To console himself in his master’s absence, Bertrand had sent for the concierge to come up and keep him company. This concierge was an old German named Schtrack, who had come to France to make trousers, and, having found employment as a concierge, passed his time in drinking, smoking, and in beating his wife. He was by no means capable of carrying on a conversation, even with a cook; but he would drink, and listen with imperturbable stolidity to Bertrand’s stories of his campaigns, and to the minute details which the ex-corporal delighted to repeat, often for the twentieth time. Schtrack always seemed to take the same deep interestin them, keeping his eye fixed on the narrator, moving his head or frowning when the battle waxed hot, and emitting a cloud of tobacco smoke and asacretié!when Bertrand paused for breath.
After assuring themselves that the burgundy was not spoiling, they had subjected the claret and the madeira to the same test. The more Bertrand talked, the thirstier he became; now he must have been exceedingly thirsty, for he had talked steadily from the preceding evening; the two worthies having passed the night doing what they called “tasting the cellar,” and Schtrack having left Bertrand’s side but twice, to administer chastisement after the German style to his wife, who presumed to find fault because her husband did not come down to his lodge.
Bertrand sometimes interrupted the narrative of his campaigns to talk about Auguste, to whom he was devotedly attached, and to confide to Schtrack his anxiety on account of his lieutenant’s senseless extravagance and his penchant for women; and Schtrack listened to it as he listened to the story of Austerlitz, ejaculatingsacretié!from time to time.
Although his patience was tried by hearing nothing else all night, Bertrand nevertheless said to Schtrack:
“Tell me, old fellow, what can I do to keep Monsieur Dalville from ruining himself?”
Schtrack, who had never before been questioned by Bertrand, reflected fully five minutes before he replied:
“Sacretié! let’s take a drink.”
“Yes, let’s take a drink, that’s well said,” rejoined Bertrand, touching the concierge’s glass with his; “but it doesn’t answer my question. I love and respect Monsieur Dalville; I would jump into the fire for him; but, thunder and guns! it breaks my heart to see himpay out money for this one, lend to that one, play for infernally high stakes, spend money in foolish extravagance, and, last of all, injure his health; for what man could stand such a life? And most of those pretty hussies deceive him, I’ll bet! But he won’t listen to me. The heart is all right, oh! the heart is first-class, but the head——”
“Sacretié!” said Schtrack, emptying his glass.
“For instance, that little woman who lives in this house, for all her soft voice and her eyes always on the floor, and although she’s fainted three times on learning of my master’s perfidy, I wouldn’t swear—I have imagined several times that I’ve seen a little man rushing upstairs as if there was a squad of police at his heels.—Do you know who I mean, Schtrack?”
“Ya! ya!”
“Well, who is that little man?”
“I don’t know.”
“As concierge, you should know.”
“You’d petter ask mein vife.”
The sound of Dalville’s carriage wheels put an end to the conversation. Schtrack went down to his quarters, and Bertrand tried to assume a sedate air with which to receive his master.
“Here I am, my dear Bertrand,” said Auguste, as he entered his apartment; “I passed a delightful day yesterday. Oh! don’t scold me; I was virtuous—that is, so far as circumstances allowed me to be. Has anybody been here during my absence?”
“Yes, monsieur: in the first place, Mademoiselle Virginie.”
“Poor Virginie! she must be angry with me for neglecting her for more than three weeks.”
“She says that she shall die of grief.”
“Oh! she has said that to me so often!”
“She breakfasted here; she ate cold fowl and pie.”
“Very good; evidently her grief isn’t dangerous as yet.”
“While she was breakfasting, your neighbor, Madame Saint-Edmond, came to ask me if I’d seen her poodle; she wanted also to speak to monsieur about a matter that she said was important. She came in, and the two of them waited a long while for you.”
“What! were they here together?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Gad! that must have been amusing!”
“Amusing, if you choose to call it so! I was afraid for a minute that it was going to be serious.”
“Oh! you see the dark side of everything.”
“I assure you, monsieur, that those ladies didn’t look at the bright side, either of ‘em. They went away at last. Mademoiselle Virginie went to see an Englishman, who is to buy a linen-draper’s shop for her.”
