Pale and in despair, Catherine could not find a word to speak. Pitou was silent also, as he had said quite enough.
Mother Billet, stopping at the road forks, was bidding adieu to her cronies.
“What does the officer say?” queried the woman.
“He says goodnight to you, Mother Billet.”
“Not yet,” cried Catherine with a desperate tone. “Tell me the truth—are we no longer friends?”
Pitou felt his secret well up to his lips: but it was all over with him if he spoke; so he bowed mutely with respect which touched her heart; gave Mother Billet a pleasant smile, and disappeared in the dense wood.
“Is that what is called love?” Pitou monologued to himself; “it is sweet at times and then again bitter.”
He returned to Haramont, singing the most doleful of rural ballads to the mournfullest tunes.
Luckily he did not find his warriors in any such mood. On the contrary, they were preparing for a feast and they had set aside the chair of honor for their Caesar who had overcome the other villages’ Pompeys.
Dragged by his officers into the banquet room, he saluted in silence in return for the greetings, and with the calmness we know as his, attacked the roast veal and potatoes. His action lasted so long that his “digester” was filled while his heart was freed of gall. At the end of a couple of hours he perceived that his grief was no worse.