elevated the profession to his own standard.

  Besides which, the sheepfolds were placed under the special direction of Mademoiselle Billot, and receiving orders from her lips was not receiving orders.

  But, on her part, Catherine watched over the dignity of Pitou.

  In the evening, when the young man approached her, and asked her at what hour he ought to go out to rejoin the shepherds, she said, smiling,—

  "You will not go out at all."

  "And why so?" said Pitou, with astonishment.

  "I have made my father comprehend that the education you have received places you above the functions which he had allotted to you. You will remain at the farm."

  "Ah! so much the better," said Pitou. "In this way, I shall not leave you."

  The exclamation had escaped the ingenuous Pitou. But he had no sooner uttered it, than he blushed to his very ears; while Catherine, on her part, held down her head and smiled.

  "Ah! forgive me, Mademoiselle. It came from my heart in spite of me. You must not be angry with me on that account," said Pitou.

  "I am not angry with you, Monsieur Pitou," said Catherine; "and it is no fault of yours if you feel pleasure in remaining with me."

  There was a silence of some moments. This was not at all astonishing, the poor children had said so much to each other in so few words.

  "But," said Pitou, "I cannot remain at the farm doing nothing. What am I to do at the farm?"

  "You will do what I used to do. You will keep the books, the accounts with the work-people, and of our receipts and expenses. You know how to reckon, do you not?"

  "I know my four rules," proudly replied Pitou.

  "That is one more than ever I knew," said Catherine. "I never was able to get farther than the third. You see, therefore, that my father will be a gainer by having you for his accountant; and as I also shall gain, and you yourself will gain by it, everybody will be a gainer."

  "And in what way will you gain by it, Mademoiselle?" inquired Pitou.

  "I shall gain time by it, and in that time I will make myself caps, that I may look prettier."

  "Ah!" cried Pitou, "I think you quite pretty enough without caps."

  "That is possible; but it is only your own individual taste," said the young girl, laughing. "Moreover, I cannot go and dance on a Sunday at Villers-Cotterets, without having some sort of a cap upon my head. That is all very well for your great ladies, who have the right of wearing powder and going bareheaded."

  "I think your hair more beautiful as it is, than if it were powdered," said Pitou.

  "Come, come, now; I see you are bent on paying me compliments."

  "No, Mademoiselle, I do not know how to make them. We did not learn that at the Abbé Fortier's."

  "And did you learn to dance there?"

  "To dance?" inquired Pitou, greatly astonished.

  "Yes—to dance?"

  "To dance, and at the Abbé Fortier's? Good Lord, Mademoiselle!—oh! learn to dance, indeed!"

  "Then, you do not know how to dance?"

  "No," said Pitou.

  "Well, then, you shall go with me to the ball on Sunday, and you will look at Monsieur de Charny while he is dancing. He is the best dancer of all the young men in the neighborhood."

  "And who is this Monsieur de Charny?" demanded Pitou.

  "He is the proprietor of the Château de Boursonne."

  "And he will dance on Sunday?"

  "Undoubtedly."

  "And with whom?"

  "With me."

  Pitou's heart sank within him, without his being able to ascertain a reason for it.

  "Then," said he, "it is in order to dance with him that you wish to dress yourself so finely."

  "To dance with him—with others—with everybody."

  "Excepting with me."

  "And why not with you?"

  "Because I do not know how to dance."

  "You will learn."

  "Ah! if you would but teach me,—you, Mademoiselle Catherine. I should learn much better than by seeing Monsieur de Charny, I can assure you."

  "We shall see as to that," said Catherine. "In the mean time, it is bedtime. Good-night, Pitou."

  "Good-night, Mademoiselle Catherine."

  There was something both agreeable and disagreeable in what Mademoiselle Catherine had said to Pitou. The agreeable was, that he had been promoted from the rank of a cow-keeper and shepherd to that of book-keeper. The disagreeable was, that he did not know how to dance, and that Monsieur de Charny did know. According to what Catherine had said, he was the best dancer in the whole neighborhood.

  Pitou was dreaming all night that he saw Monsieur de Charny dancing, and that he danced very badly.

  The next day Pitou entered upon his new office, under the direction of Catherine. Then one thing struck him, and it was that, under some masters, study is altogether delightful. In the space of about two hours he completely understood the duties he had to perform.

  "Ah, Mademoiselle!" exclaimed he, "if you had but taught me Latin, instead of that Abbé Fortier, I believe I never should have committed any barbarisms."

  "And you would have become an abbé?"

  "And I should have been an abbé," replied Pitou.

  "So, then, you would have shut yourself up in a seminary, in which no woman would have entered."

  "Well, now," cried Pitou, "I really had never thought of that, Mademoiselle Catherine. I would much rather, then, not be an abbé."