“Bertrand, you’re a slanderer.”
“I am simply repeating what she said, monsieur.”
“I will go up to-night and see Léonie. What next?”
“Monsieur Destival came to see you; he seemed full of business.”
“Oh, yes! he has spoken to me very often lately about an excellent investment in which I can get ten per cent for my money.”
“I advise you to get as large a per cent as you can, monsieur; for we are running through the funds pretty fast.”
“That is true; I must put my affairs in a better condition.”
“Yes, that wouldn’t be a bad idea.”
“I have been obliged to sell a farm already.”
“Poor farm! When I think of it, it makes me feel sad.”
“Don’t be alarmed, Bertrand, I propose to cut down my expenses after this. I will see Destival, and if he can still find a profitable investment for my money, I shall recover what I have thrown away. Come, my old comrade, no moping; it does no good. I am young and rich. You must agree that I have no reason to despair as yet.”
“That is so, lieutenant; that’s what I said to myself when Schtrack and I were inspecting the cellar, to make sure that everything was all right.”
“You did very well, Bertrand; inspect, superintend, manage everything to suit yourself. I am going to change my clothes; then I will go up to see my neighbor; and to-morrow I will attend to more serious affairs.”
“Excellent young man!” said Bertrand, following Auguste with his eyes. “He leaves me in control here. But tasting his wines isn’t the whole thing; that isn’t enough; I propose to make myself useful to him in spite of him, and I will go down and have a talk with Madame Schtrack about the little man who goes up to our neighbor’s room.”
Madame Saint-Edmond greeted Auguste with an offended air; she was melancholy, her eyes were red, she still held her handkerchief in her hand. It is true that, as she had learned of Auguste’s return, she was expecting a call from him. Dalville inquired sympathetically what the cause of her depression might be; she refused to confide in him; but she let drop a word or two concerning the woman she had met in his rooms; these words were followed by stifled sighs and sarcastic laughter, and Madame Saint-Edmond added to each of her comments:
“You are entirely at liberty, monsieur, to receive whomever you choose.”
Auguste, touched by Léonie’s apparent suffering, succeeded in tranquillizing the pretty blonde, who consented at last to make peace with her neighbor on condition that she should never again meet in his rooms that woman who had made impertinent speeches to her, and the mere sight of whom would throw her into hysterics. Auguste promised; in love, as in politics, one always makes more promises than one intends to keep.
But Léonie was still pensive and preoccupied.
“Something is troubling you,” said Auguste.
“No; oh, no! nothing, I assure you,” replied the pretty blonde, in a tone which meant the exact opposite.
“But it is perfectly evident to me that you are concealing something from me.”
“Why, no, you are mistaken; at all events it doesn’t concern you at all.”
As we are always anxious to know what does not concern us, Auguste became more insistent; he demanded that she should tell him all, whereupon Madame Saint-Edmond confessed in a low, silvery voice that a milliner, to whom she had owed two thousand francs for a long time, had forced her to give him a note; that that note would come due in two days, and that she was sorely embarrassed about paying it.
Auguste regretted that he had been so inquisitive; but it was too late to retreat; besides, he was too fond of obliging his friends not to come to his neighbor’s assistance.
“Send the holder of the note to my apartment,” he said; “Bertrand will pay it.”
Léonie refused; she was afraid of inconveniencing Auguste; she would be terribly distressed to have himthink that her selfish interests had any influence upon the sentiment he aroused in her. But Auguste insisted, he did not choose that she should have recourse to others; and Léonie consented at last to allow herself to be accommodated, on condition that it should be considered a loan, which she would repay to her friend.
Bertrand leaped backward when Auguste said to him next day:
“You will pay Madame Saint-Edmond’s note for two thousand francs which the holder will present here.”
“Two thousand francs for that little minx!” cried the ex-corporal, beating his brow in desperation. “Ah! lieutenant, if this is the way you put your affairs in order!”
