“At first I did not. I did afterwards.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sometimes one does not pay attention.”
“Certainly.”
Both were silent, for each had too much to think of.
Catherine said at last: “Then it was you? What were you doing there? Why did you hide yourself?”
“Hide myself? Why?”
“Curiosity might have made you.”
“I have no curiosity.”
She stamped the ground most impatiently with her little foot.
“You were,” said she, “in a place you do not visit often.”
“You saw I was reading.”
“I do not know.”
“If you saw me, you do.”
“I did see you very distinctly; but what were you reading?”
“My tactics.”
“What is that?”
“A book in which I learned what I have since taught my men. To study, Madame, one must be alone.”
“True; in the forest nothing disturbs you.”
“Nothing.”
They were again silent; the rest of the party rode before them.
“When you study thus,” said Catherine, “do you study long?”
“Whole days sometimes.”
“Then you had been long there?”
“Very long.”
“It is surprising that I did not see you when I came.”
Here she told an untruth, and Pitou felt disposed to expose her. But he was in love, and sorry for her. In his view her faults amounted to a virtue,—circumspection.
“I may have slept; I sometimes do when I study too much.”
“Well, while you slept I must have passed you. I went to the old pavilion.”
“Ah!” said Pitou, “what pavilion?”
Catherine blushed again. This time her manner was so affected that he could not believe her.
“Charny’s pavilion. There is the best balm in the country. I had hurt myself, and needed some leaves. I hurt my hand.”
As if he wished to believe her, Ange looked at her hands.
“Ah!” said she, “not my hands, but my foot.”
“Did you get what you wanted?”
“Ah, yes! You see I do not limp.”
Catherine fancied that she had succeeded; she fancied Pitou had seen and knew nothing. She said, and it was a great mistake:—
“Then Monsieur Pitou would have cut us. He is proud of his position, and disdains peasants since he has become an officer.”
Pitou was wounded. So great a sacrifice, even though feigned, demands another recompense; and as Catherine seemed to seek to mystify Pitou, and as she doubtless laughed at him when she was with Isidore de Charny, all Pitou’s good-humor passed away. Self-love is a viper asleep, on which it is never prudent to tread unless you crush it at once.
“Mademoiselle,” said he, “it seems rather that you cut me.”
“How so?”
“First, you refused me work, and drove me from the farm. I said nothing to Monsieur Billot, for, thank God! I yet have a heart and hands.”
“I assure you, Monsieur Pitou—”
“It matters not; of course you can manage your own affairs. If, then, you saw me at the pavilion, you should have spoken to me, instead of running away, as if you were robbing an orchard.”
The viper had stung. Catherine was uneasy.
“I run away!” said she.
“As if your barn had been on fire. Mademoiselle, I had not the time to shut my book before you sprang on the pony and rode away. He had been tied long enough, though, to eat up all the bark of an oak.”
“Then a tree was destroyed; but why, Monsieur Pitou, do you tell me this?”
Catherine felt that all presence of mind was leaving her.
“Ah, you were gathering balm!” said Pitou. “A horse does much in an hour.”
Catherine said, “In an hour?”
“No horse, Mademoiselle, could strip a tree of that size in less time. You must have been collecting more balm than would suffice to cure all the wounds received at the Bastille.”
Catherine could not say a word.
Pitou was silent; he knew he had said enough.
Mother Billot paused at the cross-road to bid adieu to her friends.
Pitou was in agony, for he felt the pain of the wounds he had inflicted, and was like a bird just ready to fly away.
“Well! what says the officer?” said Madame Billot.
“That he wishes you good-day.”
“Then good-day. Come, Catherine.”