It was, moreover, very perceptible that all these persons felt great sympathy for Pitou. We have said that Pitou was hungry, so hungry that it had been perceived by the change in his countenance.
Therefore he lost no time; he went straight to the kneading-trough and cupboard.
In former times—we say former times, although scarcely three weeks had elapsed since Pitou’s departure; for in our opinion, time is to be measured, not by its duration, but by the events which have occurred; in former times, Pitou, unless urged on by the Evil Spirit, or by irresistible hunger, both of them infernal powers, and which much resemble each other—in former times Pitou would have seated himself upon the threshold of the closed door, and humbly waited the return of Aunt Angélique; when she had returned, would have bowed to her with a soft smile; then, standing aside, would have made room for her to pass, would have followed her into the house, would have gone for a loaf and a knife, that she might measure out his portion to him; then, his share being cut off, he would have cast a longing eye, a single look, tearful and magnetic,—he thought it so at least,—magnetic to such a degree as to call forth the cheese or any other dainty from the shelf of the cupboard.
Magnetism which rarely succeeded, but which, however, sometimes did succeed.
But now Pitou, having become a man, no longer acted thus; he tranquilly raised the lid of the bread-trough, drew from his pocket his long clasp-knife, took the loaf and angularly cut off a slice which might have weighed a good kilogram (two pounds), as is elegantly said since the adoption of the new-system weights.
Then he let fall the loaf into the trough again, and the cover on the loaf.
After which, without allowing his equanimity to be at all disturbed, he went to the cupboard.
It appeared to Pitou for an instant that he heard the growling voice of Aunt Angélique; but the cupboarddoor creaked upon its hinges, and this noise, which had all the power of reality, drowned the other, which had only the influence of imagination.
At the time when Pitou was one of the household, the avaricious aunt would provide only viands of a coarse description, such as Marolles cheese, or thin slices of highly salted bacon, surrounded by the verdant leaves of an enormous cabbage; but since this fabulous devourer had left the country, the aunt, despite of her avarice, would cook up for herself dishes that would last her for a whole week, and which were of a much more succulent description.
Sometimes it would be a good piece of beef à la mode, surrounded by carrots and onions, stewed in the gravy; sometimes a haricot of mutton with savory potatoes, big as a child’s head, or long as cucumbers; sometimes a calf’s foot, flavored with some shallots in vinegar, to give it more piquancy; sometimes it was a gigantic omelet made in the great frying-pan and variegated with a quantity of chives and parsley, or enamelled with slices of bacon, one of which sufficed for the dinner of the old woman, even on the days when she had the greatest appetite.
During the whole week Aunt Angélique would, with great discretion, enjoy the savory dish, making only such breaches in the precious morsel as the exigencies of the moment required.
Each day did she rejoice in being alone to consume such good things, and during the thrice happy week she thought of her nephew, Ange Pitou, as often as she placed her hand upon the dish or raised a mouthful to her lips.
Pitou was in great good luck.
He had fallen upon a day—it was Monday—when Aunt Angélique had cooked an old cock with rice, which had boiled so long, surrounded with its bland covering of paste, that the bones had left the flesh, and the flesh had become almost tender.
It was a formidable dish; it was served up in a deep wide porringer, which, though black externally, was resplendent and attractive to the eye.
The meat was placed above the rice, looking like small islands on the bosom of a vast lake; and the cock’s comb, rising above them all, looked like the crest of Ceuta in the Straits of Gibraltar.