“No comments, Bertrand; I am only lending Léonie the money, and if I ever find myself in difficulties, I am sure that there is no sacrifice of which that woman would not be capable, to oblige me.”
“You may believe that, monsieur, but I——”
“You will pay the note, Bertrand.”
“I will pay it, lieutenant.”
Auguste went out singing, and Bertrand went down to his friend Schtrack’s, to question his wife.
Bertrand paid the note and Léonie was more loving than ever with Auguste. But one morning, when she did not expect him, Dalville found in his neighbor’s room a little man, who instantly took his leave with a very low bow, which Madame Saint-Edmond barely acknowledged, dismissing her gentleman in a very curt tone.
“Who is that man?” Auguste inquired when the stranger had gone.
“Mon Dieu! that is a very ridiculous individual, whom one of my aunts sent to me. He is fresh from the provinces and is seeking employment. But, as he is aterrible bore to me, I receive him in such fashion that he soon brings his visits to an end. He’s as stupid as he is ugly.”
“Why, he didn’t strike me as being so very ugly.”
“Bah! how did you look at him? He is horrible! A hideous nose and sunken eyes, and such an awkward, ridiculous figure! Oh! I can’t endure the man.”
Auguste pushed his questions no farther and said no more about the little man; but he was secretly vexed to hear her speak so ill of him, because he knew the tactics of ladies of her stamp, who often employ that method to conceal their intimacy with a person.
On returning to his own rooms, Auguste noticed that Bertrand looked at him with a sly expression, and hovered about him as if he were seeking an opportunity to speak to him.
“You want to tell me or ask me something, I see, Bertrand,” said Auguste, stopping in front of the corporal. “Speak, for heaven’s sake, instead of prowling about me in this way. You have no comprehension, my old friend, of the little wiles of the ladies, who, when they have anything to say to us, have the art to force us to question them.”
“True, lieutenant, you’re right; it’s better to go straight to the point without countermarching. You must have met a certain little man at the neighbor’s, for I saw him come down just after you went up.”
“Well, yes, I did see a gentleman there; what of it?”
“What of it! Is this the first time you’ve met him?”
“Yes.”
“He goes there often, however.”
“Who told you that?”
“Madame Schtrack, the concierge.”
“What, Bertrand! do you chatter and talk gossip with a concierge?”
“Gossip! no, lieutenant; ten thousand cartridges! I! gossip! Do you call what I’ve just told you gossip, lieutenant?”
“Why, pretty nearly. Is not Madame de Saint-Edmond at liberty to receive visits? Does she owe me an account of all her callers? What right have I to set spies on her acts? and if anyone should give her a faithful report of mine, do you think that she would have no reason to reproach me?”
“True, lieutenant; I am in the wrong. I’ll go on drinking with Schtrack, but I won’t talk with his wife any more, because I don’t want it said that an old moustache like me talks gossip.”
Although he had scolded Bertrand, Auguste remembered Madame Schtrack’s statement; and, when he thought of the abuse Léonie had heaped upon the little man, he could not avoid conceiving some suspicions. We may agree that we do not deserve a faithful mistress, but we can never forgive her for her infidelity.
“Léonie must be horribly false, horribly treacherous!” said Auguste to himself. “Why need she pretend to love me, unless she retains her hold on me for selfish reasons, or unless she loves two men at once? Such things have been known.”
As he walked down Boulevard Montmartre, Auguste felt a light touch on his arm. He turned; Mademoiselle Virginie stood before him.
“I am very lucky to meet you, monsieur,” she said, looking at Auguste with a certain expression in which there was something most seductive; indeed, Mademoiselle Virginie made many conquests, because she had adopted the habit of imparting that alluring expressionto her eyes; and although Auguste knew her glances by heart, he still took delight in looking at her, especially when it was a long time since her lovely black eyes had been fastened upon him.
“Oh! although you look at me with a smile,” she continued, “that doesn’t prevent me from being horribly angry with you.”
“Really? you are angry with me?”
“Monsieur, I beg you not to address me so familiarly! Have we ever been on intimate terms?”
