But the fugitives, having now a greater space, dispersed among the trees.
Billot quietly reloaded his carbine.
“In good faith, Pitou,” said he, “I think that you were right. We really have arrived in the nick of time.”
“If I should become a bold, daring fellow!” said Pitou, discharging his musketoon at the thickest group of the dragoons. “It seems to me not so difficult as I had thought.”
“Yes,” replied Billot; “but useless courage is not real courage. Come this way, Pitou, and take care that your sword does not get between your legs.”
“Wait a moment for me, dear Monsieur Billot; if I should lose you I should not know which way to go. I do not know Paris as you do: I was never here before.”
“Come along, come along,” said Billot; and he went by the terrace by the water—side, until he had got ahead of the line of troops, which were advancing along the quay; but this time as rapidly as they could, to give their aid to the Lambesq dragoons, should such aid be necessary.
When they reached the end of the terrace, Billot seated himself on the parapet and jumped on to the quay.
Pitou followed his example.
Chapter XII
What occurred during the Night of the 12th July, 1789
ONCE upon the quay, the two countrymen saw glittering on the bridge near the Tuileries the arms of another body of men, which in all probability was not a body of friends; they silently glided to the end of the quay and descended the bank which leads along the Seine.
The clock of the Tuileries was just then striking eleven.
When they had got beneath the trees which line the banks of the river, fine aspen-trees and poplars, which bathe their feet in its current; when they were lost to the sight of their pursuers, hid by their friendly foliage, the farmer and Pitou threw themselves upon the grass and opened a council of war.
The question was to know,—and this was suggested by the farmer,—whether they should remain where they were, that is to say, in safety, or comparatively so, or whether they should again throw themselves into the tumult and take their share of the struggle which was going on, and which appeared likely to be continued the greater part of the night.
The question being mooted, Billot awaited the reply of Pitou.
Pitou had risen very greatly in the opinion of the farmer,—in the first place, by the knowledge which he had shown the day before, and afterwards by the courage of which he had given such proofs during the evening.
Pitou instinctively felt this, but instead of being prouder for it, he was only the more grateful towards the good farmer. Pitou was naturally very humble.
“Monsieur Billot,” said he, “it is evident that you are more brave and I less a poltroon than I imagined. Horace, who, however, was a very different man from us, with regard to poetry, at least, threw away his arms and ran off at the very first blow. As to me, I have still my musketoon, my cartridge-box, and my sabre, which proves that I am braver than Horace.”
“Well, what are you driving at?”
“What I mean is this, dear Monsieur Billot,—that the bravest man in the world may be killed by a ball.”
“And what then?” inquired the farmer.
“And then, my dear sir, thus it is: as you stated, on leaving your farm, that you were going to Paris for an important object—”
“Oh, confound it, that is true, for the casket!”
“Well, then, did you come about this casket,—yes, or no?”
“I came about the casket, by a thousand thunders! and for nothing else.”
“If you should allow yourself to be killed by a ball, the affair for which you came cannot be accomplished.”
“In truth, you are ten times right, Pitou.”
“Do you hear that crashing noise—those cries?” continued Pitou, encouraged by the farmer’s approbation; “wood is being torn like paper, iron is twisted as if it were but hemp.”
“It is because the people are angry, Pitou.”
“But it appears to me.” Pitou ventured to say, “that the king is tolerably angry too.”