The music had delayed the dinner, and they were still talking around the table in the garden long after it had grown dark. Suddenly Poucette ran toward them with a terrified air, and said to the young man:
“Monsieur, your name’s Edmond Didier, isn’t it?”
“Yes—why?”
“Because there’s a young gentleman running all about the neighborhood, shouting at the top of his lungs:
“‘Edmond Didier, where are you? if you are not killed or eaten, answer me! I am waiting for you! I am waiting for you! I am waiting for you!’ ”
“What does this mean?” demanded Honorine, while Edmond hung his head and stammered in dire confusion:
“Mon Dieu, mesdames, I beg your pardon most humbly; I remember now that I came here with a friend of mine.”
“And you have not thought of him since morning! Oh! the poor fellow!”
“Do not pity him, madame; I arranged to meet him at Gournay, to eat amatelote; but it gave me so much pleasure to remain with you——”
“That you left your friend to his own devices.”
“He will have eaten hismatelotewithout me—that’s all.”
“But you see that he is anxious about you, since he is rushing about the country calling you.—Try to overtake this gentleman, Poucette, and bring him back with you; tell him that the person he is looking for is here.”
“Very well, madame. I’ll find him; he’s yelling loud enough, so that you can hear him a long way.”
“Really, madame, I abuse your good nature. To compel you to receive my friend——”
“Is he not presentable?”
“I beg pardon; he’s a very good fellow,—a little free-and-easy,—I mean, a little eccentric; he is very well circumstanced, he has a handsome fortune——”
“That is a matter of indifference to us; but it seems that he must be very fond of you, to look for you so energetically.”
“Oh! that’s because he doesn’t want to go back alone.”
At that moment Poucette returned with Freluchon, who, as soon as he caught sight of Edmond, exclaimed:
“Ah! so this is the way you treat your friends; and it was to make me pass a day like Robinson Crusoe, ina horrible place where one doesn’t see a living being, that you brought me into the country with you!”
“Freluchon!—don’t you see these ladies?”
“Oh! I beg pardon, mesdames; but really that is no way to act; I leave it to these ladies—let them say whether I did wrong to cry aloud.—Imagine, mesdames, that this gentleman, who dares to call me his friend, brought me here almost by force this morning, saying: ‘We will have a delightful day; I am going to call on some very charming ladies who live at Chelles, but I shall not stay long; go to Gournay and wait for me; order amateloteand I’ll be with you at four o’clock.—Very good; I turn to the right when he turns to the left. I find myself in a country which is not unpleasant to look at, perhaps, but where you don’t meet a living soul—not a peasant—not an ass—and ordinarily there are asses everywhere!—Oh! by the way, I did meet some sheep, but no shepherd—I saw only the dog—probably he acts as shepherd too. After walking about for three mortal hours in this desert, somewhat anxious concerning my plight and saying to myself from time to time: ‘Can it be that a second Deluge has swept this region?’ I returned to the modest cabaret where I had ordered amatelote, some fried fish, and even a rabbitsauté, for I should not believe that I was dining in the country unless I ate rabbit.
“The dinner was ready, but monsieur had not arrived. I waited one, two, three-quarters of an hour, until thecabaretierinformed me that the dinner was sufferingfrom the delay. At that, I took my place at the table, thinking that he would come in a moment. I swallowed several pieces of eel—thematelotewas good, I must admit that—but he didn’t come. I said to myself: ‘What’s the use of leaving the eel?’—I ate eleven slices of it, mesdames, with fried fish and rabbit in proportion; if I have indigestion, it will be his fault! Eleven slices! and the eel was superb.
“After dinner I left Gournay and set out in quest of my gentleman; for I was really uneasy. I thought that something must have happened to him, that he had fallen into a hole—there are holes everywhere. I reached this hamlet, and, not knowing where you lived, mesdames, I called my friend—in a heartrending voice; no one answered. Faith! then I rang the bell at rather a fine house, with pilasters topped by great balls tapering to a point. I don’t know what style of architecture that is, but I suspect that it’s theBoulettestyle. I rang rather violently, no doubt; and as I continued to call this blackguard—I beg pardon, mesdames, I mean this—scamp—it seems that I alarmed the occupants of the house, and four of them came in a body to open the door; there was one gentleman who was armed, and I saw another dancing in the courtyard. A tall woman, with the voice of a sapper and miner, said to me:
“‘What do you want, monsieur, and why are you making all this uproar at my door?’
“Thereupon I assumed an affable manner and replied in honeyed tones:
“‘Do you happen to have here my friend Edmond Didier, with whom I would like to return to Paris?’
“At that, the big man who was armed observed that I was a joker, that it was probably a prearranged scene, and the tall woman said:
“‘I don’t like jokes of this kind; I call it downright impertinent.’
“And they immediately shut the door in my face, just as the little man who was dancing posed asZéphir.”
“Monsieur must have called at Madame Droguet’s!” said Agathe, laughingly.
“Ah! that lady’s name is Droguet, is it? it is well suited to her.—Appalled by my inhospitable reception, I walked on through the streets, shouting exactly like a crier announcing the loss of some object or the approach of the day when taxes must be paid; in villages they never fail to make that announcement, in order to stimulate the zeal of the taxpayers. But your servant came to my rescue, madame, and guided me here.”
“And now, Freluchon, I will reply to your reproaches in very few words. I certainly intended to join you, but these ladies had the extreme kindness to invite me to dine with them. Tell me now, if you had been in my place, would you not have done exactly as I did, and accepted?”
“It’s very likely; but I would have sent a messenger to Gournay to set my friend’s mind at rest.”
“You? you never would have thought of such a thing! And besides, there are no messengers in a village.”
“You won’t have so much difficulty in finding your friend when he has lodgings here,” said Agathe.
“Ah! do you propose to hire a house here?”
“No, not a house, but a small apartment.”
“Monsieur’s lungs are delicate,” said Honorine, “and he thinks that the country air will do him good.”
“Your lungs delicate! Well! that is a good one!”
And Freluchon threw himself back in his chair, laughing uproariously, oblivious to the glances Edmond bestowed upon him.
Honorine put an end to the scene by saying to the newcomer:
“Will monsieur have something to eat?”
“Infinitely obliged, madame; but when one has eaten eleven slices of eel, one needs nothing but exercise.—But the trains—what time does the last train leave for Paris?”
“At ten o’clock.”
“In that case, it will be well for us to start.”
Edmond realized that his friend was right; he took leave of the ladies, thanking them for their hospitable welcome; while Freluchon eyed Poucette, whose robust figure aroused his admiration.