As she spoke, Mademoiselle Virginie burst into a roar of laughter that caused several passers-by to turn their heads; for in Paris very little is required to attract the attention of the passers-by. In fact, there was one man who stopped, and who, presumably because he had never in his life heard anyone laugh, was about to ask Virginie what the matter was; but a glance from Auguste led him to walk on.
“You make me laugh, when I haven’t the slightest inclination to,” said Virginie, suddenly assuming a most serious air.
“What’s the matter with you? Come, tell me your troubles; you know very well that I am your friend.”
“My friend! oh, yes! You are just nothing at all! A pretty friend, to go two months without seeing me!”
“It wasn’t my fault—I have been busy.”
“Indeed! busy, eh? I know what kind of business. The blonde of the third floor, and the lady in the country, and this one, and the other one! It’s no use talking, you’re a thorough scamp, you’re not a bit agreeable any more! You used to be agreeable to me now and then.”
“Why didn’t you come to see me?”
“Oh! I say! do you think I haven’t anything else to do but that? Don’t I have to work?”
“Ah! you work, do you?”
“Indeed I do; I have reformed now, I never go out.”
“Do you still live in the same place?”
“No, I have moved.”
“Why, you do nothing but move.”
“Really, my dear, I have sold my furniture.”
“Sold your furniture? What a pity!”
“Listen to me; I couldn’t live on nut shells, could I?”
“No, they wouldn’t be good for the stomach; but as you are working——”
“Oh, yes! it’s very amusing; work a whole day to earn fifteen sous! Mon Dieu! how I wish I were a man!”
“What for?”
“So as not to be a woman. I know that there are some women who are happy, who swim in pleasure, who have feathers and velvet caps! Ah! a velvet cap’s becoming to me; I tried one on at a friend’s. I propose to have one this winter, all velvet, with gold tassels.”
“With your fifteen sous a day?”
“Go on! No, but I sold my furniture because I owed some money; I was four terms behind with my rent, and I had to pay.”
“Why, I should say that, the term before the last, I——”
“No, I used that for something else. I am living with a friend until I get more furniture. Oh! you can’t imagine——”
“What, pray?”
“I am going to be married.”
“Nonsense! really?”
“Faith, yes! It’s a man who’s mad over me; he adores me; he’s turning yellow with it.”
“Try to marry him before he gets too dark.”
“No, I was joking; but really, joking aside, he’s a very good match—a magnificent man!”
“How old?”
“Forty.”
“What does he do?”
“He’s a government clerk; he has a very fine place.”
“Well, my dear girl, marry at once; it seems to me that that is the very best thing that you can do.”
“Ah! how happy I would make that man, if I married him!”
“Well said; that purpose does you honor.”
“Oh, no! that’s not it; you don’t understand me. I mean that he would be enchanted if I would consent to take him for my husband.”
“Ah! that makes a difference. But what deters you?”
“The trouble is that I don’t love him.”
“What’s that? such a magnificent man!”
“Yes, but his legs are a little bowed.”
“You must make him wear a frock coat.”
“And then he has a nose of such length—my dear, you can’t conceive what it is! His nose frightens me.”
“I never knew you to be so timid.”
“The fact is, I don’t want to marry. Later, we’ll see about it. Do you know, I am strongly inclined to go on the stage?”
“Ah! that’s something new.”
“Tell me, do you think I’d be very bad? You see, I have a good voice when I choose. Do you know that I’m as pretty as a love, on the stage?”
“You have no need to be on the stage for that, madame.”
“Dieu! how genteel! But really, no joking, rouge and the bright light and the footlights—all those things make me a dazzling sight. I have tried on Iphigénie’scostume, and it’s surprising how becoming it is. I had an offer to go into the chorus at the Vaudeville, but that didn’t tempt me much.”
“Not to play Iphigénie?”
“No; how stupid you are! It was to get accustomed to the boards and the audience, as they say, and to looking into the auditorium. What do you advise me to do?”
“I? nothing; do what you choose; but, if you really have a chance to marry, that would be much better than going on the stage.”
