The oaks and beech-trees trembled with his sighs; Nature, which always smiles on well-filled stomachs, made one exception in regard to Pitou, and appeared to him a vast dark desert, in which there remained only rabbits, hares, and deer.
Once hidden beneath the tall trees of his natal forest, Pitou, inspired by their cool and invigorating shade, became more firm in his heroic resolution, and this was to disappear from before the eyes of Catherine,—to leave her altogether free, and not to affect himself extravagantly as to her preference of another, that he might not be more humiliated than was necessary by invidious comparison.
It was a highly painful effort to abstain from seeing Mademoiselle Catherine; but a man ought to be a man.
Moreover, this was not precisely the case in question.
The question was not exactly that he should no more see Mademoiselle Catherine, but that he should not be seen by her.
Now, what was there to prevent the contemned lover from carefully concealing himself and catching a glance of the cruel fair one? Nothing.
From Haramont to the farm what was the distance Scarcely a league and a half; that is to say, a few strides,—that was all!
Although it would have been base on the part of Pitou to have continued his attentions to Catherine after what he had seen, it would be so much the more adroit in him to continue to ascertain her acts and conduct, thanks to a little exercise, which could not but be favorable to Pitou’s health.
Moreover, that portion of the forest which was behind the farm and extended towards Boursonne abounded in hares.
Pitou would go at night to lay his wires; and the next morning, from the top of some high hillock, he would cast his eyes over the plain and watch Mademoiselle Catherine’s doings. This he had the right to do; this, to a certain point, was his duty, being the authorized agent, as he undoubtedly was, of Father Billot.
Thus, having consoled himself, and, as it were, in spite of himself, Pitou thought that he might cease sighing. He dined off an enormous slice of bread he had brought with him; and when the evening had closed in, he laid a dozen wires and threw himself down upon the heather, still warm from the sun’s rays.
There he slept like a man in utter despair; that is to say, his sleep was almost as undisturbed as that of death.
The coolness of the night awoke him; he went to examine his wires. Nothing had been taken; but Pitou calculated always more upon the morning passage; only, as his head felt somewhat heavy, he determined on returning to his lodgings and looking to his wires the following day.
But this day, which to him had passed by so devoid of events and intrigues, had been passed in a very different manner by the inhabitants of the hamlet, who had employed it in reflecting and in making combinations.
It might have been seen towards the middle of that day which Pitou had passed dreaming in the forest,—the wood-cutters, we say, might have been seen leaning contemplatively upon their hatchets; the threshers with their flails suspended in the air, meditating; the joiners stopping their planes upon a half-smoothed plank.
Pitou was the first great cause of all this loss of time; Pitou had been the breath of discord which had stirred these straws which began to whirl about confusedly.
And he, the occasion of all this agitation, had not even thought one moment on the subject.
But at the moment when he was going towards his own lodging, although the clock had struck ten, and usually at that hour not a single light was to be seen, not an eye was still open in the village, he perceived a very unaccustomed scene around the house in which he resided. He saw a number of men seated in groups, a number standing in groups, several groups walking up and down.
The aspect of these groups was altogether singular.
Pitou, without knowing why, imagined that all these people were talking of him.
And when he passed through the street, they all appeared as if struck by an electric shock, and pointed at him as he passed.