Then the two young men went to the station.
Chamoureau, who was in such utter despair when he lost his Eléonore—or who pretended to be, for genuine sorrow does not act a part and make a public display of its tears; it seeks solitude and finds solace in its memories—Chamoureau had contracted a second marriage; he had become the husband of the woman whose charms had turned his head. At last he possessed the fair Thélénie, if it is proper to say that one possesses a woman when she gives herself to one without love. In my opinion one has only the usufruct in such cases.
The newly-married pair had taken a handsome apartment on Rue Saint-Lazare. Thélénie had informed her husband that she proposed to have a carriage, and he had bowed to his wife’s wishes, saying:
“My dear love, we will have whatever you wish; I shall always consider it a pleasure and a duty to gratify all your desires.”
“In that case, monsieur, you may begin by ceasing to call methou; there is nothing in worse form than to thee-and-thou one’s wife; and I am a stickler for good form.”
“What, my dear love, after three days of married life, thou—you want——”
“You have thee-and-thoued me three days already, and that’s too much; I tell you again, monsieur, that in good society a man and wife don’t do it. You seem desirous to appear like a petty government clerk.”
“I don’t agree to that—but I thought——”
“Enough—it’s decided: you are not to call methouany more.”
“What! not even in the blissful moments when my affection——”
“Hush! that’s enough.”
“The devil! that will embarrass me terribly.”
From that moment Chamoureau no longer ventured to use the familiar form of address to his wife; in her presence he was like a scholar before his teacher, or rather, like a soldier before his commanding officer. He dared not speak unless he was questioned; he had no opinions, tastes, desires; Madame Chamoureau took all that responsibility on her shoulders.
As is frequently the case with women who have led very dissipated lives, Thélénie, after her marriage, assumed a very severe demeanor and bearing; she became a veritable prude, frowned if anyone made a ribald remark before her, and scolded her husband if he presumed to laugh at it. She refused to go to the Théâtre de Palais-Royal, and she could not understand how women could have the effrontery to waltz.
Such was Madame de Belleville; for the newly-married pair answered to no other name, and Thélénie had said to her husband more than once:
“Remember, monsieur, that your name is no longer Chamoureau; when anyone calls you by that name, don’t answer, but turn a deaf ear and go your way.”
“But, my dear love, there are people who have known me a long while, and who know perfectly well that my name is Chamoureau.”
“Tell those people once for all that you answer to no name but Belleville.”
“There are some who think that I live at Belleville, and that that’s what I mean.”
“Bah! monsieur, what difference does all that make? Suppose you should cease to be the friend of the pack of fools with whom you used to associate, where would be the harm?”
“That’s true; in that case, I cease to know my former acquaintances; I have a handsome fortune, and I ought not to frequent the same kind of society.”
“Oh! by the way, monsieur, there are two persons to whom I give you leave to speak, and even, if—if it will be agreeable to you to see them—you may ask them to call on us; I shall not be sorry to let them see the comfort and elegance of our home.”
“Very well, dear love; and who are these two persons whom you are kind enough to be willing to receive?”
“Monsieur Edmond Didier and his friend Freluchon.”
“Oho! why, if I’m not mistaken, you demanded, before marrying me, that I should break off all relations with those two gentlemen.”
“It is quite possible, monsieur; I may have desired it then; now I feel differently. Am I not at liberty to change my mind?”
“Oh! yes, indeed! absolutely at liberty.”
“This Freluchon was your intimate friend, I know, and I do not wish to deprive you of his company.”
“Oh! thanks a thousand times, my adored wife! I am deeply sensible of——”
“Don’t talk to me like that any more!Adored wife!Anyone would think we were acting a melodrama! Call me madame, and stick to that.”
“Very well, I understand, madame—madame—and I will stick to that.”
Some days after this conversation, which will give an idea of the kind of happiness which Chamoureau enjoyed since he had ceased to be a widower, he came face to face with Freluchon one morning on the boulevard.
The latter began by laughing in his former friend’s face.
“Good-day, Freluchon; what are you laughing at?”
“Parbleu! at your expression—your new rig—your new face—for you have manufactured a new face for yourself with all the rest.”
“Freluchon, you see a very happy man.”
“No one would think it to see you walk.”
“Freluchon, I am married again; the lovely Thélénie has become my wife.”
“Aha! so that’s what gives you such an idiotic look, is it? I supposed at first that it was the result of yournew wealth; but you’re married, so there’s a double explanation.”
“Yes, Freluchon, I am.”
“You have been married once already; but you were bent on doing it again, and it was your right.”
“Ah! my friend, I am the most fortunate of men!”
“You say that as if you were reciting a fable: ‘A crow perched on a tree——’”
“Tell me, Freluchon, why won’t you believe that I am happy?”
“Bless my soul! I ask nothing better than to believe it. If it is so, so much the better; but as I know these women, as I know that when they have once found a dupe to cover up their past misconduct, they acquire such authority over him that he becomes a mere nobody—an utterly ridiculous person—well, I didn’t know that that rôle would suit you. But it does suit you, so it’s all right, it’s your business. March gayly on, my poor Chamoureau, and may——”
“Oh! I beg your pardon—allow me to stop you right there. I must tell you that my name is no longer Chamoureau, or, at least, I no longer answer to that name.”
“The deuce! have you taken your wife’s name, pray? are you Monsieur Thélénie?”
“No, my name is De Belleville now.”
“What does this new farce mean?”
“It means that my wife, my superb wife, cannot endure the name of Chamoureau; it’s a weakness of hers, but to be agreeable to her, I have taken the name of theplace where I was born—Belleville—and we are known by no other name now—Monsieur and Madame de Belleville.”
“Gad! that’s another good one! But after all, you may call yourself Romulus if you choose; it’s all one to me, absolutely.”
“By the way, Freluchon, that isn’t all; my wife, who is very affable with me, although——”
“Although it doesn’t appear?”
“No, I mean, although—although she doesn’t mean to be—has authorized me to invite you and your friend Edmond Didier to come to see us.”
“Ha! ha! ha! worse and worse!”
“What’s the matter?”
“And it is you whom she selects for such errands?”
“Why not?”
“Poor Chamoureau!”
“De Belleville, I beg you, Freluchon; De Belleville! Don’t call me anything else.”
“Very well, my dear Seigneur de Belleville—for if you are not yet a seigneur, I am sure that you soon will be——”
“Do you think so?”
“You are well fitted to reach any height—with the help of your wife’scotillon.”
