Ange Pitou (Volume 1)

by Alexandre Dumas

  "I insult you?"

  "Do you know that if this continues I will complain to the National Assembly? Ah! but—"

  The abbé laughed with a sinister irony.

  "Lay your information," said he.

  "And that punishment is awarded to ill-disposed persons who insult the good?"

  "The lamp-post!"

  "You are a bad citizen."

  "The rope! the rope!"

  Then he exclaimed, as if suddenly enlightened and struck with a movement of generous indignation:—

  "Ah, the helmet! the helmet! 't is he!"

  "Well," said Pitou, "what is the matter with my helmet?"

  "The man who tore out the still smoking heart of Berthier—the cannibal who carried it still bleeding, and laid it on the table of the electors—wore a helmet; that man with the helmet was you, Pitou! it was you, monster that you are! avaunt! avaunt! avaunt!"

  And each time that the abbé pronounced the word "avaunt," which he did with much tragic emphasis, he advanced one step towards Pitou, who retreated in the same proportion.

  But on hearing this accusation, of which the reader knows Pitou to be perfectly innocent, the poor lad threw far from him the helmet of which he was so proud, which rolled over upon the pavement of the courtyard, with the heavy, hollow sound of copper lined with pasteboard.

  "You see, wretch!" cried the abbé, "you acknowledge it."

  And he assumed the attitude of Lekain, 1 in Orosmanes, at the moment when, after finding the letter, he accuses Zaïre.

  "Come, now," said Pitou, completely taken aback by so horrible an accusation, "you are exaggerating, Monsieur l'Abbé."

  "I exaggerate! that is to say, that you only hanged a little; that is to say, that you only ripped up a little; poor, weak child!"

  "Monsieur Abbé, you know full well it was not I, you well know that it was Pitt."

  "And who is Pitt?"

  "Pitt the Second, the son of Pitt the First, of Lord Chatham. He who has distributed money, saying, 'Spend it; you need not give any account of it.' If you understood English, I would tell it you in English, but you do not know that language."

  "You know it then, you?"

  "Monsieur Gilbert taught it me."

  "In three weeks? Monsieur Impostor!"

  Pitou saw that he had made a false step.

  "Hear me, Monsieur Abbé," said he, "I will not contend with you any farther. You have your own ideas—"

  "Really"

  "That is but right."

  "You acknowledge that: Monsieur Pitou allows me to have my own ideas! Thanks, Monsieur Pitou"

  "Good! There, you are getting angry again. You must comprehend that if this continues I shall not be able to tell you the object which brought me here."

  "Wretch! You had an object in coming here, then You were deputed, perhaps"

  And the abbé laughed ironically.

  "Sir," said Pitou, placed by the abbé himself upon the, footing in which he wished to find himself since the commencement of the discussion, "you know the great respect I have always had for your character."

  "Ah, yes! let us talk of that."

  "And the admiration I have always entertained for your knowledge," added Pitou.

  "Serpent!" exclaimed the abbé.

  "What! I?" cried Pitou; "that, for example!"

  "Come, now, let us hear what you have to ask of me! That I should take you back here? No, no; I would not spoil my scholars. No; you would still retain the noxious venom; you would infect my young plants. Infecit pabula tabo."

  "But, good Monsieur Abbé—"

  "No, do not ask me that; if you must absolutely eat,—for I presume that the hangers of Paris eat as well as honest people. They eat—oh, God! In short, if you require that I should throw you your portion of raw meat, you shall have it, but at the door on the spatula, as at Rome the masters did to their dogs."

  "Monsieur Abbé," cried Pitou, drawing himself up proudly, "I do not ask you for my food; I have wherewith to provide food, God be thanked; I will not be a burden to any one."

  "Ah!" exclaimed the abbé, with surprise.

  "I live as all living beings do, and that without begging, and by that industry which Nature has implanted in me; I live by my own labor; and more than that, I am so far from being chargeable on my fellowcitizens, that several among them have elected me their chief."

