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The Milkmaid of Montfermeil (Novels of Paul de Kock Volume XX)

by Paul de Kock · English · Gutenberg #41645 · 752,875 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Milkmaid of Montfermeil (Novels of Paul de Kock Volume XX)

Author: Paul de Kock


        
Release date: December 17, 2012 [eBook #41645]
                Most recently updated: November 27, 2024

Language: English

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Credits: Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MILKMAID OF MONTFERMEIL (NOVELS OF PAUL DE KOCK VOLUME XX) ***




Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images available at The Internet Archive)






[Illustration: Frontispiece]


_THE MILKMAID'S WEDDING_


_Denise, beaming with love and happiness, embellishing by her charms and
her grace the modest costume she had selected, was led to the altar by
the man she loved._

_All the people of the village assembled to see the little milkmaid
married._




NOVELS

BY

Paul de Kock

VOLUME XX

THE MILKMAID

OF

MONTFERMEIL

PRINTED BY ARRANGEMENT WITH

GEORGE BARRIE'S SONS

THE JEFFERSON PRESS
BOSTON NEW YORK

_Copyrighted, 1903-1904, by G. B. & Sons._




THE MILKMAID OF MONTFERMEIL




I

A CONVERSATION IN A CABRIOLET


"For you can't go on like this forever, lieutenant--you must agree to
that. The great Turenne didn't fight ten battles at once and didn't
carry on six intrigues on the same day."

"No, my dear Bertrand, but Cæsar dictated four letters at once in four
different languages, and Pico de la Mirandola boasted that he was
familiar with and could talk _de omni re scibili_----"

"I beg pardon, lieutenant, I don't know Latin."

"That means that he claimed to know all languages, to have gone to the
bottom of all the sciences, to be able to refute all creeds and
reconcile theologians of all breeds."

"As I don't think that you're so conceited as that, lieutenant, I won't
compare you with this Monsieur de la Mirandola, who claimed to know
everything. As for Cæsar, I've heard him spoken of as a very great man,
but I'm sure he didn't have as many mistresses as you."

"You're mistaken, Bertrand; the great men of antiquity had a great many
female slaves, concubines, and often cast off their wives and took new
ones. Love and Pleasure had temples in Greece; and those high and
mighty Romans, who are represented to us as so strait-laced, weren't
ashamed to indulge in the wildest debauchery, to crown themselves with
myrtle and roses, and sometimes to appear at their banquets in the
costumes of our first parents."

"For God's sake, lieutenant, let's drop the Romans, with whom I never
exchanged a shot, and go back to what we were talking about."

"I propose to prove to you, my dear Bertrand, that we are very far from
surpassing preceding generations in folly, and are in fact much more
virtuous."

"Is that why you have four mistresses?"

"I love women, I admit; I will say more--I am proud of it; it is a
natural inclination. I cannot see an attractive face, a fine pair of
eyes, without feeling a pleasant thrill, an agitation, an I don't know
what, in short, that proves my extreme susceptibility. Is it a crime,
pray, to be susceptible in an age when selfishness is carried to such
lengths; when self-interest is the mainspring of almost all human
actions; when we see authors prefer cash to renown, and men in office
forgetful of everything except retaining their offices, instead of
meditating on the good they might do; when we see artists begging for
the patronage of people they despise, and asking alms from stupidity
when it is in power; when we see men of letters carefully block a
confrère's path when they detect in him a talent that might outshine
theirs; when, in short, every door is closed to obscure merit, and
thrown wide open to impudence and conceit when accompanied by wealth? If
selfishness had not wormed its way into all classes of society, if love
of money had not replaced love of one's neighbor, would it be thus? And
you berate me for my susceptibility! You reproach me for being unable to
listen unmoved to the story of a noble deed, or of pathetic misfortune;
for giving money to people who deceive me; for allowing myself to be
gulled like an ass by the palaver of a child who tells me that he is
begging for his mother, or of a poor laboring man who swears that he has
no work and nothing to eat! Well, my dear Bertrand, I prefer my
susceptibility to their icy selfishness, and I find in my heart sources
of enjoyment which their indifferent hearts will never know."

This conversation took place in a stylish cabriolet, drawn by a prancing
horse, which was bowling along the lovely road from Raincy to
Montfermeil. A small groom of some twelve or fourteen years was perched
behind the carriage, in which Bertrand was seated beside a young man,
dressed in the latest fashion, who, as he conversed, touched
occasionally with his whip the spirited steed he was driving.

Bertrand had partly turned his face away toward the end of his master's
speech; and to cloak the emotion which was beginning to be too much for
him, he blew his nose and took a huge pinch of snuff. Somewhat composed
thereby, he said in a voice slightly tremulous with emotion:

"God forbid, lieutenant, that I should blame you for being
tender-hearted! I know your kind heart; I know how willing and ready to
help you are! And I could mention a thousand things you've done that
many men would have bragged about; whereas you are very careful to
conceal them."

"People who boast of the good they do are like the ones who offer you a
thing in such a way that you can't accept it: both give regretfully."

"We needn't look very far, lieutenant; haven't you heaped presents on
me? didn't you take me in, and give me board and lodging?"

"You're an idiot, Bertrand; don't you act as my steward, factotum,
confidential man of business,--yes, and as my friend, which is better
than all the rest, and for which one cannot pay?"

At that, Bertrand turned his head altogether, and blew his nose again,
because a great tear had dropped from his eyes. He took two pinches of
snuff, and having warmly grasped the hand that his master offered him,
he said in a quavering voice:

"Yes, monsieur, you are the best of men; you have a thousand good
qualities! and no one had better say anything different in my hearing!
Morbleu! my sword isn't rusty yet."

"Oho! so now you're going to flatter me, are you? Remember, Bertrand,
that you began this conversation for the purpose of scolding me."

"Scolding you! no, indeed, lieutenant, but simply to point out to you
that it would be more reasonable to love one woman at once; with full
liberty to change as soon as you see another one that you like better."

"Look you, Bertrand, I'll draw a comparison for you, that you'll see the
justice of at once."

"You won't put any Greeks or Romans in it, will you, lieutenant?"

"Not one.--You like wine, don't you, Bertrand?"

"That's so, lieutenant; I admit that an old bottle--of a good
brand--there's nothing like that to liven you up!"

"Do you like beaune?"

"Very much, lieutenant."

"And bordeaux?"

"Ah, yes! it smells of violets; it has a delicious bouquet!"

"And volnay?"

"I've never been able to resist it."

"And chambertin?"

"I would go down on my knees to it, lieutenant."

"If you had a bottle of each of those wines in front of you, would you
give up three of them and drink just a single one?"

"I promise you, lieutenant, that I'd take care of all four of them, and
I wouldn't be any worse off for it either."

"Why then do you expect me, when I am surrounded by four pretty
creatures, each of whom has some peculiar charm, to give up three of
them and make love to only one?"

"Parbleu! that's true enough, lieutenant; you can't do it; you must
drink them--I mean you must love them all four; and I see now that I was
wrong."

The discussions between Bertrand and Auguste Dalville almost always
ended so. Auguste was twenty-seven and had twenty thousand francs a
year; his father died while he was in the cradle, and his mother was
taken away from him six years before our story opens. That was the date
of the beginning of Auguste's life of dissipation; he had sought
distraction from his perfectly natural grief, and had finally become
unable to resist a sex in whose company he had at first sought diversion
only.

Meanwhile, the ambition to wear a handsome uniform, and perhaps to earn
a pair of epaulets, had led Auguste to enter the army. The country was
at peace; but a young man with a good education does not remain a
private. Auguste, promoted to sub-lieutenant, delighted to listen to
Bertrand, who had served as corporal of _voltigeurs_, and had been at
Austerlitz, Eylau, and Friedland. Bertrand was only forty-four: he put
into the description of his battles the same fire and zeal that he had
displayed in the battles themselves, and Auguste never tired of
listening. The corporal's stories excited his ardor; he regretted that
he was not born a few years earlier, thinking that he might, like
Bertrand, have taken part in those triumphant campaigns which will
always be the glory of France.

About this time, Auguste was sent with his regiment to Pampeluna, to
which the French were laying siege. Bertrand found himself under the
command of the young officer, who had been made a lieutenant. But, the
war at an end, Auguste quitted the military profession, and returned to
Paris, to abandon himself afresh to his taste for pleasure. He proposed
to Bertrand to go with him; he readily obtained his discharge and
accompanied Dalville, to whom he was sincerely attached, and whom he
continued to call lieutenant, partly from habit and partly from choice.

Bertrand had a mother in Paris, very old and infirm. Auguste's first
care was to settle on the poor woman a pension which placed her beyond
fear of want, and enabled her to enjoy in her old age a multitude of
comforts which she had never known during her life of toil and
misfortune.

Thereafter Auguste was not simply a master in Bertrand's eyes; he
regarded him as his benefactor, and his affection and devotion knew no
bounds. After his mother's death, which occurred three years later,
Bertrand attached himself to Auguste's service altogether, and vowed
that he would devote his life to proving his gratitude. Bertrand had had
no education; he often made blunders in delivering the messages which
his master entrusted to him; but Auguste always forgave him, because he
was well aware of the ex-corporal's attachment and his good heart.
Bertrand, as we have seen, sometimes ventured to remonstrate with his
superior officer, because, being as yet unfamiliar with the manner of
life in high society, Auguste's follies terrified him, and he was in
constant dread that his intrigues would lead to serious complications;
but Auguste always succeeded in allaying Bertrand's fright, so that the
latter invariably ended the conversation by saying: "I was in the
wrong."

There are many more things that I might tell you concerning the two men
who have been talking together. Perhaps I ought to draw their portraits
for you, and to tell you to just what type of face Auguste Dalville's
belonged. But what would be the use? Doubtless some one of his numerous
conquests will have something to say about him; so that I should run the
risk of unnecessary repetition by sketching him at first. We can simply
presume that he was comely, as he was fortunate enough to please the
ladies. "That is no reason," you will say; "when a man has twenty
thousand francs a year, that takes the place of physical charms, and
conceals ugliness."--Oh! what an idea, my dear readers! Surely no reader
of the gentler sex would make such a reply; for I have too good an
opinion of the ladies not to feel sure that it would take something more
than twenty thousand francs to captivate them.

But the cabriolet is speeding along; we will resume our reflections at
some other time.

"Bébelle goes very well. You are warm, lieutenant; don't you want me to
take the reins?"

"No, I like to drive."

"We shall be at Monsieur Destival's by eleven o'clock."

"That is quite early enough; and from that time until five o'clock, when
we dine--But I promised a long while ago. At all events, Madame Destival
is an excellent musician, and we will try to amuse ourselves while we
are waiting for dinner."

"Why did you bring me, lieutenant? I can't play or sing, and as I don't
belong in the salon, where am I to do sentry-duty?"

"Never fear; Monsieur Destival expressly requested me to bring you. He
has become infatuated with hunting, and he wants you to teach him to
handle a gun."

"Very well, lieutenant, I'll teach him all I know; that won't take
long."

"Poor Virginie! What a rage she will be in to-night! I promised to take
her to Feydeau----"

"She has often promised you things, and then broken her word."

"How do you know that, Bertrand?"

"Because I've heard, lieutenant, that Mademoiselle Virginie's a terrible
liar."

"That is true; yes, I have had proofs of it more than once."

"That's very bad, after all that you've done for her! But you're so
kindhearted, you always allow yourself to be imposed on! Ten thousand
carbines! if the hussy had killed herself every time she threatened _to
perish_ because she didn't have enough to pay her rent----"

"Come, come, Monsieur Bertrand, be quiet! You have a wicked tongue.--Go
on, Bébelle; I believe you're asleep."

"And one evening, when you went out, and she told me her troubles! She
said that if she had had a weakness for you, it was because she was too
loving, but that she was determined to change her ways, not to see you
any more, and to make up with her aunt. For my part, I believed every
word of it; in fact, she had such a sincere way of saying it, that I
felt all ready to cry. But no sooner did she learn that you were at the
masked ball than she shouted: 'I'm going too, Bertrand! lend me some
clothes, I'm going to dress as a man!'--'What, mademoiselle,' says I,
'when you're talking about being good and not seeing Monsieur Auguste
any more!'--At that she began to laugh like a madwoman and called me an
old turkey-cock! Faith, lieutenant, I don't understand a woman like
that."

"I can well believe it, my poor Bertrand; even I myself don't understand
her, and I know her better than you do."

"I like that little light-haired woman better; you know, lieutenant, the
one you got acquainted with by carrying back the little poodle she'd
lost, that I found lying at our door at night."

"You mean Léonie?"

"No, I mean Madame de Saint-Edmond."

"Léonie and Saint-Edmond are the same person."

"I didn't know, lieutenant."

"But look you, Bertrand, it was your fault that I made her
acquaintance."

"The poodle's rather, lieutenant."

"Léonie lived in the same house with me, and I didn't know her."

"Parbleu, lieutenant, as if a body knew all his neighbors in Paris!
except concierges and cooks, whose business it is."

"At all events, you found the dog, and I bade you ask the concierge if
anyone in the house had lost it."

"And he told me that there was a young lady on the third floor, who had
lain awake all night for grief at losing her dog, and that her maid,
after searching from garret to cellar, had gone out to have placards
printed offering thirty francs reward to whoever brought the little
beast back. I confess that I didn't have any idea that the little
poodle, which did nothing but bite and growl, was worth more than four
months' pay for a private soldier; but I went up to the third floor in a
hurry, to have the order for the placards countermanded by giving the
little beast back to its mistress. To celebrate his return, he began by
scratching a handsome blue satin armchair and putting his paws in
madame's cup of chocolate; but that didn't prevent her calling him her
little jewel, and expressing the greatest gratitude to me. Still,
lieutenant, I don't see anything in all that to force you to fall in
love with Madame Léonie Saint-Edmond."

"You haven't told everything, Bertrand: you forget that, when you came
down from the third floor, you drew a very alluring picture of that
lady; you told me that she had a pair of eyes--and a voice--and a
certain shape!"

"Bless me, lieutenant, I should say that all women have eyes and a shape
and a voice!"

"Yes, to be sure; but still I was curious to know this young neighbor of
ours, who showed such keen sensibility."

"And it would seem, lieutenant, that you dislodged the poodle, for since
then Madame Saint-Edmond is forever at your heels; and as for me, madame
questions me and tries to make me talk; she sends for me to come up when
she's at breakfast, and as she offers me a little glass of malaga and a
biscuit, she asks me where you passed the evening before."

"And Monsieur Bertrand, melted by the malaga, recounts my actions to my
neighbor, I presume?"

"Oh! for shame, lieutenant! What do you take me for? The idea of my
betraying my master's secrets! If there had been half a dozen bottles
of malaga in front of me, I wouldn't have said a word! To be sure, I
don't like malaga."

"Bless my soul, my dear Bertrand, I am not scolding you! You know well
enough that I make no secret of my follies, even to those who might have
ground for complaint. It's a mere matter of an amourette or two, a
little fooling."

"All the same, lieutenant, I am seriously embarrassed, on my word, being
forever questioned by this one and that one. One calls me her little
Bertrand, another her true friend--and these ladies are all very
attractive----"

"Ah! monsieur le caporal has noticed that!"

"Parbleu, lieutenant, I have eyes just like other men, and if my heart
don't take fire as easily as yours, that don't mean that it's
invulnerable. And when I see one of those ladies put her handkerchief to
her eyes, when I hear your neighbor throw herself into an armchair and
say that she's going to faint; and when Mademoiselle Virginie cries that
she _will perish_,--why, I don't know where I am. I run from one to the
other, offer them salts and eau-de-vie, tear my hair, and sometimes I
even cry with them. Let me tell you that I'd rather assault a fortress
six times than be present at one of those scenes, on my honor!"

"Ha! ha! ha! Poor Bertrand!"

"Of course, you laugh; it don't make any difference to you how much you
are called traitor, perfidious villain, savage, monster, cruel wretch!"

"Those are terms of endearment; in a young woman's mouth those words
mean: 'You are charming, I love you, I adore you!'"

"Oho! so 'monster!' means 'you are charming,' does it? That makes a
difference, lieutenant; I couldn't be expected to guess that; now I
understand. But these tears that you are responsible for--do they also
mean that you are considered charming?"

"Oh! do you suppose, my old friend, that in love-affairs tears are
always sincere?"

"In a great flood, lieutenant, there may happen to be one honest one;
and it seems to me that a man ought to be sorry for the suffering he
causes a pretty girl."

"I promise to reform, Bertrand, to be more virtuous in the future! Is it
possible that you think that I, who adore that charming sex, I, whose
whole happiness depends on making myself attractive to the ladies--that
I set about causing them pain?"

"No, lieutenant; on the contrary, I am well aware that you would like to
give pleasure to all the young beauties you meet; but it is that very
pleasure that leads to regret and cares; and you yourself--for, as I was
saying just now, the great Turenne----"

Auguste had ceased to listen to Bertrand; he had put his head out of the
window and was watching a young peasant who had just come out of the
forest and was walking along the same road that our travellers were
following, driving before her an ass laden with baskets, in which were a
number of the tin cans in which milk is carried to the people of Paris
by the village women.

As the ass did not move as fast as Bébelle, Auguste drew in his horse
and made him walk, in order to see the girl as long as possible.

"Shall I touch Bébelle up?" asked Bertrand, surprised to find that they
continued to go at a walk.

"No, no--she's going well enough."

"Yes, lieutenant, you will be very wise to turn virtuous--virtuous for
you, I mean; if you don't, your income won't be enough to pay all your
expenses. You have appointed me your steward, so I can venture to talk
figures with you; and, although I'm not a great mathematician, I can see
plainly enough that when you're forever dipping into a cash-box, it is
soon empty. This year you don't seem to be lucky at that infernal game
you play so often--you know, lieutenant, the game in which you turn the
kings----"

"Fresh complexion--a pretty figure--lovely eyes--it's extraordinary, I
swear!"

"And then the cashmere shawls you send to one, and the milliner's bill
that you pay for another----"

"And all these charms in a milkmaid!"

"What's that? a milkmaid? Do you mean to say that you pay their bills
too, lieutenant?"

"Who in the devil said anything about bills? Just look at that sweet
child on the road yonder."

"Well! she's a milkmaid--that's the whole story!"

"You don't see how pretty she is. And that sly smile, every time her
eyes turn in our direction."

"Perhaps she wants to sell us some cream cheese?"

"Blockhead! to see nothing but cheese! I tell you that sackcloth waist,
that double linen neckerchief, so high in the neck, conceal a multitude
of treasures."

"Treasures! treasures! Parbleu! one can guess very nearly what they
conceal, although appearances are often deceitful. But such treasures
aren't scarce; is it on account of the little milkmaid that we're going
now like a load of flour?"

"No, no, it's because I am beginning to get tired of the cabriolet. The
weather is so fine; I feel that it will do me good to walk. We're only a
little way from Monsieur Destival's now. Here, Bertrand, take the reins;
I'll do the rest of the distance on foot."

"What, lieutenant, you mean to----"

Auguste had already stopped his horse; he jumped lightly to the ground
despite Bertrand's grumbling, and said:

"Go on with Tony."

"But what shall I tell Monsieur Destival?"

"That I am coming; I shall be there as soon as you."

"But----"

"Bertrand, I insist."

Bertrand said no more; but he cast an angry glance at the little
milkmaid, and lashed Bébelle, who soon left Auguste far behind.




II

THE FALL


The damsel went her way, with a branch of walnut in her hand, driving
her ass before her, apparently oblivious of the fact that the young man
had alighted from his cabriolet. She did not look back, but contented
herself with calling out from time to time: "Go on there, White Jean;"
and White Jean went none the faster.

Auguste soon overtook the milkmaid. He walked behind her a few moments,
to examine her; she was well-built, so far as one could judge of her
shape beneath the thick wrapper in which she was muffled; her foot was
certainly small, although encased in heavy shoes, and her woolen
stockings covered a shapely leg, which he could examine at his leisure,
for a milkmaid wears very short skirts.

Auguste stepped forward; the girl looked up and seemed surprised to see
the young man of the cabriolet walking by her side. But she turned her
head away, with another "go on!" to her ass, in which there was no touch
of romance.

Our young exquisite gazed closely at the girl, who wore a cap perched on
top of her head, which concealed none of her features.

"She is very pretty," he said to himself; "fine eyes, a pretty mouth, a
complexion like the rose; but nothing extraordinary, after all. Her
freshness is the freshness of a village girl; she's a mere country
beauty, and I should have done as well to stay in the carriage. However,
as I have alighted, I may as well try to gain something by it."

And the young man continued to stare at the milkmaid, with a smile on
his face; but she, apparently annoyed by the fine gentleman's scrutiny,
said to him sharply:

"Shall you soon be through looking at me?"

"Isn't it within the law to admire you?"

"No, I don't like to have anyone eye me like that."

"If you weren't so pretty, people would look at you less."

"If this is the way you talk to your ladies in Paris, you must have lots
of faces in your head! When you look at a body so close, you'll know her
again; but here among us, we don't call it decent; and you'd better not
come here to play monkey tricks like this!"

"I made a mistake in leaving the cabriolet," thought Auguste. However,
he continued to walk beside the girl, and said to her after a moment:

"Are you a milkmaid?"

"Pardi! anyone can see that. Have you just guessed it?"

"Will you sell me some milk?"

"I haven't got any."

"Do you carry it to Paris?"

"I don't go so far as that."

"Where do you come from?"

"You're very inquisitive."

The girl's tone was not encouraging, and Auguste looked along the road
to see whether he could still see his cabriolet; but it had disappeared,
for White Jean stopped very often to eat leaves or grass, despite the
blows with the switch which his mistress bestowed on him.

"Do you know," said Auguste, "you are not very agreeable, my lovely
child? You are so pretty that I thought you would be gentler, less
savage."

