"Oh!" said Gilbert, "it is not to him that I confide him."
"To whom, then?"
Gilbert looked up to heaven; he was still too much a Voltairean to dare to reply:—
"To God!"
And the affair was settled. They resolved, in consequence, not to make any change in Pitou's plan, which promised, without exposing him to too much fatigue, a journey replete with amusement to Sebastien; but it was decided they should not commence it until the following morning.
Gilbert might have sent his son to Villers-Cotterets by one of the public conveyances which at that period were running between Paris and the frontiers, or even in his own carriage; but we know how much he feared the isolation of thought for young Sebastien, and nothing so much isolates dreaming people as the motion and rumbling noise of a carriage.
He therefore took the two young travellers as far as Bourget, and then, showing them the open road, on which a brilliant sun was shining, and bordered by a double row of trees, he embraced his son again, and said:—
"Now go!"
Pitou therefore set off, leading Sebastien, who several times turned round to blow kisses to his father, who was standing, his arms crossed, upon the spot where he had taken leave of his son, following him with his eyes as if he were following a dream.
Pitou raised himself to the full height of his extraordinary stature. Pitou was very proud of the confidence reposed in him by a person of Monsieur Gilbert's importance,—one of the king's physicians-in-ordinary.
Pitou prepared himself scrupulously to fulfil the task intrusted to him, which combined the functions of a tutor and almost those of a governess.
Moreover, it was with full confidence in himself that he was conducting little Sebastien; he travelled very quietly, passing through villages which were all in commotion and terror since the events at Paris, which had only just occurred,—for although we have brought up these events to the 5th and 6th of October, it must be remembered that it was towards the end of July or the beginning of August that Pitou and Sebastien left Paris.
Besides this, Pitou had retained his helmet for a headdress, and his long sabre as a defensive weapon.
These were all that he had gained by the events of the 13th and 14th of July; but this twofold trophy satisfied his ambition, and by giving him a formidable air, at the same time sufficed for his safety.
Moreover, this formidable air, to which indubitably the helmet and dragoon's sabre greatly contributed, Pitou had acquired independently of them. A man has not assisted in taking the Bastille, he has not even merely been present at it, without having retained something heroic in his deportment.
Pitou had, in addition to this, become somewhat of an advocate.
No one could have listened to the resolutions passed at the Hôtel de Ville, to the orations of Monsieur Bailly, the harangues of Monsieur de Lafayette, without becoming somewhat of an orator; above all, if he had already studied the Latin Conciones, of which French eloquence at the close of the eighteenth century was rather a pale, though a tolerably correct, imitation.
Furnished with these two powerful modes of argument, to which two vigorous fists were no mean adjuncts, and possessing a rare amenity of smile and a most interesting appetite, Pitou journeyed on agreeably towards Villers-Cotterets.
For the curious in politics he had news, besides which he could manufacture them in case of need, having resided in Paris, where, from that period, their fabrication has been always remarkable.
He related how Monsieur Berthier had left immense buried treasures, which the Government would some day manage to dig up; how Monsieur de Lafayette, the paragon of all glory, the pride of provincial France, was no longer considered in Paris but as a half-used-up doll, whose white horse was a fertile subject for the concoction of jests and caricatures; how Monsieur Bailly, whom Monsieur de Lafayette honored with his most intimate friendship, as well as all the members of his family, was an aristocrat, and that people addicted to scandal said even worse things of him.
When he related all this, Pitou raised tempests of anger against him, but he possessed the quos ego of all these storms. He would then relate unpublished anecdotes of the "Austrian woman."
His inexhaustible fancy procured for him an uninterrupted succession of excellent repasts, until he arrived at Vauciennes,—the last village on the road before reaching Villers-Cotterets.
As Sebastien, on the contrary, ate little or nothing; as he did not speak at all; as he was a pale and sickly-looking youth,—every one who felt interested in Sebastien, admired the vigilant and paternal care of Pitou towards him, who caressed, cosseted, attended on the boy, and into the bargain, ate his part of the dinners, without seeming to have any other motive than that of being agreeable to him.
When they arrived at Vauciennes, Pitou appeared to hesitate. He looked at Sebastien; Sebastien looked at Pitou.
Pitou scratched his head. This was his mode of expressing his embarrassment.
Sebastien knew enough of Pitou to be aware of this peculiarity.
"Well, what is the matter, Pitou?" asked Sebastien.
"The matter is, that if it were the same thing to you, and if you were not too tired, instead of continuing our way straight on, we would return to Villers-Cotterets through Haramont."
And Pitou, honest lad, blushed while expressing this wish, as Catherine would have blushed when expressing a less innocent desire.
Sebastien at once understood him.
"Ah, yes!" said he, "it was there our poor mother Pitou died."
"Come, my brother, come."
Pitou pressed Sebastien to his heart with an energy that almost suffocated him; and taking the boy's hand, he began running down the cross-road which leads along the valley of Wuala, and so rapidly that after going a hundred paces, poor Sebastien was completely out of breath, and was obliged to say:—
"Too fast, Pitou, too fast!"
