Alexandre Dumas

Taking the Bastile

Warsaw 2020

Contents

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXV

CHAPTER XXVI

CHAPTER I

THE SON OF GILBERT.

It was a winter night, and the ground around Paris was covered with snow, although the flakes had ceased to fall since some hours.

Spite of the cold and the darkness, a young man, wrapped in a mantle so voluminous as to hide a babe in his arms, strode over the white fields out of the town of Villers Cotterets, in the woods, eighteen leagues from the capital, which he had reached by the stage-coach, towards a hamlet called Haramont. His assured step seemed to indicate that he had previously gone this road.

Soon above him streaked the leafless boughs upon the grey sky. The sharp air, the odor of the oaks, the icicles and beads on the tips of branches, all appealed to the poetry in the wanderer.

Through the clumps he looked for the village spire and the blue smoke of the chimneys, filtering from the cottages through the natural trellis of the limbs.

It was dawn when he crossed a brook, bordered with yellow cress and frozen vines, and at the first hovel asked for the laborer’s boy to take him to Madeline Pitou’s home.

Mute and attentive, not so dull as most of their kind, the children sprang up and staring at the stranger, led him by the hand to a rather large and good-looking cottage, on the bank of the rivulet running by most of the dwellings.

A plank served as a bridge.

“There,” said one of the guides nodding his head towards it.

Gilbert gave them a coin, which made their eyes open still more widely, and crossed the board to the door which he pushed open, while the children, taking one another’s hand, started with all their might at the handsome gentleman in a brown cloth coat, buckled shoes and large cloak, who wanted to find Madeline Pitou.

Apart from them, Gilbert, for such was the young man’s name, simply so for he had no other, saw no living things: Haramont was the deserted village he was seeking.

As soon as the door was open, his sight was struck by a scene full of charm, for almost anybody, and particularly for a young philosopher like our roamer.

A robust peasant woman was suckling a baby, while another child, a sturdy boy of four or five, was saying a prayer in a loud voice.

In the chimney corner, near a window or rather a hole in the wall in which was stuck a pane of glass, another woman, going on for thirty-five or six, was spinning, with a stool under her feet, and a fat poodle on an end of this stool.

Catching sight of the visitor the dog barked in a civil and hospitable manner just to show that he had not been caught napping. The praying boy turned, cutting the devotional phrase in two, and both females uttered an exclamation between joy and surprise.

“I greet you, good mother Madeline,” said Gilbert with a smile.

“The gentleman has my name,” she cried out with a start.

“As you notice; but please do not interrupt me. Instead of one babe at the breast, you are to have the pair.”

In the rude country-made crib he laid his burden, a little boy.

What a pretty darling!” ejaculated the spinner.

“Quite a dear, yes, Aunt Angelique,” said Madeline.

“Your sister?” inquired the visitor, pointing to the spinner who was also a spinster.

“No my man’s sister.”

“Yes, my auntie, my aunt ‘Gelique,” mumbled the boy, striking into the talk without being asked.

“Be quiet, Ange,” rebuked his mother: “you are interrupting the gentleman.”

“My business is very plain, good woman. The child you see is son of one of my master’s farmers, the farmer being ruined. My master, his godfather, wants him brought up in the country to become a good workman, hale, and with good manners. Will you undertake this rearing?”

“But, master?–”

“Born yesterday and never nursed,” went on Gilbert. Besides, this is the nursling which Master Niquet, the lawyer at Villers Cotterets, spoke to you about.”

Madeline instantly seized the babe and supplied it with the nourishment it craved with a generous impetuosity deeply affecting the young man.

“I have not been misled,” said he: “you are a good woman. In my master’s name, I confide the child to you. I see that he will fare well here, and I trust he will bring into this cabin a dream of happiness together with his own. How much does Master Niquet pay you for his children?”

“Twelve livres a-month, sir: but he is rich, and he adds a few pieces for sugar and toys.”

“Mother Madeline,” replied Gilbert proudly, “this child will bring you twenty livres a-month, or two hundred and forty a-year.”

“Lord bless us! I thank you kindly, master,” said the peasant.

“And here is the first year’s money down on the nail,” went on Gilbert, placing ten fine gold coins on the table, which made the two women open their eyes and little Ange Pitou stretch out his devastating hand.

“But if the little thing should not live?” queried the nurse timidly.

“It would be a great blow–such a misfortune as seldom happens,” responded the gentleman; “Here is the hire settled–are you satisfied?”

“Oh, yes, sir.”

“Let us now pass to the future payments.”

“Then we are to keep the child?”

“Probably, and be parents to it,” said Gilbert, in a stifled voice and losing color.

“Dear, dear, is he an outcast?”

Gilbert had not expected such feeling and questions: but he recovered from the emotion.

“I did not tell you the whole truth,” he said; “the poor father died on the shock of hearing that his wife gave up her life in bearing him the child.”

The women wrung their hands with sympathy.

“So that the child can reckon on no love from his parents,” continued Gilbert, breathing painfully.

At this point in tramped Daddy Pitou with a calm and jolly manner. His was one of those round and honest characters, overflowing with health and good will, such as Greuze paints in his natural domestic pictures. A few words showed him how matters stood. Out of good nature he understood things–even those beyond his comprehension.

Gilbert made it clear that the keep-money would be paid until the boy was a man and able to live alone with his mind and arm.

“All right,” said Pitou, “I rather think we shall take to the kid, though he is a tiny creature.”

“Look at that,” said the women together, “he thinks it a little dear just like us.”

“I should like you to come over to Master Niquet’s where I will leave the money required so that you may be content and the child happy.”

Gilbert took leave of the women and bent over the cradle in which the new-comer had ousted the rightful heir. He wore a sombre air.

“You look little like me,” he muttered, “for you have the aspect of your proud mother, the aristocratic Andrea, daughter of Baron Taverney.”

The trait broke his heart: he pressed his nails into his flesh to keep down the tears flowing from his aching breast. He left a kiss timid and tremulous on the babe’s fresh cheek and tottered out. He gave half a louis to little Ange, who was stumbling between his legs, and shook hands with the women who thought it an honor. So many emotions oppressed the father of eighteen years that little more would have prostrated him. Pale and nervous, his brain was spinning.

“Let us be off,” he said to Pitou, waiting on the sill.

“Master!” called out Madeline from the threshold: “his name–what did you say his name is?”

“Call him Gilbert,” replied the young man with manly pride.

The business at the notary’s was quickly done. Money was banked for the child’s keep and bringing up as became a farmhand’s offspring. For fifteen years education and training was to be given him, and the balance was to be devoted to fitting him in a trade or buying a plot of land. At his eighteenth year some two thousand livres were to be paid the nurse and her husband, who would have the other sum yearly from the intermediary.

As a reward Niquet was to have the interest of the funds.

Ten years passed and the Pitou woman, who had lost her husband while Ange was hardly able to remember him, felt herself dying. Three years before she had seen Gilbert, returned a man of twenty-seven, stiff, dogmatic of speech, cold at the outset. But his mask of ice thawed when he saw his son again, hearty, smiling and strong, brought up as he had planned. He shook the good widow’s hand and said:

“Rely on me if ever in need.”

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