“What do you mean by hercotillon?”
“In other words, her influence. You will thank Madame de Belleville, in my behalf; I do not expect to avail myself of her invitation.”
“Why not?”
“As I am very absent-minded, I fear that I might make a mistake, and call her Madame Chamoureau; and I am sure that she would turn me out of doors on the instant.”
“What a paltry reason!”
“As for Edmond Didier—oh! that’s a different matter. I hardly ever see him now.”
“Indeed? have you had a falling out?”
“Not at all; but he is in love, yes, very seriously in love this time; and as his passion lies in Chelles, he has hired a place in that region and he never stirs from there.”
“Chelles? I wonder if this passion of his can be a lady for whom I bought a little place at Chelles in the spring—Madame Dalmont?”
“Precisely; that is to say, it is not Madame Dalmont whom he’s in love with, but her young friend, a very pretty girl who lives with her—Mademoiselle Agathe.”
“Oh, yes! I remember—a very pretty blonde, that is true. I understand now why he took so much trouble to have that purchase concluded so quickly: Mademoiselle Agathe had already caught his eye.”
“Parbleu! when a young man becomes so obliging, so zealous, so eager to make himself useful, you may be sure that love has something to do with it.”
“So you don’t see Edmond now?”
“I see him when I go to Chelles, to his lodgings; but as I am not in love, I don’t go very often. Still, there’sa very pretty peasant girl there, Mademoiselle Poucette. But when you attempt to joke with her, why! she cuffs you as if she’d pound you to a jelly.—So, my dear fellow, you need not expect a call from Edmond. As I tell you, he is hooked this time; he’s head over ears in love; but this young woman cannot be his mistress—and then——”
“Then he will marry her.”
“That would do very well if he still had the sixty thousand francs that he did have; one can live upon that amount. But he has very little of it left; and as for the young lady, I fancy that she has nothing but her lovely eyes, and they won’t do to make soup.”
“Oh, no! money before everything! That is my wife’s principle, too.”
“I don’t doubt it; she has famous principles, has your wife!—Adieu, Chamoureau de Belleville, lord of the outskirts and of other places which I will not mention. When you have a coat of arms, I advise you to put in some stag’s horns; they look well against the background of the shield.”
Freluchon walked away, still laughing.
“That devilish Freluchon!” said Chamoureau to himself as he looked after him; “he’s always in high spirits; but I don’t believe he has thirty-two thousand two hundred francs a year! After all, I am quite as well pleased that he is not coming to our house; I am quite certain he would call me Chamoureau; he would do it on purpose!”
When he reached home, the happy bridegroom lost no time in seeking Thélénie, and telling her that he had met Freluchon. The name of Edmond’s friend instantly fixed Thélénie’s attention.
“Well, did you invite him to come to see us, and to bring his friend Monsieur Edmond?” she asked.
“Yes, to be sure, I did what you told me; but they won’t either of them come.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Freluchon has contracted the habit of laughing in everybody’s face; he joked me about my change of name, and declared that if he came to see us he couldn’t help calling me Chamoureau. As you may imagine, I didn’t insist.”
“But his friend, Monsieur Edmond Didier?”
“Oh! that’s a different matter! He has a love-affair on the brain; a passion—oh! a grand passion—Look out, my dear, you’ll drop that book you have in your hand.”
“Never mind, monsieur; what does the book matter? Go on; you say that Monsieur Edmond is very much in love—as usual—some caprice for a grisette, for that gentleman takes to that type of woman.”
“No, madame, this time it’s a respectable young woman with whom he is in love.”
“How do you know that she is respectable?”
“Because I know her; she’s a fascinating blonde.”
“You know her, you say, monsieur; and you have never mentioned it to me!”
“Never mentioned what to you?”
“Why, Monsieur Edmond’s love for this girl, whom you know, and whom you consider so pretty.”
“Why, madame, I couldn’t mention it to you, because I knew nothing about it myself; it was Freluchon who told me.”
“But you said that you knew this woman! You don’t seem to know what you are saying, monsieur! Oh! how you irritate me!”
“My dear love, do be careful; you’re tearing the lace in your sleeves—you will have it in rags.”
“Oh! don’t bother about my lace, monsieur; it suits me to tear it, apparently. But for God’s sake, tell me exactly what Monsieur Freluchon said to you about his friend Edmond. Speak, monsieur! why don’t you speak? you see that I am waiting!”
At that moment Thélénie’s eyes emitted flames, and their expression was so far from loving that Chamoureau found them less beautiful than usual. He had never seen his superb wife’s face wear such a savage, threatening expression; he felt ill at ease, he was frightened, and he stammered:
“Madame, you—you—dis—dis—distress me; what—what—what’s the m—m—matter?”
Thélénie strove to calm herself as she replied:
“Why, nothing’s the matter, monsieur; only my nerves are on edge this morning, and the slightest thing upsets me, irritates me. Go on, I am listening.”
Chamoureau repeated to his wife all that Freluchon had told him concerning Edmond’s new love-affair.Thélénie listened attentively; she tried to remain calm; to avoid tearing her lace; and she rejoined with apparent tranquillity:
“So these women who live at Chelles are known to you?”
“Yes, my dear love; it was through me that they bought Monsieur Courtivaux’s house—for twenty thousand francs, as I remember.”
“What sort of women are they?”
“Madame Dalmont, the one who bought the house, is a widow, some twenty-six or twenty-seven years old, with an interesting, but sad face; of moderate means, she told me herself. Her young friend, the one Monsieur Edmond is so much in love with, must be about sixteen or seventeen—she’s an orphan, I believe—but such a pretty face! lovely fair hair, blue eyes——”
“Enough, monsieur! you have extolled this surprising beauty too much already! I shall end by thinking that you are in love with her too!”
“Ah! madame, you know very well that you alone, whose unapproachable charms——”
“And Monsieur Edmond has hired a house at Chelles? he lives there now?”
“Yes, in order to be near those ladies.”
“At whose house he visits?”
“Naturally.”
After a few minutes of silence, Thélénie said:
“Monsieur, allcomme il fautpeople have a house in the country, a villa to which they go for the summer. Ofcourse you do not expect me to stay cooped up in Paris all summer, like a shopkeeper on Rue Saint-Denis.”
“Madame—I think—faith! I don’t know; I will do whatever you want.”
“I want a country house, monsieur; we will hire one.”
“Very well, my dear love; I will look about for one, I will read thePetites-Affiches.”
“Don’t take all that trouble; just tell them to put the horses in the carriage, and we will look for a house in the neighborhood that I like best.”