"That's just it! monsieur thought he was going to turn my head with his
flattery! But I'm used to meeting young men from Paris; it's always the
same old song; they think they can make themselves welcome just by
telling me I'm pretty! Oh! you're a parcel of flatterers! but I don't
listen to you, you see!"

"I should like to hear anyone deny again that virtue has its home in the
village!" said Auguste to himself. "It is clear enough to my mind that
the country is the place where we find the pure morals of the ancient
patriarch, the models of virtue celebrated by the poets, the--That devil
of a Bertrand needn't have driven Bébelle so fast; he must have done it
from pure mischief! And when I said that we were almost there I was
lying. It's at least three-quarters of a league farther!"

To complete the young man's discomfiture, the milkmaid turned aside from
the high road into a path that led through the woods. Auguste stood for
a moment hesitating at the entrance to the path. Should he follow his
cabriolet? or should he follow the girl? The first course was the more
sensible, and that was his reason no doubt for deciding in favor of the
second.

The time that Auguste had passed in indecision had allowed the milkmaid
to get some distance ahead of him; she walked along the path, and,
thinking that the young man had followed the highroad, she sang as she
drove White Jean in front of her:

    "You love me, you say,
     Then prove it, I pray;
     But dandies like you,
     Would hoax us, I know."

"Very pretty! although the rhyme isn't first-class," said Auguste,
quickening his pace to overtake the girl. She turned, and seemed
surprised to see the young man in the path behind her.

"What! you coming this way?" said the milkmaid, in a somewhat uncertain
voice.

"To be sure; this path is lovely."

"Ain't you going to overtake your carriage?"

"I couldn't make up my mind to leave you."

"Oh! you're wasting your time, monsieur, and I promise you you'd do
better to go after your carriage."

"But I much prefer to walk by your side, although you treat me so
harshly; however, I have an idea that you're not so unkind as you choose
to appear."

"Well, you're mistaken; I ain't kind at all; ask all the young fellows
in Montfermeil how I treat them when they try to fool. Oh! Denise Fourcy
is well known hereabout, I tell you."

"Denise Fourcy? Good, now I know your name."

"Well, what then? How does that put you ahead any?"

"It will help me to find out about you easily, and to find you again
when I choose."

"Pardi! I ain't lost, and anyone can easily find me."

"Do you mean to say, Denise, that at your age, pretty as you are, you
haven't a lover?"

"Is that any of your business?"

"Oh! very much!"

"Here in the country we ain't in such a hurry as your city ladies."

"Haven't women hearts in the country as well as elsewhere?"

"Yes; but they don't take fire the way yours does; it seems to me to be
a little heart of tinder."

"Upon my word, she is really amusing!" said Auguste, laughingly.

"_She!_" repeated the milkmaid in an irritated tone; "how polite these
fine gentlemen are! _She!_ Anyone would think we had known each other a
long while."

"It depends entirely on you whether or not we shall be the best friends
in the world in a moment. And to begin with, I must give you a kiss."

"No--no, monsieur--none of that sort of thing, if you please.--Oh! look
out, or I'll scratch you."

Auguste, accustomed to defy such prohibitions, seized the little
milkmaid by the waist, and tried to put his lips to her fresh, ruddy
cheek; but she defended herself more vigorously than the city ladies do;
to be sure, a peasant is less embarrassed by her clothes, she isn't
afraid of rumpling them, and her corsets are not so tight that she
cannot move her arms; that is the reason no doubt that a kiss is much
harder to obtain from a peasant.

The kiss was taken at last; but it cost Auguste dear, for he bore below
his left eye the marks of two nails which had drawn blood from the
Parisian dandy's face. Thus each of the combatants was beaten, for each
bore a token of defeat. But the war seemed not to be at an end. Denise,
twice as red as she was before the battle, arranged her neckerchief,
glaring angrily at the young man; while he put his hand to his face,
and, finding blood there, wiped it with his handkerchief, looking at the
girl with a less sentimental expression; for those two digs with her
nails had cooled his ardor to an extraordinary degree.

"I'm glad of it," said the girl at last; "that will teach you to try to
kiss a girl against her will, monsieur."

"I certainly didn't expect to be treated so. The idea of disfiguring
me--just for a kiss!"

"If all women did the same, you wouldn't be so forward."

"Thank God, they don't all have the same ideas that you have. You hurt
me terribly!"

"Oh! what troubles you the most is that it will show; you're afraid you
won't be so pretty to look at."

"No, I assure you that that isn't what I am thinking about. I am sorry
that I really made you angry. I realize that I was wrong. Come, Denise,
let us make peace."

"No, monsieur, no, I don't listen to you any more."

And the milkmaid, thinking that the young man intended to try to kiss
her again, ran to her donkey, and, in order to fly more rapidly, leaped
on White Jean's back, and beat him with redoubled force. But it was the
animal's custom to return placidly to the village, browsing on whatever
he found by the roadside, and not to bear his young mistress on his
back. Disturbed in his daily routine by this unexpected burden, White
Jean broke into a fast trot, and entered the woods despite his
mistress's efforts to make him follow the beaten path. Auguste heard
the girl's cries as she tried in vain to hold her steed, dodging with
much difficulty the branches which brushed against her face every
instant. Forgetting the marks that Denise had left on his cheek,
Dalville followed the milkmaid's track, in order to lead the ass back
into the path; but when he heard running behind him, the infernal beast
went faster than ever and rushed heedlessly into the densest part of the
wood. Soon a stout branch barred the milkmaid's path. While her mount
ran beneath it, she was swept to the ground; and as she fell another
branch caught her skirt; so that poor Denise fell to the ground, face
downward, with her skirt over her head and consequently not where it
usually was.

Auguste came up at that moment. You can imagine the sight that met his
eyes; and what the skirt no longer covered was white and plump and
fresh. But we must do the young man justice; instead of amusing himself
by contemplating so many attractive things, he ran to Denise. She
shrieked and wept and gnashed her teeth. He succeeded in rescuing her
head from her petticoats, and quickly covered--what you know.

Denise rose; but she was covered with confusion, she dared not look up
at the young man, who, far from taking advantage of her embarrassment,
inquired solicitously whether she was hurt.

"Oh, no! it ain't anything," said Denise, still blushing. "I should have
forgotten all about it before this if that cursed branch--Pardi! I must
be mighty unlucky."

"Why so? because you fell? Why, my dear child, that might happen to
anybody."

"Yes, but it's possible to fall without showing--without--Never mind,
you're the first one that ever saw it, all the same."

"Ah! I would like to be the last one, too.--Come, why this offended
expression? I promise you that I didn't see anything; I thought of
nothing but helping you. I was so afraid that you had hurt yourself! It
would have been my fault; for, if it hadn't been for my nonsense, you
would have gone your way in peace, and this wouldn't have happened."

As Denise listened to Auguste, her anger passed away, and she even
smiled as she said:

"I ain't cross with you any more. You're more decent than I thought; if
I'd fallen like that before the village fellows, they'd have laughed to
begin with, and then they'd have made a lot of silly talk, and there
wouldn't have been any end to it. Instead of that, you picked me right
up, and you looked so scared!--I'm sorry now that I scratched you. Come,
kiss me, to prove that you forgive me."

Auguste made the most of this permission. Denise was so pretty when she
smiled! and a woman who defends herself so sturdily makes the favors
that she grants seem the more precious.

So peace was made between the milkmaid and the young man. But White Jean
was no longer there; overjoyed to be rid of his burden, he had kept on
through the woods.

"Oh! I ain't worried," said Denise; "I'm sure he's gone home. Let's take
this path and we shall soon be in the village."

They walked on; the milkmaid beside Auguste, who once more considered
her a charming creature, since she had smiled upon him and had allowed
him to kiss her. In truth, Denise's face was no longer the same; an
angry expression is not becoming to a pretty face, and features that are
made to inspire love should never express wrath. But they soon emerged
from the woods and descended a hill, at the foot of which lay
Montfermeil.

"There's my village," said Denise; "and look, do you see my ass trotting
along down there? Oh! I knew he'd go right home.--Have you got business
in the neighborhood?"

"No, not exactly. I am going to Monsieur Destival's country place. Do
you know it?"

"To be sure; I carry milk to them, when Madame Destival stays there in
summer. She always tells me to be careful about her little cheeses. You
see, I make nice ones. I carried them a bigger one this morning, because
Mamzelle Julie, madame's maid, told me they expected company from
Paris."

"That being so, I probably shall have the pleasure of tasting your
cheeses."

"But if you're going to Monsieur Destival's, you mustn't go to the
village. I'll show you what road you must take."

"It will be much kinder of you to go with me and show me the way; as you
are not anxious about your ass, there is nothing to hurry you."

"Oh, no! monsieur! I see that you're all right, but you're too fond of
kissing the girls. Besides, my aunt is waiting for me. It's after noon,
and our dinner-time.--Look, monsieur, take that road that goes up the
hill yonder, then the first turn to the left, then the grass-grown road,
and you'll find yourself at the place where you're going."

"I shall never remember all that. You will be responsible for my losing
my way."

"You shouldn't have left your carriage."

"It was your lovely eyes that turned my head."

"Ah! you're going to begin again. Go along, quick, or they'll eat the
cream cheese without you."

"I should be very sorry for that, as it was you who made it."

"The road up the hill--then turn to the left--then the grass-grown road.
Adieu, monsieur."

"One more kiss, Denise."

"No, no; that sort of thing shouldn't be repeated too often; you'd soon
get tired of it."

And Denise hurried down the hill toward the village. Auguste followed
her with his eyes for a long while, saying to himself:

"She's very pretty, and she's bright too! What a pity that she doesn't
live in Paris!--What am I saying? If she were in Paris, she'd look like
all the rest; it's because she's a milkmaid that her face and her wit
have impressed me.--Well, I will follow the directions she gave me, and
arrive as soon as possible. I am sure that they are impatient for me to
come; poor Bertrand won't know what to say, and Madame Destival will
pout at me--how she will pout!--And great heaven! these scratches! how
in the devil am I to explain them? Faith, I scratched myself picking
nuts. It's a pity that nuts don't have thorns. But no matter, they may
think what they choose."

So Auguste decided to resume his journey; but he cast another glance at
Denise's village, and murmured as he walked away:

"I shall come again and make Montfermeil's acquaintance."




III

THE CHILD AND THE BOWL


Auguste followed the road that Denise had pointed out to him, his
thoughts still fixed on the little milkmaid. The most fickle of men
remembers the last woman who has succeeded in attracting him, until some
new and pleasing object, causing him to feel other desires, effaces from
his mind the charms of which he has lately dreamed.

Suddenly the sound of tears and lamentations roused the young man from
his reverie. He looked about and spied, some ten yards away, by a large
tree, a little boy of six years at most, dressed like a peasant's child,
in a little jacket, trousers torn in several places, no stockings, and
heavy wooden shoes; his head was bare, protected only by a forest of
fair hair.

Auguste walked toward the little fellow, who wept lustily, and gazed
with an air of stupefaction at the fragments of an earthen vessel at his
feet, the former contents of which were spilled on the road. The child
did not turn to look at the person who spoke to him, all his thoughts
being concentrated on the broken vessel; he could do nothing but weep,
raising to his head and eyes from time to time a pair of very grimy
little hands, which, being wet by his tears, smeared his chubby face
with mud.

"Why, what makes you cry so, my boy?" asked Auguste, stooping in order
to be nearer the child.

The little fellow raised for an instant a pair of light-blue eyes, about
which his little hands had drawn circles of black; then turned them
again upon the pieces of broken crockery, muttering:

"I've broke the bowl--hi! hi! and papa's soup was in it--hi! hi! I'll
get a licking, like I did before--hi! hi!"

"The deuce! that would be a misfortune, and no mistake! But stop crying,
my boy, perhaps we can fix it all right. You say that you were carrying
soup to your father?"

"Yes, and I broke the bowl."

"So I see. But why do they make you carry such a big bowl? You're too
small as yet. How old are you, my boy?"

"Six and a half--and I broke the bowl, and papa's soup----"

"Yes, yes, it's on the ground; you mustn't think any more about it."

"It was cabbage soup--hi! hi!"

"Oh! I can smell it. But don't cry any more. I promise you that you
shan't be whipped."

"Yes, I shall; I broke the bowl, and grandma told me to be very
careful."

"Come, listen to me: what's your name?"

"Coco--and I've broke the bowl."

"Well, my little Coco, I'll give you money to buy another bowl, and to
have three times as much cabbage soup made. I hope you won't cry any
more now."

As he spoke, Auguste took a five-franc piece from his pocket and put it
in the child's hand; but Coco stared at the coin with his big blue eyes
open wider than ever, and continued none the less to sob bitterly,
saying:

"Papa'll lick me, and so will grandma too."

"What! when you give them that money?"

"Papa's waiting for the soup for his dinner; and when he sees me without
the bowl--"

"Well," thought Auguste, "I see that I must take it on myself to arrange
this matter. It will make me still later; but this little fellow is so
pretty! and they are quite capable of beating him, despite the
five-franc piece. I wasted one hour making love to a milkmaid, I can
afford to sacrifice a second to save this child a thrashing.--Come,
Coco; off we go, my boy! Take me to your father; I'll tell him that it
was I who knocked the bowl out of your hands as I passed, and I'll
promise that you won't be beaten."

Coco looked at Auguste, then turned his eyes on the remains of the
vessel, from which he was very reluctant to part. But Dalville took his
hand, and the child concluded at last to start. On the way Auguste tried
to make him talk, to divert him from his terror.

"What does your father do, my boy?"

"He works in the fields."

"And his name?"

"Papa Calleux."

"Papa Calleux evidently is not very pleasant, as you're so afraid of
him. And your mother?"

"She's dead."

"Then it's your grandmother who makes the cabbage soup?"

"Yes, and she told me to be very careful and not break the bowl, like I
did the other time."

"Aha! so you've broken one before, have you?"

"Yes, and there wasn't anything in it; but they licked me."

"You don't seem to be lucky with bowls. But the idea of whipping such a
little fellow! These peasants must be very hardhearted. Poor boy! he is
still sobbing; and he isn't seven years old! So there's no age at which
we haven't our troubles."

The boy led Auguste across several fields, through the middle of which
ran narrow paths. It took Auguste still farther from Monsieur
Destival's; but he did not choose to leave the child until he saw that
he was happy. At last they reached a field of potatoes, and Coco stopped
and grasped his companion's arm with a trembling hand.

"There's papa," he said.

Some forty yards away Auguste saw a peasant plying the spade. He dropped
the child's hand and walked toward the peasant, who kept at his work,
bent double over the ground.

"Père Calleux, I have come to make amends for a slight accident," said
Auguste, raising his voice.

The peasant raised his head and displayed a face covered with blotches,
a huge nose, great eyes level with the face, a half-open mouth, and
teeth that recalled those of Little Red Riding Hood's enemy. That
extraordinary countenance expressed profound amazement at hearing a
fashionably-dressed gentleman call him by name.

"I imagine that Père Calleux is as fond of wine as of cabbage soup,"
said Auguste to himself as he scrutinized the peasant.

"What can I do for you, monsieur?" asked the latter.

"I met your son Coco on the road----"

"Ah! where is he, I'd like to know? He was going to bring me my
dinner.--Coco! what are you doing there?"

"Wait until I tell you the whole story; as I was looking at a fine view,
I ran into the child, and I knocked the bowl he was carrying out of his
hands; it broke, and----"

"You'll pay for it, that's all; for you're to blame for my having no
dinner."

"Oh! that's but fair; that's why I came to speak to you. How much do I
owe you? Name the price."

"Well, monsieur, it was a good soup-bowl; it was worth all of thirty
sous; and there was twelve sous' worth of soup in it; for pork's dear
round here----"

"See, here's five francs; are you satisfied?"

"Oh, yes! monsieur; that's fair enough; I haven't got anything to say."

"Then I hope that you won't scold your son; and, if you take my advice
you won't make a child of that age carry such heavy loads any more."

"Oh! monsieur, it gets them used to being strong. We poor folks can't
bring children up on lollipops.--Well, Coco, come here."

The child approached timidly, and, when he reached his father's side,
began to whimper again, saying:

"I broke the bowl."

"Yes, yes, I know what happened; monsieur told me all about it. Go back
to the house now, and tell Mère Madeleine to get me some dinner, and to
be sure to have some wine. But no, I'd rather go to dinner at Claude's
cabaret. Go home, Coco, and don't wait supper for me; I've got business
in the town."

Auguste guessed that Père Calleux's business consisted in drinking up
the five-franc piece to the last sou; but, satisfied to see that his
young protégé was in high spirits, he bade the peasant adieu, and
followed the child, who retraced the steps they had just taken; but this
time he leaped and gambolled about his companion. His great grief was
forgotten already! And they say that we are great children: it is true
as concerns our foibles, but not as concerns happiness.

Auguste, happy in the little fellow's joy, took pleasure in watching
him. Laughter sits so well upon a little face of six years! A person
who is fond of children cannot conceive how anyone can look with
indifference on their tears. And yet there are people for whom a dog's
yelping has more charm than the laughter of a child! It speaks well for
their depth of feeling!

As they went along, Coco sang and ran and played about Auguste, playing
little tricks on him, for they were great friends already; at six years
and a half one gives one's friendship as quickly as at twenty one gives
one's heart. Auguste ran and played with the child; he chased him,
caught him, and rolled with him on the grass, heedless of the fact that
it stained his clothes, because the boy's laughter was so frank and true
that it was often shared by his elegant companion.

What! you will say, a dandy, a lady-killer, a butterfly of fashion,
amuse himself playing in the fields with a little peasant boy? Why not,
pray? Happy the man who, as he grows old, retains his taste for the
simple pleasures of his youth! Henri IV walked about his room on all
fours, carrying his children on his back. When surprised in that
position by the ambassador of a foreign power, he asked him, without
rising, if he were a father, and, upon his answer in the affirmative,
rejoined: "In that case, I'll just trot round the room."

When they reached the place where he had first met the child, Auguste
would have bade him adieu and have gone his way; but Coco held his hand
and refused to release it.

"Come home with me," he said, "please come; Mamma Madeleine will give
you some nice butter. Come and you can see Jacqueleine; she's awful
pretty, I tell you."

"Who is Jacqueleine, my boy?"

"She's our goat; she sleeps by me."

"And is your home far away?"

"No, it's right over there."

Auguste submitted to be led away. Coco repeating: "It's right over
there," gave his companion another half-hour's walk. At last they came
in sight of a wretched hovel, the thatched roof of which had fallen in
in several places, standing on a crossroad, and Coco shouted: "Here we
are; do you see our house?" Then he pulled his companion's sleeve, to
make him run with him.

An old woman sat in front of the hovel; she was thin and bent, and her
complexion reminded one of an Egyptian mummy. But a strong, shrill voice
emerged from her fragile body.

"So here you are at last, lazybones!" she said to the child; "what have
you been doing so long? Where's the bowl?"

Coco looked at Auguste, whom he was already accustomed to look upon as
his protector; Auguste told Mère Madeleine the same fable that he had
told Père Calleux, reinforced once more by the five-franc piece, which
was the irresistible argument. At that the old woman tried to soften her
voice, and urged Auguste to come in for a drink of goat's milk and some
fresh butter, which were all that she could offer him. The young dandy
entered the cabin. His heart sickened at the sight of that wretched
habitation. The home of the Calleux family consisted of a single room.
It was a large room, but the daylight lighted only a small part of it.
The bare earth formed the floor; the walls, half whitewashed, had
nothing upon them to conceal their nakedness; the thatched roof
threatened disaster. Two cot beds, in the darkest corner, had no
curtains to shelter them from the wind which entered on all sides. An
old buffet, a chest, a table and a few chairs were the only other
furniture.

"Where on earth do you sleep?" Auguste asked the child. He led him to a
corner of the room, where it was almost impossible to see anything, and
pointed out a small straw bed on the floor, with a dilapidated woolen
coverlet thrown over it. Close beside it was a goat, lying in some straw
that was spread on the ground.

"There's my bed," said Coco. "Oh! I'm all right, you see; Jacqueleine
keeps me warm in winter. Jacqueleine loves me, she does!"

And the child threw his arms round the goat's neck, and patted her,
rolling over and over on the straw with her. But he was obliged to leave
his faithful companion, for his grandmother called him.

"Come, come, good-for-nothing! You can play by-and-by. Come and put the
bread on the table and give me a cup. The little scamp ain't good for
nothing."

"You treat your grandson very harshly," said Auguste, taking his place
at the table and tasting the rye bread and the milk.

"If I'd let him have his way, monsieur, he'd play all day long."

"But you must love the child dearly, as he's the only one your daughter
left you."

"Oh! yes, I love him enough! But when a body's poor, it's just as well
not to have none at all."

Auguste looked once more at the old peasant woman, and her extreme
ugliness no longer surprised him so much. He took Coco on his knee, gave
him milk to drink, and bread and butter to eat, and enjoyed looking at
his pretty face and lovely fair hair. The old woman seemed astounded by
the endearments which the fine gentleman lavished on the child, and
muttered between her teeth:

"Oh! you'll spoil him! 'taint no use in doing that!"

"Is he learning to read and write?"

"Oh, of course! where's the money coming from, I'd like to know?
Besides, we don't want to make a scholar of him. Is that wanted for
driving the plough?"

"But you might at least give him a better place to sleep than he has."

"There ain't no sheets but for one bed, and it's no more'n fair for me
to have 'em, old as I am. His father sleeps on a sack of straw same as
he does. He don't sleep no worse for it either, I tell you."

"Here, Mère Madeleine, take this, and buy a bed for the child, and don't
be so harsh with him."

