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Taking the Bastile

Taking The Bastile. BY Alex. Dumas. <hr class="r5" /> NEW YORK: J. S. OGILVIE PUBLISHING COMPANY, 57 Rose Street. <hr class="full" /> A WONDERFUL OFFER! <hr class="r5" /> 70 House Plans for $1.00. <hr class="r5" /> <div class="figleft"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus02.jpg" alt="House" width-obs="200" height-obs="170" /></div> If you are thinking about building a house don't fail to get the new book PALLISER'S &emsp;&emsp;AMERICAN &emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;ARCHITECTURE, containing 104 pages, 11×14 inches in size, consisting of large 9×12 plate pages giving plans, elevations, perspective views, descriptions, owners' names, actual cost of construction (no guess work), and instructions How to Build 70 Cottages, Villas, Double Houses, Brick Block Houses, suitable for city suburbs, town and country, houses for the farm, and workingmen's homes for all sections of the country, and costing from $300 to $6,500, together with specifications, form of contract, and a large amount of information on the erection of buildings and employment of architects, prepared by Palliser, Palliser & Co., the well-known architects. This book will save you hundreds of dollars. There is not a Builder, nor anyone intending to build or otherwise interested, that can afford to be without it. It is a practical work, and the best, cheapest and most popular book ever issued on Building. Nearly four hundred drawings. It is worth $5.00 to anyone, but we will send it bound in paper cover, by mail, postpaid for only $1.00; bound in handsome cloth, $2.00. Address all orders to J. S. OGILVIE PUBLISHING CO., Lock Box 2767.&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;&emsp;57 Rose Street, New York. <hr class="full" /> <h1 class="space-above1">TAKING THE BASTILE;</h1> OR, PITOU THE PEASANT. A HISTORICAL STORY OF THE GREAT FRENCH REVOLUTION. BY ALEX. DUMAS. Author Of &emsp;&emsp;"The Three Musketeers," "Balsamo the Magician," "Monte Cristo," &emsp;&emsp;"The Mesmerist's Victim," "The Queen's Necklace," &emsp;&emsp;"Chicot the Jester," etc. NEW AND ORIGINAL TRANSLATION FROM THE LATEST PARIS EDITION. By HENRY LLEWELLYN WILLIAMS. New York: J. S. OGILVIE PUBLISHING COMPANY, 57 Rose Street. Entered according to act of Congress in the year 1892, by A.E.Smith & Co, in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. <hr class="chap" /> TABLE OF CONTENTS <table border="0" cellspacing="2" summary="TOC" cellpadding="0" > <tbody><tr> <td class="tdr">CHAPTER I.</td> <td class="tdc"> &emsp; </td> <td class="tdl">THE SON OF GILBERT.</td> </tr><tr> <td class="tdr">CHAPTER II.</td> <td class="tdc"> &emsp; </td> <td class="tdl">ANGE PITOU.</td> </tr><tr> <td class="tdr">CHAPTER III.</td> <td class="tdc"> &emsp; </td> <td class="tdl">A REVOLUTIONARY FARMER.</td> </tr><tr> <td class="tdr">CHAPTER IV.</td> <td class="tdc"> &emsp; </td> <td class="tdl">LONG LEGS ARE GOOD FOR RUNNING, IF NOT FOR DANCING.</td> </tr><tr> <td class="tdr">CHAPTER V.</td> <td class="tdc"> &emsp; </td> <td class="tdl">WHY THE POLICE AGENT CAME WITH THE CONSTABLES.</td> </tr><tr> <td class="tdr">CHAPTER VI.</td> <td class="tdc"> &emsp; </td> <td class="tdl">ON THE ROAD.</td> </tr><tr> <td class="tdr">CHAPTER VII.</td> <td class="tdc"> &emsp; </td> <td class="tdl">THE FIRST BLOOD.</td> </tr><tr> <td class="tdr">CHAPTER VIII.</td> <td class="tdc"> &emsp; </td> <td class="tdl">PITOU DISCOVERS HE IS BRAVE.