Chamoureau executed his wife’s orders with alacrity, while she, left to her reflections, said to herself:
“Ah! I will know this woman whom you love, ungrateful Edmond! and I will find a way to put a spoke in your love-affairs!”
Mademoiselle Héloïse, who had retained her former footing of intimacy with her old friend, because she was careful to call her nothing but Madame de Belleville, suddenly appeared, in evident uneasiness, and whispered to Thélénie:
“I say, my dear, I just saw—down in the street, standing in front of the house, that horrid man who came to your old rooms one day, so wretchedly dressed, all in rags, and who had such a strange name—Croque, I think.”
“Ah! you recognized him?”
“Yes, although he is dressed a little better than he was the other time. He has one of those faces that one doesn’t forget! he looks like a night-owl!”
“So Croque has found my trail,” thought Thélénie, “and some day he will present himself again. Oh, well! it matters little, after all; I have an idea now that I may have occasion to make use of him.”
Edmond very soon put in execution the plan he had formed. On the day after that on which he had dined at Madame Dalmont’s, he returned to Chelles alone. He did not call upon the ladies, because a second visit after so brief an interval would have been indiscreet; but he went all about the neighborhood and succeeded in finding an attractive house to let all furnished, a very short distance from Madame Dalmont’s. The house was large enough for a good-sized family; it was much too large for a single man; but the tenant could have possession at once, and it was only five minutes’ walk from Madame Dalmont’s; so Edmond did not hesitate; he hired it for the balance of the year for one thousand francs, one-half of which he paid in cash to Monsieur Durand, the owner of the property.
Two days later, the young man called at Madame Dalmont’s.
“It is a neighbor of yours,” he said, “who ventures to pay you a visit, and who, if it is not too presumptuous,will ask your permission to come now and then in the evening, to play and sing with you.”
“What! have you hired a house here?” cried Agathe, unable to restrain a joyous movement.
“Yes, mademoiselle, a summer house, belonging to a Monsieur Durand, very near that lady’s house where Freluchon was so coldly received when he went there to ask for me a few days ago.”
“Oh! I know the place,” said Honorine, “but it seems to me to be very large for a single man.”
“Oh! what difference does it make? Besides, Freluchon will come to see me often, and pass the night.”
“I thought that he didn’t like this part of the country.”
“He will get used to it; for my part, the longer I am here, the better I like it.”
As he said this, Edmond’s eyes were fixed on Agathe, and she understood perfectly why the young man liked Chelles so much.
But it was not without considerable disquietude that Honorine saw Edmond Didier take up his abode so near to them; and Agathe, who could read her protectress’s face very easily, said to her after Edmond’s departure:
“How serious you look! Are you sorry that Monsieur Edmond has hired a country house in this vicinity? You frown at me; is it my fault?”
“Your fault? yes, of course it’s your fault; and yet I can’t scold you! Why, you know perfectly well that this young man is in love with you; and that that wasthe only motive that led him to hire that house, which is large enough for ten persons.”
“My dear friend, I swear to you that Monsieur Edmond has never said a word to me which would lead me to suppose that—that he was thinking of me.”
“I believe you; indeed, he has not been coming here long.”
“Do you mean that you think that that young man is capable of saying unseemly things to me? Do you suppose that I would listen to them?”
“No. Monsieur Edmond seems an honorable man; he has no evil intentions, I believe; but love is a sentiment that one cannot control. If you should love this young man——”
“Well, where would be the harm, since you think that he loves me? He would be my husband.”
“Your husband! My poor girl, before marrying, you must have at least enough to live on. You have nothing, and I fancy that Monsieur Edmond hasn’t very much, either!”
“But he is always very well and fashionably dressed; he hired Monsieur Durand’s house for a thousand francs.”
“That proves that he knows how to spend money, but not that he knows how to earn it.—Come, come, don’t you take your turn at making wry faces at me. I am your second mother; I am thinking of your future, of your welfare; you ought not to be angry with me for that.”
Agathe replied by throwing herself into Honorine’s arms, saying:
“Never fear! I shall not have any secrets from you.”
The two friends had hardly finished their conversation when Poucette’s voice attracted their attention. The girl was talking to someone, in what seemed to be a threatening tone. Her voice came from the garden; the two ladies were there in a moment, and found Poucette clinging to the leg of a small boy who had climbed into a cherry tree, and continued to eat the cherries although she jerked at his leg, trying to pull him down. But when Honorine and Agathe appeared, little Emile concluded to come down from the tree.
“D’ye see, madame,” cried Poucette, “here’s the one that steals our cherries; for some time past I’ve been noticing that the cherries kept disappearing although you ladies don’t pick any; so I began to suspect something; I hid and watched, and I saw this good-for-nothing scamp, the lost child, climbing over the wall right here by the cherry tree, and in a minute he was in the tree.”
“Oh! I recognize him,” said Agathe; “it’s the boy who chased the cow that frightened you so.”
“Pardi! he don’t know to do anything but mischief, the wicked little scamp.—But I’ll teach you!”
And the peasant made ready to strike the boy, who neither stirred nor spoke, and seemed to care little whether he was beaten or not.
But Honorine stopped Poucette with a gesture; then she sat down on a bench and beckoned the boy to her.
He hesitated, but at last decided to go to her, after casting a savage glance at Poucette.
“Why do you come here to take my cherries?” inquired Honorine in a gentle voice, and looking at the little thief with no trace of anger.
He seemed astonished to be spoken to otherwise than harshly; he lowered his eyes and answered at last:
“Well! I like cherries, I do.”
“Even so, that is no reason for taking what doesn’t belong to you,—for climbing a wall. Do you know what a risk you run? If the constable had seen you he would have arrested you; he might have taken you to prison, and they would have kept you a long time perhaps, as a vagrant, a bad boy.”
“Oh! I’m too small; they don’t put little boys in prison!”
“You are mistaken! little boys are just the ones they do keep in the houses of correction until they grow up, so that they can’t loiter along the roads doing nothing.”
“Well, then, in prison I’d play with the other little boys, as you say there’s little boys there.”
“No, you wouldn’t play, because they don’t keep little ne’er-do-wells in prison to play and enjoy themselves; they make them work; and those who refuse are punished, kept on bread and water, and not allowed to speak to anyone.—Come now, think and tell me whether the few cherries you have eaten are worth all the punishments that they might bring upon you.”
