Ange Pitou (Volume 1)

by Alexandre Dumas

  Catherine smiled.

  "Well, then," continued the good woman, without even being compelled to make an effort to restrain a sigh, "here is our Catherine who is going to have all her own way: she will run about as she pleases; she will now have the command of the purse; now she will always be seen upon the roads; my daughter, in short, transformed into a lad!"

  "You need be under no apprehension for Mademoiselle Catherine," said Pitou, with a self-sufficient air; "I am here, and I will accompany her wherever she goes."

  This gracious offer, on which Ange perhaps calculated to produce an effect, produced so strange a look on the part of Catherine that he was quite confused.

  The young girl blushed,—not as women do when anything agreeable has been said to them, but with a sort of double feeling of anger and impatience, evincing at once a desire to speak and the necessity of remaining silent.

  Pitou was not a man of the world, and therefore could not appreciate these shades of feeling.

  But having comprehended that Catherine's blushing was not a perfect acquiescence:—

  "What!" said he, with an agreeable smile, which displayed his powerful teeth under his thick lips, "what! you say not a word, Mademoiselle Catherine?"

  "You are not aware, then, Monsieur Pitou, that you have uttered a stupidity?"

  "A stupidity!" exclaimed the lover.

  "Assuredly!" cried Dame Billot, "to think of my daughter Catherine going about with a body-guard."

  "But, in short, in the woods," said Pitou, with an air so ingenuously conscientious that it would have been a crime to laugh at him.

  "Is that also in the instructions of our good man?" continued Dame Billot, who thus evinced a certain disposition for epigram.

  "Oh!" added Catherine, "that would be too indolent a profession, which neither my father would have advised Monsieur Pitou to adopt, nor would Monsieur Pitou have accepted it."

  Pitou rolled his large and terrified eyes from Catherine to Dame Billot; the whole scaffolding of his building was giving way.

  Catherine, as a true woman, at once comprehended the painful disappointment of Pitou.

  "Monsieur Pitou," said she, "was it at Paris that you have seen young girls compromising their reputations in this way, by always dragging young men after them?"

  "But you are not a young girl, you," stammered Pitou, "since you are the mistress of the house."

  "Come, come! we have talked enough for to-night," abruptly said Dame Billot; "the mistress of the house has much to do. Come, Catherine, let me install you in the management, according to your father's orders."

  Then was commenced, before the astounded eyes of Pitou, a ceremony that was not deficient in grandeur nor in poetry, from its rustic simplicity.

  Dame Billot drew her keys from off the bunch, one by one, and delivered them to Catherine, giving her a list of the linen, of the furniture, the provisions, and the contents of the cellars. She conducted her daughter to the old secretary, or bureau, made of mahogany inlaid with ivory and ebony, somewhere about the year 1738 or 1740, in the secret drawer of which Father Billot locked up his most valuable papers, his golden louis, and all the treasures and archives of the family.

  Catherine gravely allowed herself to be invested with the supreme command over everything, and took due note of the secret drawers; she questioned her mother with much intelligence, reflected on each answer, and the information she required being obtained, appeared to store it up in the depths of her memory as a weapon in reserve in case of any contest.

  After the furniture and household articles had been examined, Dame Billot went on to the cattle, the lists of which were carefully made out.

  Horses, oxen, and cows; sheep, whether in good order or sick; lambs, goats, fowls, and pigeons,—all were counted and noted down.

  But this was merely for the sake of regularity.

  Of this branch of the farm business the young girl had for a long time past been the special administratrix.

  There was scarcely a hen in the barnyard of which she did not know the cackle; the lambs were familiar with her in a month; the pigeons knew her so well that they would frequently completely surround her in their flight; often even they would perch upon her shoulders, after having cooed at her feet.

  The horses neighed when Catherine approached. She alone could make the most restive of then obey. One of them, a colt bred upon the farm, was so vicious as to allow no one to approach him; but he would break his halter and knock down his stall to get to Catherine, putting his nose into her hand, or into her pocket, to get at the crust of bread he was always sure of finding there.

  Nothing was so beautiful or so smile-inspiring as this lovely fair-haired girl, with her large blue eyes, her white neck, her round arms, her small fat hands, when she came up with her apronful of corn to a spot near the pond, where the ground had been beaten and saltpetred to harden it for a feeding-place, and on which she would throw the grain she brought by handfuls.

  Then would be seen all the young chickens, all the pigeons, all the young lambs, hurrying and scrambling towards the pond; the beaks of the birds soon made the flooring appear speckled; the red tongues of the young goats licked the ground, or picked up crisp buckwheat. This area, darkened by the layers of corn, in five minutes became as white and clean as the delft-plate of the laborer when he has finished his meal.

  Certain human beings have in their eyes a fascination that subdues, or a fascination that terrifies,—two sensations so powerful over the brute creation that they never think of resisting them.

  Which of us has not seen a savage bull looking for several minutes, with melancholy expression, at a child who smiles at him without comprehending the danger he is running? He pities him.

  Which of us has not seen the same bull fix a sinister and affrighted look on a robust farmer, who masters him by the steadiness of his gaze, and by a mute threat? The animal lowers his head; he appears to be preparing for the combat, but his feet seem rooted in the ground; he shudders; he is terrified.

