“Oh, yes!—jest—jest! It is not of that philosophy that I am speaking. I speak of the philosophy of the philosophers, you wretch. I speak of the philosophy of Monsieur Arouet; I speak of the philosophy of Monsieur Jean Jacques; of the philosophy of Monsieur Diderot, who wrote ‘La Religieuse.'”
Mademoiselle Angélique crossed herself.
“‘La Religieuse!'” cried Pitou; “what is that, Aunt?”
“You have read it, wretch!”
“I swear to you, Aunt, that I have not.”
“And this is the reason why you will not go into the church.”
“Aunt, Aunt, you are mistaken. It is the church that will not admit me.”
“Why, decidedly, this child is a perfect serpent. He even dares to retort.”
“No, Aunt; I answer, and that is all.”
“Oh, he is lost!” exclaimed Mademoiselle Angélique, with all the signs of most profound discouragement, and falling into her favorite arm-chair.
In fact, “He is lost!” merely signified, “I am lost!”
The danger was imminent; Aunt Angélique formed an extreme resolve. She rose as if some secret spring had forced her to her feet, and ran off to the Abbé Fortier to ask him for an explanation, and above all to make a last effort to get him to change his determination.
Pitou followed his aunt with his eyes till she had reached the door, and when she had disappeared, he went to the threshold and watched her walking with extraordinary rapidity towards the Rue de Soissons. He was surprised at the quickness of her movements; but he had no longer any doubt as to the intentions of Mademoiselle Angélique, and was convinced that she was going to his professor’s house.
He could therefore calculate on at least a quarter of an hour’s tranquillity. Pitou thought of making a good use of this quarter of an hour which Providence had granted to him. He snatched up the remainder of his aunt’s dinner to feed his lizards, caught two or three flies for his ants and frogs, then, opening successively a hutch and a cupboard, he set about feeding himself; for with solitude his appetite had returned to him.
Having arranged all these matters, he returned to watch at the door, that he might not be surprised by the return of his second mother.
Mademoiselle Angélique had given herself the title of Pitou’s second mother.
While he was watching, a handsome young girl passed at the end of the Pleux, going along a narrow lane which led from the end of the Rue de Soissons to that of the Rue de Lormet. She was seated on a pillion on the back of a horse loaded with two panniers, the one full of fowls, the other of pigeons. It was Catherine. On perceiving Pitou standing at his door, she stopped.
Pitou blushed as was his wont, then remained with his mouth wide open, looking at her, that is to say, admiring her,—for Mademoiselle Billot was in his eyes the most heavenly sample of human beauty.
The young girl darted a glance into the street, saluted Pitou with a little graceful nod, and continued on her way.
Pitou replied to it, trembling with satisfaction.
This little scene lasted just time enough to occupy the tall scholar’s attention, who was quite lost in his contemplation, and continued eagerly gazing at the spot where Mademoiselle Catherine had appeared, so as to prevent him from perceiving his aunt when she returned from the Abbé Fortier, who suddenly seized his hand, turning pale with anger.
Ange being thus startlingly awakened from his sweet dream by that electrical shock which the touch of Mademoiselle Angélique always communicated to him, turned round, and seeing that the enraged looks of his aunt were fixed upon his hand, cast his own eyes down upon it, and saw with horror that it was holding the half of a large round of bread upon which he had apparently spread a too generous layer of butter, with a corresponding slice of cheese.
Mademoiselle Angélique uttered a cry of terror, and Pitou a groan of alarm; Angélique raised her bony hand, Pitou bobbed down his head; Angélique seized a broomhandle which unluckily was but too near her, Pitou let fall his slice of bread-and-butter, and took to his heels without further explanation.