  "Hey!" cried the abbé, with so much surprise, mingled with so much terror, that it might have been thought that he had trod upon a viper.

  "Yes, yes; they have elected me their chief," repeated Pitou, complacently.

  "Chief of what" inquired the abbé.

  "Chief of a troop of freemen," said Pitou.

  "Ah! good Heaven!" cried the abbé, "the unfortunate boy has gone mad."

  "Chief of the National Guard of Haramont," concluded Pitou, affecting modesty.

  The abbé leaned towards Pitou in order to gain from his features a confirmation of his words.

  "There is a National Guard at Haramont" cried he.

  "Yes, Monsieur Abbé."

  "And you are the chief of it?"

  "Yes, Monsieur Abbé."

  "You, Pitou?"

  "I, Pitou."

  The abbé raised his outstretched arms towards heaven, like Phineas the high-priest.

  "Abomination of desolation!" murmured he.

  "You are not ignorant, Monsieur abbé," said Pitou, with gentleness, "that the National Guard is an institution destined to protect the life, the liberty, and the property of the citizens."

  "Oh! oh!" continued the abbé, overwhelmed by his despair.

  "And that," continued Pitou, "too much vigor cannot be given to that institution, above all, in the country, on account of the very numerous bands—"

  "Bands of which you are the chief!" cried the abbé,—"bands of plunderers, bands of incendiaries, bands of assassins!"

  "Oh, do not confound things in this manner, dear Monsieur Abbé; you will see my soldiers, I hope, and never were there more honest citizens."

  "Be silent! be silent!"

  "You must consider, on the contrary, that we are your natural protectors; and the proof of this is that I have come straight to you."

  "And for what purpose?" inquired the abbé.

  "Ah! that is precisely it," said Pitou, scratching his ear and looking anxiously at the spot where his helmet was lying, in order to ascertain whether in going to pick up this very necessary portion of his military equipment, he would not place himself at too great a distance from his line of retreat.

  The helmet had rolled to within some few paces only of the great gate which opened on to the Rue de Soissons.

  "I asked you for what purpose," repeated the abbé.

  "Well," said Pitou, retreating backwards two steps towards his helmet, "this is the object of my mission, good Monsieur Abbé; permit me to develop it to your sagacity."

  "Exordium!" muttered the abbé.

  Pitou backed two steps more towards his helmet.

  But by a singular manæuvre, which did not fail to give Pitou some uneasiness, whenever he made two steps nearer to his helmet, the abbé, in order to remain at the same distance from him, advanced two steps towards Pitou.

  "Well," said Pitou, beginning to feel more courageous from his proximity to his defensive headpiece, "all soldiers require muskets, and we have not any."

  "Ah! you have no muskets!" cried the abbé, dancing with joy; "ah! they have no muskets! Soldiers without muskets! Ah! by my faith! they must be very pretty soldiers."

  "But, Monsieur Abbé," said Pitou, taking again two steps nearer to his helmet, "when men have not muskets, they seek for them."

  "Yes," said the abbé; "and you are in search of some?"

  Pitou was able to reach his helmet, and brought it near him with his foot. Being thus occupied, he did not at once reply to the abbé.

  "You look, then, for some?" repeated the latter.

  Pitou picked up his helmet.

  "Yes."

  "Wh
ere?"

  "In your house," said Pitou, placing the helmet on his head.

  "Guns in my house?" asked the abbé. "Yes. You have many."

  "Ah! my museum; you come to rob my museum. Only fancy the cuirasses of old heroes on the backs of such creatures. Pitou, I told you just now that you were mad. The swords of the Spaniards of Almanza, the pikes of the Swiss of Marignan, were never made for such a troop as yours."

  The abbé laughed so scornfully that a cold shudder ran through Pitou's veins.

  "No, abbé!" said Pitou, "the Spanish swords and Swiss pikes would be of no use."

  "It is well you see it."

  "Not those arms, abbé, but those capital muskets I cleaned so often when I studied under you.

