“Yes.”
Well, his name is Monsieur Saint-Jean.”
“Saint-Jean! Why, that is a lackey’s name.”
“And he was precisely the lackey of the villain Foulon. Aristocrat, you are rightly served. Why had you lackeys?”
“Pitou, you interest me,” said Billot, going close to the narrator.
“You are very kind, Monsieur Billot. Well, then, here is Foulon denounced and arrested; they are bringing him to Paris. The informer had run on ahead to announce the news, and receive the reward for his denunciation; and sure enough, in a few moments afterwards Foulon arrived at the barrier.”
“And it was there that you saw him?”
“Yes. He had a very queer look, I can tell you. They had twisted a bunch of stinging-nettles round his neck, by way of cravat.”
“What say you? stinging-nettles? And what was that for?”
“Because it appears that he had said—rascal as he is!—that bread was for men, oats for horses, but that nettles were good enough for the people.”
“Did he say that, the wretch?”
“Yes! by Heaven! he said so, Monsieur Billot.”
“Good! there, now, you are swearing.”
“Bah!” cried Pitou, with a swaggering air, “between military men! Well, they brought him along on foot, and the whole of the way they were giving him smashing blows on his back and head.”
“Oh! oh!” cried Billot, somewhat less enthusiastic.
“It was very amusing,” continued Pitou, “only that everybody could not get at him to give him a blow, seeing that there were ten thousand persons hooting after him.”
“And after this?” asked Billot, who began to reflect.
“After that they took him to the president of the St. Marcel district,—a good patriot, you know.”
“Yes, Monsieur Acloque.”
“Cloque,—yes, that is it; who ordered him to be taken to the Hôtel de Ville, seeing that he did not know what to do with him; so that you will presently see him.”
“But how happens it that it is you who have come to announce this, and not the famous Saint-Jean?”
“Why, because my legs are six inches longer than his. He had set off before me, but I soon came up with, and passed him. I wanted to inform you first, that you might inform Monsieur Bailly of it.”
“What luck you have, Pitou!”
“I shall have much more than this to-morrow.”
“And how can you tell that?”
“Because this same Saint-Jean, who denounced Monsieur Foulon, proposed a plan to catch Monsieur Berthier, who has run away.”
“He knows, then, where he is?”
“Yes; it appears that he was their confidential man,—this good Monsieur Saint-Jean,—and that he received a great deal of money from Foulon and his son-in-law, who wished to bribe him.”
“And he took the money?”
“Certainly, the money of an aristocrat is always good to take; but he said: ‘A good patriot will not betray his nation for money.'”
“Yes,” murmured Billot, “he betrays his masters,—that is all. Do you know, Pitou, that your Monsieur Saint-Jean appears to me to be a worthless vagabond?”
“That is possible, but it matters not; they will take Monsieur Berthier, as they have taken Master Foulon, and they will hang them nose to nose. What horrid wry faces they will make, looking at each other,—hey?”
“And why should they be hanged?”
“Why, because they are vile rascals, and I detest them.”
“What! Monsieur Berthier, who has been at the farm,—Monsieur Berthier, who, during his tours into the Île-de-France, has drunk our milk, and eaten of our bread, and sent gold buckles to Catherine from Paris? Oh, no, no! they shall not hang him.”
“Bah!” repeated Pitou, ferociously, “he is an aristocrat,—a wheedling rascal!”
Billot looked at Pitou with stupefaction. Beneath the gaze of the farmer, Pitou blushed to the very whites of his eyes.
Suddenly the worthy cultivator perceived Monsieur Bailly, who was going from the hall into his own cabinet; he rushed after him to inform him of the news.
But it was now for Billot in his turn to be treated with incredulity.
“Foulon! Foulon!” cried the mayor, “what folly!”
“Well, Monsieur Bailly, all I can say is, here is Pitou, who saw him.”
“I saw him, Monsieur Mayor,” said Pitou, placing his hand on his heart, and bowing.