  Catherine exercised one of these two influences on all that surrounded her; she was at once so calm and so firm, there was so much gentleness and yet so much decided will, so little mistrust, so little fear, that the animal standing near her did not feel even the temptation of an evil thought.

  And this extraordinary influence she, with greater reason, exercised over thinking beings. She possessed a charm that was irresistible; not a man in the whole district had ever smiled when speaking of Catherine. No young man entertained an evil thought towards her. Those who loved her, wished to have her for their wife; those who did not love her, would have desired that she were their sister.

  Pitou, with head cast down, his hands hanging listless by his side, his ideas wandering, mechanically followed the young girl and her mother while they were taking a list of the farm stock.

  They had not addressed a word to him. He was there like a guard in a tragedy; and his helmet did not a little contribute to give that singular appearance.

  After this, they passed in review all the male and female servants of the farm.

  Dame Billot made them form a half-circle, in the centre of which she placed herself.

  "My children," said she, "our master is not yet coming back from Paris, but he has chosen a master for us in his place. It is my daughter Catherine, who is here; she is young and strong. As to myself, I am old, and my head is weak. Our master has done rightly. Catherine is now your mistress. She is to receive and give money. As to her orders, I shall be the first to receive and execute them; any of you who may be disobedient will have to deal with her."

  Catherine did not add a single word; she tenderly embraced her mother. The effect of this kiss was greater than that of any well-rounded phrase. Dame Billot wept; Pitou was much affected.

  All the servants received the announcement of the new reign with acclamations.

  Catherine immediately entered on her new functions, and allotted to all their several services. Each received her manda
te, and set out immediately to execute it, with the good-will which every one manifests at the commencement of a reign.

  Pitou was the only one remaining, and he at length, approaching Catherine, said to her:—

  "And I?"

  "Ah! you," replied Catherine; "I have no orders to give you."

  "How! I am, then, to remain without having anything to do?"

  "What do you wish to do?"

  "Why, what I did before I went to Paris."

  "Before going there, you were received into the house by my mother."

  "But you are now the mistress; therefore, point out the work I am to do."

  "I have no work for you, Monsieur Ange."

  "And why?"

  "Because you,—you are a learned man, a Parisian gentleman, to whom such rustic labors would not be suitable."

  "Can it be possible?" exclaimed Pitou.

  Catherine made a sign, which implied, "It is even so."

  "I a learned man!" repeated Pitou.

  "Undoubtedly."

  "But look at my arms, Mademoiselle Catherine."

  "That matters not."

  "But, in short, Mademoiselle Catherine," said the poor lad, in despair, "why is it that under the pretext of my being a learned man, you would force me to die of hunger? You do not know, then, that the philosopher Epictetus became a menial servant that he might have bread to eat; that Æsop, the fable-writer, earned his bread by the sweat of his brow? They were, however, people much more learned than I am."

  "What would you have? As I have said before, it is even so."

  "But Monsieur Billot accepted me as forming part of his household, and he has sent me back from Paris that I may still be so."

  "That may be the case; for my father might have compelled you to undertake things which I, his daughter, would not venture to impose upon you."

  "Do not impose them upon me, Mademoiselle Catherine," said Pitou.

  "But then you would remain in idleness, and that I could not at all allow. My father had the right to do so, he being the master, and which I could not do, being merely his agent. I have charge of his property, and I must take care that his property be productive."

  "But since I am willing to work, I shall be productive; you must see clearly, Mademoiselle, that you keep swimming round in the same vicious circle."

  "What say you?" cried Catherine, who did not comprehend the grandiloquent phrases of Pitou; "what mean you by a vicious circle?"

  "We call a bad argument a vicious circle, Mademoiselle. No; let me remain at the farm, and send me on your messages if you will. You will then see whether I am a learned man and an idle fellow. Besides which, you have books to keep, accounts to put in order. Arithmetic is my particular forte."

  "It is not, in my opinion, sufficient occupation for a man," said Catherine.

  "Why, then, it would seem I am fit for nothing," said Pitou.

  "Continue to live here," said Catherine, in a gentler tone; "I will reflect upon it, and we will see."

  "You require to reflect, in order that you may know whether you ought to keep me here! But what have I done to you, then, Mademoiselle Catherine? Ah! you were not thus formerly."

  Catherine gave an almost imperceptible shrug of her shoulders.

  She had no good reasons to give to Pitou, and nevertheless it was evident that his pertinacity fatigued her.

  Therefore, breaking off the conversation:—

  "Enough of this, Monsieur Pitou," said she; "I am going to La Ferté-Milon."

  "Then I will run and saddle your horse, Mademoiselle Catherine."

  "By no means; on the contrary, remain where you are."

  "You refuse, then, to allow me to accompany you?"

  "Remain here," said Catherine, imperatively.

  Pitou remained as if nailed to the spot, holding down his head and restraining a tear, which seared his eyelids as if it had been molten lead.

  Catherine left Pitou where he was, went out, and ordered one of the farm-servants to saddle her horse.

