Ange Pitou (Volume 1)

by Alexandre Dumas

  And then, looking at him:—

  "You have been fighting, then?"

  "Yes, and like a brave lad, too," said Billot.

  "Why did you not take me with you?" said the child, in a reproachful tone. "I would have fought also, and then I should at least have done something for my father."

  "Sebastien," said Gilbert, going to his son, and pressing his head to his breast, "you can do much more for your father than to fight for him; you can listen to his advice, and follow it,—become a distinguished and celebrated man."

  "As you are?" said the boy, with proud emotion. "Oh, it is that which I aspire to."

  "Sebastien," said the doctor, "now that you have embraced both Billot and Pitou, our good friends, will you come into the garden with me for a few minutes, that we may have a little talk together?"

  "With great delight, Father. Only two or three times in my whole life have I been alone with you, and those moments, with all their details, are always present in my memory."

  "You will allow us, good Monsieur Principal " said Gilbert.

  "How can you doubt it?"

  "Billot and Pitou, you must, my friends, stand in need of some refreshment?"

  "Upon my word, I do," said Billot. "I have eaten nothing since the morning, and I believe that Pitou has fasted as long as I have."

  "I beg your pardon," replied Pitou: "I ate a crumb of bread and two or three sausages, just the moment before I dragged you out of the water; but a bath always makes one hungry."

  "Well, then, come to the refectory," said the Abbé Bérardier, "and you shall have some dinner."

  "Ho, ho!" cried Pitou.

  "You are afraid of our college fare!" cried the abbé; "but do not alarm yourselves; you shall be treated as invited guests. Moreover, it appears to me," continued the abbé, "that it is not alone your stomach that is in a dilapidated state, my dear Monsieur Pitou."

  Pitou cast a look replete with modesty on his own person.

  "And that if you were offered a pair of breeches as well as a dinner—"

  "The fact is, I would accept them, good Monsieur Bérardier," replied Pitou.

  "Well, then, come with me; both the breeches and the dinner are at your service."

  And he led off Billot and Pitou by one door, while Gilbert and his son, waving their hands to them, went out at another.

  The latter crossed a yard which served as a playground to the young collegians, and went into a small garden reserved for the professors, a cool and shady retreat, in which the venerable Abbé Bérardier was wont to read his Tacitus and his Juvenal.

  Gilbert seated himself upon a bench, overshadowed by an alcove of clematis and virgin vines; then, drawing Sebastien close to him, and parting the long hair which fell upon his forehead:—

  "Well, my child," said he, "we are, then, once more united."

  Sebastien raised his eyes to heaven.

  "Yes, Father, and by a miracle performed by God."

  Gilbert smiled.

  "If there be any miracle," said Gilbert, "it was the brave people of Paris who have accomplished it."

  "My father," said the boy, "set not God aside in all that has just occurred; for I, when I saw you come in, instinctively offered my thanks to God for your deliverance."

  "And Billot?"

  "Billot I thanked after thanking God, as I thanked his carabine after Billot."

  Gilbert reflected.

  "You are right, child," said he; "God is in everything. But now let us talk of you, and let us have some little conversation before we again separate."

  "Are we, then, to be again separated, Father?"

  "Not for a long time, I presume. But a casket, containing some very precious documents, has disappeared from Billot's house, at the same time that I was arrested and sent to the Bastille. I must therefore endeavor to discover who it was that caused my imprisonment,—who has carried off the casket."

  "It is well, Father. I will wait to see you again,—till your inquiries shall be completed."

  And the boy sighed deeply.

  "You are sorrowful, Sebastien?" said the doctor, inquiringly.

  "Yes."

  "And why are you sorrowful?"

  "I do not know. It appears to me that life has not been shaped for me in the way it has been for other children."

  "What are you saying there, Sebastien?"

  "The truth."

  "Explain yourself."

  "They all have amusements, pleasures, while I have none."

  "You have no amusements, no pleasures?"