Pitou stopped; he had not perceived that he was going too fast, it being his usual pace.
He saw that Sebastien was pale and out of breath.
He took him on his shoulders and carried him.
In this way Pitou might walk as fast as he pleased.
As it was not the first time that Pitou had carried Sebastien, Sebastien made no objection.
They thus reached Largny. There Sebastien, feeling that Pitou was panting, declared that he had rested long enough, and that he was ready to walk at any pace that might suit Pitou.
Pitou, being full of magnanimity, moderated his pace.
Half an hour after this, Pitou was at the entrance of Haramont, the pretty village where he first saw the light, as says the romance of a great poet,—a romance the music of which is of more value than the words.
When they reached it, the two boys cast a look around them to discover their old haunts.
The first thing which they perceived was the crucifix which popular piety habitually places at the entrance to all villages.
Alas! even at Haramont they felt the strange progression which Paris was making towards atheism. The nails which fastened the right arm and the feet of the figure of Christ had broken off, from rust having eaten through them. The figure was hanging, suspended only by the left arm; and no one had had the pious idea of replacing the symbol of that liberty, that equality, that fraternity which every one was in those days preaching.
Pitou was not devout, but he had the traditions of his childhood. That this holy symbol should have been thus neglected, wounded him to the heart. He searched the hedges for one of those creeping plants which are as thin and as tenacious as iron wire, laid his helmet and his sabre on the grass, climbed up the cross, refastened the right arm of the Divine Martyr to it, kissed the feet, and descended.
During this time Sebastien was praying on his knees at the foot of the cross. For whom was he praying Who can tell?
Perhaps for that vision of his childhood which he fondly hoped once more to find beneath the great trees; for that unknown mother who is never unknown; for if sh
e has not nourished us from her breast, yet is she still our mother.
His holy action being accomplished, Pitou replaced his helmet on his head, and replaced his sabre in his belt.
When Sebastien had concluded his prayer, he made the sign of the cross, and again took Pitou's hand.
Both of them then entered the village, and advanced towards the cottage in which Pitou had been born, in which Sebastien had been nursed.
Pitou knew every stone in Haramont, and yet he could not find the cottage. He was obliged to inquire what had become of it, and the person he applied to showed him a small house built of stone, with a slated roof.
The garden of this house was surrounded by a wall.
Aunt Angélique had sold her sister's house, and the new proprietor, having full right to do so, had pulled down everything,—the old walls, which had again become dust; the old door, with a hole cut in it to allow ingress to the cat; the old windows, with their panes, half glass, half paper, upon which had appeared in strokes the elementary lessons Pitou had received in writing; the thatched roof with its green moss, and the plants which had grown and blossomed on its summit. The new proprietor had pulled down all this; all had disappeared.
The gate was closed, and lying on the threshold, was a big black dog, who showed his teeth to Pitou.
"Come," said Pitou, the tears starting from his eyes; "let us be gone, Sebastien. Let us go to a place where at least I am sure that nothing will have changed."
And Pitou dragged Sebastien to the cemetery where his mother had been buried.
He was right, the poor boy! There nothing had been changed, only the grass had grown; it grows so rapidly in cemeteries that there was some chance even that he would not be able to recognize his mother's grave. Fortunately, at the same time that the grass had grown, a branch of a weeping-willow which Pitou had planted had, in three years, become a tree. He went straight to the tree and kissed the earth which it overshadowed, with the same instinctive piety with which he had kissed the feet of the figure of Christ.
When he rose from the ground, he felt the branches of the willow, agitated by the wind, waving around his head.
He then stretched out his arms, and clasping the branches, pressed them to his heart.
It was as if he was holding the hair of his mother, which he was embracing for the last time.
The two youths remained a considerable time by the side of this grave, and evening was approaching.
It was necessary that they should leave it,—the only thing that appeared to have any remembrance of Pitou.
When about to leave it, Pitou for a moment had the idea of breaking off a slip of the willow and placing it in his helmet; but just when he was raising his hand to do so, he paused.
It appeared to him that it would be giving pain to his poor mother to tear off a branch from a tree, the roots of which perhaps were entwined round the decaying deal coffin in which her remains reposed.
He again kissed the ground, took Sebastien by the hand, and left the cemetery.
All the inhabitants of the village were either in the fields or in the woods. Few persons, therefore, had seen Pitou; and disguised as he was by his helmet and his long sabre, among those persons no one had recognized him.
He therefore took the road to Villers-Cotterets,—a delightful road which runs through the forest for nearly three quarters of a league,—without meeting any living or animated object to divert his grief.
Sebastien followed, mute and pensive as himself.
They arrived at Villers-Cotterets at about five in the afternoon.
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Chapter XXVIII
How Pitou, after having been cursed and turned out of doors by his Aunt on account of a Barbarism and three Solecisms, was again cursed and turned out by her on account of a fowl cooked with rice
PITOU arrived at Villers-Cotterets by that part of the park which is called the Pheasantry. He walked across the dancing place, always abandoned during the week, and to which he had three weeks previously conducted Catherine.
What a number of things had happened to Pitou and to France during those three weeks!