As he spoke, Auguste rose, and put six more five-franc pieces in the old
woman's hand. She, having never before seen so much money at one time,
made curtsy after curtsy, overwhelming the stranger with thanks, and
saying to the child:

"Come, Coco, thank monsieur for giving me all this money for you. Thank
him, I say, quick!"

The child looked up at his grandmother in evident embarrassment.

"Let him alone," said Auguste, as he kissed him; "he doesn't know the
value of money yet. The kiss he gives me is all the more sincere on that
account. Adieu, my little Coco.--By the way, which is the road to Livry,
please?"

"Follow this path, monsieur, and it'll take you to the main road. You'll
be there in half an hour. Do you want Coco to show you the way?"

"It isn't necessary."

Auguste left the hovel; the child bade him good-bye and called after
him:

"Come and play with me again, won't you?"

"Yes," said Auguste, "I promise."




IV

SOME PORTRAITS AFTER NATURE


Since eleven o'clock Dalville had been expected at Monsieur Destival's.
Madame, a brunette of thirty, with a bright eye and a most expressive
glance, who was an adept in the art of making the most of a shapely
figure and seductive contours by an effective costume,--madame had
finished her toilet. In the country it was, of course, very simple; but
there are some négligé costumes which require much preparation. However,
as madame was pretty and still young, she had spent only a half hour in
donning a filmy white dress, confined at the waist by an orange sash; in
arranging her curls becomingly and adorning them with a bow of the same
color as her sash. Nor had she asked Julie more than six times if the
yellow was becoming to her.

Julie replied that madame was fascinating, that yellow was always
becoming to brunettes, and, in fact, that madame need not be afraid to
wear any color. Madame smiled slightly at Julie, who was only
twenty-four, but was extremely ugly, which is almost always considered a
valuable quality in a lady's maid.

Monsieur Destival was ten years older than his wife; he was tall and
thin; his face was not handsome, but it had character; unfortunately its
expression was not of the sort that denotes an amiable person, whose wit
causes one to forget his ugliness; it denoted self-sufficiency, conceit,
and a constant tendency to be cunning. His rustic cap, set well forward
on his head, seemed to put a seal upon all the rest.

Monsieur Destival was formerly a government employé; with his wife's
dowry he had bought the office of official auctioneer, which he had
afterward sold at a profit. Although he never talked of politics for
fear of compromising himself, and did not himself know to what party he
belonged, he had had the shrewdness to set up an office as a business
agent, had obtained a numerous clientage and had succeeded in tripling
his capital. To be sure, he gave receptions, balls and small punches,
and madame, whose eyes were full of fire and whose manners were
charming, did the honors of her salon with infinite grace.

The country house, where they passed much of the time in summer, was
large enough to enable them to entertain extensively, and to provide
rooms for seven or eight friends. As monsieur never allowed more than
one day to pass without going to Paris to look after his business, and
as he sometimes passed the night there, madame--who was very timid,
although she had the look of a strong-minded woman--liked to keep one of
monsieur's male friends in the house.

A young man with twenty thousand francs a year could not fail to be
hospitably received at Monsieur Destival's; and so, although it was only
three months since Auguste had made his acquaintance, he was already on
the footing of an intimate friend. Monsieur constantly urged him to
call, whether at Paris or in the country, and madame was very fond of
singing and playing with him.

But the clock struck twelve, and Monsieur Dalville did not appear.
Madame was annoyed. Julie was posted on the lookout at a window on the
second floor, and monsieur wandered from one room to another,
exclaiming:

"The devil! my friend Dalville is very late, and he promised to come
early, to be here for breakfast."

"Does Monsieur Auguste ever remember his promises?" asked madame
snappishly.

"Oh! there you go again, always finding fault with him, attacking him,
making fun of him."

"I, monsieur? What concern of mine are Monsieur Dalville's tastes or his
failings? When did you ever see me attack him?"

"I know that it's all in joke; but you are a little bit caustic, my dear
Emilie, you like to hurl epigrams. It is true, I admit, that I myself
should be very biting, if I didn't hold myself back; in fact, I often am
unconsciously. But after all, Dalville's a charming
fellow--well-born--rich--talented."

"Talented? Oh! very slightly."

"I thought that he was strong on the violin?"

"No, monsieur, he often plays false--Well, Julie, do you see anyone
coming?"

"Mon Dieu! no, madame, it's no use to look. And all those cheeses that I
bought of Denise! How annoying!"

"For heaven's sake, mademoiselle, don't bother us with your cheeses. Go
up to the cupola--you can see farther."

"Very well, madame."

Julie went upstairs and monsieur resumed the conversation.

"You won't deny, I trust, that Dalville has a pleasant voice."

"Pleasant! bah! a voice like everybody's else."

"Why, I should say that you and he sing duets together perfectly,
especially the one from Feydeau's _Muletier_; you know, the one with
'What joy! what joy!' and that ends with 'coucou! coucou!'"

"Oh! you tire me, monsieur, with your 'coucous!'"

"He plays quadrilles on the piano."

"Who doesn't play now?"

"Faith, I don't; to be sure, I have always had so much business on hand
that I have had to neglect my taste for music. At all events, Dalville
is bright, pleasant, always in good spirits."

"There are days when he can't say three words in succession!"

"Let me tell you that I myself, when I'm very much occupied with some
important matter, am not as agreeable as usual--that happens to
everybody. To return to Dalville--he is rich--and young.--By George! I
have an idea! such a delicious idea!"

"What is it then, monsieur?"

"I must find a wife for him."

"A wife for Monsieur Auguste? Why on earth should you interfere? Is it
any of your business?"

"Isn't it my business to look after other people's business? This may
turn out a profitable affair."

"Oh! don't go to making matches, monsieur, I beg! As if you knew
anything about such things!"

"I flatter myself that I do, madame."

"A business agent make marriages--nonsense! that would be absurd!--Have
you thought about your gun, monsieur?"

"Yes, madame, I told Baptiste to clean it; and Dalville promised to
bring that old soldier of his, Bertrand; he will teach me how to use it;
for a wolf has been seen in the neighborhood, you know, madame; and that
is very unpleasant because it keeps one uneasy all the time."

"I don't suppose that that makes it impossible for you to beat up the
wood?"

"Oh, no! on the contrary, madame, it was I who suggested that measure of
safety. I propose to see the wolf, madame."

"You will do well, monsieur."

The conversation was interrupted by a noise in the next room.

"Ah! here's our dear Dalville at last, no doubt," said Monsieur
Destival.

Madame said nothing, but she prepared a little pouting expression which
would surely imply what she thought. Meanwhile the person whom they had
heard did not enter the room, but continued to rub his feet on the
doormat. Monsieur Destival threw the door of the salon open, and found,
instead of Auguste, a little man of some fifty-five years, with a light
wig, broad-brimmed straw hat, coat cut almost square, short breeches,
and fancy stockings, who was rubbing and rerubbing his feet on the mat
in the reception room.

"Ah! it's our neighbor, Monsieur Monin!" said Monsieur Destival, at
sight of the little man.

At the name of Monin, Madame Destival made an impatient gesture,
muttering:

"What a bore! why need he have come!"

"Hush! be still, madame! He still has a drug store to sell, and he wants
to buy a house. I propose that he shall dine with us."

With that, Monsieur Destival turned back toward the door, where Monsieur
Monin was still rubbing his feet on the mat.

"Well, aren't you coming in, my dear Monsieur Monin? What in the deuce
are you doing there all this time? It's a fine day; you don't need to
wipe your feet."

"Oh! but I'll tell you: as I came across the courtyard I looked up at
the sky to see if we were going to have a shower, and I stepped into a
dung-heap that I didn't see."

"That's Baptiste's fault; it should have been taken away."

"There, that will do."

Monsieur Monin left the mat at last, and looking up at Monsieur Destival
with a pair of big eyes level with his face, wherein one would have
looked in vain for an idea, smiled a smile which cut his face in halves,
although it was still dominated by a nose of enormous dimensions, always
stuffed with snuff, like an unlighted pipe.

"How's your health, neighbor?"

"Very good, my dear sir. Pray come in; my wife is here and will be
delighted to see you."

Monsieur Monin entered the salon and removed his hat, making a low bow
to Madame Destival, who acknowledged the salute by a smile which might
have passed for a grimace; but Monsieur Monin took it most favorably for
himself, and began his inevitable question:

"How's your health, madame?"

"Passable, monsieur; not very good at this moment; my nerves are
unstrung, I have palpitations."

"It's the weather, madame; the heat is intense to-day: twenty-six
degrees and three-tenths."

"Twenty-seven, neighbor," said Monsieur Destival, glancing at his
thermometer.

"That's surprising! it isn't so high at my house, and yet mine's in the
same position. My wife says that I've made it too low lately."

"Why did not Madame Monin come with you, neighbor?"

"She's making pickles, and it will take her all day. My! but she takes a
lot of pains with 'em! She won't go out to-day."

"I am deeply indebted to the pickles," whispered Madame Destival, while
Monsieur Monin continued, doing his utmost to force another pinch into
his nose:

"My wife said to me: 'I don't need you, Monin, take a walk.' So I came
to see you."

"That was very agreeable of you, neighbor. Will you pass the whole day
with us?"

"Why, yes, if it don't put you out, I should like to, because I'll tell
you--when my wife's making pickles, she don't like to bother with
cooking."

"Very good, then you will stay. You will meet Monsieur Dalville, a
delightful young man, full of fun. His servant, who is an old soldier,
is to give me a lesson in drilling, for I am appointed general----"

"What?"

"Why, yes, in the _battue_ we're going to have."

"Oh, yes! I was saying----"

"Won't you take part in it, Monsieur Monin?"

"Why, I'll tell you: when I had my rifle, it was all right--"

"Madame, madame, a lovely calèche is just driving into the courtyard,"
said Julie, rushing into the salon.

"A calèche?"

"With Monsieur and Madame de la Thomassinière."

"What! have they come? How kind of them!" cried Monsieur Destival,
running to the window. Madame Destival did not share her husband's
delight; however, she rose to satisfy herself concerning the arrival of
her new guests, and went out to receive them; for persons who have a
calèche and a livery deserve the very greatest consideration. Thus,
Monsieur Destival flew at his wife's heels, leaving Monsieur Monin, who
was just about to tell him how many times he had hunted, and who,
finding himself abandoned in the salon, turned to his ordinary
resource, and succeeded, by dint of perseverance, in forcing two dainty
pinches of snuff into his nostrils.

Monsieur de la Thomassinière, for whom they ran downstairs so eagerly,
was a man of about forty years of age. When he arrived in Paris, at
eighteen, his name was Thomas simply, and he did not blush then for his
mother, who kept a little wine-shop in her village. But residence in the
capital had wrought an entire change in Monsieur Thomas. First a shop
clerk, then a government clerk, then a money-lender, then a man of large
affairs, Monsieur Thomas had seen Fortune smile constantly upon him. He
speculated with his consols and was lucky; after that he forgot his
village and adopted the tone and manners of a man in the first society.
That a person should start from very low and rise very high--there is no
objection to that; on the contrary, the man who wins success by his
work, who makes his own fortune, leads us to believe that his merit is
greater than his who attains the highest honor without exertion of his
own. But the thing for which a parvenu is never forgiven is an
affectation of pride and insolence, and the belief that by assuming the
airs of a grand seigneur, he can lead people to forget the name and the
clothes that he used to wear. Monsieur Thomas was such a one. He began
by changing his too vulgar name for that of La Thomassinière. Then,
instead of urging his mother to leave her village and enjoy his fortune,
he contented himself with sending her a sum of money which would enable
her to take down the sign of the _Learned Ass_, and to stop selling
wine. But he forbade her to come to Paris, where, he said, the air was
very unhealthy for elderly women. Then Monsieur de la Thomassinière set
up an establishment,--carriage, servants, livery--bought a magnificent
country estate and a very pretty wife of eighteen, who was turned over
to him with a dowry of one hundred thousand francs, and who did not so
much as ask whether her husband was handsome or ugly, because, having
been perfectly educated, she knew that a husband who owns a carriage is
always comely enough, and, besides that, a woman is supposed to look at
nobody but her husband.

Monsieur de la Thomassinière, dressed like a dandy and aping the manners
of good society, but always affording a glimpse of the days of the
_Learned Ass_, was forever talking about "my estate, my property, my
servants, my horses." His wife was his only possession as to whom he did
not use the possessive pronoun. As for madame, a lively, volatile, giddy
creature, with no thought for anything save dress and amusements, she
never spoke to monsieur except to ask him for money, or to talk about
some festivity that she proposed to give.

"Ah! here are our dear friends!" said Monsieur Destival, hastening
forward to offer his hand to Madame de la Thomassinière to help her
alight, while monsieur gazed admiringly at his horses and gorgeous
livery.

"Good-morning, Destival.--Lapierre, be careful of the horses.--Madame,
allow me to offer my respects.--Cover my calèche, you fellows, it may
rain in.--We have come without ceremony. It doesn't put you out to have
me bring a few of my people, does it?"

"Of course not! I have enough to board and lodge them," replied Monsieur
Destival, biting his lips, because his modest cabriolet was completely
eclipsed by the superb calèche, and Baptiste and Julie, who composed his
whole staff of domestics, would be hidden by a single one of the tall
rascals whom Monsieur de la Thomassinière carried in his train. But
these reflections did not prevent the exchange of the usual courtesies,
they simply made him ambitious to enlarge his household; and so, as he
led the young woman into the house, our business agent said to himself:

"I must find a wife for Dalville, sell Monin's drug shop, and buy a
house for him; then I will have a little groom--a negro--and dress him
in red, so that he can be seen a long way off."

The two ladies embraced.

"Good-morning, my dear girl."

"Good-morning, dear."

"How sweet of you to come to see us!"

"We are going to stay until to-morrow."

"How lovely your hats always are!"

"Do you think so?"

"Fascinating. I like that style of dress ever so much."

"It's the latest--not quite low enough in the neck."

"Why, yes. I must have some of that material; it's very stylish."

"Oh! it's very simple; the dress cost only two hundred francs. But for
the country, and for calls on one's friends--I'll give you my
dressmaker's address."

Madame Destival allowed Madame de la Thomassinière to go upstairs first,
continuing to lavish compliments upon her, and counterfeiting the most
extravagant delight in order to conceal her secret annoyance; for the
new arrival was genuinely pretty, her manners were charmingly vivacious,
and Monsieur Dalville, whom Madame Destival was still expecting to see,
had never met her. Monsieur Dalville, who was so quick to take fire, was
very likely to make love to Madame de la Thomassinière, who was no less
likely to listen to him. All this caused Madame Destival much secret
anger; but she affected the greater amiability on that account; for in
society one must know how to make believe, to speak otherwise than one
thinks; that is the great secret of social success.

Madame de la Thomassinière entered the salon, where Monsieur Monin had
remained; he was on the point of attempting the introduction of another
pinch of snuff, but checked himself at sight of the young woman, stepped
back, removed his hat, and although he had never seen her before, began
his inevitable question:

"How's your health?"

But the petite-maîtresse did not give the ex-druggist an opportunity to
speak; she stifled with her handkerchief the outburst of laughter
inspired by Monsieur Monin's unique countenance, and turned to Madame
Destival, saying:

"Who is this?"

"A neighbor of ours, very rich, but as stupid as he is ridiculous."

"Ah! so much the better; we will have some sport with him. We may as
well laugh a bit. Do you expect anybody else?"

"Why, yes, we expect a young man, a great friend of Monsieur
Destival--Monsieur Auguste Dalville. Do you know him?"

"No, but I've heard a great deal about him; he is noted in society for
his _bonnes fortunes_ and his conquests. I shall be very glad to make
his acquaintance. As a general rule, these naughty fellows are very
agreeable--don't you think so, my dear?"

"Why, sometimes--not always. However, you shall judge for yourself."

"They say he's very good-looking?"

"Oh! so-so; a passable face, that's all; rather fine eyes, but his mouth
is a little too large and his lips are very thick. I don't like that
type of face at all."

"For my part, I don't like thin lips. Is he light or dark?"

"I can hardly remember; he is dark, I think."

"I had an idea that I had heard that Monsieur Dalville came to your
house very often?"

"Oh, no! he goes to my husband's office, on business."

"Is he musical?"

"A little."

"I have brought a nocturne that I am crazy over; he must sing it with
me."

"Monsieur Dalville will certainly be delighted to sing with you.--Excuse
me, my dear, but I have some orders to give. In the country we don't
stand on ceremony."

"I should hope not! I will go out and see your garden."

"Do; I am going to order luncheon, and I will come and call you."

The petite-maîtresse tripped lightly down the stairs leading to the
garden, and Madame Destival went to her bedroom, where she threw herself
on a lounge, saying to Julie as she came in:

"Oh! Julie! I am so annoyed! I cannot stand any more, I am choking!"

"I should think as much, madame; I don't see how you can help it! To
wait in vain for those whom you expect, and have to receive a lot of
people that you don't expect!"

"Monsieur Destival is perfectly brutal, with his mania for inviting
everybody he sees. If he had a château, he would not do any more!"

"That old Monin, who can't do anything but eat and drink!"

"And yet, if he were the only one, I shouldn't mind him, I promise
you."

"Is his wife coming?"

"No, thank God! she is making pickles."

"That's very lucky! Madame Monin has a wicked tongue in her head; and
inquisitive--why, she always comes into the kitchen to see what's going
on."

"In spite of that, I should have preferred her to those Thomassinières,
who put on so much style and assume the most unendurable airs and
pretensions!"

"And then, who ever heard of bringing three servants to be fed! Those
big rascals will eat everything in the house."

"What time is it, Julie?"

"After twelve, madame."

"He won't come. I am very glad of it now. Order luncheon. We will not
dine until half past six."

"That's right; in that way they won't get any supper, at all events."

Julie went downstairs. Madame stood in front of her mirror, looked at
herself a few moments, arranged a few locks of hair, then left the room,
saying to herself:

"I look well enough for these people."

She went to the garden and joined Madame de la Thomassinière, whose
husband, immediately on arriving, had asked Monsieur Destival for a pen
and some ink, so that he might at once write an urgent letter on a
matter of great importance. Monsieur Destival ensconced the speculator
in his study.

"Make yourself perfectly at home," he said; "I will leave you."

And Monsieur de la Thomassinière, left to himself at the desk, scratched
his head, looked at the pens, and wrote nothing at all, for the reason
that he had nothing to write and no letter to send. But a man involved
in great speculations should always seem preoccupied, and pretend that
he needs a writing desk; that impresses fools and credulous folk, and
sometimes people of good sense even; the professional schemers are the
only ones who do not allow themselves to be gulled by such petty wiles,
because they often use them themselves.

On leaving La Thomassinière, Monsieur Destival returned to Monsieur
Monin, who did not take offence because no attention was paid to him,
his wife having accustomed him to that.

"Well, neighbor, have you sold that drug shop?" queried the business
agent, slapping Monsieur Monin on the shoulder.

"Not yet, neighbor. It vexes me, because, I'll tell you, those who have
taken my place temporarily aren't used to it as I am, and----"

"I'll sell it for you. I hope to see you in Paris next winter, Monsieur
Monin, and to know you better."

"Certainly, monsieur."

"You must come to our house to play cards."

"Do you play loo?"

"No, but écarté, and boston. I have a very pretty house to sell you."

"Do you mean it?"

"Yes, it's a great opportunity; the price is nothing at all."

"Is it insured?"

"I don't know; we will talk about all those things later; go out and
take a turn in the garden. I am going to find out if they have any idea
of giving us some luncheon."

Monin left the room; as Monsieur Destival turned to do likewise he
confronted his wife, who exclaimed:

"What, monsieur! you have asked Monsieur Monin to call on us in Paris?"

"To be sure, madame."

"It's well enough in the country, because he's a neighbor. But in town!
A man who can't say anything or do anything, and who knows no game but
loo!"

"He is rich, madame."

"What if he is? that doesn't prevent his being as stupid as an owl."

"He won't be the first stupid person who has been to my house, madame.
When one receives a great deal of company, it can't be otherwise. And
besides, with your men of intellect, your authors and your poets,
there's not a sou to be made."

"If you're so fond of money, monsieur, why do you invite so many people
to your country house? It is ruinously extravagant, monsieur."

"Never fear, madame; I invite none but those who may be useful to me.
Oh! I am very shrewd, I look a long way ahead. La Thomassinière is a
valuable acquaintance, and I am very desirous to become intimate with
him. I know that he often makes himself very ridiculous, that he tries
to play the great man, and that the rôle isn't suited to him; that he
occasionally makes blunders in speaking that smell horribly of his
origin; that he is tiresome beyond words with his carriage, his estates,
his property and his servants, whom he is forever throwing in one's
face; but for all that, he's a man for whom I have a peculiar esteem and
regard, because, as I told you just now, madame, I look a long way
ahead.--But how about luncheon?"

"Speak to Baptiste, monsieur; I have given my orders to Julie."

Madame Destival went into the garden, where the petite-maîtresse was
strolling about, gathering a bouquet.

"I am picking your flowers, you see," she said.

"You are doing just right, my dear love; pray take all that you please."

"Your garden is lovely."

"Oh! it isn't very extensive; but there is plenty of shade, and that's
what I like."

"So do I. I have had a forest planted on our estate at Fleury. It will
be delicious, I assure you."

"But before it grows----"

"Oh! we have set out nothing but large trees. I will send you an
invitation for next month. I am waiting for the painting and decorating
I am having done to be finished, before going there for a month. But I
shall take plenty of guests; for I don't like the country except with a
lot of people about."

"For my part, I am rather fond of solitude."

"Mon Dieu! I should die if I were alone a single day!"

"So you don't like reading?"

"Yes, I do, for a moment or two, in bed; but not long at a time; it
tires me."

"And music?"

"I play and sing only when someone is listening to me."

"Drawing?"