  "I mean to say, Father, that I take no pleasure in those games which form the amusement of boys of my own age."

  "Take care, Sebastien; I should much regret that you should be of such a disposition. Sebastien, minds that give promise of a glorious future are like good fruits during their growth; they have their bitterness, their acidity, their greenness, before they can delight the palate by their matured full flavor. Believe me, my child, it is good to have been young."

  "It is not my fault if I am not so," replied the young man, with a melancholy smile. Gilbert pressed both his son's hands within his own, and fixing his eye intently upon Sebastien's, continued:—

  "Your age, my son, is that of the seed when germinating; nothing should yet appear above the surface of all that study has sown in you. At the age of fourteen, Sebastien, gravity is either pride, or it proceeds from malady. I have asked you whether your health was good, and you replied affirmatively. I am going to ask you whether you are proud; try to reply to me that you are not."

  "Father," said the boy, "on that head you need not be alarmed. That which renders me so gloomy is neither sickness nor pride; no, it is a settled grief."

  "A settled grief, poor child! And what grief, good heaven, can you have at your age? Come, now, speak out."

  "No, Father, no; some other time. You have told me that you were in a hurry. You have only a quarter of an hour to devote to me. Let us speak of other things than my follies."

  "No, Sebastien; I should be uneasy were I to leave you so. Tell me whence proceeds your grief."

  "In truth, Father, I do not dare."

  "What do you fear?"

  "I fear that in your eyes I shall appear a visionary, or perhaps that I may speak to you of things that will afflict you."

  "You afflict me much more by withholding your secret from me."

  "You well know that I have no secrets from you, Father."

  "Speak out, then."

  "Really, I dare not."

  "Sebastien, you who have the pretension of being a man, to—"

  "It is precisely for that reason."

  "Come, now, take courage."

  "Well, then, Father, it is a dream."

  "A dream which terrifies you?"

  "Yes, and no; for when I am dreaming, I am not terrified, but as if transported into another world."

  "Explain yourself."

  "When still quite a child I had these visions. You cannot but remember that two or three times I lost myself in those great woods which surround the village in which I was brought up?"

  "Yes, I remember being told of it."

  "Well, then, at those times I was following a species of phantom."

  "What say you?" cried Gilbert, looking at his son with an astonishment that seemed closely allied to terror.

  "Well, then, Father, I will tell you all. I used to play, as did the other children in the village. As long as there were children with me, or near me, I saw nothing; but if I separated from them, or went beyond the last village garden, I felt something near, like the rustling of a gown. I would stretch out my arms to catch it, and I embraced only the air; but as the rustling sound became lost in distance, the phantom itself became visible. It was at first a vapor as transparent as a cloud; then the vapor became more condensed, and assumed a human form. The form was that of a woman gliding along the ground rather than walking, and becoming more and more visible as it plunged into the shady parts of the forest. Then an unknown, extrao
rdinary, and almost irresistible power impelled me to pursue this form. I pursued her with outstretched arms, mute as herself, for often I attempted to call to her, and never could my tongue articulate a sound. I pursued her thus, although she never stopped, although I never could come up with her, until the same prodigy which announced her presence to me warned me of her departure. This woman vanished gradually from my sight, matter became once more vapor, the vapor became volatilized, and all was ended; and I, exhausted with fatigue, would fall down on the spot where she had disappeared. It was there that Pitou would find me, sometimes the same day, but sometimes only the next morning."

  Gilbert continued gazing at his son with increasing anxiety. He had placed his fingers on his pulse. Sebastien at once comprehended the feeling which agitated the doctor.

  "Oh, do not be uneasy, Father," said he. "I know that there was nothing real in all this. I know that it was a vision, and nothing more."

  "And this woman," inquired the doctor, "what was her appearance?"

  "Oh, as majestic as a queen."

  "And her face; did you sometimes see it, child?"

  "Yes."

  "And how long ago " asked Gilbert, shuddering.

