“How say you,—the king?”
“Undoubtedly; the Austrians, the Germans, the Kaiserliks, as you call them, are the king’s soldiers. Well, if they charge the people, it is the king who orders them to charge, and for him to give such an order, he must be angry too.”
“You are both right and wrong, Pitou.”
“That does not appear possible to me, Monsieur Billot, and I dare not say to you that had you studied logic, you would not venture on such a paradox.”
“You are right and you are wrong, Pitou and I will presently make you comprehend how this can be.”
“I do not ask anything better, but I doubt it.”
“See you now, Pitou, there are two parties at court,—that of the king, who loves the people, and that of the queen, who loves the Austrians?”
“That is because the king is a Frenchman, and the queen an Austrian,” philosophically replied Pitou.
“Wait a moment. On the king’s side are Monsieur Turgot and Monsieur Necker, on the queen’s, Monsieur de Breteuil and the Polignacs. The king is not the master, since he has been obliged to send away Monsieur Turgot and Monsieur Necker. It is therefore the queen who is the mistress, the Breteuils and the Polignacs: therefore all goes badly.
“Do you see, Pitou, the evil proceeds from Madame Deficit, and Madame Deficit is in a rage, and it is in her name that the troops charge; the Austrians defend the Austrian woman, that is natural enough.”
“Your pardon, Monsieur Billot,” said Pitou, interrupting him, “but deficit is a Latin word, which means to say a want of something. What is it that is wanting?”
“Zounds! why, money, to be sure; and it is because money is wanting, it is because the queen’s favorites have devoured this money which is wanting, that the queen is called Madame Deficit. It is not therefore the king who is angry, but the queen. The king is only vexed,—vexed that everything goes so badly.”
“I comprehend,” said Pitou; but the casket?”
“That is true, that is true, Pitou; these devilish politics always drag me on farther than I would go—yes, the casket, before everything. You are right, Pitou; when I shall have seen Doctor Gilbert, why, then, we can return to politics—it is a sacred duty.”
“There is nothing more sacred than sacred duties,” said Pitou.
“Well, then, let us go to the College Louis-le-Grand, where Sebastien Gilbert now is,” said Billot.
“Let us go,” said Pitou, sighing; for he would be compelled to leave a bed of moss-like grass, to which he had accustomed himself. Besides which, notwithstanding the over-excitement of the evening, sleep, the assiduous host of pure consciences and tired limbs, had descended with all its poppies to welcome the virtuous and heartily tired Pitou.
Billot was already on his feet, and Pitou was about to rise, when the half-hour struck.
“But,” said Billot, “at half-past eleven o’clock the college of Louis-le-Grand must, it would appear to me, be closed.”
“Oh, most assuredly,” said Pitou.
“And then, in the dark,” continued Billot, “we might fall into some ambuscade; it seems to me that I see the fires of a bivouac in the direction of the Palace of Justice. I may be arrested, or I may be killed; you are right, Pitou, I must not be arrested,—I must not be killed.”
It was the third time since morning that Pitou’s ears had been saluted with those words so flattering to human pride,—
“You are right.”
Pitou thought he could not do better than to repeat the words of Billot.
“You are right,” he repeated, lying down again upon the grass; “you must not allow yourself to be killed, dear Monsieur Billot.”
And the conclusion of this phrase died away in Pitou’s throat. Vox faucibus hæsit, he might have added, had he been awake; but he was fast asleep.
Billot did not perceive it.
“All idea,” said he.
“Ah!” snored Pitou.
“Listen to me; I have an idea. Notwithstanding all the precautions I am taking, I may be killed. I may be cut down by a sabre or killed from a distance by a ball,—killed suddenly upon the spot; if that should happen, you ought to know what you will have to say to Doctor Gilbert in my stead: but you must be mute, Pitou.”