"Oh! that was all right at boarding-school! I mean to have a little
theatre on my estate, and we will have theatricals there; that's great
fun. I used to act often at boarding-school. I was particularly fond of
the parts in which I changed dresses."

"What a child you are!"

"What would you have? one must pass the time somehow. If I had nothing
but my husband to amuse me, great heaven! where should we be? A man who
thinks of nothing but figures and exchange and heaven knows what. These
business men are very disagreeable."

The ladies, having turned into another path, found themselves in the
neighborhood of Monsieur Monin, who had stopped and seemed to be in a
sort of trance before a plum tree laden with very large fruit. At sight
of the ladies he took off his hat and muttered: "How's your--" But he
did not finish the sentence, because he remembered that he had already
paid his respects to them in the salon; so he turned and pointed to the
tree, saying: "That tree bears very fine fruit."

"Why, my dear, you don't mean that you have fruit trees in your garden?"
cried the petite-maîtresse; "why, that's the worst possible form; you
must take them all away and set out in their place ebony-trees, acacias,
and sycamores."

"Oh! our garden makes no pretensions," rejoined Madame Destival, biting
her lips with anger; "it isn't a park such as you have on your place,
and Monsieur Destival is very fond of fruit."

"He is quite right," said Monin, who had walked nearer to the plum tree
when Madame de la Thomassinière spoke of taking it up. "Fruit is the
body's friend when it's good and ripe. But I was just going to say----"

"And monsieur's plums!" continued the younger woman. "Dear, dear! they
are very vulgar; they should be left for the servants."

"Oh! when Monsieur Destival has made a fortune, then we will have a
separate orchard; but meanwhile we are simple enough to be content with
a small country place. What would you have? We were not born in a
palace--in the lap of grandeur."

Madame Destival uttered these last words with malicious emphasis; but
Madame de la Thomassinière seemed to pay no heed to them; as
hare-brained as she was inconsequent, she said offensive things
unintentionally; and if she talked constantly of her dresses, her
diamonds and her estate, it was less from vanity than as a matter of
habit, whereas the wish to make a show of his wealth was the motive
behind every act of her husband.

"Luncheon is waiting, mesdames," said Monsieur Destival, hastening
forward gallantly to offer his arm to the petite-maîtresse; "come; it is
late, and you must be hungry. Faith, if Dalville comes, he will have to
eat alone, that's all there is about it."

The master of the house walked away with the young woman. Monsieur Monin
had taken off his hat and was about to offer Madame Destival his arm;
but she, divining his purpose, vanished by another path, and the little
man, having lost sight of her, decided to betake himself alone to the
dining-room; but first he cast a last tender glance at the plum tree.

They were seated at the table, and Monsieur de la Thomassinière was
still in the study.

"Tell him that we are going to have luncheon," said Monsieur Destival,
"and that we're only waiting for him."

Baptiste went up to the study and called through the door:

"Luncheon is served, monsieur."

"Very well, very well, I will come down," replied La Thomassinière,
continuing to roll little balls of paper; "I have only one more note to
write."

The valet withdrew and reported the answer that was made to him.

"What a terrible man he is with his notes!" said Madame Destival;
"doesn't he have a moment to himself, even in the country?"

"My husband?" replied the petite-maîtresse; "why, my dear love, he's a
most insufferable creature with his endless writing! He is never ready
at meal-time; and even when we have twenty persons to dinner, which
happens quite often, I have to send for him three or four times."

After making balls of paper for another five minutes, Monsieur de la
Thomassinière concluded at last to go down to the dining-room.

"I beg pardon, here I am! It wasn't my fault," he said as he took his
seat; "you shouldn't have waited for me. You see, I happened to think
about a certain speculation I am interested in.--Give me the wing of a
chicken and a glass of claret; that is all I take in the morning.--Well,
Athalie, have you devastated madame's flower garden?"

Athalie, who ate quite heartily for a petite-maîtresse, answered with a
laugh:

"I have been doing what I chose, monsieur; you know perfectly well that
it doesn't concern you."

"That is true, madame, that is perfectly true. I supply the money, I pay
the bills. Twelve hundred francs to a milliner seems a trifle expensive.
But madame must have the best there is."

"If you lose your temper, monsieur, the next bill will be twice as
large."

"You know well enough, madame, that when it's a question of giving you
money, I never have to be asked twice. When one is rich, that's
perfectly natural; we must help the tradesmen to make money; isn't that
so, Destival?"

"To be sure," replied his host, "I have the same feeling.--Well, what do
you think of my claret? You don't say anything about it."

"It is very fair; but I have some better than this, oh! much better! I
will give you some when you come to my house, and you'll see."

"And this cream--do you like it, madame?"

"Very much," replied the petite-maîtresse. But Monsieur de la
Thomassinière helped himself to three spoonfuls, saying:

"Let's taste the cream." Then he made a slight grimace and added: "Oh!
my estate is the place for fine dairy products! This can't be compared
with it; it's an entirely different thing! And our fowls! ah! they are
delicious. To be sure, they are fed with such care! Now you people think
that you are eating something good when you eat a chicken like this.
Well, let me tell you that if you should see my poultry yard at Fleury,
you would look on this as rubbish."

"It is very fortunate then that we know nothing about it," retorted
Madame Destival, with a meaning glance at her husband. He, to change the
subject of that pleasant conversation, turned to Monin, who had not said
a word since he had been at the table, being engrossed by the second
joint of a chicken, which he seasoned now and then with snuff, glancing
occasionally with the eye of a connoisseur at a magnificent pie that
stood in front of him, to which he seemed to be saying: "How's your
health?"

"Your appetite seems to be in good condition, neighbor?" said Destival.

"Yes, yes, it's the weather that does it. Do you take snuff?"

And Monin offered his box to Destival, then to La Thomassinière, who,
after taking a tiny pinch, took from his pocket a gold snuff-box at
which he gazed for some time with a complacent expression.

"This is Virginia," he said, "the very best snuff there is; it's very
expensive, but I don't care for any other kind. Try it, monsieur."

Monin, who never declined a pinch of snuff, was about to partake of the
Virginia, when they heard the wheels of a carriage entering the
courtyard, and Julie hurried into the dining-room, saying:

"Here's Monsieur Dalville; his cabriolet has just come in."

Madame Destival smiled with satisfaction, and the petite-maîtresse
hastily ordered her plate to be changed, so that the débris of her
repast might not be seen in front of her. Monsieur Destival ran out to
receive his dear friend, and Monsieur de la Thomassinière thought: "This
Dalville must be a millionaire, to have his arrival make such a
sensation."

As for Monin, with his pinch of Virginia in one hand and his fork in the
other, confused by the bustle caused by Dalville's arrival, he put a
dainty piece of ham to his nose and the superfine snuff in his mouth. He
discovered his mistake, however, and put each article in its proper
place.




V

THE DRILL, THE SWING, THE STORM, AND THE MUSIC


Destival, having gone out to greet Dalville, looked about for him in
vain; he saw nobody near the cabriolet save little Tony and Bertrand,
the latter of whom gave him a military salute.

"Well! where is he? which way did he go in?" inquired Destival. Bertrand
passed his tongue over his lips and scratched his ear, seeking a
suitable reply; at last he said in a firm voice:

"Monsieur Dalville will be here as soon as I am."

"But you seem to have got here before him; did he leave you on the way?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"Does he know anyone in the neighborhood?"

"It would seem so, monsieur."

"At all events, he is really coming; that's the main point."

Destival ran back to inform the ladies that his friend Dalville would
soon be there; that he had stopped to see a friend, but that he could
not be long.

"Why, I didn't know that he knew anyone in this vicinity," said Madame
Destival in surprise.

"Mon Dieu! this gentleman keeps us on the anxious seat a long while,"
said the vivacious Athalie, leaving the table; while La Thomassinière,
annoyed that a thought should be given to anybody but himself, paced the
floor a few moments, then stamped violently, and put his hand to his
forehead.

"Bless my soul!" he cried, "I had almost forgotten. What time is it? Not
one yet? Is there a post office[A] anywhere near?"

[A] French _poste_; when used alone the meaning is ambiguous and depends
on the context. Hence the misunderstanding.

"Do you mean a donkey post?" asked Monin.

"No, for letters, of course!"

"Oh, yes! on the second street. By the way, I believe--I won't say for
sure, but I'll tell you----"

"I'll go there at once; I shall be in time."

And Monsieur de la Thomassinière rushed from the room as if he would
overturn everybody, paying no heed to Destival, who shouted after him:

"Stay here; I'll send it for you. Besides, your own servants are here."

The speculator darted out across the fields, and having reached a dense
thicket, lay down on the grass and went to sleep, saying to himself:

"A man like me must never have a moment to himself."

The ladies returned to the salon. Monsieur Destival went down to
Bertrand, and Monin, seeing that everybody had left the table, concluded
to do likewise and followed his host.

As soon as Bertrand had taken some refreshment, Monsieur Destival went
to him and begged him to give him a lesson in drilling and giving
orders. The ex-corporal was very willing to do anything that recalled
glorious memories. He repaired with Monsieur Destival to the terrace in
the garden, where the latter had his rifle brought to him, and a foil
which he used as a sword, and stood as straight as a ramrod as he
carried out Bertrand's orders. Monin, who had followed them, thought
that it was courteous to do as his host did; he took a spade in lieu of
a musket, and, standing behind his neighbor, followed him through "right
shoulder," "left shoulder," "present arms," etc., pausing only to use
his snuff-box.

For more than an hour the gentlemen had been on the terrace with
Bertrand, who would gladly have passed the day in such a pleasant
occupation. Monsieur Destival, ambitious to outshine the rural
constables, began to carry himself like a Prussian grenadier; and Monin,
perspiring profusely in his efforts to do as well as his host, did not
notice that, while taking aim, presenting arms and grounding arms with
his sword, he had pushed back his cap and wig, thereby giving himself a
most swaggering appearance.

The drill was interrupted by roars of laughter from the effervescent
Athalie, who appeared on the scene with Madame Destival.

Monsieur Monin paused in the act of presenting arms. It was high time; a
moment more and the wig would have fallen back and have exhibited the
ex-druggist as the Child-Jesus. As for Monsieur Destival, he turned
toward the ladies, with a martial air, weapon in hand, and said:

"Well, what do you think of my set-up?"

"Superb! But I prefer monsieur here with his spade; he is more amusing."

"What, neighbor, are you taking a lesson in the manual?"

"Yes," replied Monin, wiping his brow and pulling his wig forward; "I
followed you at a distance, and I'll tell you----"

"But what can have become of Monsieur Dalville?" said Madame Destival,
paying no attention to Monin; "he left you on the road, he said that he
would be here as soon as you, and you have been here two hours. At whose
house did you leave him, Bertrand?"

"At whose house, madame? I didn't say that I left him at anyone's
house."

"But you must have seen him go into a house, didn't you? Of course you
didn't leave him on the highroad?"

"Excuse me, madame, but that's just what I did: I left my lieutenant in
the middle of the road, about half a league from here."

"You do not tell the whole story, Bertrand: Monsieur Auguste wasn't
alone on the road, I fancy."

"I didn't see whether anybody was coming, madame."

"Oh! there must have been some peasant girl there, some rustic beauty,
who captivated Monsieur Dalville!"

"What do you mean, my dear? Does he consort with that kind?" inquired
the petite-maîtresse disdainfully.

"He consorts with all kinds, my dear. Bless my soul, a scullery maid, if
she has a little turned-up nose, a----"

"Oh dear! oh dear! this goes far to destroy the good opinion I had
formed of this gentleman."

"I tell you," said Madame Destival in a lower tone, drawing nearer to
her friend, "he's a perfect libertine! If it weren't for my husband, I
should never receive him. He's a man whose acquaintance is likely to
endanger a woman's reputation. But Monsieur Destival is daft over him.
He absolutely insists on entertaining him, and is forever inviting him
here. I don't like quarrels, and I let my husband do what he chooses."

"Well, I am not so obliging; I do only what I like, and I receive only
those people who suit me. Ah! if Monsieur de la Thomassinière should try
to thwart me, I should instantly become subject to hysterics."

The ladies were about to return to the garden and Bertrand to continue
his lesson in drilling, when they heard loud laughter in the courtyard,
and in a moment Dalville made his appearance.

"Ah! good-day, my dear friend," said Monsieur Destival, going to meet
Auguste, rifle in hand; "we had about given you up. Shoulder arms, eh?
Isn't this about right?"

"I see that Bertrand will make something of you."

"Here is my wife, who has been in a temper because you didn't come."

"Mon Dieu! how my husband does irritate me!" said Madame Destival to her
neighbor, assuming a frigid air to welcome Auguste, who said to her:

"What, madame! have you been so kind as to be uneasy because of my
non-appearance?"

"I have not said a word of that sort, monsieur. I cannot conceive why
Monsieur Destival delights in crediting me with statements the thought
of which I do not even entertain. I simply considered that when a person
promised to arrive in time for luncheon, it was ridiculous to put in an
appearance at the end of the day. However, I am not at all surprised,
and--But, bless my soul! what on earth has happened to you, monsieur?
What a plight you are in! A wound in the face--clothes all
disarranged--It would seem that you have had some thrilling adventure."

"In truth, madame," said Auguste, bowing to Athalie, who returned his
salutation with a simpering air, "I did have an encounter----"

"Perhaps he met the wolf," suggested Monin, walking up to Destival; "it
seems that there is one in the woods. The peasant woman who sold my wife
her cucumbers told her that the other day----"

"Can it be that you have been fighting with a wolf, my gallant
Dalville?" cried Destival, presenting his bayonet to the company as if
he proposed to charge a hollow square.

"Oh, no!" said madame, with a sly smile, "it was no wolf that made that
mark on monsieur's face; it looks like something entirely different;
don't you think so, my dear love?"

"That looks to me exactly like the scratch of a finger-nail," said
Athalie the vivacious, looking very closely at Auguste; "isn't it that,
monsieur?"

"You are not mistaken, madame."

"So you have been fighting, have you, monsieur?" said Madame Destival.

"No, madame, I simply met a very pretty little boy, who had broken the
bowl in which he was carrying soup to his father. I gave him a piece of
money to console him; at that, in his joy he embraced me; he patted my
cheeks with his little hands, and he--he accidentally scratched me a
little. That is a faithful account of my adventure, mesdames."

Madame Destival bit her lip and glanced at her companion, who smiled. It
was evident that they both doubted the truth of Dalville's story; but he
cared very little what they might think. Taking advantage of this brief
pause in the conversation, Monin went to Auguste, whom he had met twice
at his neighbor's and said to him in the most amiable manner:

"How's your health?"

"Very good, Monsieur Monin, except for this scratch, which is not
dangerous."

"You are joking, monsieur! I tell you finger-nail scratches are not to
be trifled with.--Do you use snuff?"

"Thanks."

"I know all about it, and I'll tell you why: my wife has a----"

Having no curiosity to hear Monin's story, Dalville followed the ladies,
who had returned to the garden. Athalie's presence aroused in the young
man a desire to be agreeable. He had not expected to find any other lady
than the mistress of the house, who was well enough, but with whom he no
longer took pains to be agreeable. Why? Was it because he was no longer
in love with her, or because he was sure of pleasing her, or--On my
word, you ask me too much.

Madame de la Thomassinière's vivacity and unconventionality harmonized
perfectly with Auguste's lively humor and free-and-easy manners; and as
greater liberty is authorized in the country, after a very short time
he and the petite-maîtresse were laughing and joking together as if they
had known each other for years.

Madame Destival did not share their gayety; she was sulky, said little,
and contented herself with darting eloquent glances at the young man
from time to time; the more intimate her two companions became, the more
her ill-humor seemed to increase. Meanwhile they were strolling about
the garden; they sat down; then Madame de la Thomassinière went to look
at a pretty view, or pluck a flower, or chase a butterfly, and as she
sauntered back showed Auguste a double row of lovely teeth, and seemed
to say:

"Why don't you come with me?"

But Madame Destival did not leave her, and although visibly annoyed, she
too ran after the butterflies.

"What on earth is the matter with you, my dear love?" said Athalie,
good-humoredly; "you don't seem very hilarious."

"I beg pardon, I am satisfied; but a severe headache has just come on."

"Go in the house and lie down for a moment."

"No, my child, oh, no! I prefer to stay with you."

"You shouldn't stand on ceremony in the country. Besides, monsieur will
bear me company. We will catch butterflies together."

"I will catch whatever you please, madame," said Auguste, with a smile
which was instantly succeeded by a wry face, because Madame Destival
pinched his arm as she replied:

"No, the air will do me good. But I thought that you intended to have
some music?"

"Oh! we shall have time enough this evening, as I am to pass the night
here. Is monsieur to remain?"

"If madame will kindly allow me to do so?" said Auguste, glancing at his
hostess, who replied angrily:

"As you please, monsieur."

After walking for some time longer, they stopped beside a swing, and the
sprightly Athalie sprang to a seat on the narrow plank, held in place by
two cords only, saying to Auguste:

"Oh! do give me a push, please. I am wild over swinging; I have nearly
killed myself a dozen times, but it makes no difference, I always come
back to it. Not too high, monsieur, do you understand?"

"As high or as low as you choose, madame."

Auguste stood near the swing and pushed gently, while Madame Destival
seated herself at a little distance, with her handkerchief at her eyes.
The young man was distraught; he looked at Athalie and Madame Destival
in turn; the former's petulant ways attracted him, the other's grief
seemed to cause him pain.

"Oh! what fun! how lovely it is!" cried the petite-maîtresse. "Keep on,
monsieur, harder! Look out, you are jerking me.--Ah! my dear, you can't
imagine how I like this!"

Madame de la Thomassinière gave no sign of being tired of swinging; but
Madame Destival, who was not at all amused, resorted to the device of
fainting, and fell back in her chair with a hollow groan. Thereupon
Auguste left the swing and ran to Emilie, exclaiming:

"What is the matter, madame?"

"Leave me; you are a monster!" replied Madame Destival, her eyes still
closed.

"What have I done, pray?"

"Do you think that I have not noticed your conduct?"

"My conduct has been perfectly natural, I should say----"

"Not content with coming here from--from I don't know where, monsieur
presumes, in my presence, to make love to that flirt, who behaves in the
most indecent way! I should have hoped that you would at least respect
my house, monsieur!"

"Really, madame, I cannot in the least understand your anger. I am
courteous, polite--nothing more."

"Do you think that I have no eyes? It is far too evident. The least that
you can do is to show some little self-restraint!"

"But----"

"Hush!"

"Well!" said Athalie, noticing that the swing moved more slowly, "what
are you doing, monsieur? You are not pushing, you are letting me stop;
and I don't want that. Are you tired already? Fie! a young man too!"

At that moment appeared Monsieur Monin, who, seeing that his host was
determined to practise the manual until dinner, and feeling that he had
not the strength to continue, had dropped his spade and bent his steps
toward the garden, where, as he wiped his forehead, he sought to freshen
up his ideas by resorting to his snuff-box.

"You have come in the nick of time, Monsieur Monin," said Madame
Destival; "madame is sorely in need of somebody to swing her. Do her
that service, she will be overjoyed."

As she said this, Emilie rose, took Auguste's arm and led him to another
part of the garden, leaving Monin agape with amazement at the task
assigned him, and Athalie still in the swing. Having her back to the
others, she had not noticed their departure and was still ignorant of
the fact that she had changed swingers.

"Well! push me, monsieur!" she said, wriggling about in the swing to
make herself go.

Monin fortified himself with a pinch of snuff and walked toward the
swing; but, having miscalculated the space that it covered in swinging
back, the seat came down upon him as he was turning up his sleeves in
order to push harder, and the young woman's plump figure struck him in
the face.

Dazed by the blow, Monin fell on the turf a step or two away; while
Madame de la Thomassinière gave a little shriek because his nose had
almost unseated her.

"How awkward you are!" she cried; "if I hadn't held on tight, I should
have fallen. Come and stop me, and help me to get down.--Well, monsieur,
do you propose to leave me here?"

Monin was not quick to rise, and he was looking for his cap, which the
swing had knocked off, muttering:

"I am at your service in a minute, madame. You see, if I should go home
without my cap, my wife would make a row."

Really vexed, Athalie turned her head and saw Monin trying to climb a
tree to reach his cap, which the swing had sent flying to a high branch.
The young woman laughed heartily, then jumped down from the swing and
walked away, seeking Auguste and Madame Destival in every thicket.

After scouring the garden to no purpose, she returned to the place where
she had left Monin; he was still at the foot of the tree, which he had
tried vainly to climb, gazing despairingly at his cap, lodged on a
branch, which he could not reach, and seeking in his snuff-box some
inspiration as to the means of recovering it.

"Which way did they go, monsieur?" asked Athalie, stopping beside him.
He looked stupidly about and said:

"Who, madame?"

"Monsieur Dalville and Madame Destival."

"I can't tell you--unless they've gone to drill too."

Athalie went toward the house. Destival was still with Bertrand on the
terrace. The young woman entered the salon; it was empty.

"This is very polite," said Athalie; "a perfect gentleman that! It seems
that there is no standing on ceremony here. I would like right well to
know if Monsieur Dalville is with Madame Destival. She had a
sick-headache; I am curious to know how she gets rid of it."

The young woman left the salon and passed through several rooms without
meeting anybody, for Julie and Baptiste were busy in the kitchen, and
Monsieur de la Thomassinière's three servants had gone to the village to
play goose. She went up to the first floor, where Madame Destival's
bedroom was; but the door was closed and locked.

"She is in her room," thought the petite-maîtresse; and she knocked
gently. There was no reply; she knocked louder. At last Madame Destival
asked who was there.

"I, my dear," Athalie replied. "I came up to have a chat with you."