  "Ah!" murmured Pitou, "you think me changed, Mademoiselle Catherine; but it is you who are so, and much more changed than I am."

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  Chapter XXXI

  What decided Pitou to leave the Farm and return to Haramont, his real and only Country

  DAME BILLOT, resigned without affectation to undertake the functions of an upper servant, had, without ill-humor, and with good-will, resumed her occupations. Movement, which had for an instant been suspended throughout the agricultural hierarchy, soon returned; and the farm once more resembled the interior of a humming and industrious hive.

  While they were getting her horse ready, Catherine re-entered the house; she cast a glance at Pitou, whose body remained motionless, but whose head turned like a weather-cock, following each movement which the young girl made until she went upstairs to her own room.

  "What is it Catherine has gone to her room for?" said Pitou to himself.

  Poor Pitou! what had she gone there for? She went there to dress her hair, to put on a clean cap and a pair of finer stockings.

  Then, when this supplementary toilet was completed, as she heard her horse pawing the ground beneath the window, she came down, kissed her mother, and set out.

  Reduced to positive idleness, and feeling but ill-assured from a slight glance, half-indifferent, half-compassionate, which Catherine had addressed to him as she left the door, Pitou could not endure to remain in such a state of anxious perplexity.

  Since Pitou had once more seen Catherine, it appeared to him that the life of Catherine was absolutely necessary to him.

  And besides, in the depths of his heavy and dreaming mind, something like a suspicion came and went with the regularity of the pendulum of a clock.

  It is the peculiar property of ingenuous minds to perceive everything in equal degree. These sluggish natures are not less sensible than others; they feel, but they do not analyze.

  Analysis is the habit of enjoying and suffering; a man must have become, to a certain degree, habituated to sensations to see their ebullition in the depth of that abyss which is called the human heart.

  There are no old men who are ingenuous.

  When Pitou had heard the horse's footsteps at a certain distance from the house, he ran to the door. He then perceived Catherine, who was going along a narrow crossroad, which led from the farm to the high-road to La Ferté-Milon, and terminated at the foot of a hill, whose summit was covered by a forest.

  From the threshold of the door, he breathed forth an adieu to the young girl, which was replete with regret and kindly feeling.

  But this adieu had scarcely been expressed by his hand and heart when Pitou reflected on one circumstance.

  Catherine might have forbidden him to accompany her, but she could not prevent him from following her.

  Catherine could, if she pleased, say to Pitou, "I will not see you;" but she could not very well say to him, "I forbid your looking at me."

  Pitou therefore reflected that as he had nothing to do, there was nothing in the world to prevent him from gaining the wood and keeping along the road which Catherine was going; so that without being seen, he would see her from a distance through the trees.

  It was only a league and a half from the farm to La Ferté-Milon. A league and a half to go there, and a league and a half to return. What was that to Pitou?

  Moreover, Catherine would get to the high-road by a line which formed an angle with the forest. By taking a straight direction, Pitou would gain a quarter of a league, so that the whole distance for him would be only two leagues and a half for the whole journey.

  Two leagues and a half was a mere nothing of a walk for a man who appeared to have robbed Tom Thumb or to have at least pilfered the seven-league-boots which Tom had taken from the ogre.

  Pitou had scarcely imagined this project before he put it into execution.

  While Catherine was going towards the high-road, he, Pitou, stooping down behind the high waving corn, stole
across to the forest.

  In an instant he had reached the border of the wood; and once there, he jumped across the wide ditch which bounded it, then rushed beneath the trees, less graceful, but as rapid as a terrified deer.

  He ran for a quarter of an hour in this way, and at the end of that time he perceived the wood becoming lighter, for he had nearly reached the opposite edge near the road.

  There he stopped, leaning against an enormous oak, which completely concealed him behind its knotted trunk. He felt perfectly sure that he had got ahead of Catherine.

  He waited ten minutes,—even a quarter of an hour,—but saw no one.

  Had she forgotten something that she should have taken with her, and returned to the farm for it? This was possible.

  With the greatest possible precaution, Pitou crept near the road, stretched out his head from behind a great beechtree, which grew upon the very edge of the ditch, belonging, as it were, half to the road, half to the forest. From this he had a good view of the plain, and could have perceived anything that was moving upon it; he, however, could discern nothing.

  He felt assured, therefore, that Catherine must have returned to the farm.

  Pitou retraced his steps. Either she had not yet reached the farm, and he would see her return to it, or she had reached it, and he would see her come out again.

  Pitou extended the compass of his long legs, and began to remeasure the distance which separated him from the plain.

  He ran along the sandy part of the road which was softer to his feet, when he suddenly paused.

  Pitou had raised his eyes, and at the opposite end of the road he saw at a great distance, blending as it were with the blue horizon of the forest, the white horse and the red jacket of Catherine.

  The pace of Catherine's horse was an amble.

  The horse, ambling along, had left the high-road, having turned into a bridle-path, at the entrance of which was a direction-post, bearing the following inscription:—

  "Path leading from the road of La Ferté-Milon to Boursonne."

  It was, as we have said, from a great distance that Pitou perceived this, but we know that distance was of no consequence to Pitou.