“Bless my soul! you talk like my aunt. But it’s true that I could never be an actress; if I went on the stage and saw all those faces looking at me, I know that I should laugh like a lunatic. But I say, are we going to stand on this same spot till to-morrow? People will take us for spies. Where are you going?”
“I am going to Monsieur Destival’s on a matter of business.”
“He is that tall, lanky, ugly creature I’ve seen you with sometimes in a carriage?”
“It is quite possible.”
“Ah! what a funny face he has! That man reminds me of one of Séraphin’s marionettes—you know, the one that singstire lon phainLe Pont Cassé.”
“You will always be the same, won’t you?”
“Why, a body must laugh once in a while. Look you, Auguste, you can go to your Monsieur Destival’s another day; to-day I don’t propose to leave you.”
“But, really, I have some business.”
“So much the worse! It makes you very unhappy to think of passing a day with me, don’t it?”
“No, of course not; but there is to be a musical party at Madame de la Thomassinière’s this evening, and I promised to be there.”
“You can sing when you get up to-morrow, if you like music so much; but to-day, monsieur, you stay with me; we will go into the country to dinner, and to-night you will take me to the theatre; you’ve been promising me this for a long while.”
It was impossible to resist Mademoiselle Virginie, and Auguste yielded with a good grace.
“We will take a cab,” he said, “and go wherever you choose in the country.”
“Why not take your cabriolet? why go in a cab with wretched nags, when you have a lovely horse that goes like the wind?”
Auguste, who chose to remain incognito with Virginie, preferred a cab, in which he would not be seen. There was a stand nearby; he helped his companion in, saying:
“Where shall we go?”
“Where you please.”
“It makes no difference to me.”
“Nor to me.”
“But we must decide. Shall it be the Champs-Elysées?”
“Oh! there are too many people there.”
“Vincennes?”
“Too far.”
“Vaugirard?”
“A pretty kind of country, with not a tree anywhere about!”
“Sceaux?”
“Too fashionable! I am not dressed.”
“Montmartre?”
“To look at quarries and donkeys?”
“Saint-Denis?”
“There’s nothing nice there but cheese-cakes, and I prefer the ones in the Passage des Panoramas.”
“Belleville?”
“That’s a little vulgar, but it’s amusing; besides, I have a decided penchant for Prés Saint-Gervais and Romainville wood.”
“Belleville it is, then. Off we go, driver!”
The cabman lashed his horse. Virginie was in a merry mood; with her the annoyances of yesterday, the cares of to-morrow vanished before the enjoyment of the moment. For his part, Auguste was not sorry to have his mind diverted from the thoughts that disturbed him concerning Madame Saint-Edmond, whom he had told that he expected to pass the evening at Monsieur de la Thomassinière’s.
They reached the Belleville barrier; it took the cabman half an hour to drive his nags up the hill, and when they reached the Ile d’Amour, they refused to go any farther. But Virginie was very glad to walk in the fields, so they alighted, dismissed the cab, and took a narrow road to the left, which led to Prés Saint-Gervais.
The sight of the green grass and trees made Virginie sentimental; she sighed as they strolled along the avenues of lilacs, where several cottages had recently been built.
“How ridiculous,” she cried, “to build houses everywhere, even in the fields! you might as well go to walk in your bedroom. It used to be so pretty here! We lunched on fresh eggs over there once—do you remember? We drank beer under that arbor. And that restaurant, in the woods, just beyond the keeper’s, where we went several times—the one where they have private rooms.”
“Oh, yes! the Tournebride.”
“The Tournebride, that’s it. Ungrateful wretch! doesn’t that name recall any memories?”
“Yes, it reminds me of a certain fowl that we could not succeed in carving.”
“Indeed! it reminds you of nothing but a fowl! You are not at all romantic to-day.”
“Do you want to dine there?”
“I not only want to, but I insist upon it. It’s rather far away, but the walk will give us an appetite.”
“Besides, we can rest on the way.”
“Oh! since people have built everywhere, there are no nice places to rest.”
They ran along, throwing leaves and grass at each other and plucking an occasional wild flower. At last they reached the sandy soil of the woods, and Virginie sighed again when she saw that the trees had been felled on large tracts, and that building was in progress there also.