"Excuse me, I had dropped asleep; my headache is so much worse----"

"I have one too, and I will lie down in your room a moment; it will do
me good."

"Hasn't Julie shown you your room?"

"No, my love; let me in, pray."

Madame de la Thomassinière was determined not to go away, and after some
little time she was admitted. Madame Destival appeared with her clothes
no more disarranged than was natural in a person who had been lying
down. As she went in, Athalie glanced about the room, and her eyes
longed to pierce the walls of a small closet at the foot of the bed,
the mirrored door of which was tightly closed.

"Oh dear! how my head jumps!" said Madame Destival, putting her hand to
her forehead.

"Isn't it any better?" asked Athalie, seating herself on a couch.

"No; quite the contrary."

"Lie down again, my dear; I will stretch myself out on this couch; I
shall not be sorry for a little rest myself. This hot sun affects my
nerves."

Madame Destival seemed disinclined to return to her bed; she walked
about the room impatiently, and said:

"Oh, no! I don't want to go to sleep again, it's almost dinner-time."

"How on earth did you ever succeed in sleeping here? Your husband makes
such a noise with his 'present arms,' and his 'ready, aim!'"

"It didn't disturb me at all."

"What did you do with Monsieur Dalville?"

"What did I do with him? Why, nothing."

"I thought he was with you."

"With me?"

"When you left me in the swing, didn't you take him away with you, and
leave in his place the charming Monsieur Monin, whose society is so
entertaining?"

"Monsieur Auguste left me immediately; he must have gone for a walk to
the village."

"Do you know, my dear, that I should not have recognized Monsieur
Dalville from the picture that you drew of him. In the first place, you
said that he wasn't good-looking, that he had a common look."

"I did not say common, I swear."

"That he hadn't good style, that he was a rake, a ne'er-do-well, a man
whose visits might compromise a woman."

"Oh! you exaggerate, my dear!"

"I beg your pardon, but you said all that, you drew a shocking portrait
of him! For my part, I think him very good-looking, and I like his
manners very much."

"That is very fortunate for him, madame."

"Well! what on earth are you doing? You are putting on your belt inside
out."

"Why, so I am! I have fits of absent-mindedness."

"Shall I fasten your dress for you, my dear?"

"Thanks; I can dress myself."

At that moment the sound of something being placed against the window
made Emilie jump.

"What is that?" she said.

"It was in that closet, I think; something fell."

"No, madame, the noise didn't come from the closet; it was at the
window."

The ladies went to the window and saw Monsieur Destival, who had just
placed a ladder against the outer sill.

"What in the world are you doing, monsieur?" exclaimed Madame Destival
in alarm; "what is the meaning of this ladder and all this confusion?"

"My dear love, I know now all the evolutions there are; the only thing
left for me to learn is to storm a fort; that's the bouquet, so Bertrand
says, and he's going to show me how. You, mesdames, are inside the
fortress, you represent the enemy; you must try to keep us out, but we
will enter the citadel in spite of you."

"What is the meaning of this absurd nonsense, monsieur?"

"It's the bouquet, madame, I tell you.--Come, Bertrand; one! two! At the
double-quick, isn't it?"

"I am not willing that you should storm my room, monsieur.--Take away
that ladder, Bertrand, I beg you.--You are mad, monsieur! Do you have
to storm a fort to catch a wolf?"

"Nobody knows what may happen, madame."

"I know that you won't happen to reach my room, monsieur."

As she said this, Madame Destival closed her window with a bang, and led
Madame de la Thomassinière from her room, saying:

"Let's go down, my dear, let's go down, I beg you, for they'll turn
everything topsy-turvy with their drilling."

They went out on the terrace, where Monsieur Destival still held his
ladder, which Bertrand tried in vain to take away from him. The business
agent was determined to raise it somewhere.

"Mon Dieu! monsieur, if you absolutely must lay siege to something,"
said Madame Destival, "let it be a tree in the garden, and not my
bedroom."

Bertrand grasped at this idea, and Athalie suggested to them that they
should attack the tree in which Monsieur Monin's cap had lodged. They
went toward the swing and found the ex-druggist there, with his short,
fat arms around the tree, trying to climb it, but unable to raise
himself more than three inches from the ground.

At sight of the ladder, Monin uttered a cry of delight, and outdid
himself in thanks when Monsieur Destival ascended it at the
double-quick, having no suspicion that the manoeuvre had any other
purpose than the recovery of his cap. But alas! Monsieur Destival
thought it best to capture the trophy with his bayonet, and the point of
his weapon pierced the top, which was of thin straw. Bertrand shouted
"Bravo!" Monin made a wry face, the ladies laughed, and Auguste arrived
in time to witness the tableau.

Auguste bestowed a sweet smile on Madame de la Thomassinière and a
rather cold bow on Madame Destival. I do not know whether you can guess
the cause, but the ladies had no difficulty.

"Are you just from the village, monsieur?" said the petite-maîtresse,
showing her pretty teeth.

"Yes, madame, I have had a most instructive walk; I have acquired some
new knowledge, and I hope to make good use of it."

"Dinner is on the table," said a thin, yellow little man, with a napkin
on his arm. It was Baptiste, the one male servant, who acted as
scrubber, cook, footman, errand-boy and butler all at once, pending the
time when Monsieur Destival should establish his household on a more
extensive scale. So that poor Baptiste was worked to death, and told
Julie every day that he did not propose to remain in a place where they
made him do the work of a horse.

"Say that dinner is served, Baptiste. That fellow will never be
trained!--Come, mesdames, to the table! Ouf! I have well earned it. I
have drilled terribly hard to-day.--Here, Monin, here's your cap. Did
you see how I picked it up?"

"You made a hole in it," said Monin, gazing at the crown with a piteous
expression.

"Bah! in the heat of the action; charge, bayonets! one, two! eh,
Bertrand?--But the ladies have gone already. Let's go now and attack the
dinner; I expect to make a tremendous breach in it. Go to Julie,
Bertrand; she'll look after you."

Bertrand betook himself to the servants' quarters, and Monin, after
trying to bring the straws nearer together and conceal the hole in his
cap, followed his host to the dining-room.

They were all seated at the table, when Monsieur Destival cried:

"Well! how about Monsieur de la Thomassinière? He's missing again."

"That's so, I had forgotten all about my husband," said Athalie, smiling
at her right-hand neighbor; and that neighbor was Auguste, who was
seated between the two ladies. "Oh! you mustn't wait for him."

"It's very annoying! Where can he have gone? Do you suppose he has lost
his way in the Forest of Bondy?"

"It's a very dangerous place," said Monin, fastening his napkin to his
buttonhole; "they say there's a band of robbers there just now, who----"

"Suppose I tell your three servants to beat up the neighborhood? What do
you think, madame?"

"Oh! no, monsieur; don't worry about my husband, I beg. I assure you
that he will turn up. I am not in the least anxious."

"So long as madame is not disturbed," said Madame Destival, pursing her
lips, "it seems to me that we should do wrong to be. After what she
says, we may venture to dine."

"Very good, let us dine. One, two, at the soup, and by the left flank at
the beef."

"For heaven's sake, monsieur, are we going to hear nothing now but 'one,
two'?"

"Faith, madame, this day has given me a great liking for the military
profession. What a fine thing is a man who holds himself perfectly
straight, with his body thrown back!--Pass me the beans.--Your man
Bertrand is a terrible fellow; he knows his business root and branch.
Deuce take it! what a fellow he is! How he handles a musket! He told me
that he was satisfied with me. Three or four lessons more, and I
hope----"

"I hoped that you knew quite enough, monsieur."

"Madame, a man cannot know too much about managing weapons. I wish now
that we might be attacked by robbers!"

"Would you set them to drilling, monsieur?"

"No, madame, but I would make the most of my advantages; I can fire four
shots in five minutes now."

"I didn't know that, monsieur."

"Oh! there are still more surprising things. Just look at Monin; he did
nothing but listen to us a moment, but see how much better he carries
himself than he did this morning."

"It is certain," said Monin, raising a turnip on his fork and putting it
in his mouth as if the latter were a gun barrel, "it is certain that
drilling is good for a man; and I'll tell you what----"

Monin was interrupted by the arrival of La Thomassinière, quite out of
breath, for he had taken a long nap under his tree, and, on waking, had
reflected that they might dine without him.

"Ah! here you are at last, you terrible man!" said Destival.

"I beg pardon; I am late, I know, but I have written at least ten
letters since I left you."

"Why didn't you write them here?"

"Faith, I was in such a hurry that I went into the first place I saw."

"Well, sit down beside Madame Destival."

"I'll soon overtake you, for, you see, I don't eat beef; it's poor
stuff, is beef! it isn't worth eating."

Monsieur de la Thomassinière took his seat, gazing at Auguste with some
surprise, because he had given him only a slight nod, and continued to
eat without apparently paying any attention to the parvenu, which was a
sore trial to that gentleman, who always wanted to make a sensation.

But Dalville had seen on the instant what manner of man Monsieur de la
Thomassinière was. Fools enjoy the advantage of being accurately judged
in a very short time, whereas it often requires a long time to form a
just appreciation of men of sense.

The dinner was lively enough, thanks to Auguste and his neighbor on his
left, who talked all manner of nonsense and seemed very much inclined to
suit their actions to their words. The mistress of the house ate little,
and Monin ate a great deal. Monsieur Destival attacked each dish in
measured time, and stuck his fork into a radish as if it were a bayonet.
As for Monsieur de la Thomassinière, when he found that Dalville was
determined not to take any notice of him, he decided to make himself
prominent by holding forth concerning the various dishes. He declared
the chicken cooked too much, the peas too large, the salad too sour, and
the beaune too new. An exceedingly agreeable guest was Monsieur de la
Thomassinière; but a very rich man must never seem content with what is
put before him. The idea! that would make people think that he had never
eaten anything good.

It was dark when they reached the dessert, because it was late when they
sat down. The sky was heavily overcast; the heat became more intense,
and the flashes that rent the clouds from time to time indicated an
impending storm.

Monsieur Monin made haste to eat his cheese, because his wife was afraid
of the thunder, and his orders were to go home to her whenever a storm
was brewing. La Thomassinière asked if the house was provided with
lightning rods. Monsieur Destival ordered all the windows closed at the
first clap of thunder, and the sight of the lightning made him forget to
present arms with his glass. As for the petite-maîtresse, she declared
that she was terribly afraid of a thunder storm, and she hid her face
upon Auguste's shoulder at every flash.

"The deuce! the deuce! the weather is very threatening!" said Monsieur
Destival. "Come, messieurs, a glass of champagne; that will scatter the
clouds and make us forget.--Baptiste, have you shut everything tight?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"Be very careful that there's no draught."

"But you are stifling us, monsieur."

"Windows must be closed when it thunders, madame; that is only prudent."

"Then why don't you have a lightning-rod?" said La Thomassinière; "I
have three on my country-house, two on the house I live in in Paris, and
one on my other fine house on Rue de Buffaut."

"Yes, I shall have one put on at once.--Come, messieurs, your glasses,
there goes the cork."

"Oh! mon Dieu!" cried Athalie, pressing against her neighbor; "how you
frightened me with your cork!"

"The storm seems to frighten you terribly, my dear love," said Madame
Destival, with a sneer.

"Oh, yes! terribly!"

"My wife's nerves are extremely sensitive."

"Look out, you're not pouring into the glass, Destival."

"That confounded flash dazzled me. Will your charming wife have some?"

"Yes, I'm very fond of champagne. Please make it foam a lot, monsieur."

"Here you are, belle dame.--Come, Dalville, drink with madame."

"That is just what monsieur is doing," said Madame Destival spitefully.

"And you, Monin, pass your glass."

"Oh! I was just going to say that I must go; my wife's afraid of
thunder."

"Why, your wife's making pickles, you know; she's busy."

"But when it thunders she drops everything and crawls under a woolen
quilt, and if I shouldn't go to see how she is--Oh! what a crash! it
came very soon after the lightning, so the storm can't be far away."

"Suppose we have a little music?" said Monsieur Destival, helping
himself to a third glass of champagne, in order to recover his courage;
"it seems to me that that wouldn't be a bad idea. What do you say,
Dalville?"

Auguste had stooped to pick up his knife, which he had dropped under the
table for the second time.

"Monsieur is awkward to-day," said Madame Destival, rising from the
table with a gesture of impatience; "I believe that we shall do well to
go up to the salon."

At that moment the clouds broke, the rain fell in torrents, and the
fields assumed a novel aspect. Everybody rose; the petite-maîtresse
leaned heavily on Auguste's arm, because the storm had taken away all
her strength. Monsieur de la Thomassinière, desirous to play the
scholar, because he thought that his companions were no more learned
than he, went to one of the windows and declared that the storm would
not be _consequential_ because the atmosphere was very beautiful at
sunset.

Auguste could not restrain a slight laugh, which caused the trembling
Athalie to press his arm all the harder. Monsieur Destival, who had
recovered his spirits in some measure since the rain began, which made
the storm much less dangerous, executed a half wheel to the left of the
company, and charged up the stairs at the double-quick. Monin was left
alone in the dining-room, folding his napkin as a matter of habit, and
muttering as he listened to the rain:

"It's coming down hard, and I haven't any umbrella, and they've made a
hole in the top of my cap! so what am I going to do?"

Having taken snuff two or three times, our friend decided to address
Julie, who had just passed through the room. He followed her, calling
after her:

"I beg pardon, mademoiselle, but couldn't you----"

As Julie did not reply, Monin followed her to the kitchen, where
Bertrand was drinking with Baptiste and Monsieur de la Thomassinière's
three tall footmen, who did not agree with their master that the beaune
was too new.

"Could you lend me an umbrella?" asked Monin.

"We haven't any here," Julie replied curtly.

"Nonsense! an umbrella!" said Bertrand, in whom the beaune had already
aroused a tendency to talk. "As if a man should use such a thing! Is
that what I taught you this morning--to handle an umbrella?"

The guests began to laugh, and Julie elbowed Monin gradually toward the
door, saying:

"I don't like to have so many people in my kitchen, monsieur; they get
in my way. Besides, you don't belong here."

Julie closed the door; and Monin, finding himself expelled from the
kitchen, decided to go up to the salon and wait until the storm should
have subsided. Dalville and Athalie were at the piano, singing a
nocturne. Monsieur Destival was playing écarté with Monsieur de la
Thomassinière; and Madame Destival, while pretending to watch the game,
lost nothing of what took place at the piano.

"I have the honor to wish you good-evening," said Monin, noiselessly
entering the salon.

"Why, haven't you gone, neighbor? I supposed that you were at home
before this."

"No, I'll tell you--the rain----"

"In that case, you must take a hand. Come, bet on me and you will win."

"Can I bet now?"

"Yes, it isn't too late."

"All right; then I'll bet two sous."

"What sort of bet is that--two sous!" exclaimed La Thomassinière
contemptuously; "do you suppose that I play for copper? It's vulgar
enough to play for a crown. Take that away, monsieur, it's covered with
verdigris."

"It's my two sous, monsieur; I bet them."

"No one wants them, monsieur."

"What! have I won already?"

"Here, I'll fix that," said Destival, taking a ten-sou piece from his
pocket; "I'll add eight sous to make up Monin's bet. So I stake three
francs forty, and you, my dear fellow, three francs ten. My neighbor is
prudent, you see, and yet he is very rich, in very comfortable
circumstances. His nest is well feathered, the rascal!"

"Then how can he propose to bet two sous?" said La Thomassinière; "it's
beyond belief.--Ace, ace, and ace. You are robbed."

"What! does he admit that he has robbed us?" Monin asked his neighbor in
an undertone.

"That means that we have lost.--Well, now for our revenge.--Aren't you
betting, Madame Destival?"

"No, monsieur, I prefer to listen to the singing."

"Betting won't prevent you, madame; I don't lose a note while I am
playing."

"Nor I," said La Thomassinière. "I am like Cato, I can easily do four
things at once!"

"Haven't you any duets of Rossini's here, my dear?" inquired Athalie,
running her fingers over the keys.

"Why, I don't know, but I think not."

"I think, madame, that I have had the pleasure of singing some of them
with you here," said Dalville.

"Ah! you remember, do you, monsieur?"

"Here's a duet from _La Gazza_," said Athalie, after upsetting all the
music on the piano; "let's try it, monsieur."

"Ace, and _passe carreau_!" cried Monsieur de la Thomassinière
triumphantly, taking up the money that was on the table.

"What does _passe carreau_ mean?" Monin asked Destival in a whisper.

"It means that we have lost, as you see."

"I don't know the terms of the game. That makes four sous that I've lost
already."

"Make your bet."

"Allow me to see what the weather is, first. Oh! it's still raining very
hard. I am in the game."

"Monsieur is lucky!"

"And then, too, I am pretty good at this game!" said La Thomassinière,
leaning back in his chair.

"I believe that I play it rather well too," rejoined Destival, biting
his lips angrily.

"Be quiet, messieurs! we can't hear each other sing!" said the sprightly
Athalie, while Auguste sang: "_Il certo il mio periglio_."

La Thomassinière beat time falsely with his foot, murmuring, to make
believe that he understood Italian:

"Very pretty! exceedingly pretty! bravo! bravo! bravissimo!"

Whereupon Monin stooped and whispered to Destival:

"Does that mean that we have lost, too?"

"No, no! don't you hear them singing Italian? It's a duet by La Pie."[B]

[B] _Pie_ in French means magpie.

"Oho! it's by La Pie!" Monin repeated, rolling his eyes about and taking
out his snuff-box. "How does it happen, neighbor, that a _pie_ writes a
duet?"

"My dear Monin," said Destival testily, "please don't talk to me all the
time; you see, you make me lose."

"What! I make you lose, although I am not playing?"

"Yes, yes, it confuses me. Bet again. I certainly am not a poor player,
but when a person talks like that----"

"You see we've got a _pie_ at home that talks finely, and I wanted to
know--That makes eight sous I've lost."

"And I sixteen francs!"

"Bah! what does that amount to, messieurs?" said La Thomassinière; "if
you played for handfuls of gold as I do, it would be all very well;
that's what you can call gambling! I am very sorry to waste my luck for
such small stakes.--Bravo! bravissimo! _Certo pio pio piu! Atoussimo!_"

La Thomassinière insisted on mixing Italian into everything that he
said, and Destival forced himself to smile, as he felt in his pockets;
but his gayety was forced, and his smiles were grimaces. The two singers
exchanged melting glances as they executed together roulades and
flourishes, which they prolonged inordinately, and during which Madame
Destival coughed impatiently in the hope of disturbing the harmony that
was rapidly becoming established between them.

Suddenly the door of the salon was thrown open; a stout woman of fifty
or thereabouts, wearing a straw hat whose brim barely overpassed her
forehead and upon which nodded a wreath of faded roses, entered the room
with the air of a person in a towering rage, holding an umbrella in one
hand, and in the other a reticule large enough to hold a ten pound loaf
of sugar. At sight of her Monin started back, lost his wits, upset his
snuff-box, and acted as if he proposed to hide himself under the table.

"Ah! so you're here, are you, monsieur?" cried Madame Monin, for it was
that lady in person who had entered the salon. "I find you gambling. I
suspected as much. I wish you good-evening, neighbors. While it's
thundering and a frightful storm is raging, monsieur sits here gambling
instead of coming home to comfort me; and yet he knows how afraid I am
of thunder storms! Excuse me, neighbor, for venturing to scold him
before you, but you must agree that his conduct is unpardonable."

During this sermon, poor Monin, who had no idea what he was doing,
staked a forty-sou piece instead of two sous, and stuffed his fingers
into his snuff-box, in which there was nothing at all, stammering the
while with a contrite air:

"How's your health, Bichette?"

"My health! a lot you worry about it, on my word! To leave me alone
during the storm! Catherine had to keep me company under the quilt."

"It was the rain that----"

"As if a man should be afraid of the rain! for shame! You make me
blush!"

Madame Destival did not like Madame Monin; but, being overjoyed by her
arrival at that moment, she gave her a seat near the piano and
overwhelmed her with attentions, to which Madame Monin replied by
repeated curtsies, at the same time handing her husband the umbrella. He
stepped forward to take it, and, forgetting that he was interested in
the game, murmured so low that she could hardly hear him:

"Whenever you're ready, Bichette."

But Bichette, who was comfortably seated and was already beginning to
criticise Madame de la Thomassinière, replied sharply:

"Now that I've come, do you think I propose to go right away again? That
would be polite, wouldn't it? that would be worthy of you! I shall have
the pleasure of chatting with my neighbor a minute, and listening to the
music. I'm very fond of music."

"You sing, I believe--do you not, Madame Monin?" inquired Madame
Destival eagerly.

"Oh! I used to sing; I had rather a good voice, too; but I've forgotten
almost everything now except the duet from _Armide_: '_Aimons-nous!
aimons-nous! tout nous y convie!_' That's so lovely! it will never grow
old."

"I have the score of _Armide_; you must sing that for us with Monsieur
Dalville."

"Oh! really, neighbor!"

"Do you hear the present that's to be given you?" whispered Athalie to
Auguste.

"I am much obliged," replied Dalville; "upon my word, I don't know what
I have done to Madame Destival to make her play such a trick on me."

"Don't be alarmed; if she forces you to sing the duet, I'll be your
accompanist, and I promise you that three or four chords will be broken
before the tenth measure."

"How good you are, and how deeply indebted I shall be to you!"

Monin, seeing that his wife had softened somewhat, made bold to say to
her:

"You sing very nicely too that song about sheep: '_Margot filait
tranquillement, ne pensant, ne rêvant qu'à son p'tit, p'tit, p'tit._'"

"Hush, monsieur, and attend to your game, as you're so fond of gambling.
Is it piquet they're playing there?"

"No, Bichette, écarté."

"What? écarté? And how long have you known écarté, monsieur?"