  "Only since I have been here," replied the youth.

  "But here in Paris you have not the forest of Villers-Cotterets, the tall trees forming a dark and mysterious arch of verdure. In Paris you have no longer that silence, that solitude, the natural element of phantoms."

  "Yes, Father, I have all these."

  "Where, then?"

  "Here, in this garden."

  "What mean you by saying here? Is not this garden set apart for the professors?"

  "It is so, my father; but two or three times it appeared to me that I saw this woman glide from the courtyard into the garden, and each time I would have followed her, but the closed door always prevented me. Then one day the Abbé Bérardier, being highly satisfied with my composition, asked me if there was anything I particularly desired; and I asked him to allow me sometimes to walk in the garden with him. He gave me the permission. I came; and here, Father, the vision reappeared to me."

  Gilbert trembled.

  "Strange hallucination," said he; "but, nevertheless, very possible in a temperament so highly nervous as his. And you have seen her face, then?"

  "Yes, Father."

  "Do you remember it?"

  The youth smiled.

  "Did you ever attempt to go near her?"

  "Yes."

  "To hold out your hand to her?"

  "It was then that she would disappear."

  "And in your own opinion, Sebastien, who is this woman?"

  "It appears to me that she is my mother."

  "Your mother!" exclaimed Gilbert, turning pale.

  And he pressed his hand against his heart, as if to stop the bleeding of a painful wound.

  "But this is all a dream," cried he; "and really I am almost as mad as you are."

  The youth remained silent, and with pensive eye looked at his father.

  "Well?" said the latter, in the accent of inquiry.

  "Well," replied Sebastien, "it is possible that it may be all a dream; but the reality of my dream is no less existing."

  "What say you?"

  "I say that at the last Festival of Pentecost, when we were taken to walk in the wood of Satory, near Versailles, and that while there, as I was meditating under a tree, and separated from my companions—"

  "The same vision again appeared to you?"

  "Yes; but this time in a carriage, drawn by four magnificent horses. But this time real, absolutely living. I very nearly fainted."

  "And why so?"

  "I do not know."

  "And what impression remained upon your mind from this new vision?"

  "That it was not my mother whom I had seen appearing to me in a dream, since this woman was the same I always saw in my vision, and my mother is dead."

  Gilbert rose and pressed his hand to his forehead. A strange swimming of the head had just seized him.

  The young lad remarked his agitation, and was alarmed at his sudden paleness.

  "Ah!" said he, "you see now, Father, how wrong I was to relate to you all my follies."

  "No, my child, no. On the contrary," said the doctor, "speak of them often to me; speak of them to me every time you see me, and we will endeavor to cure you of them."

  Sebastien shook his head.

  "Cure me! and for what?" asked he. "I am accustomed to this dream. It has become a portion of my existence. I love that vision, although it flies from me, and sometimes seems to repel me. Do not, therefore, cure me of it, Father. You may again leave me, travel once more, perhaps go again to America. Having this vision, I am not completely alone in the world."

  "In fine," murmured the doctor, and pressing Sebastien to his breast, "till we meet again, my child," said he, "and then I hope we shall no more leave each other; for should I again leave France, I will at least endeavor to take you with me."

  "Was my mother beautiful?" asked the child.

  "Oh, yes, very beautiful!" replied the doctor, in a voice almost choked by emotion.

  "And did she love you as much as I love you?"

  "Sebastien! Sebastien! never speak to me of your mother!" cried the doctor.

  And pressing his lips for the last time to the forehead of the youth, he rushed out of the garden.

  Instead of following him, the child fell back, overcome by his feelings, on the bench.

  In the courtyard Gilbert found Billot and Pitou, completely invigorated by the good cheer they had partaken of. They were relating to the Abbé Bérardier all the circumstances regarding the capture of the Bastille.

  Gilbert again entered into conversation with the Abbé Bérardier, in which he pointed out to him the line of conduct he should observe with regard to Sebastien.