“These people seem to have determined on the destruction of Romainville forest!” she said.
“It will grow again, my dear.”
“Oh, yes! but meanwhile we shan’t grow again. How indifferent men are! they don’t get attached to anything. Think of the love ciphers that we carved with a knife on the bark of an oak tree; I looked forward to seeing them again. There was an A and a V intertwined in a heart.”
“They probably served to warm some old annuitant’s feet, or to boil the kettle for some respectable family.”
“That’s it—make soup with my heart; that’s very pleasant to think of! I shan’t cut any more letters on trees.—Ah! here’s the Tournebride luckily; I was afraid they’d cut that down too.”
The Tournebride was the most famous restaurant in Romainville forest; but for all that, it would not have been safe to order a charlotte russe there, or akarik à l’Indienne, because the landlord would have thoughtthat you were talking Tartar, or making fun of him, and would tell you to go to Noisy-le-Sec for your dinner. But if you confined your ambition to a bill-of-fare dainty enough for the worthy bourgeois of Rue Saint-Denis, and very popular among the young work-girls who came to Romainville with their sweethearts, you might be certain of being satisfied at the Tournebride, which is only three gun-shots from the keeper’s lodge, on the road leading to Romainville village.
Auguste and Virginie entered the inn, and, as is usual in country restaurants, they went through the kitchen to reach the salons and the private rooms. They enjoyed the sight of veal-stews, cutlets, and beefpiqué; and as such restaurants had no printed bill-of-fare, the kitchen took the place of one. When you walked through, you saw all the saucepans, and you inhaled the combined odors of five or six ragouts, which might stand you instead of soup, but which was less agreeable after you had dined.
The host welcomed his guests with a smiling face, his cotton cap over his ear; as he answered questions he ran from one saucepan to another, and spitted a pigeon as he extolled his beefsteak.
“Let’s make up our minds at once what we’ll have,” said Virginie, who was accustomed to country restaurants. “Is the beefsteak tender?”
“Oh! delicious, madame.”
“With kidneys, eh, my friend?”
“Yes, they are essential.—Have you any kidneys, monsieur l’hôte?”
“Here, monsieur, just smell this,” said the landlord, holding a saucepan under Auguste’s nose. “I won’t tell you, as my confrères in Paris do, that they’re stewed in champagne, but I’ll swear it’s white wine, and delicious.”
“Very good.”
“And a pigeon pie, if you please, delicious also.”
“Some asparagus and lettuce.”
“If monsieur would like a fine omelette soufflée?”
“Ah, yes! I remember very well that you make very good ones.”
“Yes, monsieur; they puff up like a cotton nightcap.”
“Let us have an omelette soufflée then. Give us a private room, please.”
“Take monsieur and madame to the unoccupied room on the first floor.”
A waiter, who was no longer young, but who smiled all the time, escorted the newcomers to a room that looked on the forest.
“Why not give us the room opposite?” asked Virginie; “the outlook is better, we can see the road.”
“There is somebody there, madame—a party.”
“In that case, let us stay here,” said Auguste.
The waiter laid the table, then left the room, saying:
“I will go and see to the dinner; if monsieur wants anything before it is ready, he can call.”
That meant that he would not come up unless he was called. Such people are almost as cunning in the country as in Paris.
Auguste did not call for some time, because they felt that they must rest before dinner, and moreover the private rooms of the Tournebride made Mademoiselle Virginie very romantic; at all events, that is what she told Auguste, laughing like a madcap, which, by the way, is not romantic; but Mademoiselle Virginie had a way of her own of being romantic.
At last the stomach made itself heard; and in face of that domineering master, all illusions vanish. The most romantic of mortals, standing in rapt admiration beforea rushing torrent or a waterfall, is compelled to make an end when the dinner-bell rings. Virginie and Auguste were admiring neither a torrent nor a waterfall; I am not certain that they were absorbed in admiration of anything; but I know that they opened their door and beat a tattoo upon it with knife handles—a method of attracting attention which makes bells unnecessary.