Little Emile made no reply; he gazed at Honorine, furtively at first, but at last made bold to look her in the face, as if to assure himself that she was not laughing at him, and that she really meant what she had said. Doubtless the young woman’s face inspired confidence, for he seemed to reflect; and after a few moments he muttered:
“What am I to do to get cherries then? there ain’t any cherry tree at our house; and they won’t give me any money to buy any.”
“Why, instead of stealing—which is very, very wrong, even if it’s only cherries—you should just come and ask for some; and I would never refuse to give them to you! Especially if I haven’t heard of your doing any more naughty things, like throwing stones at a cow to make her run through the fields at the risk of hurting people, especially poor little children who might not have time to get out of the way. Oh! it is so wicked to hurt those who are weak and can’t defend themselves; only cowardly hearts do that.”
“Oh! I fight with big boys, I do!”
“Don’t fight at all; that will be much better.”
Then she made a sign to Agathe, who understood her and brought a little basket filled with cherries. Honorine took out two handfuls and handed them to the little boy.
“Here,” she said, “since you are so fond of cherries, take these.”
The child stared at her in surprise, and said in a faltering voice:
“What! are you going to give me some?”
“Yes, I will give you these, on condition that you won’t steal any more; do you promise?”
“Well! as long as you give ‘em to me, I don’t need to climb over the wall any more.”
And the boy, putting his hands together, received the cherries which she gave him and hugged them to his breast. Then he looked all about and asked:
“Can I go now?”
“To be sure—you are free. Go; but don’t be so naughty any more, and instead of making everybody hate you, make them love you, and you will see how much happier that will make you.”
“And will everybody give me cherries?”
“I don’t promise you that; but people will be kind to you when you are kind to them.”
Little Emile said nothing more; but he made a pirouette and scampered away, shouting at Poucette as he passed her:
“The lady’s better ‘n you!”
“Thanks!” said the young peasant; “if madame gives fruit to everybody who comes to steal it, they won’t take the trouble to climb the wall!”
“Well! what would you have had me give the child?”
“It seems to me that he deserved a good licking instead of cherries!”
“He is said to be very naughty; but on the other hand everybody scolds him and treats him harshly.”
“Sometimes they beat him, and hard too!”
“Well, I propose to try another method of reforming him.”
“You are right,” said Agathe; “gentleness is better than violence; I have read that somewhere in La Fontaine’s fables.”
A few days later, Edmond having gone to Paris, the two friends knew that he would not come to see them; and so, immediately after dinner, Agathe proposed to Honorine that they should go for a long walk.
“I don’t want to go in the direction of the Tower,” said Honorine; “it would seem as if we were trying to meet the owner again; and as that gentleman has not thought fit to call to inquire whether my fright had any serious consequences, I should be sorry to have him think that we cared to see him again.”
There was a faint suggestion of irritation in Honorine’s manner as she said this; but Agathe did not notice it.
“Mon Dieu! my dear,” she rejoined, “as the man doesn’t care for society, but avoids it, why should you expect him to come to see us? It doesn’t seem to me that that is any reason why we should deprive ourselves of the pleasure of walking in the direction that is most agreeable to us. For my part, I would like to go toward the Tower, and Noisy-le-Grand; for that is where that ravine is, with the cross erected on the spot where they found a young man dead. To tell the truth, I am very curious to see the place; it will make my flesh creep, but no matter; I am very desirous to see it; I have never forgotten that story that the doctor told us.”
Honorine, whose resolution did not seem very firm, replied:
“Oh, well! if you want to see the ravine and the cross—after all, it isn’t our fault that the gentleman’s estate lies in that direction; and then it would be very strange if we should happen to meet him again.”
“It isn’t likely.”
“At all events, if we do meet him, we will not speak to him—do you understand? we will simply bow to him, but we will not stop.”
“But suppose he speaks to us?”
“Oh! in that case—but he won’t speak to us, as he cares so little for society.”
“Let us start; this time I trust that we shall not meet any cows to frighten us.”
The two friends left the house. It was seven o’clock in the evening; the weather was fine, but the atmosphere was somewhat heavy and seemed to presage a storm. The young women did not allow themselves to be frightened by some dark clouds which appeared above the horizon. They strolled idly along the road to Gournay, stopping now and then to pluck flowers; and after passing through the little village, Honorine said:
“We must not take the road we took the other time, which leads toward that gentleman’s property. Let us take another road—this one, for instance.”
“But suppose we lose our way?”
“We can always find it again by inquiring. Besides, Noisy-le-Grand is in this direction.”
“But Noisy isn’t where we want to go; we want to find the ravine where the cross is that was set up in memory of the young man who was murdered there.”
“Well! that ravine, they say, is close by the road leading to Noisy.”
“No, it’s near the park belonging to the Tower, and this road takes us away from it.”
“You don’t know any more about it than I. However, we will ask.”
The two friends walked along the road, which was unfamiliar to them; it was shaded in spots by fine walnut trees and venerable acacias.
After having walked for some time, Honorine stopped.
“How dark it is!” she said; “has the night come already?”
“No, it’s the storm coming up! Oh! how black it is! What should we do if the storm should surprise us here? I don’t see any house where we could go for shelter.”
“We will stand under one of these magnificent walnuts.”
“Oh, no! when it lightens, we mustn’t stand under a walnut tree, it’s one of the trees that attract lightning.”
“What! are you afraid, Agathe, you who are always so brave?”
“A storm isn’t very pleasant when you’re in the midst of the fields! Oh! mon Dieu!”
“What is it?”
“I felt a drop of rain, a big drop.”
“Let’s walk faster.”
But they quickened their pace to no purpose: in a moment the storm burst; the rain fell in torrents and forced them to seek shelter under a huge tree whose dense foliage protected them almost entirely from the downpour.
“We are not lucky in our walks!” said Honorine; “I shall not leave our garden any more!”
“Nonsense! when it’s over we forget all about it.”
“Yes, but this one keeps on, and we are a long way from home! What an idea of yours to want to go to a place that is said to be dangerous!”
“Oho! it’s your turn to be afraid now.”
“Not of the thunder, at all events!”
“But the thunder is more dangerous than a cross set up in a ravine.”
“Ah! what a flash! it was superb!”
“It was frightful!”
“I think the rain is subsiding a little.”
“Let us go on.”
“Mon Dieu! here comes the darkness now; suppose it should overtake us before we have found our way!”
“Let us walk, let us walk; we shall certainly meet someone who will tell us which way to go.”
“Oh! how slippery the rain has made the road! We shall fall in a moment; that will be the last straw!”
“Let’s take each other’s arm, and hold on firmly.”