  The good man Billot returned home at nine o'clock. He had gone out before Pitou was up. Every morning the farmer rose at three o'clock, to see to the sending out of his horses and his wagoners. Then he went over his fields until nine o'clock, to see that every one was at his post, and that all his laborers were doing their duty. At nine o'clock he returned to the house to breakfast, and went out again at ten. One o'clock was the dinner-hour; and the afternoon was, like the morning, spent in looking after the workmen. Thus the affairs of worthy Billot were prospering marvellously. As he had said, he possessed sixty acres in the sunshine, and a thousand louis in the shade; and it was even probable that, had the calculation been correctly made—had Pitou made up the account, and had not been too much agitated by the presence or remembrance of Mademoiselle Catherine, some few acres of land, and some few hundred louis more, would have been found than the worthy farmer had himself admitted.

  At breakfast, Billot informed Pitou that the first reading of Dr. Gilbert's new book was to take place in the barn, two days after, at ten in the morning.
r />   Pitou then timidly observed that ten o'clock was the hour for attending mass. But the farmer said that he had specially selected that hour to try his workmen.

  We have already said that Father Billot was a philosopher.

  He detested the priests, whom he considered as the apostles of tyranny; and finding an opportunity for raising an altar against an altar, he eagerly took advantage of it.

  Madame Billot and Catherine ventured to offer some observations; but the farmer replied that the women might, if they chose, go to mass, seeing that religion had been made expressly for women; but as to the men, they should attend the reading of the doctor's work, or they should leave his service.

  Billot, the philosopher, was very despotic in his own house. Catherine alone had the privilege of raising her voice against his decrees. But if these decrees were so tenaciously determined upon that he knitted his brows when replying to her, Catherine became as silent as the rest.

  Catherine, however, thought of taking advantage of the circumstance to benefit Pitou. On rising from table she observed to her father that, in order to read all the magnificent phrases he would have to read on the Sunday morning, Pitou was but miserably clad; that he was about to play the part of a master, since he was to instruct others; and that the master ought not to be placed in a position to blush in the presence of his disciples.

  Billot authorized his daughter to make an arrangement with Monsieur Dulauroy, the tailor at Villers-Cotterets, for a new suit of clothes for Pitou.

  Catherine was right; for new garments were not merely a matter of taste with regard to Pitou. The breeches which he wore were the same which Dr. Gilbert had, five years before, ordered for him. At that time they were too long, but since then had become much too short. We are compelled to acknowledge, however, that, through the care of Mademoiselle Angélique, they had been elongated at least two inches every year. As to the coat and waistcoat, they had both disappeared for upwards of two years, and had been replaced by the serge gown in which our hero first presented himself to the observation of our readers.

  Pitou had never paid any attention to his toilet. A looking-glass was an unknown piece of furniture in the abode of Mademoiselle Angélique; and not having, like the handsome Narcissus, any violent tendency to fall in love with himself, Pitou had never thought of looking at himself in the transparent rivulets near which he set his bird-snares.

  But from the moment that Mademoiselle Catherine had spoken to him of accompanying her to the ball, from the moment the elegant cavalier, Monsieur de Charny's name had been mentioned, since the conversation about caps, on which the young girl calculated to increase her attractions, Pitou had looked at himself in a mirror, and, being rendered melancholy by the very dilapidated condition of his garments, had asked himself in what way he also could make any addition to his natural advantages.

  Unfortunately, Pitou was not able to find any solution to this question. The dilapidation of his clothes was positive. Now, in order to have new clothes made, it was necessary to have ready cash; and during the whole course of his existence Pitou had never possessed a single sou.

  Pitou had undoubtedly read that, when shepherds were contending for the prize in music or in poetry, they decorated themselves with roses. But he thought, and with great reason, that although such a wreath might well assort with his expressive features, it would only place in stronger relief the miserable state of his habiliments.

  Pitou was, therefore, most agreeably surprised when, on the Sunday morning, at eight o'clock, and at the moment he was racking his brains for some means of embellishing his person, Monsieur Dulauroy entered his room and placed upon a chair a coat and breeches of sky-blue cloth, and a large white waistcoat with red stripes.

  At the same instant a sempstress came in, and laid upon another chair, opposite to the above-mentioned one, a new shirt and a cravat. If the shirt fitted well, she had orders to complete the half-dozen.

  It was a moment teeming with surprise. Behind the sempstress appeared the hat-maker. He had brought with him a small cocked hat of the very latest fashion and of most elegant shape, and which had been fabricated by Monsieur Cornu, the first hat-maker in Villers-Cotterets.

  A shoemaker had also been ordered to bring shoes for Pitou; and he had with him a pair with handsome silver buckles made expressly for him.

  Pitou could not recover his amazement; he could not in any way comprehend that all these riches were for him. In his most exaggerated dreams he could not even have dared to wish for so sumptuous a wardrobe. Tears of gratitude gushed from his eyelids, and he could only murmur out these words:—

  "Oh! Mademoiselle Catherine! Mademoiselle Catherine! never will I forget what you have done for me."