"I don't know it, but I was just going to tell you, I'm betting on it."

"Ah! you're betting, are you? Well, I trust that you are modest at
least, and don't play for big stakes?"

"Oh, no! never fear, Bichette!"

"You have lost your forty sous, Monsieur Monin!" exclaimed Destival at
that moment, heaving a deep sigh.

"Forty sous!" shouted Madame Monin, jumping from her chair with a
violence that made all the furniture in the room tremble; "what's that?
Monsieur Monin betting forty sous! Why, that is horrible! For heaven's
sake, neighbor, what did you give him to drink at dinner?--What is the
meaning of such extravagance, Monsieur Monin? Have you gone crazy?"

"No, Bichette, it's a mistake; I assure you that I didn't bet but two
sous."

"You put forty sous on the table, monsieur," said La Thomassinière, "and
they're lost."

"I had won a lot, you see," whispered Monin to his wife; "that was just
my winnings."

"You must admit that I am playing in hard luck," said Destival; "that
makes seven times that I have been responsible for Monin's losing."

"Seven times, monsieur! have you bet seven times in succession?" cried
Madame Monin, glaring at her husband with the expression of a cat about
to pounce upon a mouse.

"Why, no, Bichette; you know perfectly well that I am incapable of such
a thing!"

"Here's the duet from _Armide_," said Madame Destival; "come, Monsieur
Dalville, sing it with madame."

"I don't know it," said Auguste.

"Nonsense! you are enough of a musician to sing it at sight."

"I'll prompt you in your passages, monsieur," said Madame Monin,
removing her hat lest it should interfere with her voice.

Madame Monin began. Her voice was almost enough to set one's teeth on
edge. Monin applauded every measure. Suddenly a chord broke. The
vivacious Athalie ran her fingers over the keys and seemed excited by
the fire with which she was playing. Soon a second chord broke, then a
third, and it was impossible to go on. Athalie left her seat, saying:

"What a pity! it was going so well!"

"That's the disadvantage of your pianos," said Madame Monin testily, as
she put on her shepherdess's hat; "Monsieur Monin's little flute's the
thing; there's no danger of that ever breaking, at all events."

"Do you want me to go and get it, Bichette?"

"Upon my word, this is a pretty time of night to make such a suggestion!
We must go home to bed, monsieur; that will be much better than your
little flute."

Destival left the card-table, red as a turkey-cock.

"I can't stand it any longer!" he cried. "That makes twelve times that
he has passed! I've lost at least forty francs!"

"Oh! how can anyone risk so much money?" said Madame Monin. "If you
should ever lose forty francs, Monsieur Monin, I'd have a separation at
once."

"Here's a fine to-do over a trifle!" said La Thomassinière, rising from
his chair; "I'll stake it on a single hand to-morrow, at a notary's,
who's a friend of mine. That's where they play écarté! The table is
covered with gold and bank-notes! Ah! there's some fun in that! But
otherwise écarté's a very stupid game.--Well! are we going to bed?"

"Go to bed, monsieur, who's preventing you?" said Athalie; "we don't
need you."

"Faith, I am terribly sleepy."

"Baptiste will show you to your room, which is over this."

"And where is mine, my dear, if you please?" queried the
petite-maîtresse, as her husband went up to bed without bidding anyone
good-night, because it was bad form.

"Yours, my dear?" rejoined Madame Destival; "why, with your husband; we
have only one room to offer you."

"What! can it be by any chance that you are going to make me sleep with
him?"

"Why, of course."

"Oh! that is absurd! Such a thing never occurred to me. I never sleep
with Monsieur de la Thomassinière. I have my own suite, as you know."

"For once, belle dame," said Destival, with a sly expression, "our dear
husband will not complain."

"Mon Dieu! how amusing!" exclaimed Athalie, sulkily. Meanwhile, Madame
Monin, who had succeeded at last in tucking up her dress and putting on
her shawl, said to Madame Destival with a simper:

"For my part, I sleep with my husband, and I should just like to hear
him mention a separate room! Ha! ha!"

"You know perfectly well, Bichette, that I have no desire to----"

"All right, Monsieur Monin, I know what I know.--Good-night,
neighbors.--Well, monsieur, why don't you put on your cap? What sort of
way is that to act?"

Monin was afraid that his wife would discover the hole in his cap. He
finally decided to wear it over his left ear, so that the top would be
less visible to the eyes of his better half. And Madame Monin led her
spouse away, promising him that she would never again let him dine out
without her, because he was not careful of himself at the table, and
wine made him plunge into all sorts of extravagance.

When his neighbors had gone, Monsieur Destival admitted that the
drilling had fatigued him terribly, and he speedily vanished.

The music had cemented the intimacy between Dalville and the brilliant
Athalie. With those who are capable of enjoying the charms of harmony,
there is nothing that brings two hearts together so quickly as a sweet
or tender ditty, or a passage overladen with passion, which the
performers often address to each other. Music is a very potent auxiliary
in love; it stirs the emotions, it speaks to the soul. Thank heaven,
almost all our ladies know how to play the piano now.

But Athalie rose, and Madame Destival escorted her to her apartment.
Before going in, the petite-maîtresse laughingly said to her friend:

"My dear, I must tell you something in confidence: I believe I've made a
conquest of Monsieur Dalville."

"Do you think so?"

"I am almost sure of it; he has been talking to me in that veiled
way,--you know what I mean; and then he squeezed my hand very
tenderly."

"I congratulate you!"

"Oh! you understand that I mean to have a little sport with him, that's
all."

"But I must tell you frankly that the conquest is of little value, for
he is a man who falls in love with every woman he sees.--Adieu, my dear,
good-night."

"Until to-morrow, my love! I shall get up early for a walk in the
fields."

"I will go with you, my dear."

The ladies parted. Madame Destival went down to the salon, but Dalville
was no longer there; he too had retired. So madame did the same and
summoned Julie to undress her.




VI

THE COMPANY RETURNS TO PARIS


The night passed. Did its protecting darkness banish Madame Destival's
irritation and her husband's fatigue? Did Dalville determine to be
virtuous, and Bertrand to be sober? Did the sprightly Athalie become
reconciled to the necessity of sharing her husband's bed, and did
Monsieur de la Thomassinière sleep well beside his wife? These are
mysteries which I am unable to solve.

All I know is that Madame Destival rose with her friend's pleasant
confidence of the night before still in her mind, and that she said to
herself as she dressed:

"The flirt did everything that she could to assure the conquest of
Auguste. I saw all her simpering and smiles while they were singing. No
doubt she hopes to receive a declaration in due form this morning; but
I am sorry for you, madame, for I shall be on the spot, I shall not let
you out of my sight, I will not allow such intrigues to be carried on in
my house. Oh! women are such coquettes nowadays!--I think I will put
this rose in my hair; it's more becoming than a ribbon. Mon Dieu! how
badly my curl-papers work to-day!--And then they complain because men
think unfavorably of our sex. Why, don't they justify them in that
opinion by acting as they do? At the very first meeting, to let a man
see that one is attracted by him--shocking! And a woman of twenty,
married two years at most! Ah! Monsieur Auguste, you don't deserve any
friends."

Monsieur Destival, on laying aside the silk handkerchief that covered
his head at night, took his stand in front of his mirror and presented
arms with a vessel which he had forgotten to replace in the night-table.
Forgetting that he was in his shirt, Destival, who had dreamed of
exterminating all the beasts in the district, made the circuit of his
chamber at the double-quick, and took aim at his bolster with the tongs.
But in that martial posture the remembrance of the forty francs he had
lost at écarté the night before presented itself to his mind, and as one
cannot attend to business while practising the manual of arms, our
friend recurred to more peaceable ideas and proceeded to dress, thinking
of nothing but the best means to become as rich as La Thomassinière, so
that he might be able to lose a few crowns at play without losing his
temper.

Dalville dreamed a little of the fair Athalie, a little of the young
milkmaid, a little of Madame Destival, also of some other persons; like
one who has no exclusive sentiment in his heart, but allows himself to
be led by all the sensations, all the illusions, all the whims of his
imagination. He rose without any well-defined plan of operations,
without a determination to be more virtuous or more enterprising,
without any intention of beginning a new intrigue. Chance should decide,
he would act as circumstances might suggest, he would obey the dictates
of his heart, or rather of pleasure. For a heedless fellow, that line of
conduct was not devoid of wisdom; if to abandon oneself to the course of
events, to lay no plans in advance, but to seize on the wing every
opportunity to be happy--if that is heedlessness, it bears a strong
resemblance to philosophy; in which there is nothing surprising, since
extremes meet.

Bertrand had risen before dawn, always ready to carry out his master's
orders, even when he did not approve of his conduct. The ex-corporal was
well pleased with his repast of the preceding night, because the beaune
was not spared, and Baptiste and Tony and the tall lackeys, while
drinking with him, listened with respectful attention to his stories of
his campaigns. He was walking on the terrace, ready to give Monsieur
Destival a lesson in the manual, and perfectly reconciled to the life
that people lead in the country.

The petite-maîtresse, whose head was as light as her heart, had risen
very early, before her husband was awake. She had slept badly;
innumerable thoughts crowded into her mind, but the principal one was as
always the desire to attract, to make a sensation; that was the fixed
point about which her other sentiments revolved by the force of
gravitation, without disturbing the course of the planet whose
satellites they were.

As for Monsieur de la Thomassinière, he had slept without waking, and in
his dreams had imagined himself the _seigneur_ of a department,
decorated with three crosses, a broad ribbon and a star, and richer,
more conceited and more insolent than ever. Then he had found himself
abruptly transported to the wine-shop of the _Learned Ass_, serving wine
to peasants who treated him most cavalierly. That infernal sleep has no
respect for anything; it displaces the most powerful men, and effects
strange revolutions; it transforms a king into a shepherd, and sometimes
raises the plowman to a throne; it confounds the great lord with the
humblest plebeian; it makes of a minister of state a poor devil without
bread or work or resource, starving in a garret; it transforms the
banker into a petty clerk working fourteen hours a day to earn three
francs; the poet who sells his pen, into a juggler employed to perform
tricks before an audience which pays and despises him. To the kept woman
it shows the hospital, to the public harlot, La Salpêtrière, to the
young men who frequent roulette tables, the galleys or the nets of
Saint-Cloud. It reminds the parvenu of his birth, the public official of
the acts of injustice he has committed, the man without sense of honor
of the insults he has endured. And all these people do as Monsieur de la
Thomassinière did: they awake shrieking that they have a nightmare, and
they ascribe those horrid dreams to a bad digestion. They would be very
sorry to seek therein a memory of the past and a lesson for the future.

There was no trace of the storm of the preceding evening. The sky was
clear, and the country seemed lovelier than ever; the trees glistened
with a brilliant green undimmed by dust, the flowers were fresher, the
brooks more noisy; everything invited one to enjoy the charms of nature;
and that doubtless was the reason that Auguste was already in the
garden, standing in the gateway leading into the courtyard, undecided
whether he should go for a walk in the fields or remain on the
premises. Meanwhile, Athalie had taken a seat under a clump of trees at
the end of the garden; she was occupied in arranging some flowers, but
her glance constantly wandered to right and left to see if someone was
coming to bear her company; while Madame Destival strolled along an
adjacent alley ready to join the persons whom she expected to meet in
the garden.

Suddenly Auguste heard a voice that was not unknown to him crying:

"Whoa, White Jean! whoa, I say! Have you forgotten that we stop here?"

And at the same instant a milkmaid with her tin cans entered Monsieur
Destival's courtyard. Auguste uttered an exclamation of delight when he
recognized Denise, and hurried across the courtyard to meet the pretty
milkmaid.

"It is really you, lovely Denise!"

"Yes, monsieur, it's I. Didn't I tell you yesterday that I came here
every morning to bring milk? I'm very glad to see you again, monsieur."

"Really, Denise, did you want to see me?"

"Yes, monsieur, I wanted to ever so. Oh! that was such a nice thing you
did! it was so generous! and even if you do have a little too much
blarney with us girls, no matter--I let it go on account of that."

"Bless my soul! what on earth have I done, Denise, to bring down all
these compliments on my head?"

"What about Coco, and his soup-bowl, and his old grandmother--don't you
remember them?"

"How do you know so much, Denise?"

"Pardi! as if everything wasn't known in the country! The old grandma'am
came to the village to buy some things. Coco came with her, and he told
everybody that a fine gentleman had given him money to buy another
bowl. The grandmother described you, and I knew you right away. It's too
bad that Père Calleux is such a drunkard; he passed the whole night in
the wine-shop drinking up the crown piece you gave him, and he'll soon
get away with the money you left for Coco too. But that ain't your
fault, and you were mighty kind to 'em."

"I did nothing except what was perfectly natural, Denise, and I am well
rewarded at this moment."

Denise had become more and more animated as she told Auguste what she
knew, and the young man's glances made her blush more than ever. She
lowered her eyes and smiled, and stood for some moments before the man
who was gazing at her, her arms hanging at her sides. Her awkwardness,
her embarrassment and her coarse woolen skirt made the charms of her
pretty face even more alluring.

At last she took up her cans, which she had placed on the ground, and
said:

"I must take this milk to Mamzelle Julie; she's generally up by this
time."

"One moment, Denise, I beg you."

"Have you got anything to say to me, monsieur?"

"Oh, yes! In the first place, you look even prettier this morning than
you did yesterday."

"Oh! if that's all it is, I may as well go."

"One instant, Denise, please; I feel that the more I see you, the more I
love you!"

"Well, then, you mustn't see me any more, monsieur."

"Does it make you angry to have me love you?"

"Oh no! for I'm pretty sure it ain't dangerous."

"If you would listen to me----"

"Adieu, monsieur."

And Denise started to walk away. But Auguste took her hand and stopped
her, gazing tenderly at her,--too tenderly for a fickle youth who gazed
so at all pretty women. A seducer's eyes should express nothing but
inconstancy; unluckily, the eyes lend themselves to every sort of
scheme. But perhaps Dalville was moved at that moment by genuine
feeling, who knows? Who can read the human heart?

At this juncture Bertrand entered the courtyard; he approached his
master, unseen by him, and said:

"Did I hear monsieur call me?"

"Why, no! I didn't call you," replied Auguste angrily, dropping Denise's
hand; "you always appear at the wrong time. Is it proper to interrupt
people when they are talking together?"

"Pardon, lieutenant, I didn't hear you say anything; I didn't know
people talked without speaking."

"Leave us, Bertrand."

Bertrand made a half wheel to the left and went toward the garden; but
as he passed Denise, who, although she said that she was going, did not
go, and seemed very busy with her little cheeses, the corporal said to
her in an undertone:

"Look out for yourself!"

Auguste once more approached Denise, who had started in surprise at
Bertrand's words.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"Nothing, monsieur, but I must go."

"Will you do me a favor, Denise?"

"Oh, yes! with pleasure, monsieur, if it's anything I can do."

"I have taken a liking to that child I met on the road yesterday. His
pretty face, his little honest way, everything speaks in his favor."

"You mean Coco Calleux?"

"Yes."

"I'm fond of him, too, but the poor little fellow's had a hard time
since he lost his mother. His grandmother's rough and cross, and his
father's a drunkard, and they want that child, only six years old, to go
to work so soon! Can you imagine such a thing? Why, he often has nothing
but bread to eat, and he's lucky when he doesn't have a beating for his
supper. So we in the village don't like that drunken pig of a Calleux,
and if the cottage wasn't some distance from the village, Coco would be
at our house more than he's at home, I tell you."

"Well, Denise, be good enough to keep an eye on the child and buy him
whatever he needs--in short, take my place with him, will you?"

"Oh! with pleasure, monsieur!"

"Here, take this purse, and use the contents to the best advantage for
my little protégé. When that is gone, I'll give you more. I shall always
approve whatever use you may make of it."

"Ah! you've got a kind heart, monsieur! How glad I am! But such a lot of
money as this will last a long time."

"You will do me this favor, won't you?"

"Will I! Pardi! I should say so! Don't you think it's pleasant to be
employed to do good? Who could refuse such a commission?--I say,
monsieur, I must kiss you for this--do you want me to?"

"Do I want you to, Denise!"

Auguste already had his arms around the girl, and had deposited more
than one kiss on the plump cheeks which she offered him with pleasure,
when an exclamation and a burst of laughter reached their ears
simultaneously. Dalville turned: Madame Destival and Madame de la
Thomassinière stood behind him.

"Oh! this is too much!" cried Madame Destival, walking forward with a
wrathful glance at Denise, while Athalie continued to laugh, albeit her
laughter seemed slightly forced.

"Delicious!" she said. "What! even with milkmaids? I shall remember
this! the picture was truly rural."

Denise was not disturbed, for she had no thought that she could be
blamed; so she looked at the two ladies in amazement, trying to divine
the cause of the merriment of the one and the anger that gleamed in the
eyes of the other, and still holding in her hand the purse that the
young man had given her.

"What are you doing here?" demanded Madame Destival, with a contemptuous
glance at the young milkmaid.

"As you see, madame, I have brought cheese and milk as usual."

"I didn't order any cheeses of you; in fact, yours are bitter, and I
don't want any more of them. As for your milk, you put water in it, and
I propose to take mine of somebody else."

"Water in my milk!" cried Denise, whose eyes filled with tears when she
heard her merchandise thus vilified. "You're the first person that ever
said that, madame, I tell you! And I swear----"

"All right, mademoiselle, that's enough; I don't want you ever to set
foot inside my doors again. I thought that you were a decent, virtuous
girl; I don't like little hussies."

"Hussies! Mon Dieu! what have I done to madame?"

"We saw it all, mademoiselle. And that purse in your hand is proof
enough."

"That purse, madame," said Auguste, walking to Denise's side, "is
destined for a charitable purpose, to relieve an unfortunate person. But
I see that an evil interpretation is always put upon everything.--Poor
Denise! I am responsible for your being made wretched! And when, by
chance, I attempt to do a good deed, they think that I am trying to
seduce you.--Do you suppose, mesdames, that one wins the love of a
milkmaid with money? Remember, please, that this is not Paris."

While Auguste was speaking, Denise became calm; she wiped her eyes with
the corner of her apron, and recovered sufficient assurance to say to
Madame Destival:

"I ought not to cry at what you said to me, madame, for I haven't done
anything to be ashamed of.--Adieu, monsieur; I'll take your money and
try to carry out your kind intentions."

With that, Denise curtsied to the company, and, still choking back her
sobs, returned to White Jean and left the business agent's house.

Madame Destival, conscious of some embarrassment, returned to the
garden. Athalie walked up to Auguste and said, with a laugh:

"You must admit, monsieur, that you kissed her at least six times in
succession."

"I didn't count, madame."

"You seemed to like it."

"Very much, madame."

"Monsieur is frank, at all events."

"That is, perhaps, my one good quality."

"But why did you kiss her?"

"Is she not very pretty, madame?"

"Pretty! perhaps; as coarse, rustic beauties go."

"No, no! on the contrary, her features are extremely delicate."

"But she's a milkmaid!"

"What difference do you see between a pretty country girl and a pretty
city girl?"

"Why, an enormous difference, monsieur. What about education, good
manners, and refinement--do you count all those as nothing? Would you go
out in Paris, or even in the country, with a milkmaid on your arm?"

"No, madame, I admit that I should not be enough of a philosopher for
that. But just put on Denise----"

"Who is Denise, pray?"

"This little milkmaid, madame."

"Oho! so monsieur knows her name?"

"Yes, madame."

"Well, monsieur, what do you propose to put on Mademoiselle Denise?"

"A pretty hat, a stylish dress, a handsome shawl----"

"Ah! she would cut a strange figure in all those things!"

"Mon Dieu, madame, habit is everything. You yourself, despite all your
charms, might be awkward in a milkmaid's cap. Those things that can be
acquired, madame, are of little worth; but the things that are innate
are beauty, grace, intellect, a sweet voice and glance and smile--in a
word, the charm which takes us captive and which you possess in such
abundant measure, madame."

"Ah! you did well to end in that way; if you had not I should have been
angry. Madame Destival is right; you are a ne'er-do-well, a dangerous
man. By the way, I hope to have the pleasure of seeing you in Paris,
monsieur; I often give balls, and I have a reception every Thursday in
winter."

"Madame is too kind; but your husband has said nothing to me."

"Mon Dieu! has he any time to think to invite people? He is so
distraught, so engrossed by his speculations, that I alone attend to the
invitations. Will you come?"

"Is it not absolutely necessary for me to see you again? If I should
yield to my inclinations, I would never leave you."

"Bless my soul! I believe that we are dropping into sentiment. Are you
going to make me a declaration?"

"Is it possible to see you without loving you?"

"Look out! you are becoming serious, and I like none but merry people.
That melancholy air doesn't suit you."

"Have you no pity, then, for the pain you cause?"

"Oh! not the least! Sighs do not move me an inch; to please me, it is
necessary to keep me laughing constantly."

While they talked, Auguste and his companion had strayed into the shaded
portion of the garden. He had taken the young woman's arm and was
pressing it tenderly. Athalie was still laughing, but was making no
effort to avoid Dalville's gentle caresses, when Bertrand appeared
before them at a bend in the path.

"They are waiting for you and madame at breakfast, lieutenant," said the
corporal, putting the back of his hand to his forehead.

Auguste stamped on the ground impatiently; but the vivacious Athalie had
already dropped his arm and was frisking away.

"Parbleu! you are exceedingly awkward, Bertrand!" said Auguste, glaring
at the corporal, who still stood before him.

"What have I done, lieutenant?"

"You seem to have made it your business to disturb me when I am engaged
in an interesting conversation with a pretty woman."

"Excuse me, lieutenant, but I can't tell what you're saying."

"A shrewd man can guess it at a glance. Once for all, when I am alone
with a woman, I forbid you to interrupt me."