  He then got into the hackney coach with his two companions.

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  Chapter XXI

  Madame de Staël

  WHEN Gilbert resumed his place in the hackney coach by the side of Billot and opposite to Pitou, he was pale, and the perspiration was standing in large drops on his forehead.

  But it was not in the nature of this man to remain for any time overwhelmed by any emotion whatsoever. He threw himself back into the corner of the carriage, pressed both his hands to his forehead as if he wished to repress the boiling thoughts which raged within it, and after remaining a few moments motionless, he withdrew his hands, and instead of an agitated countenance, he exhibited features which were particularly calm.

  "You told me, I think, my dear Monsieur Billot, that the king had dismissed Monsieur de Necker?"

  "Yes, indeed, Monsieur Gilbert."

  "And that the commotions in Paris originated in some measure from the disgrace of the minister?"

  "Very much."

  "And you added that Monsieur de Necker had immediately left Versailles."

  "He received the king's letter while at dinner. In an hour afterwards he was on the road to Brussels."

  "Where he is now?"

  "Or ought to be."

  "Did you not hear it said that he had stopped somewhere on the road?"

  "Oh, yes; he stopped at St. Ouen, in order to take leave of his daughter, the Baroness de Staël."

  "Did Madame de Staël go with him?"

  "I was told that he and his wife alone set out for Brussels."

  "Coachman!" cried Gilbert, "stop at the first tailor's shop you see."

  "You wish to change your coat?" said Billot.

  "Yes. In good sooth, this one smells too much of its contact with the walls of the Bastille; and a man cannot in such a dress discreetly pay a visit to the daughter of an ex-minister in disgrace. Search your pockets, and see if you cannot find a few louis for me."

  "Ho, ho!" cried the farmer, "it seems that you have left your purse in the Bastille."

  "That is according to the regulations," said Gilbert, smiling. "All articles of value are
deposited in the registry office."

  "And they remain there," said the farmer.

  And opening his huge fist, which contained about twenty louis:—

  "Take these, Doctor," said he.

  Gilbert took ten louis. Some minutes afterwards the hackney coach stopped at the door of a ready-made clothes shop.

  It was still the usage in those days.

  Gilbert changed his coat, soiled by the walls of the Bastille, for a very decent black one, such as was worn by the gentlemen of the Tiers État in the National Assembly.

  A hair-dresser in his shop, a Savoyard shoe-cleaner in his cellar, completed the doctor's toilette.

  The doctor then ordered the coachman to drive him to St. Ouen, by the exterior Boulevards, which they reached by going behind the walls of the park at Monceaux.

  Gilbert alighted at the gate of Monsieur Necker's house, at the moment when the cathedral clock of Dagobert struck seven in the evening.

  Around this house, which erewhile was so much sought, so much frequented, reigned the most profound silence, disturbed only by the arrival of Gilbert.

  And yet there was none of that melancholy appearance which generally surrounds abandoned country-houses,—of that gloominess even generally visible in a mansion, the master of which has been disgraced.

  The gates being closed, the garden-walks deserted, merely announced that the heads of the family were absent, but there was no trace of misfortune or of precipitation.

  Besides this, one whole portion of the château, the east wing, had still its window-shutters open, and when Gilbert was advancing towards this side, a servant, wearing the livery of Monsieur de Necker, approached the visitor.

  The following dialogue then took place through the iron gratings of the gate.

  "Monsieur de Necker is not at home, my friend?" said Gilbert.

  "No; the baron left St. Ouen last Saturday for Brussels."

  "And her ladyship, the baroness?"

  "Went with Monsieur."

  "But Madame de Staël?"

  "Madame de Staël has remained here; but I do not know whether madame will receive any one; it is her hour for walking."

  "Please to find out where she is, and announce to her Doctor Gilbert."

  "I will go and inquire whether madame is in the house or not. Doubtless she will receive you, sir; but should she be talking a walk, my orders are that she is not to be disturbed."