The waiter brought up the dinner, to which they did justice; the beefsteak and kidneys were in truth delicious, and they had no ground for complaint. While the waiter was present, Mademoiselle Virginie, who was reasonably curious, expressed surprise that the party opposite should be so silent that they did not hear voices, whereas, ordinarily, the guests at country restaurants are very noisy. The young woman concluded her remarks by asking the waiter:
“Isn’t it a large party?”
The old waiter replied, smiling so as to show the whole of his three remaining teeth:
“It’s no larger than yours.”
“Oho! a party of two, is it?”
“Yes, madame.”
“A man and a woman?”
“Yes, madame.”
“They seem to be even more romantic than we are; they have forgotten about dinner.”
“Oh! the dinner’s all ordered, it’s coming up directly. I know their ways; they’re regulars.”
And the waiter left the room, closing at the same moment his mouth and the door, the latter of which he had been holding ajar.
“You are very inquisitive,” said Auguste, “to want to know how many people there are opposite. What difference does it make to us what others say and do?”
“Oh! none at all; but, don’t you know, I like to see—it amuses me.”
“Let us eat and not worry about our neighbors; that will be the better way.”
“It don’t interfere with my eating!—Wait! they’re opening the door.”
And at that moment a man’s voice in the corridor called:
“Bring up the dinner, waiter.”
“It’s the man calling,” said Virginie; “he’s got a little soprano voice, but the voice don’t prove anything at all.”
“Will you have some pigeon?”
“Do wait a minute; you’re hurrying me too much.”
Just then they heard a woman’s voice saying:
“My friend, you forgot to order fritters.”
Auguste gave a jump when he heard that voice; and Virginie, alarmed by his abrupt movement, asked:
“Well! what’s struck you now? Did you swallow a pigeon wing the wrong way?”
“No, nothing’s the matter. It was that voice that surprised me; I thought that I recognized——”
“Ah, yes! I understand; it is probably some old flame of monsieur who’s in yonder room. Well! what then? Do you think that you ought to think about any other woman when you’re with me? That’s very polite. Does it make any difference to you who the woman’s with? Are you still in love with her? If I knew that you were, I’d go and make a row.”
“Why, no; there’s no question of love, but it’s because——”
“Because, because—You don’t know what you’re saying. Eat your dinner at once. Why don’t you eat?”
“I am not hungry any more.”
“Indeed! monsieur has ceased to be hungry since he heard that lady’s voice, which has taken away his appetite. How touching! What are you getting up for? Where are you going?”
“I am going downstairs a minute.”
“I don’t want you to leave the room. You don’t need to go downstairs. You want to see that woman opposite, that’s all; but you shan’t see her.”
As she spoke, Virginie rose too, and planted herself in front of the door.
“I assure you, my dear love, that I do need to go down,” said Auguste, gently taking Virginie’s arm in order to put her away from the door.
“My good fellow, I don’t care what happens, but you shall not leave this room.”
Auguste, laughing all the while, succeeded in removing Virginie from the position she was determined to defend. She flew into a rage; the door was partly open and Auguste attempted to go out; but she caught him by his coat tails and the struggle began anew. At last, Virginie’s strength being exhausted, she suddenly released her hold. Auguste plunged into the corridor, and collided with the waiter who was bringing his neighbors their soup, splashed the julienne against the wall, hurled the tureen to the floor, and caused him who carried it to stumble and stagger.
At the outcry emitted by the waiter and the crash of the soup-tureen, the two persons in the other room, divining that it was their dinner that had come to grief, instantly opened their door, and Auguste, who was still in the hall, saw Madame de Saint-Edmond, and the little man whom she held in horror.
At first Léonie’s glance did not fall on Auguste; she saw nobody but the waiter, who was picking up thefragments of the tureen, exclaiming: “That’s too bad! luckily no one’s hurt.”
But Auguste suddenly appeared at the door of the room and bowed to Léonie.
“I am distressed, madame, to have upset your soup.”