  'Dum me Galatea tenebat,'"

  added Pitou, with a most insinuating smile.

  "Indeed," said the abbé; and he felt his few hairs stand erect as Pitou spoke; "you want my old marine muskets?"

  "They are the only weapons you have without any historical interest, and really fit for service."

  "Indeed," said the abbé, placing his hand on the handle of his lash, as the soldier would have seized his sword. "Back, now! the traitor unveils himself."

  "Abbé," said Pitou, passing from menace to prayer,

  "give me thirty muskets—"

  "Go back!" The abbé advanced towards Pitou.

  "And you will have the glory of having contributed to rescue the country from its oppressors."

  "Furnish arms to be used against me and mine! Never!" said the abbé.

  He took up his whip.

  He wheeled it above his head.

  "Never, never!"

  "Monsieur," said Pitou, "your name shall be placed in the journal of Monsieur Prudhomme."

  "My name in his paper!"

  "Honorably mentioned."

  "I had rather be sent to the galleys."

  "What! you refuse?" asked Pitou.

  "Yes, and tell you to go—"

  The abbé pointed to the door.

  "That would be very wrong, for you would be accused of treason. Monsieur, I beg you not to expose yourself to that."

  "Make me a martyr, Nero! I ask but that." And his eye glared so that he looked more like the executioner than the victim.

  So Pitou thought, for he began to fall back.

  "Abbé," said he, stepping back, "I'm an ambassador of peace, a quiet deputy. I come—"

  "You come to rob my armory, as your accomplices did that of the Invalides."

  "Which was most laudable," said Pitou.

  "And which will here expose you to a shower of lashes from my cat-o'-nine-tails."

  "Monsieur," said Pitou, who recognized an old acquaintance in the tool, "you will not thus violate the law of nations."

  "You will see. Wait."

  "I am protected by my character of ambassador."

  The abbé continued to advance.

  "Abbé! Abbé! Abbé!" said Pitou.

  He was at the street door, face to face with his dangerous enemy, and Pitou had either to fight or run.

  To run he had to open the door, to open the door, turn.

  If he turned, Pitou exposed to danger the part of his body the least protected by the cuirass.

  "You want my guns? you want my guns, do you?" said the abbé, "and you say, 'I will have them or you die!'"

  "On the contrary, Monsieur, I say nothing of the kind."

  "Well, you know where they are; cut my throat and take them."

  "I am incapable of such a deed."

  Pitou stood at the door with his hand on the latch, and thought not of the abbé's muskets, but of his whip.

  "Then you will not give me the muskets?"

  "No!"

  "I ask you again!"

  "No! no!"

  "Again!"

  "No! no! no!"

  "Then keep them!" and he dashed through the halfopen door.

  His movement was not quick enough to avoid the whip, which hissed through the air and fell on the small of the back of Pitou; and great as was the courage of the conqueror of the Bastille, he uttered a cry of pain.

  On hearing the cry, many of the neighbors rushed out, and to their surprise saw Pitou running away with his sword and helmet, and the Abbé Fortier at the door brandishing his whip, as the angel of destruction wields his sword of flame.

  1 A great French tragedian.

  | Go to Contents |

  Chapter XXXV

  Pitou a Diplomatist

  WE have seen how Pitou was disappointed.

  The fall was immense. Not even Satan had fallen from such an eminence when from heaven he was thrown to hell. Satan fell, but remained a king; while the Abbé Fortier's victim was only Ange Pitou.

  How could he appear before the persons who had sent him? How, after having testified such rash confidence, could he say that he was a boaster and a coward, who, armed with a sword and a helmet, had suffered an old abbé to whip him and put him to flight.

  Pitou was wrong in having boasted that he would triumph over the abbé Fortier, and in failing.

  The first time he found himself out of view, he put his hand on his head and thought.

  He had expected to conciliate Fortier with his Latin and Greek. He thought that by the honeyed cake of classical expressions he would corrupt the old Cerberus; but he had been bitten, and all had been spoiled.