The two friends walked on, laughing when they almost fell, shrieking with terror when the lightning flashes lighted up the surrounding country. The rain had almostceased, but the night was coming on, and the farther they walked, the less familiar the road seemed to them.
At last they met a peasant woman driving an ass before her; at sight of her they uttered a cry of delight.
“Madame! madame! which way to Chelles, if you please?”
“Why, bless me! you’re turning your backs to it!”
“Which way must we go, then?”
“See, take this path to the left; then turn to the left again and you’ll come to Gournay; then——”
“Oh! we know the way after that, thanks!”
“And the cross in the ravine—are we far from that?”
“The cross in the ravine! Jesus, my Lord! you want to go to the cross in the ravine! at night! What in the world do you want to go there for?”
“From curiosity.”
“The deuce! you must be mighty curious, then!”
“Is it dangerous to go by there?”
“Bless me! this much is sure, that nobody round here would want to go through the ravine at night. As soon as you get near it, you hear groans and complaints.—It’s the dead man come back, for sure.”
“I don’t believe in ghosts myself.”
“It’s plain you don’t belong round here. Well, if you take the road I told you, you’re bound to pass, not through the ravine, but by one end of it. Good-night, mesdames.”
“Will you let us take your ass to return to Chelles? we will pay whatever you choose.”
“No, no; I don’t let my ass to folks who want to go to the dead man’s cross! No, thank you! Besides, Julie wouldn’t go, either; she’d balk. Come, away with you, my poor Julie!”
And the peasant who gave her jenny the name of Julie went her way, driving the beast before her.
“We know our way now,” said Honorine; “let’s make haste, for it will soon be entirely dark.”
“The thunder is still rumbling.”
“That isn’t what I am afraid of.”
“Do you mean to say that you believe in that peasant woman’s nonsense, and the groans that are heard in the ravine?”
“I’ll tell you this, that when we pass the place, I shall run. Mon Dieu! how dark it is!”
“Here we are on the main road, at all events. We must turn to the left again.”
“I can hardly see, and I am beginning to be very tired.”
“Oh! look, my dear, this narrow path between those two little hills must be the ravine.”
“Well! perhaps you would like to go in there, to delay us still more?”
“Oh! I entreat you, just a minute, to see the cross. I don’t know what is taking place in me, but it seems to me that I must go there, and—and pray for the unhappy man who met his death there.”
“Why, Agathe, you are positively foolish! I am not willing to stop.”
“Ah! listen! did you hear?”
“No, I heard nothing.”
“Nothing? listen again.”
This time a prolonged groan was heard by them very distinctly. Honorine began to tremble. She tried to hasten on, but her legs gave way; she could only cling to Agathe’s arm, saying:
“You see—the peasant did not deceive us. This is a ghastly place! Mon Dieu! I should say that someone was running toward us now.”
“That is true; but it’s no man running so fast as that.”
Agathe had hardly finished speaking when Ami, the noble Newfoundland, was beside her. After running around the two friends several times, as if to see if they were alone, he went to the girl, rubbed his head against her, wagged his tail, and stood on his hind legs, fixing his intelligent eyes upon her as if to express the joy he felt at seeing her.
“It’s Ami! it’s Ami!” cried Agathe, patting the dog. “Oh! now I am not afraid any more; for, if we should be in any danger, he would defend us.”
“It certainly is Monsieur Paul’s dog; if he is here, his master cannot be far away.”
“At this moment, I should not be at all sorry to meet him. See, Honorine, Ami is going into the ravine; now he stops and comes back to us, and now he turns back again. He certainly is urging us to follow him; come.”
“But we can’t see where we are going; and those groans that we heard——”
“The dog is with us, and I am not afraid any more.”
Honorine allowed herself to be led into the ravine by Agathe, who had taken her hand.
The dog trotted before them. It was very dark in that sunken road, but they had taken scarcely twenty steps when a brilliant flash of lightning furrowed the clouds and enabled them to see distinctly everything within thirty yards. They then saw the owner of the Tower on his knees beside a grassy mound at one side of the road, in the centre of which stood a wooden cross.
At that strange apparition the two women halted, grasping each other by the hand; then Agathe murmured very low:
“Do you see that?”
“Yes, it’s Monsieur Paul; and he is kneeling by the cross on that grave.”
“Isn’t it very strange? What can he be doing by that cross?”
“One would think that he was weeping; listen, listen! I believe he is speaking.”
It was true that Ami’s master, believing himself to be alone on that spot which the people round about were careful to avoid, especially at night, uttered these words:
“Forgive me, unfortunate victim of the most dastardly treachery. Ah, me! if only I could have fulfilled your last wishes, it seems to me that you might forgive me for your death. But it was impossible; all my efforts were fruitless!”
“Did you hear?” murmured Honorine to her companion; “he said: ‘You might forgive me for yourdeath.’—So it must have been he who killed the person who is under that cross! Why, this is frightful!”
“It isn’t possible,” said Agathe; “we couldn’t have heard right.”
At that moment, Ami, who had reached his master’s side, looked up in his face and began to yelp, but softly, not angrily. It was his way of informing his master that he was no longer alone.
“What! is there someone here?” cried Paul, springing hastily to his feet; “where, Ami? where, I say?”
The dog ran back to the two friends who stood a short distance away, trembling, afraid to go forward or to retreat, especially since they had heard the words uttered by that mysterious man.
“What! ladies?” cried Paul, stopping in front of them. “Why, this is strange; so far as the darkness permits me to distinguish your features, I seem to recognize the ladies whom I escorted back to Chelles a few weeks ago.”
“Yes, monsieur, it is we,” replied Agathe, who was the first to recover her courage. “It is we again, and sorely embarrassed; for we were surprised by the storm, then by the darkness; we lost our way, and I do not know what would have become of us, but for your dog. He met us and recognized us; and we followed him, having no idea where he was leading us.”
“But you are a long way from Chelles; did you find no protection from the storm?”
“Only some big trees. It is so deserted about here.”
“Is madame indisposed?”
This question was addressed to Honorine, who, pale as a statue, had not yet uttered a word, because she recalled too distinctly those uttered by their companion when he believed himself to be alone before the cross on the grave.
But, feeling that her companion was nudging her, Madame Dalmont said in a faltering tone:
“No, monsieur, no; I am not ill; but I had a fright, and——”
“She was afraid of the storm,” interposed Agathe hastily; “and just now she admitted to me that she could not walk.”
“Oh! that’s all over, and I can walk very well now.”
