WHERE THE BASTILE STOOD.
Night came: the morning festival had been on the great parade ground;
the night rejoicing was to be on the site where the Bastile had stood.
Eighty-three trees, one for each department of France, were stuck up
to show the space occupied by the infamous states-prison, on whose
foundation these trees of liberty were planted. Strings of lamps ran
from tree to tree. In the midst rose a large pole, with a flag lettered:
"Freedom!"
Near the moats, in a grave left open on purpose were flung the old
chains, fetters, instruments of torture found in it, and its clock with
chained captives the supporters. The dungeons were left open and lighted
ghastly, where so many tears and groans had been vainly expanded.
Lastly, in the inmost courtyard, a ballroom had been set up and as the
music pealed, the couples could be seen promenading. The prediction
of Cagliostro was fulfilled that the Bastile should be a public
strolling-ground.
At one of the thousand tables set up around the Bastile, under the
shadow of the trees outlining the site of the old fortress, two men were
repairing their strength exhausted by the day's marching, and other
military manoeuvres. Before them was a huge sausage, a four-pound loaf,
and two bottles of wine.
"By all that is blue," said the younger, who wore the National Guards
captain's uniform, "it is a fine thing to eat when you are hungry and
drink when a-thirst." He paused. "But you do not seem to be hungry or
thirsty, Father Billet."
"I have had all I want, and only thirst for one thing----"
"What is that?"
"I will tell you Pitou, when the time for me to sit at my feast shall
come."
Pitou did not see the drift of the reply.
Pitou was a lover of Catherine Billet, but he self-acknowledged that he
could have no chance against the young nobleman who had captivated the
rustic maid. When her father tried to shoot the gallant, he had--while
not shielding her or her lover, helped her to conceal herself from
Billet.
It was not he, however, but Isidore who had brought the girl to Paris,
after she had given birth to a boy. This occurred in the absence of
Billet and Pitou, both of whom were ignorant of the removal.
Pitou had housed her in a quiet corner, and he went to Paris without
anything arising to cause him sadness.
He had found Dr. Gilbert, to whom he had to report that with money he
had given, Captain Pitou had equipped his Guards at Haramont in uniform
which was the admiration of the county.
The doctor gave him five-and-twenty more gold pieces to be applied to
maintaining the company at its present state of efficiency.
"While I am talking with Billet," said Gilbert, "who has much to tell
me, would you not like to see Sebastian?"
"I should think I do," answered the peasant, "but I did not like to ask
your permission."
After meditating a few instants, Gilbert wrote several words on a paper
which he folded up like a letter and addressed to his son.
"Take a hack and go find him," he said. "Probably from what I have
written, he will want to pay a visit; take him thither and wait at the
door. He may keep you an hour or so, but I know how obliging you are;
you will not find the time hang heavy when you know you are doing me a
kindness."
"Do not bother about that," responded the honest fellow; "I never feel
dull; besides, I will get in a supply of something to feed on and I will
kill time by eating."
"A good method," laughed Gilbert; "only you must not eat dry bread as a
matter of health, but wash it down with good wine."
"I will get a bottle, and some head cheese, too," replied Pitou.
"Brav0!" exclaimed the physician.
Pitou found Sebastian in the Louis-the-Great College, in the gardens.
He was a winsome young man of eighteen, or less, with handsome chestnut
curls enframing his melancholy and thoughtful face and blue eyes darting
juvenile glances like a Spring sun.
In him were combined the lofty aspirations of two aristocracies: that of
the intellect, as embodied in his father, and of race, personified in
Andrea Countess of Charny, who had become his mother while unconscious
in a mesmeric sleep, induced by Balsamo-Cagliostro, but perceived by
Gilbert, who had not in his wild passion for the beauty been able to
shrink from profiting by the trance.
It was to the countess's that Gilbert had suggested his son should go.
On the way Pitou laid in the provisions to fill up time if he had to
wait any great while in the hack for the youth to come out of his
mother's.
As the countess was at home, the janitor made no opposition to a
well-dressed young gentleman entering.
