Ange Pitou

by Alexandre Dumas

  But, in fact, had the rabbit been really a hare, Pitou would not have eaten, but would have sold it.

  That would not have been a very trifling concern. A hare, according to its size, is worth from eighteen to twenty-four sous; and although he was still the possessor of a few louis given to him by Doctor Gilbert, Pitou, without being as avaricious as his Aunt Angélique, had a good dose of economy, which he had inherited from his mother. Pitou would therefore have added eighteen sous to his treasure, which would thus have been increased instead of diminished.

  For Pitou had justly reflected that it was not necessary for a man to make repasts which would cost him one day half a crown, another eighteen sous. He was not a Lucullus; and Pitou said that with the eighteen sous his hare would have brought him, he could have lived during a whole week.

  Now, during that week, supposing that he had caught a hare on the first day, he might very well have taken three during the six following days, or rather, the six following nights. In a week, therefore, he would have gained food for a month.

  Following up this calculation, forty-eight hares would have sufficed for a year's keep; all the rest would have been clear profit.

  Pitou entered into this economical calculation while he was eating his rabbit, which, instead of bringing him anything, cost him a sous' worth of butter and a sous' worth of lard. As to the onions, he had gleaned them upon the common land.

  "After a repast, the fireside or a walk," says the proverb. After his repast, Pitou went into the forest to seek a snug corner where he could take a nap.

  It is scarcely necessary to say that as soon as the unfortunate youth had finished talking politics and found himself alone, he had incessantly before his eyes the spectacle of Monsieur Isidore making love to Mademoiselle Catherine.

  The oaks and beech-trees trembled with his sighs; Nature, which always smiles on well-filled stomachs, made one exception in regard to Pitou, and appeared to him a vast dark desert, in which there remained only rabbits, hares, and deer.

  Once hidden beneath the tall trees of his natal forest, Pitou, inspired by their cool and invigorating shade, became more firm in his heroic resolution, and this was to disappear from before the eyes of Catherine,—to leave her altogether free, and not to affect himself extravagantly as to her preference of another, that he might not be more humiliated than was necessary by invidious comparison.

  It was a highly painful effort to abstain from seeing Mademoiselle Catherine; but a man ought to be a man.

  Moreover, this was not precisely the case in question.

  The question was not exactly that he should no more see Mademoiselle Catherine, but that he should not be seen by her.

  Now, what was there to prevent the contemned lover from carefully concealing himself and catching a glance of the cruel fair one? Nothing.

  From Haramont to the farm what was the distance Scarcely a league and a half; that is to say, a few strides,—that was all!

  Although it would have been base on the part of Pitou to have continued his attentions to Catherine after what he had seen, it would be so much the more adroit in him to continue to ascertain her acts and conduct, thanks to a little exercise, which could not but be favorable to Pitou's health.

  Moreover, that portion of the forest which was behind the farm and extended towards Boursonne abounded in hares.

  Pitou would go at night to lay his wires; and the next morning, from the top of some high hillock, he would cast his eyes over the plain and watch Mademoiselle Catherine's doings. This he had the right to do; this, to a certain point, was his duty, being the authorized agent, as he undoubtedly was, of Father Billot.

  Thus, having consoled himself, and, as it were, in spite of himself, Pitou thought that he might cease sighing. He dined off an enormous slice of bread he had brought with him; and when the evening had closed in, he laid a dozen wires and threw himself down upon the heather, still warm from the sun's rays.

  There he slept like a man in utter despair; that is to say, his sleep was almost as undisturbed as that of death.

  The coolness of the night awoke him; he went to examine his wires. Nothing had been taken; but Pitou calculated always more upon the morning passage; only, as his head felt somewhat heavy, he determined on returning to his lodgings and looking to his wires the following day.

  But this day, which to him had passed by so devoid of events and intrigues, had been passed in a very different manner by the inhabitants of the hamlet, who had employed it in reflecting and in making combinations.

  It might have been seen towards the middle of that day which Pitou had passed dreaming in the forest,—the wood-cutters, we say, might have been seen leaning contemplatively upon their hatchets; the threshers with their flails suspended in the air, meditating; the joiners stopping their planes upon a half-smoothed plank.

  Pitou was the first great cause of all this loss of time; Pitou had been the breath of discord which had stirred these straws which began to whirl about confusedly.

  And he, the occasion of all this agitation, had not even thought one moment on the subject.