“Since chance has placed me in your path again, mesdames, you will allow me to act as your guide once more, and to take you home.”
“Oh! I thank you, monsieur, but if you will be kind enough to take us as far as the bridge at Gournay, that will be sufficient. Really, you might well conceive a strange idea of us, when you constantly find us wandering about the country at night, and always obliged to call upon you for assistance!”
“When I am able to render a trifling service, madame, my thoughts do not go beyond it, and I do not try to guess by what circumstances the occasion was brought about. I am simply doing my duty, and you owe me no gratitude.”
“Oh, dear! I believe it is beginning to rain again!” cried Agathe; “for my part, monsieur may think whathe pleases, but I am very glad that we met him, and I accept his arm with pleasure.”
And the girl took Monsieur Paul’s arm without more ado. He looked at Honorine, who, after a moment’s indecision, decided at last to take his other arm, and they started off at a rapid pace, escorted by the faithful Ami.
But Honorine’s arm trembled so in her cavalier’s that he finally said:
“How you tremble, madame! is it with cold, or with fear of the storm? It is passing over, and you will reach home safely.”
“Yes, monsieur, it’s the thunder; it has upset me completely.”
“Pray lean on me, madame; one would think that you were afraid of tiring me, and I can hardly feel you.”
“Thanks, monsieur, thanks; I am leaning on you as much as I need.”
“We were altogether lost when we saw you, thanks to your dog,” said Agathe; “that is a very lonely spot where you were, monsieur!”
“Yes, mademoiselle; yet it is quite near my house.”
“That road, monsieur, is the ravine where there is a cross, is it not?”
If Honorine had been next to Agathe, she would have pinched her viciously, to make her regret her question, but their escort separated them; so that she could only make a convulsive movement, which she instantly checked, pretending that she had made a misstep.
“Yes, mademoiselle,” replied Paul curtly, “that is the ravine of the cross.”
“We have been told a very sad story about that cross—that a young man was found dead on that spot, nine or ten years ago, I believe. Is it true, monsieur?”
Honorine would have beaten Agathe with the greatest satisfaction; she began to cough as if she would tear her throat to tatters.
“I too have heard of that occurrence, mademoiselle,” replied their companion in a gloomy tone.
“And the unfortunate man’s assassins have never been discovered?”
“Assassins!” exclaimed Paul in a loud voice, raising his head proudly. “Who told you, mademoiselle, that the person found dead on that spot had been assassinated?”
“Oh! mon Dieu! no one, monsieur, no one. I said that, because the people who tell the story——”
“The world almost always judges falsely; it never knows the true inwardness of things; and as it is more disposed to believe evil than good, as soon as a stranger is found dead by the roadside, it says: ‘He was murdered!’—You are still very young, mademoiselle! Distrust the judgments of the world; you will often have occasion to realize their injustice.”
“Here is Gournay bridge,” said Honorine; “will monsieur leave us now?”
“No, madame; unless you bid me to do so, I shall not leave you, trembling as you are, out in the country, at night. I shall escort you to your home.”
Honorine bowed and they walked on. But they were silent, for Agathe dared not speak since their guide had almost lost his temper in answering her last question.
They reached Honorine’s house, and Paul bowed to the ladies, saying:
“You are at home now, I believe?”
“Yes, monsieur. I do not know how to thank you——”
“For what, madame, pray? I have simply done my duty.”
“Adieu, Ami; adieu, my good dog!”
The dog and his master took their leave.
“Oh! I could have beaten you!” said Honorine, “when you questioned that man about the story of the cross!”
“Why so? You heard him answer that the young man who was found there was not murdered.”
“But since he was the one who killed him, could you expect him to admit it?”
“That man an assassin! Nonsense! it’s impossible. Do you believe it, my dear love?”
“I believe—Mon Dieu! I don’t know what to believe; but this much is certain, that I will not walk in that direction again. Let’s go to bed; what with the fright, excitement, fatigue and the storm, I am completely exhausted; and you?”
“I? Oh! I regret that we didn’t go as far as the cross in the ravine. I would have liked to pray for him who lies there!”
Several days had passed since the memorable evening of the storm. Honorine and Agathe had promised each other never to breathe a word of what they had seen and heard that evening by the cross in the ravine. There are some subjects with respect to which the slightest indiscretion is a crime, in that it may have the most serious consequences; and the words which the owner of the Tower had uttered when he was on his knees beside the cross, were of those which one regrets having heard, and which one tries to forget.
However, there was no reason why the two friends should not discuss the subject between themselves, and in fact they often did.
Agathe, who always defended Paul, would exclaim:
“No, that man is not an assassin! I am absolutely convinced of it. Indeed, the very emotion that he showed when I said that a stranger had been murdered in the ravine, and the warmth with which he repelled that suggestion prove that it is false.”
“It is a fact that he did seem keenly wounded by your words. But why, then, did he ask the forgiveness ofthe man who is buried there?—When one has fought a duel, loyally and honorably, it is no crime; the victor may regret his victory, but he does not accuse himself of it as of a criminal act.”
“But how can we tell how it happened—what brought it about?”
“Well, let us say no more about it; that will be the better way.”
“You are right; let us never mention it again.”
But it rarely happened that the following day passed without Honorine herself leading the conversation to the subject of the owner of the Tower. And after talking about him, the young woman would be thoughtful and melancholy for a long while.
Agathe noticed this fact, but she was very careful not to mention it to her friend; women very quickly understand the secrets of the heart, and know when it is advisable not to seem to have divined them.
Edmond had returned to Chelles; he had passed several days in Paris, because he had been led to hope for a very well-paid position in a banking house; but it had been given to another and the young man was not cast down. He still had about twenty thousand francs; with that amount, with love in one’s heart, and with a great hope of its being reciprocated, one has before one a whole future of happiness.
One morning the two ladies were working in the garden and Père Ledrux was raking a path a short distance away, when Honorine suddenly said:
“It’s a long while since we have had a call from Doctor Antoine Beaubichon; I wonder if he can be sick?—Père Ledrux, do you know whether Doctor Antoine is well?”
“Oh, yes!” replied the gardener; “I saw him this very morning going to Madame Droguet’s.—Tutu-turlututu.”
“It’s strange that he hasn’t been to see us for a fortnight.”
“Well! perhaps it’s because he agrees with the rest—that you have enough company without him!”
“What’s that? enough company? I don’t understand. What do you mean by that, Père Ledrux?”