"That settles it, lieutenant; if the house should burn down, I wouldn't
disturb you."

The whole party had assembled in the dining-room; even La Thomassinière,
having waked with a tremendous appetite, had not devised any previous
business which would have vexed his stomach, and he bestowed a most
affable nod upon Dalville, which meant that his wife had informed him
that she proposed to receive the young man at their house. Madame
Destival too seemed desirous to be reconciled to Auguste, who had
treated her coldly since the scene in the courtyard.

"I must be in Paris before noon," said La Thomassinière, shuffling a
mass of papers that he took from his wallet; "I have ten appointments
for to-day. I am sure that at least twenty people have called at my
house before this. A little more coffee, if you please. It isn't
Mocha----"

"I beg your pardon," said Destival, as he poured out some for him.

"Oh, no! I assure you that isn't; I know what I am talking about. I laid
in lately a _consequential_ supply; it's very different from this."

"I must be in Paris this morning," said Destival, puffing himself out;
"I have numerous matters on the carpet, some of great importance! Monin
wants to buy a house, and I have just what he wants."

"Who's he? that little man who bet two sous at écarté?"

"The very same."

"What! that fellow buy houses! I shouldn't have suspected it; his coat
was very threadbare--and patched on the elbows."

"Oh! that means nothing in the country."

"Never mind! you must admit that a man in a threadbare coat doesn't
promise great things--it doesn't give you a very exalted idea of his
wit. Oh! I have a keen glance, I have; and then, being used to seeing
only rich and well-dressed people,--I say, footman, just tell my people
to harness up, to put my horses to my calèche."

"I expect my milliner this morning," said Athalie; "she is to bring me
the sweetest bonnet. We must go at full speed, monsieur, for I am very
anxious to try on that bonnet."

"You are aware, madame, that my steeds do not travel like cab-horses. I
feed them rather well, and they cost me so much that I can afford to
make them gallop."

"Baptiste," Monsieur Destival called to his servant, who was leaving the
room, "you will hitch up too, do you understand?"

"That's the way," muttered Baptiste, "no sooner out of the kitchen than
I must go to the stable!"

"I say, Baptiste, while you're about it, tell my little Tony to put the
horse to my cabriolet," said Dalville, smiling at the pompous air of La
Thomassinière, who said, rubbing his hands:

"On my word, it's very pleasant for each to have his own carriage; it's
very genteel; one is certain at all events that one is with _comme il
faut_ people. To be sure, you have only cabriolets, but everybody can't
have a calèche, a coupé and a landau, like me."

"What, are you going too, Monsieur Dalville?" asked Madame Destival,
with a most expressive glance at the young man; "this is polite,
everybody abandons me!"

"It is a fact, my dear fellow," said Destival, "that my wife relied on
you to keep her company, and----"

"I never said that I relied on monsieur; most assuredly I should not
have dreamed of saying such a thing!" said Emilie, interrupting her
husband; "but as everybody else is going to Paris, I don't see why I
should stay here. Besides, you are to give a dinner this week, aren't
you, monsieur?"

"Yes, madame, a large dinner. I shall have some influential
people,--government officials and distinguished artists. I count upon
Monsieur and Madame de la Thomassinière, and upon friend Dalville too."

Dalville bowed simply, but La Thomassinière replied:

"We will see. I can't promise beforehand, because I may be invited to
other dinners by people high up on the ladder, and you must see----"

"So we are all going to Paris," said Madame Destival. "My husband will
take Baptiste and Julie with him. Will Monsieur Dalville be kind enough
to give me a seat in his cabriolet?"

"Why can't you come in our calèche?" hastily inquired the
petite-maîtresse.

"Oh! I am afraid that I should keep you waiting. I have several matters
to attend to, and you are in a hurry to see your milliner. Monsieur
Dalville will not object, I trust, to give me another half hour."

Auguste realized that it would be discourteous to refuse; moreover,
although that arrangement upset his plans, although the fascinating
Athalie made an enticing little pout at him, and although Madame
Destival had said many unkind things about him, still, Emilie was a
good-looking woman none the less, and one forgives a good-looking woman
many things, even when one is no longer in love with her.

They left the table. The carriages were ready. Madame de la
Thomassinière entered her calèche, with a malevolent glance at Auguste
and Madame Destival. The speculator called his two servants, who
assisted him to climb in; then he threw himself back on the seat,
crying:

"To my house in the Chaussée-d'Antin, and go at full speed; drive
_furiously_, do you hear, Lafleur? But look out and not run into
anything."

The calèche flew away like an arrow. Madame Destival had hurried her
domestics to such purpose that Julie and Baptiste were soon ready to
start with their master. But madame still had divers matters to attend
to, for which she did not need Julie. Monsieur Destival shook hands
cordially with his friend and urged him not to drive his wife too fast,
because it was bad for the nerves; then he took his seat in the
cabriolet beside Julie, ordering Baptiste to mount behind, which he did,
muttering because they made him do all sorts of things.

Bertrand and Tony stood by Dalville's cabriolet, awaiting the latter and
Madame Destival. But the little matters which the mistress of the house
had to arrange took nearly two hours. Bertrand fretted and fumed at
having to stand beside the cabriolet; but his master had ordered him to
await him there, and he did not leave his post.

"Perhaps monsieur thinks we've gone," suggested little Tony.

"No, no, he knows we're here."

"But perhaps he don't mean to go back to Paris to-day."

"Then he'll come and tell us so."

"And suppose he don't think of it?"

"We will stay here until somebody comes to relieve us from duty. I've
got my orders, that's enough for me."

At last, about noon, Auguste appeared with Madame Destival on his arm.
She leaned tenderly upon him and her face expressed nothing save
satisfaction and the most amiable unconstraint.

"It's strange!" thought Bertrand, "here's a lady that changes her face
three or four times a day. However, I ought to be used to it. I've seen
so many women like that. Everyone that comes to see monsieur as angry as
you please, rolling her eyes, and talking loud, is as mild and gentle as
a lamb when she leaves him; she hasn't the same face, nor the same eyes,
nor the same voice."

"Come, Bertrand, get in," said Auguste, who was already in the cabriolet
with Madame Destival.--"You will be a little crowded, madame; but my
faithful Bertrand isn't built to ride behind."

"Oh! I shall be very comfortable," said Emilie, bestowing a soft glance
on Auguste, and on Bertrand an affable smile; for nobody can be so
amiable as our fair friends when things are going to suit them! But when
you thwart them----

They drove away. When they passed the little path leading to
Montfermeil, Auguste put out his head and looked, saying to himself:

"I shall not always have a lady to drive to Paris."




VII

THE VILLAGE


Denise started to return to her village; but she did not sing as her
custom was, as she walked behind White Jean. Her heart was still heavy
because of what had taken place at Madame Destival's; and although she
had tried not to seem distressed, she did not forget the
word--_hussy_--that had been applied to her. To be called by such a name
as that, when she was virtuous, when she had nothing for which to
reproach herself, seemed very hard to the little milkmaid. It is said
that unmerited insults do not wound; but how can an honest and sincere
heart fail to feel outraged on receiving epithets usually reserved for
vice? It might much better be said that it is the vicious person who
does not blush and who laughs at anything that may be said to her,
because she retains no sense of shame. In my opinion the proverb "Only
the truth gives offence" is essentially false.

"How unkind those city people are!" thought the girl; "the idea of
calling me a hussy! That sounds well from them! What did I do to deserve
it? I kissed that gentleman because he's got a kind heart, and because
he's going to look out for Coco; it seems to me that was no more than
natural, and I ain't ashamed of it. That Madame Destival, who came
rushing at me with such a scowl! I thought she was going to hit me.--The
idea of telling me that my cheeses are bitter, and that I put water in
my milk! Ah! I felt just like crying, but I did well to keep the tears
back, she'd have been too pleased to see them. And that other one, who
did nothing but laugh and make all sorts of faces and monkey tricks at
that young man! Mon Dieu! as if I had done anything to make such a fuss
about! Should I have refused that money when it was to help that poor
boy? No, indeed! and it would have made the gentleman angry, and I'd
much rather make the lady angry. He isn't wicked, he's only a flatterer.
Well! that ain't a crime--all one has to do is not to listen, that's
all. And he's very nice and polite. I clawed his face and he didn't get
mad. By the way, he didn't tell me his name. Why should he? I don't need
to know it. Perhaps he told Coco--I must ask him.--Go on, White
Jean!--Shall I show my aunt this purse? Yes, I'll tell her the whole
thing. But I didn't tell her yesterday about my fall, and what that
gentleman saw. When I think of that, it troubles me, and I want to cry
again. And that other gentleman, who calls him lieutenant, and who
whispered 'Look out for yourself!' when he passed me. His name's
Bertrand, I remember that. He looks like a good fellow, that Bertrand;
but what in the deuce did he mean with his 'Look out for yourself'?"

Meditating thus, Denise arrived at Montfermeil, a pretty little village
where the people are not badly off; where there are several comfortable
bourgeois houses, and nothing to indicate want, because the occupant of
the humblest cottage works instead of begging.

Denise's cottage was at the end of the village, on the bank of a little
stream that followed a winding course between rows of willows. It was of
two stories; the walls were sound, and the roof was covered with tiles,
which gave the cottage a certain air of elegance. There was a yard in
front, separated from the street by a low wooden fence; the stable was
at the right, and hens, chickens and ducks wandered about the yard,
which they seemed to look upon as their property, giving vent to all
sorts of cries when any other person than Denise or her aunt ventured to
enter. The garden was behind the house; it was about two acres in
extent, but there was no semblance of order; fruit and vegetables grew
in confusion, according to the custom of the peasant, who thinks first
of the useful. There were not many flowers, but as Denise was fond of
them, there were a few rose-bushes among the potatoes, and now and then
a syringa, its branches enlacing the trunk of a plum or an almond tree.

It will be evident from these details that the cottage did not belong to
poor people. Everything about it indicated the possession of a
competence; and in fact Mère Fourcy, Denise's aunt, was one of the
richest peasants in the neighborhood; she owned two pieces of land, one
of which was on the other side of the stream that flowed by her house;
and Denise, who was her sole heir, was able by her activity and her
little trade in milk and cheese, to add to the income of her aunt, who,
although she was a worthy woman, was a little inclined to be miserly.
That is said to be a failing of the rich; indeed, how can you expect
those who have nothing to exhibit such a failing?

White Jean entered the yard without guidance, and headed for his stable.
Denise was a little distance behind, having been stopped by some of her
neighbors, who, as the custom is in villages, talked with every
passer-by, because everybody knew everybody else. But the little
milkmaid, who was in no mood for talking, hastened after White Jean, and
relieved him of the baskets containing the milk and cheese that she
brought back.

"What will my aunt say when she sees that I've brought these things
back?" Denise asked herself; and she could not restrain a sigh. But
Denise did not fear her aunt, for Mère Fourcy, knowing her niece's
virtue, and considering that she knew more than all the other people in
the village, always approved what she said and did, except when it was a
matter of lending money. That is why Denise, despite her fondness for
Coco, had been able to do very little for him.

"His father's a drunkard," Mère Fourcy would say; "to give the child
money is just giving that good-for-nothing Calleux the means of
drinking."

Mère Fourcy was a stout woman of fifty-five, who, despite her
corpulence, was active and alert; she heard her niece come in, and came
downstairs to help her unload her ass.

"What have you got there, my child?" she asked.

"The cheeses I made for Madame Destival."

"Why didn't she take 'em?"

"Because--because she didn't want 'em."

"Oh! that's different.--What! all this milk too?"

"Oh, dear! yes, aunt."

"And I wouldn't let Monsieur Brichard have any this morning!"

"Oh! we'll use it up, aunt."

"Has Madame Destival taken her trade away from you?"

"Yes, aunt."

"That's what makes you look so cut up then. Where does she expect to get
better milk?"

"Oh! it ain't on account of the milk, aunt."

"On account of something else, is it?"

"Yes, aunt."

"That makes a difference. Tell me about this other thing, my child."

Denise thought a moment, then replied:

"You know, aunt, I told you yesterday that I met a fine gentleman who
asked me the way to Monsieur Destival's?"

"Yes, my dear."

"And that it was the same man who gave a lot of money to Coco's
grandmother, because Coco broke the soup-bowl?"

"Yes, yes, I know. That sot of a Calleux will drink it all up."

"Well, aunt, I saw that young man again this morning, at Monsieur
Destival's."

"So he's a young man, is he? You said a gentleman yesterday."

"Bless me! so he is, a gentleman who is young."

"Oh! that makes a difference."

"He was very pleasant and friendly with me, and when he learned from me
that Père Calleux spent all the money, he gave me this purse and told me
to see that poor Coco has everything he needs. I took it, aunt; did I do
wrong?"

"Of course not, my dear; as if you didn't always do right, dear Denise.
Well! you're a good girl too, and you don't let the men talk nonsense to
you."

"No, indeed, aunt; but I let that gentleman kiss me."

"Oh! that makes a difference. What did he want to kiss you for?"

"To thank me for agreeing to look after Coco, for he's very fond of
him."

"Well, I don't see any harm in all that, my child."

"But Madame Destival did, for she came up to me in a rage and called
me----"

"She called you----?"

"Oh! I don't want to repeat the horrid word.--Well! she called me
a--a--hussy."

"God in heaven! my niece, my Denise, a hussy! the virtuousest girl
within ten leagues! And you didn't jump at her face?"

"No, aunt; I just said that it was horrible to believe--to think--then I
came home with my milk and my cheese."

"You did right, my child, you did right; those folks don't deserve to
eat such good things."

Denise did not tell her aunt what Madame Destival had said about her
milk and cheese, because Mère Fourcy would be just the woman to go to
the business agent and demand satisfaction for such an insult. The girl
did not like quarrelling and she wished never to hear Madame Destival's
name again. Mère Fourcy went to the village to try to find customers for
the milk and cheese. When she was alone, Denise took out the purse and
counted its contents in her apron. There were twelve twenty-franc
pieces, and six of five francs.

"Two hundred and seventy francs!" exclaimed Denise, throwing up her
hands in amazement; "why, that's quite a lot of money. That gentleman
must be very rich to give away so much all at once. Perhaps I ought not
to have taken it all. But still, as it's for Coco--there's enough to
send him to school, to have him learn to read. Yes, but his father don't
want him to learn to read. That's a pity, I should like so much to make
Coco a gentlemanly, well-taught boy; it would please that gentleman when
he comes back--for he'll come to see his little boy; at least, he said
he would. Never mind, I'll be very careful of the money; and while I
have the time, I think I'll go to the cottage and see if they've done
what that gentleman intended they should."

By taking crossroads, one could go in a quarter of an hour from
Montfermeil to the home of the Calleux family. Denise walked rapidly
along the paths, which were well known to her. She entered the wretched
hovel. Coco was seated at a table with old Madeleine. They were dining
without Père Calleux, who, finding himself in funds, preferred the
wine-shop to his house.

At sight of Denise, the child gave a joyful cry and ran to her. Denise
was so good to him! she always brought him something nice; she often
prevented his being beaten; in short, she showed great affection for
him; and children love those who love them; it is not always so with
men.

"Good-day, little Denise!" said Coco, opening his arms to the girl.

"Take care, good-for-nothing!" said old Madeleine; "you almost upset the
table and spilt my soup! I'd have given you a good licking, if you had!"

Denise glanced about the hovel, and saw that the only change that
Dalville's money had wrought was the presence of a large new bowl, which
was in front of the fire. The child's bed was no softer than before.

"See how fine I am, Denise!" cried the child, exhibiting the trousers
and the little brown jacket which replaced the ragged garments that
covered him on the preceding day.

"Yes, I see," said Denise, scrutinizing the garments, "but none of these
things are new."

"Pardi!" cried old Madeleine, "do you s'pose we was going to have 'em
made to order for him? The things are good enough for a brat as plays
all the time like him. You'll see in a day or two! they'll soon be full
of holes! Ah! he'd wear out clothes made of iron."

"But why didn't you buy him a mattress, Mère Madeleine? I thought that
gentleman told you to when he gave you the money."

"Because his father wouldn't have it; he says a boy hadn't ought to be
coddled so, because it keeps 'em from getting strong."

"Still, when the money was given for Coco----"

"For Coco? yes, and for us too, my girl; hadn't the parents ought to
come before the children?"

"Is Père Calleux in the field?"

"In the fields! oh, yes! in the fields indeed! He's at Claude's
wine-shop. He took all there was left of the money that gentleman give
me, and told me he was going to put it into some great undertakin'. Oh,
yes! I know all about that; he'll undertake to drink it all up in a day,
if it's possible."

"Would you like to have me take Coco away with me till night, Mère
Madeleine?"

"No, my girl, no; I'm an old woman, and I don't want to be left alone.
Coco's got to stay with me."

Denise kissed the child, who ran off to play and roll on the ground with
his goat; then she returned to the village, asking herself:

"How shall I go to work to do what that gentleman wants done?"

The next day was Sunday. No work in the village. The women paid more
attention to their toilet, they donned their prettiest gowns, and in the
evening the whole population assembled on a beautiful greensward shaded
by oaks and walnuts. There a wretched violin and a huge tambourine
played for the young men and women to dance; they considered the
orchestra divine, because it gave the signal for their enjoyment. Denise
was the favorite among the young men, and aroused some jealous pangs in
the hearts of her companions. The passions insinuate themselves
everywhere; there are envious and evil-speaking folk in the village as
well as in the city; but they are less skilled in disguising their
sentiments.

Denise was the prettiest girl in the village and in the country
roundabout; that was what all the men said; but all the women did not
agree. Denise was no coquette, but she was a woman; and what woman is
there who is not conscious of a secret pleasure in the certainty that
she is attractive, that she can prevail over her companions? But Denise
did not play the coquette with the young men; she did not bestow a smile
upon this one, a glance upon that one, a word of hope upon the other;
but she laughed and joked and was pleasant to one and all alike; for she
was very fond of dancing, and she liked to have everyone invite her to
dance.

On the Sunday in question, however, Denise, who had gone to the green
with her aunt, as usual, did not seem to enjoy herself so much as she
ordinarily did; she laughed less with the young men and seemed not to
take any pleasure in dancing. And finally, a thing that had never been
seen before, Denise, after four contradances, declared that she was
tired and would like to rest a while.

"Is it because you're sick, my child?" Mère Fourcy asked her niece, when
she came and seated herself by her side.

"No, aunt, I ain't sick, but I'm tired."

"Tired! you! the greatest dancer in the whole country!"

"Well! I guess one gets tired of everything, aunt. I don't feel in the
mood to-day."

"That makes a difference."

"Come on, Mamzelle Denise, come and have a dance," several young men
said to the little milkmaid. And one of them pulled her arm until he
almost dislocated it, another struck his palm against hers with all his
might, and a third, while saluting her, trod on her feet. With such
delicate attentions it is customary to pay court to a village belle, who
sometimes retorts by a ringing slap on the gallant's face, thereby
indicating that he is in her good graces.

But Denise distributed no slaps among the youths who surrounded her; she
simply sent them away, saying:

"Let me alone, when I tell you that I don't want to dance."

"Oh, yes, you do! oh, yes! She'll dance--you'll dance--she's joking when
she says that."

But Denise held her ground, and when the dancers had taken their leave,
she said to her aunt:

"Bless my soul! how stupid they all are!"

"Who, my girl?"

"Why Gros-Jean and Lucas and Bastien."

"They're the sharpest fellows in the village! What are you thinking
about, to say that? Gros-Jean, who's so funny when he dances and always
mixes up the figures on purpose! Lucas, who's taken the prize at _goose_
three years running! And Bastien, who's been to Paris twice and learned
to play at quarter-staff! And you call those boys stupid!"

"Bless me! aunt, it seemed to me that they didn't say anything to me but
things that didn't amuse me."

"But you used to laugh so loud with 'em! I tell you you're sick, my
child; when we go home, I'm going to make you eat a good dish of peas
and pork before you go to bed; that'll do you good."

Denise did not feel sick; she did not herself know why she was not
enjoying herself. At last the hour for retiring arrived, and the girl
was secretly well pleased to return to the cottage and leave her
companions, who glanced sneeringly at her and said to one another:

"Something's the matter with Denise, that's sure! At all events, if
she's always the way she is to-day, the fellows will soon give up liking
her and making love to her."

In spite of, or perhaps because of, the dish of peas and pork, Denise
slept little. She thought, not precisely of the fine gentleman who had
flattered her and kissed her and picked her up after her fall, but of
the one who proposed to take care of poor Coco; of the money of which
she was the depositary, and of the means of making the child happier.

At daybreak she left her bed. After completing her morning chores, she
made her escape and hurried to the Calleux cabin. She saw the child
playing in front of the door and was delighted to speak to him without
witnesses.

"Where's Madeleine?" she asked.

"She's asleep, my little Denise," the child replied, throwing his arms
about the girl's neck.

"And your father?"

"Papa Calleux, he didn't come home last night. Grandma says he slept at
the wine-shop."

"Coco, do you love that gentleman who came here and left money for you,
and kept you from being beaten for breaking the bowl?"

"Oh, yes! I do love him, just. He's got a pretty vest and a pretty
ribbon hanging on it. He's coming to play with me again, ain't he?"

"Yes, he said he'd come again. Do you know his name?"

"He's my dear friend."

"But his name--did he tell you that?"

"No, but he knows my name's Coco, and Papa Calleux----"

"You must love that gentleman dearly, for he means to do ever so much
for you. Would you like to learn to read and write?"

"Oh, yes! so's to read pretty stories in the books with pictures in 'em,
like you've got. But papa won't let me go to school."

"I'll speak to him and try to make him consent----"

At that moment old Madeleine's shrill voice was heard, calling the
child. He kissed Denise and went into the cabin, while the girl walked
rapidly back to the village.

