Pitou delivered this exordium in so pathetic a tone that the neighbors began to murmur against the old woman.
“A poor traveller,” continued Pitou, “who has walked nine leagues; a worthy lad, honored with the confidence of Monsieur Gilbert and Monsieur Billot, and who was charged by them to bring back Sebastien Gilbert to the Abbé Fortier; one of the conquerors of the Bastille; a friend of Monsieur Bailly and of General de Lafayette,—I call upon you all to witness that I have been turned out.”
The murmurs went on increasing.
“And,” pursued he, “as I am not a mendicant, as, when I am reproached for the bread I eat, I pay for it, here is half a crown which I lay down as payment for that which I have eaten in my aunt’s house!”
And saying this, Pitou proudly drew a half-crown from his pocket, and threw it on the table, from which in the sight of all it rebounded, hopped into the dish, and half buried itself in the remaining rice.
This last act completely confounded the old woman. She bent down, beneath the universal reprobation to which she had exposed herself, and which was testified by a long, loud murmur. Twenty hands were held out to Pitou, who left the hut, shaking the dust from his shoes on the threshold, and disappeared from his aunt’s eyes, escorted by a crowd of persons offering him his meals and lodging, happy to be the hosts of a conqueror of the Bastille, a friend of Monsieur Bailly and of General de Lafayette.
Aunt Angélique picked the half-crown out of the rice, wiped it, and put it into the saucer, where it was to wait, with many others, its transmigration into an old louis.
But while putting by This half-crown of which she had become possessed in so singular a manner, she sighed, reflecting that perhaps Pitou had had full right to eat the whole of the contents of the dish, since he had so amply paid for it.
Chapter XXIX
Pitou a Revolutionist
PITOU wished, after having fulfilled the first duties of obedience, to satisfy the first feelings of his heart.
It is a very delightful feeling to obey, when the orders of the master are in perfect unison with the secret sympathies of the person who obeys.
He therefore made the best use of his legs; and going along the narrow alley which leads from Pleux to the Rue Lonnet, which forms a sort of green girdle to that portion of the town, he went straight across the fields that he might the sooner arrive at Billot’s farm.
But his rapid course was soon slackened; every step he took brought back some recollection to his mind.
When any one returns to the town or to the village in which he was born, he walks upon his youth,—he walks on his past days, which spread themselves, as the English poet says, like a carpet beneath the feet, to do honor to the traveller who returns.
He finds, at each step, a recollection in the beatings of his heart.
Here he has suffered; there he has been happy. Here he has sobbed with grief; there he has wept with joy.
Pitou, who was no analyzer, was compelled to be a man. He discovered traces of the past as he proceeded on his way; and he arrived with his soul replete with sensations at the farm of Dame Billot.
When he perceived at a hundred paces before him the long slated roofs; when he measured with his eyes the old elm-trees bending down over the moss-grown chimneys; when he heard the distant sound of the cattle, the barking of the dogs, the carts lumbering along the road,—he placed his helmet more proudly on his head, grasped his dragoon’s sabre with more firmness, and endeavored to give himself a martial appearance, such as was fitting to a lover and a soldier.
At first, no one recognized him,—a proof that his effort was attended with tolerable success.
A stable-boy was standing by the pond watering his horses, and hearing a noise, turned round; and through the tufted head of a withy tree he perceived Pitou, or rather a helmet and a sabre.