Could it be the asses which he had passed at Levignon, and which had now come on at a gallop? No: for the iron hoof, as the poet calls it, rang upon the paved road; and Pitou, whether at Haramont or at Villers-Cotterets, had never known an ass, excepting that of Mother Sabot, that was shod, and even this was because Mother Sabot performed the duty of letter-carrier between Villers-Cotterets and Crespy.
He therefore momentarily forgot the noise he had heard, to return to his reflections.
Who could these men in black be who had questioned him about Doctor Gilbert, who had tied his hands, who had pursued him, and whom he had at length so completely distanced?
Where could these men have sprung from, for they were altogether unknown in the district?
What could they have in particular to do with Pitou,—he who had never seen them, and who, consequently, did not know them?
How then was it, as he did not know them, that they had known him? Why had Mademoiselle Catherine told him to set off for Paris; and why, in order to facilitate his journey, had she given him a louis of forty-eight francs,—that is to say, two hundred and forty pounds of bread, at four sous a pound. Why, it was enough to supply him with food for eighty days, or three months, if he would stint his rations somewhat.
Could Mademoiselle Catherine suppose that Pitou was to remain eighty days absent from the farm?
Pitou suddenly started.
“Oh! oh!” he exclaimed, “again that horse’s hoofs.”
“This time,” said Pitou, all on the alert, “I am not mistaken. The noise I hear is positively that of a horse galloping. I shall see it when he gets to the top of yon hill.”
Pitou had scarcely spoken when a horse appeared at the top of a hill he had just left behind him, that is to say, at the distance of about four hundred yards from the spot on which he stood.
Pitou, who would not allow that a police agent could have transmogrified himself into an ass, admitted at once that he might have got on horseback to regain the prey that had escaped him.
Terror, from which he had been for some time relieved, again seized on Pitou, and immediately his legs became even longer and more intrepid than when he had made such marvellous good use of them some two hours previously.
Therefore, without reflecting, without looking behind, without even endeavoring to conceal his flight, calculating on the excellence of his steel-like sinews, Pitou, with a tremendous leap, sprang across the ditch which ran by the roadside, and began a rapid course across the country in the direction of Ermenonville. Pitou did not know anything of Ermenonville, he only saw upon the horizon the summits of some tall trees, and he said to himself,—
“If I reach those trees, which are undoubtedly on the border of some forest, I am saved.”
And he ran toward Ermenonville.
On this occasion he had to outvie a horse in running. Pitou had no longer legs, but wings.
And his rapidity was increased after having run some hundred yards, for Pitou had cast a glance behind him, and had seen the horseman oblige his horse to take the same immense leap which he had taken over the ditch by the roadside.
From that moment there could be no longer a doubt in the mind of the fugitive that the horseman was, in reality, in pursuit of him, and consequently the fugitive had increased his speed, never again turning his head, for fear of losing time. What most urged him on at that moment was not the clattering on the paved road,—that noise was deadened by the clover and the fallow fields; what most urged him on was a sort of cry which pursued him, the last syllable of his name pronounced by the horseman, a sort of hou! hou! which appeared to be uttered angrily, and which reached him on the wings of the wind, which he was endeavoring to outstrip.
But after having maintained this sharp race during ten minutes, Pitou began to feel that his chest became oppressed,—the blood rushed to his head,—his eyes began to wander. It seemed to him that his knees became more and more developed,—that his loins were filling with small pebbles. From time to time he stumbled over the furrows,—he who usually raised his feet so high, when running, that every nail in the soles of his shoes was visible.