Ange Pitou by Alexandre Dumas part one

The auditors were therefore invited for the next Sunday, and every one of them promised to attend.

Pitou had well performed his part; he had read energetically and well. Nothing succeeds so well as success. The reader had taken his share of the plaudits which had been addressed to the work, and, submitting to the influence of this relative science, Billot himself felt growing within him a certain degree of consideration for the pupil of the Abbé Fortier. Pitou, already a giant in his physical proportions, had morally grown ten inches in the opinion of Billot.

But there was one thing wanting to Pitou’s happiness; Mademoiselle Catherine had not been present at his triumph.

But Father Billot, enchanted with the effect produced by the doctor’s pamphlet, hastened to communicate its success to his wife and daughter. Madame Billot made no reply; she was a short-sighted woman.

Mademoiselle Catherine smiled sorrowfully.

“Well, what is the matter with you now ” said the farmer.

“Father! my dear father!” cried Catherine, “I fear that you are running into danger.”

“There, now; are you going to play the bird of ill omen? You are well aware that I like the lark better than the owl.”

“Father, I have already been told to warn you that eyes are watching you.”

“And who was it that told you this, if you please?”

“A friend.”

“A friend? All advice is deserving of thanks. You must tell me the name of this friend. Who is he? Come, now, let us hear.”

“A man who ought to be well informed upon such matters.”

“But who is it?”

“Monsieur Isidore de Charny.”

“What business has that fop to meddle in such matters? Does he pretend to give me advice upon my way of thinking? Do I give him advice upon his mode of dressing It appears to me that as much might be said on one subject as the other.”

“My dear father, I do not tell you this to vex you. The advice he gave me was well intended.”

“Well, then, in return, I will give him my counsel, which you can on my behalf transmit to him.”

“And what is that?”

“It is that he and his fellows take good care what they are about. They shake these noble gentlemen about very nicely in the National Assembly, and more than once a great deal has been said of court favorites, male and female. Let him forewarn his brother, Monsieur Oliver de Charny, who is out yonder, to look to himself, for it is said he is not on bad terms with the Austrian woman.”

“Father,” said Catherine, “you have more experience than we have; act according to your pleasure.”

“Yes, indeed,” murmured Pitou, whose success had given him great confidence, “what business has your Monsieur Isidore to make and meddle?”

Catherine either did not hear him, or pretended not to hear him, and the conversation dropped.

The dinner was got through as usual. Never did dinner appear so long to Pitou. He was feverishly impatient to show himself abroad with Mademoiselle Catherine leaning on his arm. This Sunday was a momentous day to him, and he resolved that the date, the 12th of July, should ever remain engraved upon his memory.

They left the farm at last at about three o’clock. Catherine was positively charming. She was a pretty, fair-haired girl, with black eyes, slight and flexible as the willows that shaded the small spring from which the farm was supplied with water. She was, moreover, dressed with that natural coquetry which enhances the attractions of every woman, and her pretty little fantastic cap, made with her own hands, as she had told Pitou, became her admirably.

The ball did not in general commence till six o’clock. Four village minstrels, mounted upon a small stage formed of planks, did the honors of this ball-room in the open air, on receiving a contribution of six shillings for every country dance.

While waiting for the opening of the dance, the company walked in the celebrated Lane of Sighs, of which Aunt Angélique had spoken, to see the young gentlemen of the town and the neighborhood play at tennis, under the direction of Master Farollet, tennis-master-in-chief to his Highness the Duke of Orleans. Master Farollet was considered a perfect oracle, and his decision in matters of chasse and passe, and service, was as irrevocable as were the laws of the Medes and Persians.

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