  But at the moment when he was going towards his own lodging, although the clock had struck ten, and usually at that hour not a single light was to be seen, not an eye was still open in the village, he perceived a very unaccustomed scene around the house in which he resided. He saw a number of men seated in groups, a number standing in groups, several groups walking up and down.

  The aspect of these groups was altogether singular.

  Pitou, without knowing why, imagined that all these people were talking of him.

  And when he passed through the street, they all appeared as if struck by an electric shock, and pointed at him as he passed.

  "What can the matter be with them all?" said Pitou to himself. "I have not my helmet on."

  And he modestly retired to his own lodging, after having exchanged salutations with a few of the villagers as he passed by them.

  He had scarcely shut the door of his house when he thought he heard a slight knock upon the doorpost.

  Pitou was not in the habit of lighting a candle to undress by. A candle was too great a luxury for a man who paid only six livres a year for his lodgings, and who, having no books, could not read.

  But it was certain that some one was knocking at his door.

  He raised the latch.

  Two of the young inhabitants of the village familiarly entered his abode.

  "Why, Pitou, you have not a candle!" said one of them.

  "No," replied Pitou; "of what use would it be?"

  "Why, that one might see."

  "Oh! I see well at night; I am a nyctalops."

  And in proof of this, he added:—

  "Good-evening, Claude! Good-evening, Désiré."

  "Well!" they both cried, "here we are, Pitou!"

  "This is a kind visit; what do you desire of me, my friends?"

  "Come out into the light," said Claude.

  "Into the light of what? There is no moon."

  "Into the light of heaven."

  "You have, then, something to say to me?"

  "Yes, we would speak with you, Ange."

  And Claude emphasized these words with a singular expression.

  "Well, let us go, then," said Pitou.

  And the three went out together.

  They walked on until they reached the first open space in the road, where they stopped, Ange Pitou still not knowing what they wanted of him.

  "Well?" inquired Pitou, seeing that his two companions stopped.

  "You see now, Ange," said Claude, "here we are,—Désiré Maniquet and myself. We manage to lead all our companions in the country. Will you be one of us?"

  "To do what?"

  "Ah! that is the question. It is to—"

  "To do what?" said Pitou, drawing himself up to his full height.

  "To conspire!" murmured Claude, in Pitou's ear.

  "Ah, ah! as they do at Paris," said Pitou, jeeringly.

 
The fact is that Pitou was fearful of the word, and indeed of the echo of the word, even in the midst of the forest.

  "Come, now, explain yourself," said Pitou to Claude, after a short pause.

  "This is the case," said the latter. "Come nearer. Désiré,—you who are a poacher to your very soul, and who know all the noises of the day and night, of the plain and of the forest,—look around and see if we have been followed; listen whether there be any one attempting to overhear us."

  Désiré gave an assenting nod, took a tolerably wide circuit round Pitou and Claude, and having peeped into every bush and listened to every murmur, returned to them.

  "You may speak out," said he; "there is no one near us."

  "My friends," rejoined Claude, "all the townships of France, as Pitou has told us, desire to be armed, and on the footing of National Guards!"

  "That is true!" said Pitou.

  "Well, then, why should Haramont not be armed like the other townships?"

  "You said why, only yesterday, Claude," replied Pitou, "when I proposed my resolution that we should arm ourselves. Haramont is not armed because Haramont has no muskets!"

  "Oh, as to muskets, we need not be uneasy about them, since you know where they are to be had."

  "I know! I know!" said Pitou, who saw at what Claude was aiming, and who felt the danger of the proceeding.

  "Well," continued Claude, "all the patriotic young fellows of the village have been consulting together to-day."

  "Good!"

  "And there are thirty-three of us!"

  "That is the third of a hundred, less one," added Pitou.

  "Do you know the manual exercise?" inquired Claude.

  "Do I not?" exclaimed Pitou, who did not even know how to shoulder arms.

  "Good! and do you know how to manœuvre a company?"

  "I have seen General de Lafayette manœuvring forty thousand men at least ten times," disdainfully replied Pitou.

  "That is all right," said Désiré, tired of remaining silent, and who, without intending to presume, wished to put in a word in his turn.

  "Well, then, will you command us?" said Claude to Pitou.

  "Who,—I?" exclaimed Pitou, starting with surprise.

  "Yes, you,—yourself!"

  And the two conspirators intently eyed Pitou.

  "Oh, you hesitate!" cried Claude.

  "Why—"

  "You are not, then, a good patriot?" said Désiré.

  "Oh! that, for example-—"

  "There is something, then, that you are afraid of?"

