Taking the Bastile (58 page)

‘Aunt Angelique, you may well be surprised, but it is indeed your poor Pitou,’ said he.

When he had clasped her so fervently in his arms, the old maul imagined that, having been surprised in the vocy

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act by her, Pltou had wished to suffocate her. She, on her side, breathed more freely when she found herself relieved from this dangerous embrace. Only Aunt Angelique might have remarked that Pitou had not even manifested his admiration of the dish he was devouring.

Pitou was not only ungrateful, but he was also ill-bred. But there was one thing which disgusted Aunt Angelique more than the rest; and this was, that, while she would be seated in state in her leathern armchair, Pitou would not even dare to sit down on one of the dilapidated chairs or one of the lame stools which surrounded it; but, instead of this, after having so cordially embraced her, Pitou had very coolly ensconced himself in her own armchair, had placed the dish between his knees, and was leisurely devouring its contents. In his powerful right hand he held the knife already mentioned, the blade of which was wide and long, a perfect spatula. In the other hand he held a bit of bread of three fingers wide and six inches long; a perfect broom, with which he swept up the rice, while on its side the knife, in seeming gratitude, pushed the meat upon the bread.

We must renounce attempting to describe the frightful perplexity and despair of Aunt Angelique. At one moment she imagined that she could call out. Pitou, however, smiled at her with such a fascinating air, that the words expired before Aunt Angelique could give them utterance. Then she attempted to smile in her turn, hoping to exorcise that ferocious animal, called hunger, and which had taken up its abode in the stomach of her nephew. But the proverb is right; the famished stomach of Pitou remained both deaf and dumb. His aunt, instead of smiling, wept. This somewhat incommoded Pitou, but it did not prevent his eating.

‘Oh 1 oh I aunt, how good yon are,’ said he, ‘to cry thus with joy, on my arrival. Thanks, my good aunt, thanks I’

And he went on devouring. Evidently the French Revolution had completely denaturalised this man. He bolted three-fourths of the fowl, and left a small quantity of the rice at the bottom of the dish, saying,

‘You like the rice beat, do you not, my dear aunt? It is softer for your teeth. I leave you the rice.’

This attention, which she no doubt imagined to be a arcasm, almost suffocated Aunt Angelique. She resolutely

PITOU AGAIN TURNED OUT OF DOORS 383

advanced towards young Pitou, snatched the dish from his hands, ottering a blasphemous expression, which, twenty years subsequently, would have appeared admirably suitable to a grenadier of the old guard.

Pitou heaved a sigh. ‘Oh 1 aunt,’ cried he, ‘you regret your fowl, do you not?’

‘The villain r cried Aunt Angeh’que, ‘I believe that he is jeering me.’

Pitou rose from bis chair. ‘Aunt,’ said he majestically, ‘it was not my intention to eat without paying for what I ate. I have money. I will, if you please, board regularly with you, only I shall reserve to myself the right of choosing my own dinner.’

‘Rascal I’ exclaimed Aunt Angelique.

‘Let us see we will calculate each portion at four sous I now owe you for one meal four sous worth of rice and two sous of bread six sous.’

‘Six sous 1’ cried the aunt : ‘six sou* 1 why, there is eight sous worth of rice and six sous of bread, without counting anything else.’

‘Oh 1 I know I have not allowed anything for the fowl, my good aunt, knowing that it came from your poultry-yard he was aa old acquaintance I knew him at once by bis comb.’

‘He was worth bis price, however.’

‘He was five years old, at least. I stole him from under bis mother’s wing for you he was then barely as big as my fist; and I recollect even that you beat me, because when I brought him home to you I did not bring you corn enough to feed him the next day. Mademoiselle Catherine gave me some barley; he was my property, and I ate my property; I had good right to do so.’

His aunt, mad with anger, pulverised the revolutionary hero with a look she had no voice.

‘Get out of this I’ murmured she.

‘What, at once, so soon after having dined, without even giving me time to digest my dinner. Ah I aunt, aunt, that is by no means polite.’

‘Out with you I’

Pitou. who had again sat down, rose from the armchair I

‘Aunt,’ said he majestically, ‘you are an unfeeling relation. I will demonstrate to you that you are now acting as wrongly towards me as you have always done;

3, TAKING THE BASTILLE

that you are still as harsh, still as avaricious as ever. Well I I will not allow you to go about telling every on* that I have devoured your property.’

