The Hero of the People: A Historical Romance of Love, Liberty and Loyalty. Dumas Alexandre
are late to-day, Master Isidore,” began Catherine.
“To-day?” thought the eavesdropper; “it appears that he has been punctual on other meetings.”
“It is not my fault, my darling Kate,” replied the young noble. “A letter from my brother delayed me, to which I had to reply by the bearer. But fear nothing, I shall be more exact another time.”
Catherine smiled and Isidore pressed her hand so tenderly that Pitou felt upon thorns.
“Fresh news from Paris?” she asked. “So have I. Did you not say that when something alike happens to two persons, it is called sympathy?”
“Just so. Who brings you news?”
“Pitou.”
“And pray who is Pitou?” asked the young noble with a free and easy air which changed the red of the listener’s cheek to crimson.
“You know well enough,” was her reply: “Pitou is the farmboy that my father took on out of charity: the one who played propriety for me when I went to the dance.”
“Lord, yes – the chap with knees that look like knots tied in a rope.”
Catherine set to laughing. Pitou felt lowered; he looked at his knees, so useful lately while he was keeping pace with a horse, and he sighed.
“Come, come, do not tear my poor Pitou to pieces,” said Catherine; “Let me tell you that he wanted to come with me just now – to Fertemilon, where I pretended I was going.”
“Why did you not accept the squire – he would have amused you.”
“Not always,” laughed the girl.
“You are right, my pet,” said Isidore, fixing his eyes, brilliant with love, on the pretty girl.
She hid her blushing face in his arms closing round it.
Pitou closed his eyes not to see, but he did not close his ears, and the sound of a kiss reached them. He tore his hair in despair.
When he came to his senses the loving couple were slowly riding away.
The last words he caught were:
“You are right, Master Isidore; let us ride about for an hour which I will gain by making my nag go faster – he is a good beast who will tell no tales,” she added, merrily.
This was all: the vision vanished. Darkness fell on Pitou’s spirit and he said:
“No more of the farm for me, where I am trodden on and made fun of. I am not going to eat the bread of a woman who is in love with another man, handsomer, richer and more graceful than me, I allow. No, my place is not in the town but in my village of Haramont, where I may find those who will think well of me whether my knees are like knots in a rope or not.”
He marched towards his native place, where his reputation and that of his sword and helmet had preceded him, and where glory awaited him, if not happiness. But we know that perfect bliss is not a human attribute.
CHAPTER VIII
ANOTHER BLOW
AS everybody in his village would be abed by ten o’clock, Pitou was glad to find accommodation at the inn, where he slept till seven in the morning. At that hour everybody had risen.
On leaving the Dolphin Tavern, he noticed that his sword and casque won universal attention. A crowd was round him in a few steps.
Undoubtedly he had attained popularity.
Few prophets have this good fortune in their own country. But few prophets have mean and acrimonious aunts who bake fowls in rice for them to eat up the whole at a sitting. Besides, the brazen helmet and the heavy dragoon’s sabre recommended Pitou to his fellow-villager’s attention.
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