“And in what way?”
“They have persuaded you that you were my equal.”
“And even should they have persuaded me of that, it would not give you the right of making a grammatical error.”
“What say you?”
“I say that you have just made an enormous fault, master.”
“Ah! that is very polite indeed; and what fault did I commit?”
“It is this. You said, ‘Revolutionary principles have persuaded you that you were my equal.'”
“Well; and what then?”
“Well; were is in the imperfect tense.”
“Yes, undoubtedly.”
“It was the present you should have used.”
“Ah!” cried the abbé, blushing.
“Only translate the phrase into Latin and you will see what an enormous solecism the verb will give you in the imperfect tense.”
“Pitou! Pitou!” exclaimed the abbé, imagining that there was something supernatural in this astounding erudition,—”Pitou! which of the demons is it that inspires you with all these attacks against an old man and against the Church?”
“Why, my good master,” replied Pitou, somewhat moved by the tone of real despair in which these words had been pronounced, “it is not a demon who inspires me, nor do I attack you. Only you treat me as if I were a perfect fool, and you forget that all men are equals.”
The abbé was again irritated.
“It is that which I never will permit; I cannot allow such blasphemies to be uttered in my presence. You,—you the equal of a man whom God and study have taken sixty years to form? never! never!”
“Well, then, ask Monsieur de Lafayette, who has proclaimed the rights of man.”
“Yes, yes! cite as an authority an unfaithful subject of the king,—the firebrand of all this discord; the traitor!”
“Hey!” cried Pitou, horrified. “Monsieur de Lafayette an unfaithful subject! Monsieur de Lafayette a firebrand of discord! Monsieur de Lafayette a traitor! Why, it is you, Abbé, who are blaspheming. Why, you must have lived shut up in a box during the last three months. You do not know, then, that this unfaithful subject of the king is the only one who serves the king; that this firebrand of discord is the pledge of public peace; that this traitor is the best of Frenchmen?”
“Oh!” exclaimed the abbé, “could I ever have believed that royal authority would fall so low? A worthless fellow like that”—and he pointed to Pitou—”to invoke the name of Lafayette as in ancient times they invoked the names of Aristides and of Phocion.”
“It is very fortunate for you, Monsieur l’Abbé, that the people do not hear you,” said Pitou, imprudently.
“Ah!” exclaimed the abbé, with triumph, “you at length reveal yourself,—you threaten. The people-yes, the people who basely murdered the king’s officers—the people, who even tore out the entrails of their victims! Yes, Monsieur de Lafayette’s people—Monsieur Bailly’s people—Monsieur Pitou’s people! Well, then, why do you not instantly denounce me to the Revolutionists of Villers-Cotterets Why do you not drag me to Pleux? Why do you not turn up your sleeves to hang me on the first post? Come now, Pitou; macte animo, Pitou. Sursum! sursum, Pitou! Come, come, where is your rope? Where is your gallows? There is the executioner; macte animo, generose Pitoue!”
“Sic itur ad astra!” added Pitou, muttering, but solely with the intention of finishing the line, and not perceiving that he was making a pun worthy of a cannibal.
But he was compelled to perceive it by the increased exasperation of the abbé.
“Ah! ah!” vociferated the latter; “ah! that is the way you take it! Ah, it is thus that you would send me to the stars, is it? Ah, you intend me for the gallows, do you?”
“Why, I did not say that,” cried Pitou, beginning to be alarmed at the turn the conversation was taking.
“Ah! you promise me the heaven of the unfortunate Foulon, of the unhappy Berthier?”
“Why so, Monsieur l’Abbé?”
“Ah, you have the running-noose prepared, sanguinary executioner! It was you, was it not, who on the square before the Hôtel de Ville ascended the lamp-iron, and with your long, hideous, spider-like arms drew the victims to you?”
Pitou uttered a perfect roar of horror and indignation.
“Yes, it was you; and I recognize you,” continued the abbé, in a transport of divination, which made him resemble Joab,—”I recognize thee; thou art Catiline.”
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