On leaving the Abbé Fortier’s house, Pitou found some twenty persons who were waiting for him. His strange equipment, a description of which had been given throughout the town, was in part known to those assembled. On seeing him thus return from Paris, where so much fighting was going on, they presumed that Pitou had been fighting too, and they wished to hear the news.
This news Pitou communicated with his accustomed majesty. The taking of the Bastille, the exploits of Monsieur Billot and of Monsieur Maillard, of Messieurs Elie and Hullin; how Billot had fallen into the ditch of the fortress, and how he, Pitou, had dragged him out of it; finally, how they had saved Monsieur Gilbert, who during six or seven days had been one of the prisoners confined there.
The auditors already knew most of the details that Pitou had related to them. They had read all these details in the newspapers of the day; but however faithful the editor of a newspaper may be in his writings, he is always less interesting than an ocular witness who relates the incidents,—who may be interrupted, and who resumes; who may be questioned, and replies.
Now Pitou resumed, replied, gave all the details, showing, when interrupted, the greatest obligingness, in all his answers the greatest possible amenity.
The result of all this was that in about an hour’s conversation at the door of the Abbé Fortier, in which he gave a succinct narrative, the Rue de Soissons was crowded with auditors, when one of the persons present, observing some signs of anxiety in Pitou’s countenance, took upon himself to say:—
“But he is fatigued, poor Pitou; and we are keeping him here upon his legs instead of allowing him to go to his Aunt Angélique’s house, poor dear woman, who will be so delighted at seeing him again.”
“It is not that I am fatigued,” said Pitou, “but that I am hungry; I have never been fatigued, but I am hungry.”
Then, and in consequence of this ingenuous declaration, the crowd, who highly respected the cravings of Pitou’s stomach, respectfully made way for him to pass, and Pitou, followed by some persons more inveterately curious than the rest, was permitted to wend his way to Pleux; that is to say, to the house of his Aunt Angélique.
Aunt Angélique was not at home; she had gone doubtless to visit some neighbors, and the door was locked.
Several persons then invited Pitou to go to their houses and take the nourishment he stood in need of; but Pitou proudly refused.
“But,” said they to him, “you see, dear Pitou, that your aunt’s door is locked.”
“The door of an aunt cannot remain locked before an obedient and hungry nephew,” answered Pitou, majestically.
And drawing his long sabre, the sight of which made men and children start back with affright, he introduced the point of it between the bolt and the staple of the lock, gave a vigorous jerk, and the door flew open, to the great admiration of all present, who no longer doubted the great exploits of Pitou, since they saw him with so much audacity expose himself to the anger of the illtempered old maid.
The interior of the house was in precisely the same state as when Pitou had left it. The famous leather armchair royally held its state in the centre of the room; two or three other mutilated chairs and stools formed the lame court of the great armchair; at the end of the room was the kneading-trough; on the right, the cupboard, and on the left, the chimney.
Pitou entered the house with a bland smile. He had no quarrel with all these poor articles of furniture; on the contrary, they were the friends of his youth. They were, it is true, almost as hard in their nature as Aunt Angélique; but when they were opened, there was something good to be found in them; while had Aunt Angélique been opened, her inside would certainly have been found dryer and worse than her exterior.
Pitou, upon the instant, gave a proof of what we have advanced to the persons who had followed him, and who, seeing what was going on, were waiting outside the house, curious to see what would be the result when Aunt Angélique should return home.