“I—nothing at all; in the first place, you understand it don’t make any difference to me, it ain’t any of my business; you can have whole regiments come to see you for all me; you’re your own mistresses, and I ain’t the one to find fault!—But you know, there’s some folks who do nothing but meddle with what don’t concern ‘em, and talk—why, just for the sake of talking!”
“Do you understand one word of all that he says, Agathe?”
“Not very well; but it seems that people think that we receive a great deal of company. Isn’t that what they say, Père Ledrux?”
“Yes, they say that you receive a good many men; that you’ve had some come from Paris, without counting those from this part of the country, who go to walk with you in the evening.—Tutu—turlututu.”
“You hear, Agathe; what do you think of that?”
“Why, I think that it’s an outrage, and that people in the country are even more unkind than they are in large cities.—Poucette, is it true that many men come here?”
“Oh! my word, mamzelle, I haven’t ever seen anybody come but our neighbor Monsieur Edmond, and then two or three times his friend, Monsieur Freluchon, who’s so full of mischief.—Oh! what a scamp that little man is!”
“Where did you hear all this about us, Père Ledrux?”
“Bless me! a word here and a word there; you hear people jabbering; you may not listen, but you hear all the same. In the first place, when I’m working in Madame Droguet’s garden, she’s always talking about her neighbors, and I heard her say to Madame Jarnouillard the other day—or Madame Remplumé, I don’t just know which; in fact, I think they was all three there—and Madame Droguet, she says:
“‘You know Monsieur Durand has let that nice house of his close by, almost opposite me; but what you don’t know perhaps is that he’s let it to a young dandy from Paris, who’s come there to live all alone, without any servants; Mère Lupot opposite does his housework.’
“‘And what can one man all alone do with that big house, where there’s room enough for two families?’ says Madame Jarnouillard.
“‘Oh! you understand, mesdames, the young dandy has his reasons for going to such an altogether useless expense. He’s settled here because he’s on intimate terms with the two newcomers in the Courtivaux house.’
“When they talk about you, they always say: ‘the ladies in the Courtivaux house,’ as a matter of habit, because, you see, Monsieur Courtivaux lived here a long time.”
“Very well, Père Ledrux; go on.”
“‘Yes,’ says Mame Droguet, ‘he goes there night and morning; he’s always prowling round there. Which of ‘em is he in love with? no one knows; perhaps it’s both.’”
“Oh! my dear love!”
“Hush! let him go on.”
“‘And then,’ says Mame Droguet, ‘he’s got a friend who looks like a regular good-for-nothing; it’s the same fellow who had the face to knock at my door very late one night, to ask if we had seen his friend Edmond Didier; and with such a sly, impertinent air! humming his tra la la!’
“‘Oh! what do such people amount to anyway!’ says La Remplumé; ‘this gives me a very poor opinion of the women in the Courtivaux house.’
“‘But that ain’t all,’ says La Droguet; ‘guess who we saw walking home with ‘em the other night—at quite a late hour?’
“‘The two young men from Paris?’
“‘No. Oh! they’ve made other acquaintances here. They came home arm-in-arm with Monsieur Paul and his dog!’
“‘Is it possible?’
“‘Did they have the dog’s arm too?’
“‘I didn’t say they had the dog’s arm! I said the dog was in the party. And it was very lately, the night of the storm—don’t you remember?’
“‘Perfectly! I’m afraid of the thunder, and I stuffed my head in a butter crock so as not to see the flashes! I put it in so far that I couldn’t get it out again, and I says to my husband: “Break the crock, Jarnouillard, I can’t move my head;” and he replied, as calmly as you please: “That would be a pity; it’s almost new!” So I was obliged to break it myself by banging my head against a wall.’
“‘Never mind about your crock!’ says Mame Droguet impatiently; ‘we’re talking about these newcomers. How does it happen that after living in this part of the country such a short time, they’re already on intimate terms with the owner of the Tower—that disgusting man, that ogre, who won’t speak to anybody? It seems to me more than extraordinary.’
“‘It is very mysterious, that’s so.’
“‘I should say that it was suspicious even.’
“‘Well! birds of a feather flock together, as the proverb says. The bear of the Tower must have found these ladies to his taste!’
“‘As for me,’ says Mame Droguet, ‘I have a very bad opinion of the persons in the Courtivaux house.’
“‘It isn’t Monsieur Courtivaux’s, since he has sold it.’
“‘That don’t make any difference. Besides, we don’t know whether these fine ladies have paid for the house; there’s so many people who buy and then don’t pay.’
“At that, you see, I couldn’t help putting in my word.
“‘So far as that goes,’ says I, ‘I’m very sure that Madame Dalmont has paid for the house. I had a letter from the notary telling me to give ’em the keys and everything.’”
“Thanks, Père Ledrux, thanks for defending us on that point; but pray understand that the remarks, the insults of those ladies affect us very little! When one knows that one has no reason for self-reproach, one should hold oneself above the sneers of calumny! But we congratulate ourselves now that we have not called on that woman, that we have not made a friend of her.”
“It’s just that thing that’s vexed her most, I tell you! And she only says all these nasty things about you from spite because you haven’t been to see her. But what I can’t understand is how there’s anybody who’ll allow himself to be taken in by all that tittle-tattle. It’s just because Mame Droguet invites ‘em to dinner. She says to Monsieur Luminot: ‘You must choose between the society at the Courtivaux house and mine, monsieur. My husband and I are determined not to receive people who go to see those ladies.’—She puts her husband forward, the poor dear man! but he doesn’t meddle in such things; so long as he can dance in the evening in front of a mirror, with himself for his vis-à-vis, he’s satisfied! But Monsieur Luminot—you see, he thinks a lot of Mame Droguet’s dinners.”
“And as we do not give dinners, the gentleman is very wise to choose her society. But Madame Droguethas no suspicion that she gratifies us exceedingly by ridding us of Monsieur Luminot’s visits—eh, Agathe?”
“Oh! yes, my dear; and we must hope that Monsieur Jarnouillard will follow Monsieur Luminot’s example.”
“Oh! that won’t stop him! he ain’t pleasant very often, Monsieur Jarnouillard; and then, I don’t like money-lenders, I don’t.—I’ll go and take a look at the hens; I’m sure the black one beats the others; if she does, we ought not to leave her in the coop.”
The gardener went away and Agathe looked at Honorine, with a sigh.
“Oh! my love! how cruel the world is!”
“Yes, even more so in small villages than in the large cities. That is easy to understand: these people here have nothing to do most of the time, and their principal occupation is to attend to their neighbors’ affairs. In a small place everybody is everybody else’s neighbor.”