Père Calleux, after passing three days at the wine-shop, resumed his
spade and watering-pot; but he would not consent to let Coco go to
school, although Denise told him that it would cost him nothing; and old
Madeleine would not allow the child to go any farther than the field
where his father worked. Denise went to the hovel every morning; she
always carried something secretly to the child, but she did not touch
Dalville's money.

"He won't come back," said Denise to herself; "here's a week gone
already! Psha! he's forgotten all about--Coco; still another reason for
saving that money. Some day the little fellow will be very glad to have
it. And yet that gentleman seemed to want to come again. Of course he's
been to Madame Destival's, and he didn't go through our village! What
liars they are, those young men from Paris! Still that one has some good
qualities. But why did that Monsieur Bertrand tell me to look out for
myself?"

The dancing days came around in due course, but Denise's good spirits
did not return, although she did her utmost to appear as of old, and
often danced when she felt no desire to do so, and tried to joke with
the young men. Her greatest pleasure now was to sit alone under a great
oak in her garden, or to go to the cabin and embrace Coco, to whom she
talked constantly of the handsome gentleman, who meant to do so much for
him.

A month had passed since Auguste's meeting with Denise, when one
morning, as she was about to start for the cabin, a peasant informed her
that old Madeleine had died during the night. The little milkmaid ran to
the child at full speed. The old woman's remains had not been removed;
and as Calleux was poor and was not liked in the neighborhood, the child
was watching alone by the body, while his father made the necessary
arrangements for the burial.

Denise halted in front of the solitary hovel, the aspect of which seemed
to her more wretched than ever, because Death casts a dark pall over
everything wherever he passes. The girl was surprised to find nobody
about; she drew nearer and bursts of laughter fell upon her ears. She
concluded that the person was mistaken who had told her of the
grandmother's death, and she put her head in at the door. She saw the
death bed, beside which a lamp cast a dim light; and close by she saw
the child playing with his goat on the straw, and greeting with shouts
of laughter Jacqueleine's antics and caresses.

That picture caused Denise a peculiar sensation. She entered the cabin
and walked toward the child, saying:

"What's this, my dear? playing beside your dead grandmother?"

"Will that make her mad?" queried the child, with an artless glance at
Denise.

"No, for she can't hear you; but you ought to be sorry for her death."

"Someone told me she wouldn't whip me again."

"Didn't you cry when she died?"

"No, Denise."

"Then you didn't love her?"

"Oh! I was awful 'fraid of her!"

"My dear, it isn't nice not to have any feeling."

"Oh! if my goat died, Denise, I'd cry hard enough; Jacqueleine's so good
and she loves me so!"

Denise could think of no answer to make to the child; she sent him
outside with his goat. On Père Calleux's return, she obtained his
permission to take Coco with her for a few days, and Coco took with him
his darling goat, from which he refused to part.

Denise was anxious to keep the child with her; Mère Fourcy was
kindhearted, and Denise showed her that as he grew up Coco would be of
use to them, and that the money left by the gentleman from Paris would
be more than sufficient to educate him. Père Calleux, who realized that
his son could not make his soup, consented to leave him with Denise for
the present, and the girl was overjoyed.

Behold, then, Coco a member of the little milkmaid's family, and leading
a pleasant life. Denise, who knew how to read,--not a rare
accomplishment in our villages nowadays,--determined to educate her
little protégé, and did not fail to speak to him every day of the
handsome gentleman who had paid so generously for his bowl.

But another month passed, and the gentleman from Paris did not come
again. Denise, who still loved to muse beneath the great oak, often said
to herself:

"It was quite right to think that he didn't mean a word of all those
fine things he said to me. But, when he wasn't coming back, it wasn't
worth while for that Monsieur Bertrand to say: 'Look out for
yourself!'"




VIII

A BACHELOR'S MORNING RECEPTION


"Is Auguste in, Monsieur Bertrand?" inquired a young woman of
twenty-four, slender and graceful, with fine brown eyes, very black
hair, pale complexion, white, even teeth, and a somewhat fatigued
expression; a face, be it said, which was enlivened and made most
attractive by a mischievous smile. This young woman was a certain
Virginie, of whom mention was made in the cabriolet on the way to
Monsieur Destival's; she had just rung the bell at the door of Auguste's
apartment, although it was only eight o'clock in the morning.

"Monsieur Dalville has gone out," replied Bertrand, with a very slight
nod to Mademoiselle Virginie, which did not deter her from entering the
apartment.

"That's impossible, Bertrand; you say that because there's somebody
here, I suppose, and those are your orders. We know all about that. But
I must see him; I have something very important to say to him. Really,
my little Bertrand, I'm not joking."

"I give you my word, mademoiselle, that Monsieur Dalville has gone out;
or, rather, that he hasn't come in. He went to a grand ball last night,
and it seems to have lasted a long while."

"Great heaven! what actions! Why, it's shocking. That young man is
destroying himself. Bertrand, you don't keep a sharp enough lookout over
him; it isn't right. You ought to preach at him."

"In the first place, mademoiselle, Monsieur Dalville's the master; in
the second place, when I try to talk reason with him, he refuses to
listen to me, or sends me to the devil."

"That's very wrong! Ah! if I were only his mother or sister, you'd see
how good I'd make him! I'm going to wait for him, Bertrand, for he must
come in soon. Still at a ball at eight in the morning! Oh! I don't take
any stock in that yarn."

Mademoiselle Virginie, who was perfectly familiar with the apartment,
opened a door leading to a small salon in which she installed herself,
placing her hat on one chair, her shawl on another, and throwing herself
on a couch. Bertrand quietly followed her, and as if accustomed to such
performances from her, continued to eat the bread and cheese which he
had in his hand when she rang the bell.

"I certainly do not care for Monsieur Auguste any more," said Virginie,
after a moment; "I must be a confounded fool to care for a man who has
thirty-six mistresses; hasn't he, Bertrand?"

"Oh! mademoiselle, I can't say----"

"Yes, yes, he has thirty-six! I don't say all at once; he would have to
be a northern Hercules. And yet--if it could be--It isn't worth while;
one man's no better than another. I know them so well! Don't you think
I'm right, Bertrand?"

"Oh! as for that, there have been men who--the great Turenne, for
instance."

"Bah! what an ass the man is with his great Turenne! Does he take me for
a sentry-box? I don't know ancient history, Bertrand; I don't care about
anything except my own time, and I tell you Auguste's a rake. In the
first place, he played me a shameful trick three weeks ago. Think of
it! he made an appointment with me, and we were to pass the day together
and go to Feydeau in the evening; and monsieur left me to cool my heels
and went off into the country, to his Monsieur Destival, business agent.
He's another fox, that fellow! He'd better attend to what goes on in his
own house, eh, Bertrand?"

"In his own house, mademoiselle? Do you mean----"

"Yes, you understand well enough! That is, unless he likes it. Bless my
soul! there are husbands whom that sort of thing just suits! Did you
spend the night at that place?"

"Yes, mademoiselle."

"Mon Dieu! how rural! Did you stay there several days? Come, Bertrand,
speak out--you have time enough to eat; you know that I haven't set foot
inside this door for an age, and Monsieur Auguste hasn't so much as had
the decency to come to inquire for my health. And yet I've been very
ill; I nearly died! I am ever so much changed, am I not, Bertrand?"

"Why, no, mademoiselle, I don't see that----"

"Oh, yes! the whites of my eyes are yellow yet. To be sure this dress
isn't becoming. It's too high, it cramps me.--Well, Bertrand, what did
you do in the country?"

"I taught Monsieur Destival the manual, mademoiselle."

"Oho! is he going to enlist in the voltigeurs? How about his wife--does
she do the manual too? She ought to learn to drum so that she can march
in front of her husband when he goes out to fire his gun."

"I don't know what madame was doing, mademoiselle."

"Of course not; it was your business to keep the husband busy, while
Monsieur Auguste dallied with madame in the thick shrubbery! I can see
that man firing at crows while his wife hunts strawberries! Ha! ha!"

Mademoiselle Virginie laughed so heartily that it was several minutes
before she could speak again. Meanwhile Bertrand paced the salon floor,
continuing his breakfast.

"Oh dear! it hurts to laugh like that.--Tell me, Bertrand, when did you
come back?"

"The next day, mademoiselle."

"And Auguste hasn't been there again since?"

"No, mademoiselle; he's often wanted to go, but he hasn't had time."

"Oh! of course not; he has so much to do! And he hasn't been to see me
once in the last fortnight! He leaves me sick, almost dying! And I am
not well yet. Oh, no! I am still suffering terribly.--What's that you're
eating, Bertrand?"

"Just plain Roquefort cheese, mademoiselle."

"It's queer to watch another person eat; it makes me want to eat too;
you see, I always have to do what I see others do. You may as well give
me some breakfast, my little Bertrand, because, you see, if I should
whine and cry till to-morrow, it's all nonsense, and my calf wouldn't be
any bigger for that; would it, Bertrand?"

"Mademoiselle, if you----"

"He's a good fellow, this Bertrand; I love him a lot, I do; yes, I'm
very fond of him, although he's a bit of a traitor, like his master."

"Oh! as for that, mademoiselle, when you talk about being honest, I
flatter myself----"

"All right, Bertrand; I only said that for fun. But I'm not going to
breakfast on honesty. What are you going to give me?"

"If mademoiselle would like coffee, I'll go down and have some sent up."

"Coffee! oh! that makes a hole in my stomach, it's no good. Haven't you
got anything to eat here?"

"We have the remains of a pie, a bit of fowl, and some Lyon sausage."

"Ah! I like those better than coffee; bring 'em all, my little Bertrand;
just to pass the time till Auguste comes back."

Bertrand moved a small tea-table to the couch, and lost no time in
laying it for Mademoiselle Virginie's breakfast, who assisted him by
going to the sideboard herself for whatever she needed, saying:

"I am sorry to put you to so much trouble, Bertrand."

"You are joking, mademoiselle."

"Where's little Tony?"

"He's with monsieur; he has to have somebody on account of the
cabriolet."

"That boy's a sly little rascal; he'll never tell me anything, whereas
you, Bertrand, you do at least talk; to be sure, I know that you don't
tell me everything. After all, you're right; there are some things I
ought not to know, they'd make me too unhappy. Meanwhile, I'll have my
breakfast."

Mademoiselle Virginie took her place before the breakfast, and, while
repeating from time to time that she was still sick, speedily caused the
cold fowl to disappear, and made a vigorous assault on the pie and the
sausage, washing them down with claret, in which she did not deem it
necessary to put water.

But, while she was eating, Virginie glanced at a clock in front of her
and cried:

"The rascal! Why doesn't he come home? You must admit, Bertrand, that
people don't stay at a ball till nine o'clock in the morning. I know
myself that bourgeois balls always end by five; my aunt used to give one
sometimes. Poor aunt! I shall have to make up with her now!--I say, this
pie isn't half bad.--You see, Bertrand, my aunt's a woman of your sort."

"I understand--a tall woman, five feet six inches, like me, eh?"

"No, no! what a donkey you are with your six inches! Still, it would be
rather nice[C] if my aunt had six of 'em. When I say of your sort, I
mean a fine woman, a respectable woman. Oh! she preaches to me, I tell
you, she does! She used to say such touching things to me that I wept
like a Magdalen while I was listening; but once outside--prrr!--I forgot
all about it.--A body could eat a two pound loaf with this devilish
sausage!--That wretched Auguste! Ah! he shall pay me for this. In the
first place, I don't propose to go till he comes back, if I have to stay
here till to-morrow. It don't make any difference to me, I'm my own
mistress."

[C] The joke consists in the fact that the same word--_pouce_--means
"inch" and "thumb."

At that moment the bell rang softly.

"Ah! there he is!" cried Virginie; "don't tell him I'm here, Bertrand,
do you hear? I want to surprise him. Shut the door of the salon."

"Very well, mademoiselle; but I have an idea that it isn't monsieur; I
didn't recognize his ring."

Having closed the door of the salon, Bertrand opened the one leading to
the hall; whereupon, instead of Auguste, he saw the pretty neighbor of
the third floor to whom he had restored the poodle.

The pretty neighbor was a blonde, with blue eyes and a pink complexion;
her voice was low and sweet, her manners and her bearing savored of
affectation; but she was pretty, and her natural charms won forgiveness
for those which she tried to impart to herself.

"Isn't my little Lozor in your rooms, Monsieur Bertrand?" asked the
young blonde in an undertone, with a furtive glance about the apartment.

"I have not had the honor to see him, madame," replied Bertrand, still
holding the door only partly open; which fact did not prevent the
neighbor from stepping farther into the room.

"That is strange; he went out this morning; my maid is at market, and I
hoped to find him here."

"If the deserter appears, madame, I shall have the pleasure of bringing
him back to you at once."

"Poor Lozor! I am really anxious about him."

And the neighbor, advancing step by step, found herself in the centre of
the reception room, while Bertrand still held the door ajar, hoping thus
to induce her to go away.

"Monsieur Dalville went out last night in full dress, didn't he,
Monsieur Bertrand?"

"Yes, madame."

"I happened to be at my window and I saw him. I would have liked to say
a word to him, to ask him for a book that he promised to let me have
to-day. But he went away so fast! If it wasn't so early, I would ask him
to be kind enough to give it to me now. But that would disturb him
perhaps?"

The neighbor seemed to await a reply, but Bertrand kept silent and
contented himself with swinging the door back and forth.

"Is Monsieur Dalville still in bed?" inquired the pretty blonde at last,
bestowing upon the ex-corporal a glance as tender as her voice was
sweet. He was about to reply when the door of the small salon was
abruptly thrown open, and disclosed Virginie, who came forward with an
air of deliberation, saying:

"Well! is it coming off to-day, Bertrand? Are we playing hide-and-seek?"

When Virginie appeared, Bertrand closed the hall door and sat down,
muttering between his teeth:

"Fight it out; it's none of my business."

At sight of Mademoiselle Virginie, the neighbor turned a little pinker
than she was, and her eyes lost their usual soft expression. Virginie,
for her part, scrutinized the neighbor from top to toe, contracting her
dark eyebrows, and allowing a scornful smile to play about her lips.
Bertrand alone seemed unmoved; and while the two ladies eyed each other
from head to foot, he calmly swallowed a glass of wine, to wash down his
Roquefort.

"You didn't tell me, Monsieur Bertrand, that Monsieur Dalville had
company," said the neighbor at last, in a voice which she strove to make
as soft as usual, but in which one could detect a note of something
resembling anger. "If I had known, I certainly would not have ventured
to disturb him."

"Does madame want to see Auguste, Bertrand?" inquired Virginie
carelessly, smiling with a sly expression.

The familiar manner in which the pretty brunette referred to her
neighbor seemed to confound Madame Saint-Edmond, who did what she could
to conceal her agitation, saying:

"Yes, madame, I wish to see Monsieur Dalville."

"If it is anything that someone else can say to Auguste, I will
undertake to do so, madame."

"You are too kind, madame, but I wish to speak to Monsieur Dalville in
person."

"Ah! I understand. Auguste is already acquainted with madame, I
presume?"

"Yes, madame, I have the honor of Monsieur Dalville's acquaintance."

"As Auguste tells me all his business, I might be able to answer madame,
if she cared to explain the purpose of her call."

"Am I to understand that madame is now commissioned to receive the
persons who may call on Monsieur Dalville?"

"That may be, madame."

"Monsieur Bertrand, you ought to have told me--to have spared me--But I
absolutely insist on speaking to Monsieur Dalville. Let him know that I
have just a word to say to him. Then I will leave him at peace with
madame."

"If I had had a chance to answer sooner, madame, I'd have told you
before this that my lieutenant hasn't come home from the ball yet;
that's why madame was waiting in the small salon."

"Very well! I am going to wait for him too," said the neighbor, whose
voice was no longer of the most honeyed kind; and as she passed Bertrand
on her way to the salon, she whispered to him:

"I don't know who this woman is, but she's very bad style!"

Virginie stayed behind in the reception room a moment, to say to
Bertrand:

"Who's that little jackdaw? Don't lie to me, my little Bertrand, or I'll
make a row."

"She's a lady who lives in the house."

"Aha! lives in the house, does she? That's very convenient! She looks
like a regular slut! Has Auguste known her long?"

"Why, no; about six weeks."

"Does he love her?"

"How do you expect me to know that? Do you suppose I ask my lieutenant:
'Do you love So-and-So, or Such-a-One?'"

"All right! you're a villain. I can only say that Auguste shows poor
taste! She's a homely creature, that woman; she has red rims about her
eyes, just like a rabbit's, and she has an ugly mouth, hasn't she,
Bertrand?"

"Why, I don't think so."

"As if you knew anything about it! I tell you that she's a horror, with
her princess's airs! Ah! if she expects to impose on me, she's very much
mistaken. The sinner, to insist on speaking to Auguste in private! Just
to tease her, I'm going to eat some more pie, even if I die of
indigestion."

Virginie returned to the salon, resumed her seat on the couch and
attacked the breakfast once more. The neighbor seated herself on a chair
at the other end of the room, and while making a pretence of looking out
into the street, watched Virginie's every movement from the corner of
her eye. Bertrand meanwhile remained in the outer room, leaving the
ladies to adjust matters as they chose. As she ate, Virginie hummed
snatches of comic opera airs; Madame Saint-Edmond did not make a sound.
This situation lasted for some time. At last Virginie, beginning to lose
patience, called Bertrand and said to him:

"Your pie isn't at all nice; the last time I breakfasted with Auguste,
we had a much better one."

Bertrand simply removed the scanty remains of the pie, saying to
himself:

"I'd have sworn that she found it good!"

"Bertrand," said Virginie, after a moment, "will you give me a little
water and some sugar, please? It will do me a lot of good."

"She must need it," said the neighbor to herself, with a sarcastic
smile.

"By the way, my little Bertrand, you have some orange flower water,
haven't you? It will allay nervous excitement."

Virginie laughed when she said this, and was evidently making fun of
Madame Saint-Edmond; but that lady seemed to pay no heed to what she
said.

"Upon my word, I am very sorry that I disturbed you, Bertrand," resumed
Virginie, preparing some sweetened water for herself; "I might just as
well have gone to get it myself, for I know where everything is. I am
perfectly at home here. But you are so good-natured!"

"I do my duty, mademoiselle," said Bertrand, with a military salute.

"I know, Monsieur Bertrand, how attached you are to Auguste," said
Virginie, assuming a sentimental tone. "And so, whenever I mention you
to him, I am very glad to speak in terms of praise. That's no more than
justice, that's sure. Auguste, who has every confidence in me, will
follow my advice, I trust, and you'll find, Monsieur Bertrand, that I am
not capable--of--of never doing----"

Virginie always became entangled when she tried to talk sense or to be
sentimental. Bertrand confounded himself in reverences, awaiting the end
of a speech which he did not comprehend; but luckily for Virginie, the
bell rang.

"There's Auguste!" she cried, while Bertrand went to the door.

Thereupon there was a great commotion in the salon. Virginie rose, all
ready to rush to the door, glaring at the blonde lady with an expression
of defiance. The latter, too, had risen; but she did not look at
Virginie, and did her utmost to maintain a calm and indifferent
attitude.

But their hopes were blasted once more. It was not Dalville who had
rung, but Tony, his diminutive groom, who came to inform Bertrand that
after the ball, which was at Madame de la Thomassinière's, the
resplendent Athalie had carried away a part of the company to breakfast
at her country estate. Auguste was among the number; his hostess had
refused to allow him even a moment to return home and change his
clothes. But, as Auguste had emptied his purse at cards during the
evening, he sent his little jockey, with the cabriolet, to obtain some
money, which he was to deliver to his master at Madame de la
Thomassinière's estate.

As Virginie had held the salon door ajar, both ladies heard what the
little groom said to Bertrand.

"You see, mesdames, it is useless for you to wait any longer," said
Bertrand, returning to the salon; "monsieur's off to the country; he has
sent for something and that means that he isn't likely to return very
soon."

"Yes, he has sent for money," said Virginie, with a sigh. "God! how the
man does throw it away! It's frightful! If he only gave me a quarter of
what he----"

Virginie checked herself; she realized that she had made a mistake.
Madame Saint-Edmond cast a contemptuous glance at her and left the room,
saying to Bertrand:

"All that I ask you, monsieur, is to be kind enough to let me know when
Monsieur Dalville returns."

"I shall not fail, madame," replied the corporal, escorting the neighbor
to the door. In the reception room she said to him:

"I don't know who this hussy is that I found installed in Monsieur
Dalville's apartment; but she acts like a fishwoman, and her manner is
so insolent that I wouldn't have her for my cook."

When the neighbor had gone, Virginie concluded to resume her hat and
shawl.

"Well," she muttered, "I may as well go, as that good-for-nothing isn't
coming home. It's a nuisance, though, for I really needed to see him. I
wanted to ask him--That idiot of a landlord is always in my rooms! Oh!
how he tires me! He's furious because he tried to make love to me and I
wouldn't listen to him. Think of it--a little seducer of fifty-five!
What do you suppose he did, Bertrand, in the hot weather? He came to see
me in the morning in his dressing gown; but one day, when the wind blew,
I saw that my gentleman was dressed underneath like--like a
Scotchman!--'Come, come,' said I to myself, 'this is too free and easy!
If he comes here that way for the purpose of seducing me, just a
minute!'--He wouldn't go away, so I called the concierge and had the
landlord put out of my room. Since then, he's as ugly as sin. Well, I'll
come back very soon.--Ah! I know where I'll go. Yes, that fat
Englishman, who was willing to set me up in business, on condition
that--Good! I'll go and tell him that I've found a linen-draper's shop.
After all, I am tired of living this way; I mean to have a shop. I
wouldn't look so bad behind a counter, would I, Bertrand?--I say, the
neig

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