  The abbé had great self-esteem, and Pitou had not regarded it. What most offended the abbé was Pitou's finding fault with his French,—a thing he cared far more about than he did about the muskets which Pitou had sought to take from him.

  Young people when good always think others as good as they are themselves.

  The abbé was not only an extreme royalist, but also a devoted philologist.

  Pitou was especially sorry that he had excited him, both on account of Louis XVI. and the verb "to be." He knew and should have managed his old master. That was his error, and he regretted it, though too late.

  What should he have done?

  He should have used his eloquence to convince the abbé of his own royalism, and ignored his mistakes in grammar.

  He should have convinced him that the National Guard of Haramont was opposed to the Revolution.

  He should have said that it would sustain the king.

  Above all, he never should have said a word about the confusion of tenses of the verb "to be."

  There was no earthly doubt but that the abbé would have opened his arsenal for the purpose of securing to the cause of the king such a leader and such a company.

  This falsehood is diplomacy. Pitou thought over all the stories of old times.

  He thought of Philip of Macedon, who swore falsely so often, but who was called a great man.

  Of Brutus, who to overcome his enemies pretended to be a fool, but who is thought a great man.

  Of Themistocles, who served his fellow-citizens by deceiving them, but who is called a great man.

  On the other hand, he remembered that Aristides would admit of no injustice, and that he too was esteemed a great man.

  This contrast annoyed him.

  He thought, though, that Aristides fortunately lived at a time when the Persians were so stupid that one could act honestly and yet conquer them.

  He then remembered that Aristides had been exiled, and this circumstance decided him in favor of Philip of Macedon, Brutus, and Themistocles.

  Descending to modern times, Pitou remembered how Gilbert, Bailly, Lameth, Barnave, and Mirabeau would have acted, had Louis XVI. been the abbé and they been Pitou.

  What would they have done to have the king arm the five hundred thousand National Guards of France?

  Exactly the contrary of what Pitou had done.

  They would have persuaded Louis XVI. that they desired nothing more than to preserve the Father of the French; that to save him, from three to five hundred thousand guns were needed.

  Mirabeau would have succeeded.

  Pitou then remembered the two flowing lines
:—

  "When you to the Devil pray

  Call him giver of all good."

  He came to the conclusion that Ange Pitou was a perfect brute, and that to return to his electors with any sort of glory he ought to have done exactly what he had not.

  Pitou determined, then, either by force or by stratagem to get possession of the arms.

  The first resource was stratagem.

  He could enter the abbé's museum and steal the arms.

  If he did it alone, the act would be theft. If with companions, it would be simply a removal.

  The very word "theft" made Pitou uneasy.

  As to the removal, there were yet many people in France who, used to the old laws, would call it burglarious robbery.

  Pitou hesitated.

  But Pitou's self-love was excited, and to get out of the difficulty with honor he was forced to act alone.

  He set to work most diligently to seek some mode of extricating himself.

  At last, like Archimedes, he shouted "Eureka!" which in plain English means, "I have discovered!"

  The following was his plan:—

  Lafayette was Commander-in-Chief of the National

  Guards of France.

  Haramont was in France.

  Haramont had a National Guard.

  Lafayette then was Commander of the National Guard of Haramont.

  He could not, therefore, consent that they should be destitute of arms while the rest of the militia of France was armed or about to be so.

  To reach Lafayette he had to appeal to Gilbert, and Gilbert he would reach through Billot.

  Pitou had then to write to Billot.

  As Billot could not read, Gilbert would have to read the letter for him, and in this way Gilbert would learn the facts, thus saving the necessity of at least one letter.

  His resolution being taken, Pitou waited till night, when he returned secretly to Haramont and took up the pen.

  But notwithstanding the precautions he had taken that his return should be unobserved, he was seen by Claude Tellier and Désiré Maniquet.

  They withdrew in silence, and each with a finger on his lips, as a token of silence.

  Pitou now had entered upon the rôle of a practical politician.

  The following is a copy of the letter which produced such an effect on Tellier and Maniquet:—