Ange Pitou by Alexandre Dumas part three

He then felt in all his limbs the immense fatigue of the race he had run, and which doubt, mistrust, and jealousy had urged him to during a whole hour.

The two young people had each let fall their bridle, and had grasped each other’s hands and remained thus, mute and smiling at each other, while the two horses, no doubt accustomed to each other, were rubbing their noses together, and pawing the green turf by the roadside.

“You are behind your time to-day,” said Catherine, who was the first to speak.

“To-day!” exclaimed Pitou to himself; “it seems that on other days he was not behind time.”

“It is not my fault, dear Catherine,” replied the young man, “for I was detained by a letter from my brother, which reached me only this morning, and to which I was obliged to reply by return of post. But fear nothing; to-morrow I will be more punctual.”

Catherine smiled, and Isidore pressed still more tenderly the hand which had been left in his.

Alas! all these proofs of affection were so many thorns which made poor Pitou’s heart bleed.

“You have then very late news from Paris” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Well, then,” continued she, smiling, “so have I. Did you not tell me the other day when similar things happened to two persons who loved each other, that it is called sympathy?”

“Precisely. And how did you receive your news, my lovely Catherine?”

“By Pitou.”

“And whom do you mean by Pitou?” asked the young nobleman, with a free and joyous air, which changed to scarlet the color which had already overspread Pitou’s cheeks.

“Why, you know full well,” said she. “Pitou is the poor lad whom my father took at the farm, and who gave me his arm one Sunday.”

“Ah, yes,” said the young gentleman, “he whose knees are like knots tied in a table-napkin.”

Catherine laughed. Pitou felt himself humiliated, and was in perfect despair. He looked at the knees, which were in fact like knots, raising himself on both hands and getting up; but he again fell flat on his face with a sigh.

“Come, now,” said Catherine, “you must not so sadly ill-treat my poor Pitou. Do you know what he proposed to me just now?”

“No; but tell me what it was, my lovely one.”

“Well, then, he proposed to accompany me to La Ferté-Milon.”

“Where you are not going?”

“No, because I thought you were waiting for me here; while, on the contrary, it was I who almost had to wait for you.”

“Ah! do you know you have uttered royal sentence, Catherine?”

“Really! well, I am sure I did not imagine I was doing so.”

“And why did you not accept the offer of this handsome cavalier? He would have amused us.”

“Not always, perhaps,” replied Catherine, laughing.

“You are right, Catherine,” said Isidore; fixing his eyes which beamed with love, on the beautiful girl.

And he caught the blushing face of the young girl in his arms, which he clasped round her neck.

Pitou closed his eyes that he might not see, but he had forgotten to shut his ears that he might not hear, and the sound of a kiss reached them.

Pitou clutched his hair in despair, as does the man afflicted with the plague in the foreground of Gros’ picture, representing Bonaparte visiting the soldiers attacked by the plague in the hospital at Jaffa.

When Pitou had somewhat recovered his equanimity, he found that the two young people had moved off to a little distance, and were proceeding on their way, walking their horses.

The last words which Pitou could catch were these:

“Yes, you are right, Monsieur Isidore; let us ride together for an hour; my horse’s legs shall make up the lost time. And,” added she, laughing, “it is a good animal, who will not mention it to any one.”

And this was all; the vision faded away. Darkness reigned in the soul of Pitou, as it began to reign over all Nature; and rolling upon the heather, the poor lad abandoned himself to the overwhelming feelings which oppressed his heart.

He remained in this state for some time; but the coolness of the evening at length restored him to himself.