Five minutes after, while Pitou was slicing up his loaf and sausage and
taking a pull at his wine, a footman came out to say:
"Her ladyship, the countess of Charny, prays Captain Pitou to do her the
honor to step inside instead of awaiting Master Sebastian in a hired
conveyance."
The Assembly had abolished titles but the servants of the titled had not
yet obeyed.
Pitou had to wipe his mouth, pack up in paper the uneaten comestibles,
with a sigh, and follow the man in a maze. His astonishment doubled when
he saw a lovely lady who held Sebastian in her arms and who said, as she
put out her hand to the new-comer:
"Captain Pitou, you give me such great and unhoped-for joy in bringing
Sebastian to me that I wanted to thank you myself."
Pitou stared, and stammered, but let the hand remain untaken.
"Take and kiss the lady's hand," prompted Sebastian: "it is my mother."
"Your mother? oh, Gemini!" exclaimed the peasant, while the other young
man nodded.
"Yes, his mother," said Andrea with her glance beaming with delight:
"you bring him to me after nine months' parting, and then I had only
seen him once before: in the hope you will again bring him, I wish to
have no secrets from you, though it would be my ruin if revealed."
Every time the heart and trust of our rural friend was appealed to, one
might be sure that he would lose his hesitation and dismay.
"Oh, my lady, be you easy, your secret is here," he responded, grasping
her hand and kissing it, before laying his own with some dignity on his
heart.
"My son tells me, Captain Pitou, that you have not breakfasted," went on
the countess; "pray step into the dining-room, and you can make up for
lost time while I speak with my boy."
Soon, on the board were arrayed two cutlets, a cold fowl, and a pot of
preserves, near a bottle of Bordeaux, a fine Venice glass and a pile of
china plates. But for all the elegance of the set out edibles, Pitou
rather deplored the head cheese, bread and common wine in the cab.
As he was attacking the chicken after having put away the cutlets, the
door opened and a young gentleman appeared, meaning to cross the room.
But as Pitou lifted his head, they both recognized each other, and
uttered a simultaneous cry:
"Viscount Charny!"
"Ange Pitou!"
The peasant sprang up; his heart was violently throbbing; the sight of
the patrician aroused his most painful memories.
Not only was this his rival but his successful rival and the man who had
wronged Catherine Billet and caused her to lose her father's respect and
her place at her mother's side in the farmhouse. Isidore only knew that
Catherine was under obligations to this country lad; he had no idea of
the latter's profound love for his mistress: love out of which Pitou
drew his devotedness.
Consequently he walked right up to the other, in whom, spite of the
uniform, he only saw still the poacher and farm boy of Haramont.
"Oh, you here, Pitou," said he: "delighted to meet you to thank you for
all the services you have done us."
"My lord viscount, I did all for Miss Catherine alone," returned the
young man, in a firm voice though all his frame thrilled.
"That was all well up to your knowing that I loved her; then, I was
bound to take my share in the gratitude and as you must have gone to
some outlay, say for the letters transmitted to her----"
He clapped his hand to his pocket to prick Pitou's conscience. But the
other stopped him, saying, with the dignity sometimes astonishing to
appear in him:
"My lord, I do services when I can but not for pay. Besides, I repeat,
these were for Miss Catherine solely. She is my friend; if she believes
she is in any way indebted to me, she will regulate the account. But
you, my lord, owe me nothing; for I did all for her, and not a stroke
for you. So you have to offer me nothing."
These words, but especially the tone, struck the hearer; perhaps it was
only then that he noticed that the speaker was dressed as a captain in
the new army.
"Excuse me, Captain Pitou," said Isidore, slightly bowing: "I do owe you
something, and that is my thanks, and I offer you my hand; I hope you
will do me the pleasure of accepting one and the honor of accepting the
other."
There was such grandeur in the speech and the gesture in company with
it, that vanquished Pitou held out his hand and with the fingers' ends
touched Isidore's.
At this juncture Countess Charny appeared on the threshold.
"You asked for me, my lord," she said; "I am here."
