Pitou shook his head; he was beginning to be out of humor.
“Why, you see it would take a long time to tell it all,” said he.
“And you are hungry?” inquired Madame Billot.
“It may be so.”
“Thirsty?”
“I will not say no.”
Instantly farm-laborers and servants hastened to procure him refreshment, so that Pitou soon had within his reach a goblet, bread, meats, and fruit of every description, before he had even reflected on the bearing of his answer.
Pitou had a warm liver, as they say in the country,—that is to say, he digested quickly; but however quick might be his digestion, it was still amply occupied with Aunt Angélique’s fowl and rice, not more than half an hour having elapsed since he had absorbed the last mouthful.
What he had asked for, therefore, did not enable him to gain so much time as he had anticipated, so rapidly had he been served.
He saw that it was necessary for him to make a desperate effort, and he set himself to work to eat.
But whatever may have been his good-will, after a moment or two he was compelled to pause.
“What is the matter with you?” asked Madame Billot.
“Why, really, I must say—”
“Bring Pitou something to drink.”
“I have cider here, Ma’am Billot.”
“But perhaps you like brandy better?”
“Brandy!”
“Yes; perhaps you are accustomed to drink it in Paris?”
The worthy woman imagined that during twelve days’ absence Pitou had had time enough to be corrupted.
Pitou indignantly repelled the supposition.
“Brandy!” cried he, again, “and for me—oh, never!”
“Well, then, speak.”
“But if I now tell you the whole story,” said Pitou, “I shall have to begin it again for Mademoiselle Catherine; and it is a very long one.”
Two or three persons rushed out towards the laundry, to fetch Mademoiselle Catherine.
But while they were all running about in search of her, Pitou mechanically turned his head towards the staircase which led up to the first story of the house; and being seated precisely opposite this staircase, he saw Mademoiselle Catherine, through an open door, looking out of a window.
Catherine was looking in the direction of the forest; that is to say, towards Boursonne.
Catherine was so much absorbed in contemplation that the unusual movement in the house had not struck her; nothing within it had attracted her attention, which seemed to be wholly engrossed by what was happening without.
“Ah, ah!” cried he, sighing, “looking towards the forest, towards Boursonne, towards Monsieur Isidore de Charny. Yes, that is it.”
And he heaved a second sigh, more melancholy than the first.
And at this moment the messengers returned, not only from the laundry, but from every place in which it was probable Mademoiselle Catherine might be found.
“Well?” inquired Madame Billot.
“We have not seen Mademoiselle.”
“Catherine! Catherine!” cried Madame Billot.
The young girl did not hear her.
Pitou then ventured to speak.
“Madame Billot,” said he, “I well know why they did not find Mademoiselle Catherine at the laundry.”
“And why did they not find her?”
“Because she is not there.”
“You know, then, where she is?”
“Yes.”
“Where is she, then?”
“Yonder,—upstairs.”
And taking Dame Billot by the hand, he made her go up the first three or four steps of the staircase, and showed her Catherine, who was sitting on the sill of the window, half-hidden by ivy and convolvulus.
“She is dressing her hair,” said the good woman.
“Alas! no; her hair is already dressed,” replied Pitou, in a melancholy tone.
The farmer’s wife paid no attention to Pitou’s melancholy, but in a loud voice she called:—
“Catherine! Catherine!”
The young girl started with surprise, quickly closed her window, and said:—
“What is the matter?”
“Come down, then, Catherine!” cried Dame Billot, little doubting the joyful effect her words would produce upon her. “Come down here; here is Ange just arrived from Paris.”
Pitou, with great anxiety, listened for the answer which Catherine would make.
“Ah!” coldly replied Catherine.
So coldly that poor Pitou’s heart sank within him.
And she descended the staircase with all the phlegmatic manner of the Flemish women we see in the paintings of Van Ostade and Brauer.