He placed himself on the threshold of the door, and in a stentorian voice, ‘I call these worthy people to witness.’ said he, ‘that having arrived from Paris, on foot, after having taken the Bastille, being tired and hungry, I seated myself in this house that I ate my relation’s provisions that I was so harshly reproached for the food of which I partook that I was so pitilessly driven from the house, that I feel myself compelled to go.’

Pitou delivered this exordium in so pathetic a tone, that the neighbours began to murmur against the old woman.

‘A poor traveller,’ continued Pitou, ‘who has walked nine leagues a worthy lad, honoured with the confidence of Monsieur Gilbert and Monsieur Billot, and who was charged by them to bring back Sebastian Gilbert to the Abbe Fortier one of the conquerors of the Bastille a friend of Monsieur Bailly and of General Lafayette I call upon you all to witness that I have been turned out.’

The murmurs went on increasing.

‘And,’ pursued he, ‘as I am not a mendicant, as, when I am reproached for the bread I eat, I pay for it, here is half a crown which I lay down as payment for that which I have eaten in my aunt’s house I

And, saying this, Pitou proudly drew half a crown from his pocket, and threw it on the table, from which, in the sight of all, it rebounded, hopped into the dish, and half buried itself in the remaining rice. This last trait completely confounded the old woman. She bent down, beneath the universal reprobation to which she had exposed herself, and which was testified by a long, loud mur-mur. Twenty hands were held out to Pitou, who left the hut shaking the dust from his shoes on the threshold, and disappeared from his aunt’s eyes, escorted by a crowd of persons offering him his meals and lodging, happy to be the hosts of a conqueror of the Bastille, a friend of M. Bailly and of General Lafayette. Aunt Angelique picked the half-crown out of the rice, wiped it, and put it into the saucer, where it was to wait, with many others, its transmigration into an old louis.

PITOU A REVOLUTIONIST 383

PITOU wished, after having fulfilled the first duties of obedience, to satisfy the first feelings of his heart. Going along the narrow alley which leads from the Pleux to the Rue Lonnet, which forms a sort oi green girdle to that portion of the town, he went straight across the fields that he might the sooner arrive at Billot’s farm. But his rapid course was soon slackened; every step he took brought back some recollection to his mind. When any one returns to the town or to the village hi which he was born, he walks upon his youth he walks on his past days. Here, he has suffered there, he has been happy; here, he has sobbed with grief there, he has wept with joy.

Pitou, who was no analyser, was compelled to be a man. When he perceived at a hundred paces before him the long slated roofs when he measured with his eyes the old elm trees bending down over the moss-grown chimney* when he heard the distant sound of the cattle, the barking of the dogs, the carts lumbering along the road, he placed his helmet more proudly on his head, grasped his dragoon’s sabre with more firmness, and endeavoured to give himself a martial appearance, such as was fitting to a lover and a soldier. At first no one recognised him a proof that his effort was attended with tolerable success. A stable boy was standing by the pond watering his horses, and hearing a noise, turned round, and through the tufted head of a withy tree he perceived Pitou, or rather a helmet and a sabre. The stable boy seemed struck with stupefaction.

Pitou, on passing him, called out, ‘Hallo 1 Barnaut good-day, Barnaut 1’

The boy, astounded that the helmet and sabre knew his name, took off his small hat, and let fall the halter by which he held the horses. Pitou passed on smiling. But the boy was by no means reassured; Pitou’s benevolent smile had remained concealed beneath his helmet. At the same moment Dame Billot perceived the approach oi this military man through the windows of the dining-room. She immediately jumped up. In country places, everybody was then on the alert; for alarming rumours were TJR. H

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spread abroad, of brigands who were destroying the forests trees, and cutting down fields of corn though still unripe. What did the arn val of this soldier portend ? Dame Billot had taken a general survey of Pitou as he approached. She asked herself what could be the meaning of such country-looking garments with so brilliant a helmet; and, we must confess, her suppositions tended as much towards suspicion as towards hope. The soldier, whoever he might be, went straight to the kitchen. Dame Billot advanced two steps towards the newcomer. Pitou, on his side, that he might not be behind-hand in politeness, took off his helmet.

‘Ange Pitou 1* she exclaimed ‘yon here, Ange?’

‘Good day, Ma’am Billot, 1 replied Pttou.