Isidore saluted the peasant and walked into the next room; he swung the
door to behind him but the countess caught it and checked it so that it
remained ajar. Pitou understood that he was allowed, nay, invited to
hear what was spoken. He remarked that on the other side of the sitting
room was another door, leading into a bedroom; if Sebastian was there,
he could hear on that side as well as the captain on this other.
"My lady," began Isidore, "I had news yesterday from my brother George;
as in other letters, he begs me to ask you to remember him. He does not
yet know when he is to return, and will be happy to have news from you
either by letter or by your charging me."
"I could not answer the letter he sent me from want of an address; but I
will profit by your intermediation to have the duty of a submissive and
respectful wife presented him. If you will take charge of a letter for
my lord, one shall be ready on the morrow."
"Have it ready," said Isidore; "but I cannot call for it till some five
or six days as I have a mission to carry out, a journey of necessity,
of unknown duration, but I will come here at once on my return and take
your message."
As he passed through the dining-room he saw that Pitou was spooning
deeply into the preserves. He had finished when the countess came in,
with Sebastian.
It was difficult to recognize the grave Countess Charny in this radiant
young mother whom two hours of chat with her son had transformed. The
hand which she gave to Pitou seemed to be of marble still, but mollified
and warmed.
Sebastian embraced his mother with the ardor he infused in all he did.
Pitou took leave without putting a question, and was silent on the way
to the college, absorbing the rest of his head cheese, bread and wine.
There was nothing in this incident to spoil his appetite.
But he was chilled to see how gloomy Farmer Billet was.
He resolved to dissipate this sadness.
"I say, Father Billet," he resumed, after preparing his stock of words
as a sharpshooter makes a provision of cartridges, "who the devil could
have guessed, in a year and two days, that since Miss Catherine received
me on the farm, so many events should have taken place."
"Nobody," rejoined Billet whose terrible glance at the mention of
Catherine had not been remarked.
"The idea of the pair of us taking the Bastile," continued he, like the
sharpshooter having reloaded his gun.
"Nobody," replied the farmer mechanically.
"Plague on it, he has made up his mind not to talk," thought the
younger man. "Who would think that I should become a captain and you a
Federalist, and we both be taking supper under an arbor in the very spot
where the old prison stood?"
"Nobody," said Billet for the third time, with a more sombre look than
before.
The younger man saw that there was no inducing the other to speak but he
found comfort in the thought that this ought not to alienate his right.
So he continued, leaving Billet the right to speak if he chose.
"I suppose, like the Bastile, all whom we knew, have become dust, as
the Scriptures foretold. To think that we stormed the Bastile, on your
saying so, as if it were a chicken-house, and that here we sit where
it used to be, drinking merrily! oh, the racket we kicked up that day.
Talking of racket," he interrupted himself, "what is this rumpus all
about?"
The uproar was caused by the passing of a man who had the rare privilege
of creating noise wherever he walked: it was Mirabeau, who, with a lady
on his arm, was visiting the Bastile site.
Another than he would have shrank from the cheers in which were mingled
some sullen murmurs; but he was the bird of the storm and he smiled amid
the thunderous tempest, while supporting the woman, who shivered under
her veil at the simoon of such dreadful popularity.
Pitou jumped upon a chair and waved his cocked hat on the tip of his
sword as he shouted:
"Long live Mirabeau!"
Billet let escape no token of feelings either way; he folded his arms on
his burly chest and muttered in a hollow voice:
"It is said he betrays the people."
"Pooh, that has been said of all great men, from antiquity down,"
replied his friend.
In his excitement he only now noticed that a third chair, drawn up to
their table, was occupied by a stranger who seemed about to accost them.
To be sure it was a day of fraternity, and familiarity was allowable
among fellow-citizens, but Pitou, who had not finished his repast,
thought it going too far. The stranger did not apologize but eyed the
pair with a jeering manner apparently habitual to him.
Billet was no doubt in no mood to support being "quizzed," as the
current word ran, for he turned on the new-comer; but the latter made a
sign before he was addressed which drew another from Billet.
The two did not know each other, but they were brothers.
Like Billet, he was clad like one of the delegates to the Federation.
But he had a change of attire which reminded Billet that so were dressed
the party with Anacharsis Clootz, the German anarchist, representing
Mankind.