Then, having followed the long avenue of chestnuttrees, he reached the square before the château, and knocked at the back door of the college presided over by the Abbé Fortier.
It was full three years since Pitou had left Haramont, while it was only three weeks since he had left Villers-Cotterets. It was therefore very natural that he should not have been recognized at Haramont, and that he should have been recognized at Villers-Cotterets.
In a moment a rumor ran through the town that Pitou had returned there with young Sebastien Gilbert; that both of them had gone into the house of the Abbé Fortier; that Sebastien looked much the same as when he had left them, but that Pitou had a helmet and a long sword.
The result of this was that a great crowd had assembled at the principal gate; for they calculated that if Pitou had gone into the chateau by the small private door, he would come out of it by the great gate in the Rue de Soissons.
This was his direct road for going to Pleux.
In fact, Pitou remained at the Abbé Fortier's only long enough to deliver into the hands of the abbé's sister the letter from the doctor, the young lad himself, and five double louis destined to pay his board.
The Abbé Fortier's sister was at first much terrified when she saw so formidable a soldier advancing through the garden; but soon, beneath the dragoon's helmet, she recognized the placid and honest face of Pitou, which somewhat tranquillized her.
And finally, the sight of the five double louis reassured her altogether.
This terror of the poor old maid can be the more readily explained, by informing our readers that the Abbé Fortier had gone out with his pupils to give them a walk, and that she was quite alone in the house.
Pitou, after having delivered the letter and the five double louis, embraced Sebastien, and left the house, clapping his helmet on his head with due military bravado.
Sebastien had shed some tears on separating from Pitou, although the separation was not to be of long duration, and notwithstanding that his society was not exceedingly amusing; but his hilarity, his mildness, his continued obligingness, had touched the heart of young Gilbert. Pitou had the disposition of those fine great Newfoundland dogs, who sometimes fatigue you very much, but who in the end disarm your anger by licking your hand.
There was one thing which diminished Sebastien's grief, which was that Pitou promised that he would often go to see him. One thing diminished Pitou's regret, and this was that Sebastien thanked him for his promise.
But now let us for a while follow our hero from the house of the Abbé Fortier to that of his Aunt Angélique, situated, as our readers already know, at the farther end of Pleux.
On leaving the Abbé Fortier's house, Pitou found some twenty persons who were waiting for him. His strange equipment, a description of which had been given throughout the town, was in part known to those assembled. On seeing him thus return from Paris, where so much fighting was going on, they presumed that Pitou had been fighting too, and they wished to hear the news.
This news Pitou communicated with his accustomed majesty. The taking of the Bastille, the exploits of Monsieur Billot and of Monsieur Maillard, of Messieurs Elie and Hullin; how Billot had fallen into the ditch of the fortress, and how he, Pitou, had dragged him out of it; finally, how they had saved Monsieur Gilbert, who during six or seven days had been one of the prisoners confined there.
The auditors already knew most of the details that Pitou had related to them. They had read all these details in the newspapers of the day; but however faithful the editor of a newspaper may be in his writings, he is always less interesting than an ocular witness who relates the incidents,—who may be interrupted, and who resumes; who may be questioned, and replies.
Now Pitou resumed, replied, gave all the details, showing, when interrupted, the greatest obligingness, in all his answers the greatest possib
le amenity.
The result of all this was that in about an hour's conversation at the door of the Abbé Fortier, in which he gave a succinct narrative, the Rue de Soissons was crowded with auditors, when one of the persons present, observing some signs of anxiety in Pitou's countenance, took upon himself to say:—
"But he is fatigued, poor Pitou; and we are keeping him here upon his legs instead of allowing him to go to his Aunt Angélique's house, poor dear woman, who will be so delighted at seeing him again."
"It is not that I am fatigued," said Pitou, "but that I am hungry; I have never been fatigued, but I am hungry."
Then, and in consequence of this ingenuous declaration, the crowd, who highly respected the cravings of Pitou's stomach, respectfully made way for him to pass, and Pitou, followed by some persons more inveterately curious than the rest, was permitted to wend his way to Pleux; that is to say, to the house of his Aunt Angélique.
Aunt Angélique was not at home; she had gone doubtless to visit some neighbors, and the door was locked.
Several persons then invited Pitou to go to their houses and take the nourishment he stood in need of; but Pitou proudly refused.
"But," said they to him, "you see, dear Pitou, that your aunt's door is locked."
"The door of an aunt cannot remain locked before an obedient and hungry nephew," answered Pitou, majestically.
And drawing his long sabre, the sight of which made men and children start back with affright, he introduced the point of it between the bolt and the staple of the lock, gave a vigorous jerk, and the door flew open, to the great admiration of all present, who no longer doubted the great exploits of Pitou, since they saw him with so much audacity expose himself to the anger of the illtempered old maid.
The interior of the house was in precisely the same state as when Pitou had left it. The famous leather armchair royally held its state in the centre of the room; two or three other mutilated chairs and stools formed the lame court of the great armchair; at the end of the room was the kneading-trough; on the right, the cupboard, and on the left, the chimney.
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