  Everything fitted remarkably well, and as if Pitou had been actually measured for them, with the sole exception of the shoes, which were too small by half. Monsieur Lauderau, the shoemaker, had taken measure by the foot of his son, who was four years Pitou's senior.

  This superiority over young Lauderau gave a momentary feeling of pride to our hero; but this feeling of pride was soon checked by the reflection that he would either be obliged to go to the dance in his old shoes, or in no shoes at all, which would not be in accordance with the remainder of his costume. But this uneasiness was not of long duration. A pair of shoes which had been sent home at the same time to Farmer Billot fitted him exactly. It fortunately happened that Billot's feet and Pitou's were of the same dimensions, which was carefully concealed from Billot, for fear that so alarming a fact might annoy him.

  While Pitou was busied in arraying himself in these sumptuous habiliments, the hairdresser came in and divided Pitou's hair into three compartments. One, and the most voluminous, was destined to fall over the collar of his coat, in the form of a tail; the two others were destined to ornament the temples, by the strange and unpoetical name of dog's-ears,—ridiculous enough, but that was the name given to them in those days.

  And now there is one thing we must acknowledge,—and that is, that when Pitou, thus combed and frizzled, dressed in his sky-blue coat and breeches, with his rose-striped waistcoat and his frilled shirt, with his tail and his dog's-ear curls, looked at himself in the glass, he found great difficulty in recognizing himself, and twisted himself about to see whether Adonis in person had not redescended on the earth.

  He was alone. He smiled graciously at himself; and with head erect, his thumbs thrust into his waistcoat pockets, he said, raising himself upon his toes:—

  "We shall see this Monsieur de Charny!"

  It is true that Ange Pitou in his new costume resembled, as one pea does another, not one of Virgil's shepherds, but one of those so admirably painted by Watteau.

  Consequently, the first step which Pitou made on entering the farm-kitchen was a perfect triumph.

  "Oh, mamma, only see," cried Catherine, "how well Pitou looks now!"

  "The fact is, that one would hardly know him again," replied Madame Billot.

  Unfortunately, after the first general survey which had so much struck the young girl, she entered into a more minute examination of the details, and found Pitou less good-looking in the detailed than in the general view.

  "Oh, how singular!" cried Catherine! "what great hands you have!"

  "Yes," said Pitou, proudly, "I have famous hands, have I not?"

  "And what thick knees!"

  "That is a proof that I shall grow taller."

  "Why, it appears to me that you are tall enough already, Monsieur Pitou," observed Catherine.

  "That does not matter; I shall grow taller still," said Pitou. "I am only seventeen and a half years old."

  "And no calves!"

  "Ah, yes, that is true,—none at all; but they will grow soon."

  "That is to be hoped," said Catherine, "but no matter, you are very well as you are."

  Pitou made a bow.

  "Oh! oh!" exclaimed Billot, coming in at that moment, and also struck with Pitou's appearance. "How fine you are, my lad! How I wish you
r Aunt Angélique could see you now."

  "And so do I," said Pitou.

  "I wonder what she would say?"

  "She would not say a word, she would be in a perfect fury."

  "But, Father," said Catherine, with a certain degree of uneasiness, "would she not have the right to take him back again?"

  "Why, she turned him out of doors."

  "And, besides," said Pitou, "the five years have gone by."

  "What five years?" inquired Catherine.

  "The five years for which Doctor Gilbert left a thousand francs."

  "Had he then left a thousand francs with your aunt?"

  "Yes, yes, yes: to get me into a good apprenticeship."

  "That is a man!" exclaimed the farmer. "When one thinks that I hear something of the same kind related of him every day. Therefore—to him," he added, stretching out his hands with a gesture of admiration, "will I be devoted in life and death."

  "He wished that I should learn some trade," said Pitou.

  "And he was right. And this is the way in which good intentions are thwarted. A man leaves a thousand francs that a child may be taught a trade, and instead of having him taught a trade, he is placed under the tuition of a bigoted priest who destines him for the seminary! And how much did she pay to your Abbé Fortier?"

  "Who?"

  "Your aunt."

  "She never paid him anything."

  "What? Did she pocket the two hundred livres a year, which that good Monsieur Gilbert paid!"

  "Probably."

  "Listen to me, for I have a bit of advice to give you, Pitou; whenever your bigoted old aunt shall walk off, take care to examine minutely every cupboard, every mattress, every pickle-jar—"

  "And for what?" asked Pitou.

  "Because, do you see, you will find some hidden treasure, some good old louis, in some old stocking-foot. Why, it must undoubtedly be so, for she could never have found a purse large enough to contain all her savings."

  "Do you think so?"

  "Most assuredly. But we will speak of this at a more proper time and place. To-day we must take a little walk. Have you Doctor Gilbert's book?"