</td> </tr><tr> <td class="tdr">CHAPTER IX.</td> <td class="tdc"> &emsp; </td> <td class="tdl">"TO THE BASTILE!"</td> </tr><tr> <td class="tdr">CHAPTER X.</td> <td class="tdc"> &emsp; </td> <td class="tdl">BLOWING HOT AND COLD.</td> </tr><tr> <td class="tdr">CHAPTER XI.</td> <td class="tdc"> &emsp; </td> <td class="tdl">THE PRISON GOVERNOR.</td> </tr><tr> <td class="tdr">CHAPTER XII.</td> <td class="tdc"> &emsp; </td> <td class="tdl">STORMING THE BASTILE.</td> </tr><tr> <td class="tdr">CHAPTER XIII.</td> <td class="tdc"> &emsp; </td> <td class="tdl">DOWN IN THE DUNGEONS.</td> </tr><tr> <td class="tdr">CHAPTER XIV.</td> <td class="tdc"> &emsp; </td> <td class="tdl">THE TRIANGLE OF LIBERTY.</td> </tr><tr> <td class="tdr">CHAPTER XV.</td> <td class="tdc"> &emsp; </td> <td class="tdl">THE YOUNG VISIONARY.</td> </tr><tr> <td class="tdr">CHAPTER XVI.</td> <td class="tdc"> &emsp; </td> <td class="tdl">THE PHYSICIAN FOR THE STATE.</td> </tr><tr> <td class="tdr">CHAPTER XVII.</td> <td class="tdc"> &emsp; </td> <td class="tdl">THE COUNTESS OF CHARNY.</td> </tr><tr> <td class="tdr">CHAPTER XVIII.</td> <td class="tdc"> &emsp; </td> <td class="tdl">THE QUEEN AT BAY.</td> </tr><tr> <td class="tdr">CHAPTER XIX.</td> <td class="tdc"> &emsp; </td> <td class="tdl">THE QUEEN'S FAVOURITE.</td> </tr><tr> <td class="tdr">CHAPTER XX.</td> <td class="tdc"> &emsp; </td> <td class="tdl">THE TRIO OF LOVE.</td> </tr><tr> <td class="tdr">CHAPTER XXI.</td> <td class="tdc"> &emsp; </td> <td class="tdl">THE QUEEN AND HER MASTER.</td> </tr><tr> <td class="tdr">CHAPTER XXII.</td> <td class="tdc"> &emsp; </td> <td class="tdl">THE PRIVATE COUNCIL.</td> </tr><tr> <td class="tdr">CHAPTER XXIII.</td> <td class="tdc"> &emsp; </td> <td class="tdl">WHY THE QUEEN WAITED.</td> </tr><tr> <td class="tdr">CHAPTER XXIV.</td> <td class="tdc"> &emsp; </td> <td class="tdl">THE ARMY OF WOMEN.</td> </tr><tr> <td class="tdr">CHAPTER XXV.</td> <td class="tdc"> &emsp; </td> <td class="tdl">THE NIGHT OF HORRORS.</td> </tr><tr> <td class="tdr">CHAPTER XXVI.</td> <td class="tdc"> &emsp; </td> <td class="tdl">BILLET'S SORROW.</td> </tr> </tbody> </table> [Pg 3] <hr class="chap" /> <h2>CHAPTER I.</h2> 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 [Pg 4] 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." [Pg 5] "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?" [Pg 6] 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. [Pg 7] "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." He took the child away, went to see the tomb of Rousseau the philosopher, musician and poet, and returned to Villers Cotterets. Seduced by the good air and the praise of the Abbe Fortier's school for youth, he left Gilbert at that institution. He had thought highly of the tutor's philosophical mien; for philosophy was a great power at this revolutionary period and had glided into the bosom of the Church. He left him his address and departed for Paris. Ange Pitou's mother knew these particulars. At her dying hour she remembered the pledge of Gilbert to be the friend at need. It was a bright light. No doubt Providence had brought him to Haramont to provide poor Pitou with more than he lost in losing life and family. Not able to write, she sent for the parish priest, who wrote a letter for her, and this was given to Abbe Fortier to be sent off by the post. It was time, for she died next day. <hr class="chap" /> [Pg 8] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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