‘Ange I Oh I good Heaven, whoever would have guessed it I Why yon have enlisted, then ? ‘

‘Oh I enlisted I* cried Pitou. and he smiled somewhat disdainfully.

Then he looked around, seeking for one he did not find there. Dame Billot smiled; she guessed the meaning of Pitou’s looks.

Then, with groat simplicity, ‘You an looking for Catherine?’ she said.

‘To pay my respects to her,’ replied Pitou; ‘yes, Madame Billot.’

‘She is attending to the drying of the linen. Come, now, alt down; look at me speak to me.’

‘Very willingly,’ said Pitou, and he took a chair.

Around him were soon grouped, and at the doors and on the steps of the staircases, all the servant-maids and the farm-labourers, to whom the stable-boy had quickly communicated the arrival of the soldier. Pitou cast a a benign glance on all his former comrades. His smile to most of them was a caress.

‘ And you have come from Paris, Ange ? ‘ said the mistress of the house.

‘Straight. Madame Billot’

‘And now is your master?’

‘Very well. Madame Billot.’

‘And how are things going on in Paris?’

‘Very badly.’ And the circle of auditors drew nearer.

Ths king?” inquired the fanner’s wife.

Pitou shook his head, and gave a clacking sound with his tongue which was very humiliating for the monarchy.

PITOU A REVOLUTIONIST 387

The queen?’

Pitou, to this question, made no reply at all.

‘Oh I ‘ exclaimed Madame Billot.

‘Oh I ‘ repeated all present.

‘Come, now, apeak on, Pitou,’ said Madame Billot.

‘“Well, ask me anything you please,’ replied Pitou, who did not wish to communicate all the interesting news he brought in the absence of Catherine.

‘Why have you a helmet?’ asked Madame Billot.

‘It is a trophy,’ said Pitou.

‘And what is a trophy, my friend?’ inquired the good woman.

‘A trophy is when one has vanquished an enemy, Madame Billot.’

‘You have then vanquished an enemy, Pitou?’

‘Onel’ replied Pitou disdainfully. ‘Ah 1 my good Madame Billot, you do not know, then, that we two, Monsieur Billot and I, have taken the Bastille?’

This magic sentence electrified the audience. Pitou felt the breath of the astonished auditors upon his hair as they bent forward to gaze at him, and their hands on the back of his chair.

‘Tell us tell us a little of what our man has done,’ said Madame Billot, with pride, but trembling with apprehension at the same time.

Pitou looked around to see if Catherine were coming; but she came not. It appeared to him absolutely insulting, that to hear such recent news, and brought by such a courier, Mademoiselle Billot did not at once leave her linen. Pitou shook his head; he was beginning to be out of humour.

‘Why, you see it would take a long time to tell it all,’ said he.

‘And you are hungry?’ inquired Madame Billot

‘It may be so.’

‘Thirsty?’

‘I will not say no.’

Instantly farm-labourers and servants hastened to procure him refreshment, so that Pitou soon had within his reach a goblet, bread, meats, and fruit of every description, before he had even reflected on the bearing of his answer. Pitou had a warm liver, as they say in the country that is to say, he digested quickly; but, however quick might be his digestion, it was still amply occupied

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with Aunt Angelique’s fowl and rice; not more than half an hour having elapsed since he had absorbed the last mouthful. What he had asked for, therefore, did not enable him to gain so much time as he had anticipated, so rapidly had he been served. He saw that it was necessary for him to make a desperate etiort, and he set himself to work to eat. But whatever may have been his good will, after a moment or two he was compelled to pause.

‘What is the matter with you?’ asked Madame Billot.

‘Why really, I must say ‘

‘Bring Pitou something to drink.’

‘I have cider here. Ma am Billot.’

‘Well, then, speak.’

‘But If I now tell you the whole story,’ staid Pitou, ‘I shall have to begin it again for Madamoiselle Catherine, and it is a very long one.’

Two or three persons rushed out towards the laundry, to fetch Mademoiselle Catherine. But while they were all running about in search of her, Pitou mechanically turned his head towards the staircase which led up to the first story of the house, and being seated precisely opposite this staircase, he saw Mademoiselle Catherine, through an open door, looking out of a window. Catherine was looking in the direction of the forest that is to say, towards Boursonne. Catherine was so much absorbed in contemplation, that the unusual movement in the house had not struck her; nothing within it had attracted her attention, which seemed to be wholly engrossed by what was happening without.