His gun, which he had used for five years with balls, and for thirty-five years with shot, had burst when he was firing at a rabbit.
It was the first time ne had missed for thirty-five years.
The fact of the rabbit being safe and sound was not the greatest misfortune which had befallen Clovis. Two fingers of his left hand had been carried away. Clovis had bound up his fingers with bruised herbs and leaves, but he could not mend his gun.
Now to procure another gun Father Clovis would be under the necessity of appealing to his treasury, and even though he expended as much as two louis, who knew if with the new gun he would kill at every shot, as he had done with the one which had so unfortunately burst?
Pitou came, therefore, at an evil hour.
At the very moment Pitou placed his hand on the door, old Clovis uttered a grunt which amazed the commander of the National Guard of Haramont.
Was it a wolf or some one substituted for Father
Clovis
Pitou, who had read “Little Red Riding-Hood,” hesitated whether he should go in or not.
“Hey! Father Clovis!” cried he.
“What?” said the misanthropist.
Pitou was reassured. He recognized the voice of the worthy anchorite.
“I am glad you are in,” said he.
He then entered the hut and bowed to the occupant.
“Good-day, Father Clovis,” said Pitou, graciously.
“Who goes there?” asked the veteran.
“I.”
“Who are you?”
“I, Pitou.”
“Who is Pitou?”
“Ange Pitou of Haramont.”
“Well, what is it to me who you are?”
“Ah!” said Pitou, coaxingly, “Father Clovis is now in a bad humor. I was wrong to awake him.”
“Certainly you were.”
“What, then, must I do?”
“Begone as quickly as you can.”
“But let us talk a little.”
“About what?”
“Of a favor you can do me.”
“I want pay for all I do.”
“Well, I will pay for all I get.”
“Possibly; but I am no longer of use to any one.”
“How so?”
“I shall kill no more game.”
“How so? You never miss a shot, Clovis. It is impossible.”
“Begone, I tell you.”
“But, Father Clovis—”
“You annoy me.”
“Listen to me, and you will not be sorry.”
“Well, then, what do you wish? Be brief!”
“You are an old soldier?”
“Well?”
“Well! I wish—”
“To the point, blockhead!”
“Teach me the manual.”
“Are you a fool?”
“No; teach me the manual, and I will pay you.”
“The creature is certainly mad,” growled the old soldier, raising himself on his elbow.
“Father Clovis, will you teach me the manual or not? Do so, and I will pay you what you please.”
The old man arose, and looking fiercely at Pitou, said:
“What I please. Well, give me a gun.”
“The very thing! I have thirty-four guns.”
“Thirty-four!”
“Yes; and the thirty-fourth, which I had meant for myself, will just suit you. It is a sergeant’s musket with the king’s cipher in gold on the breech.”
“How came you by it? You did not steal it, I hope.”
Pitou told him the whole truth frankly and honestly.
“Good!” said the veteran; “I will teach you, but my fingers are hurt.”
He then told Pitou what accident had befallen him.
“Well,” said Pitou, “give yourself no concern about the gun; that is replaced. I cannot give you other fingers, for all I have I need myself.”
“Oh, as for the fingers, that’s nothing. If you will only promise that the gun will be here to-morrow, come on.”
He got up immediately.
The moon shed a torrent of white light on the little clearing in front of the hut.
Pitou and Father Clovis went to the clearing.
Any one who had seen these two dark forms gesticulating at midnight could not have repressed some mysterious terror.
Clovis took up the stump of his gun with a sigh. He then placed himself in a military position.
It was strange to see the old man again become erect, bent as he was from the habit of passing the bushes; but the recollection of his regiment and the excitement of the drill revived him, and he brushed back his long gray locks on his broad shoulders.