Pitou, without knowing why, would have very much desired to remain in the Lane of Sighs; but it was not for the purpose of remaining concealed beneath the shade of this double row of beech-trees that Catherine had attired herself in the becoming dress which had so much astonished Pitou.
Women are like the flowers which chance has brought forth in the shade: their tendency is always towards the light; and one way or the other they must expand their fresh and perfumed petals in the sunshine, though it withers and destroys them.
The violet alone, as is asserted by the poets, has the modesty to remain concealed; but then she is arrayed in mourning, as if deploring her useless, because unnoticed, charms.
Catherine, therefore, dragged away at Pitou’s arm, and so successfully, that they took the path to the tennis-court. We must, however, hasten to acknowledge that Pitou did not go very unwillingly. He also was as anxious to display his sky-blue suit and his cocked hat, as Catherine was to show her Galatea cap and her shining short silk bodice.
One thing above all flattered our hero, and gave him a momentary advantage over Catherine. As no one recognized him, Pitou never having been seen in such sumptuous habiliments, they took him for some young stranger arrived in the town, some nephew or cousin of the Billot family; some even asserted that he was Catherine’s intended. But Pitou felt too great an interest in proving his own identity, to allow the error to be of long continuance.
He gave so many nods to his friends, he so frequently took off his hat to his acquaintance, that at last the unworthy pupil of the Abbé Fortier was recognized in the spruce young countryman.
A sort of buzzing murmur quickly ran through the throng, and many of his former companions exclaimed, “Why, really, it is Pitou!” “Only look at Pitou!” “Did you see Ange Pitou?”
This clamor at length reached the ears of Mademoiselle Angélique; but as this clamor informed her that the good-looking youth pointed out by it was her nephew, walking with his toes turned out and his elbows gracefully curved, the old maid, who had always seen Pitou walk with his toes turned in and his elbows stuck to his ribs, shook her head incredulously, and merely said,—
“You are mistaken; that is not my pitiful nephew.”
The two young people reached the tennis-court. On that day there happened to be a match between the players of Soissons and those of Villers-Cotterets, so that the game was very animated. Catherine and Pitou placed themselves close to the rope stretched to prevent the crowd from interfering with the players; it was Catherine who had selected this place as being the best.
In about a minute the voice of Master Farollet was heard, calling out,—
“Two in—go over.”
The players effectually changed places; that is to say, they each went to defend their quarters and attack those of their adversaries. One of the players, on passing by, bowed to Catherine with a smile; Catherine replied by a courtesy, and blushed. At the same moment Pitou felt a nervous trembling shoot through Catherine’s arm, which was leaning on his.
An unknown anguish shot through Pitou’s heart.
“That is Monsieur de Charny,” said he, looking at his companion.
“Yes,” replied Catherine. “Ah! you know him, then?”
“I do not know him,” replied Pitou, “but I guessed that it was he.”
And, in fact, Pitou had readily conceived this young man to be Monsieur de Charny, from what Catherine had said to him the previous evening.
The person who had bowed to the young girl was an elegant gentleman, who might be twenty-three or twenty-four years of age; he was handsome, of good stature, well formed, and graceful in his movements, as are all those who have had an aristocratic education from their very cradle. All those manly exercises in which perfection can only be attained on the condition of their being studied from childhood, Monsieur Isidore de Charny executed with remarkable perfection; besides, he was one of those whose costume always harmonizes with the pursuit in which they are engaged. His hunting-dresses were quoted for their perfect taste; his attire in the fencing-room might have served as a pattern to Saint-Georges himself; and his riding-coats were—or rather appeared to be, thanks to his manner of wearing them—of a particularly elegant shape.