  "What! I? I, a conqueror of the Bastille,—a man to whom a medal is awarded?"

  "You have a medal awarded you?"

  "I shall have one as soon as the medals have been struck. Monsieur Billot has promised to apply for mine in my name."

  "He will have a medal! We shall have a chief who has a medal!" exclaimed Claude, in a transport of joy.

  "Come now, speak out;" said Désiré; "will you accept the appointment?"

  "Do you accept?" asked Claude.

  "Well, then, yes; I will accept it," said Pitou, carried away by his enthusiasm, and also, perhaps, by a feeling which was awakening within him, and which is called pride.

  "It is agreed; from to-morrow morning you will be our commander."

  "And what shall I command you to do?"

  "Our exercise, to be sure."

  "And the muskets?"

  "Why, since you know where there are muskets—"

  "Oh, yes! at the house of the Abbé Fortier."

  "Undoubtedly."

  "Only it is very likely the Abbé Fortier will refuse to let me have them."

  "Well, then, you will do as the patriots did at the Invalides,—you will take them."

  "What! I alone?"

  "You will have our signatures, and should it be necessary, you shall have our hands too. We will cause a rising in Villers-Cotterets; but we will have them."

  Pitou shook his head.

  "The Abbé Fortier is a very obstinate man," said he.

  "Pooh! you were his favorite pupil; he would not be able to refuse you anything."

  "It is easy to perceive that you do not know him!" cried Pitou, with a sigh.

  "How! do you believe the old man would refuse?"

  "He would refuse them even to a squadron of the Royal Germans. He is dreadfully obstinate, injustum et tenacem. But I forgot,—you do not even understand Latin," added Pitou, with much compassion.

  But the two Haramontese did not allow themselves to be dazzled either by the quotation or the apostrophe.

  "Ah, in good truth," said Désiré, "we have chosen an excellent chief, Claude; he is alarmed at everything."

  Claude shook his head.

  Pitou perceived that he was compromising his high position; he remembered that fortune always favors the brave.

  "Well, be it so," said he; "I will consider it."

  "You, then, will manage the affair of the muskets?"

  "I will promise to do all I can."

  An expression of satisfaction was uttered by his two friends, replacing the slight discontent they had before manifested.

  "Ho! ho!" said Pitou to himself, "these men want to dictate to me even before I am their chief; what will they do, then, when I shall be so in reality?"

  "Do all you can," said Claude, shaking his head; "oh, oh! that is not enough."

  "If that is not enough," replied Pitou, "try you to do more. I give up my command to you. Go and see what you can make of the Abbé Fortier and his cat-o' nine-tails."

  "That would be well worth while," said Maniquet, disdainfully. "It is a pretty thing, indeed, for a man to return from Paris with a helmet and a sabre, and then to be afraid of a cat-o'-nine-tails."

  "A helmet and a sabre are not a cuirass; and even if they were, the Abbé Fortier would still find a place on which to apply his cat-o'-nine-tails."

  Claude and Désiré appeared to comprehend this last observation.

  "Come, now, Pitou, my son," said Claude. ("My son" is a term of endearment much used in the country.)

  "Well, then, it shall be so," said Pitou; "but zounds! you must be obedient."

  "You will see how obedient we shall be," said he, giving a wink to Désiré.

  "Only," added Désiré, "you must engage with regard to the muskets—"

  "Oh! that is agreed upon," cried Pitou, interrupting him, who was in truth extremely uneasy at the task imposed upon him, but whom, however, ambition was counselling to venture on deeds which required great daring.

  "You promise, then?" said Claude.

  "I swear it."

  Pitou stretched forth his hand. His two companions did the same.

  And thus it was, by the light of the stars, and in an opening of the forest, that the insurrection was declared in the department of the Aisne, by the three Haramontese, unwitting plagiarists of William Tell and his three companions.

  The fact is that Pitou dimly foresaw that after all the perils and troubles he would have to encounter, he would have the happiness of appearing gloriously invested with the insignia of a commander of the National Guard before the eyes of Catherine; and the insignia appeared to him to be of a nature to cause her to feel, if not remorse, at least some regret for the conduct she had pursued.

  Thus consecrated by the will of his electors, Pitou returned to his house, meditating on the ways and means by which he could procure arms for his thirty-three National Guards.

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  Chapter XXXIV

  In which will be seen opposed to each other the Monarchical Principle represented by the Abbé Fortier, and the Revolutionary Principle represented by Pitou

  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 ch�
�teau, 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."

  "Ah!" cried Pitou.

  "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."