Léonie raised her eyes, gave a shriek, and fainted. That was the best thing that she could do under the circumstances. The little man, who also had recognized Dalville, and who was afraid of being challenged to fight a duel, leaped over the stooping waiter, and rushing down the stairs four at a time, left the Tournebride and plunged into the woods, without casting a glance behind. Virginie, who had left her room, exclaimed in surprise when she recognized Auguste’s neighbor in the unconscious woman; and the waiter, thinking that everybody was shouting because of the soup, kept repeating:
“It’s nothing, messieurs, mesdames; don’t get excited; there’s more downstairs; we always have plenty of julienne.”
Virginie’s anger had vanished and she laughed as if she would die. Auguste looked at Léonie, who sat in her chair, with her head thrown back, and did not open her eyes; while the waiter, seeing nothing of what took place inside the room, went downstairs, crying:
“I’ll bring up some more soup; it’ll only take a minute.”
Meanwhile Virginie had walked up to Madame Saint-Edmond, and, taking the mustard pot from the table, had held it under her nose; with the result that the pretty blonde instantly recovered consciousness and cast a languid glance on the person who had been so attentive. But when she recognized Virginie, her expression changed, and she roughly pushed away the mustard pot which that young lady was holding to her nose.
“Does madame feel better?” queried Virginie, imitating Léonie’s mellifluous tone.
The latter, choking with rage, rose and said in a trembling voice:
“I don’t need anything.”
“Come, my dear love,” said Auguste, “we must not intrude upon madame any longer; I deeply regret that I frightened her companion away. But doubtless the gentleman is only awaiting our departure, to return; we must not compel him to stay in the kitchen any longer. Let’s go and finish our dinner.”
“Yes, let’s go back and eat our omelette soufflée,” said Virginie, with a profound curtsy to Léonie, and she returned to her seat at the table in the other room. Auguste was about to do likewise, when Léonie ran to him, raising her eyes to the ceiling, and said in an undertone:
“You judge me by appearances; but I swear to you——”
“Oh! upon my word, this is too much,” cried Auguste; and he angrily slammed the door in Madame Saint-Edmond’s face, exclaiming: “Take a woman in the act, and she would still say: ‘Don’t judge by appearances.’”
Virginie was overjoyed by the incident; she joked Auguste about his neighbor’s fidelity, and he tried to laugh with her, although at heart he was not over-pleased that he had allowed himself to be hoodwinked. They finished their dinner at last and were about to leave their room and the Tournebride, when they heard loud voices, and recognized those of the inn-keeper and of Madame Saint-Edmond.
“Madame,” said the former, “you can’t go away like this; I must be paid for my dinner.”
“Monsieur,” replied Madame de Saint-Edmond, imparting a moving intonation to her voice, “I am very sorry, but you must believe that I had no intention——”
“I see, madame, that you have an intention to go away; your friend went off like a shot just now; who is to pay me for my dinner, I should like to know?”
“But, monsieur,” rejoined Léonie, and her voice became a little less pathetic, “after all, we didn’t dine; so we don’t owe you anything.”
“What’s that? you don’t owe anything, madame! When a dinner’s ordered, and such care taken with it as with this one, do you think it isn’t to be paid for? Do you propose to leave your fillets and sweetbreads on my hands? It isn’t my fault that you don’t choose to eat.”
“You can give them to some other party, monsieur.”
“You had a bottle of old macon when you got here; and there’s the soup wasted, and the broken tureen.”
“That’s none of my affair, monsieur.”
“Your dinner’s your affair, madame; eat it and pay for it.”
“I don’t feel well, I tell you.”
“Pay for it then.”
“But I have no money with me.”
“You shouldn’t have let your friend run off as if he’d seen the devil! A man ought not to leave a woman in a false position! The deuce! decent people don’t do that! He must be a nice kind of fellow, to disappear with the money. You shouldn’t go into a restaurant when you don’t mean to dine.”
“Monsieur,” retorted Madame Saint-Edmond, with an angry ring in her voice, “this isn’t the first time we’ve come here to dinner; do you take us for riff-raff?”
“No, madame; of course I know perfectly well who I’m dealing with, but I don’t choose to give credit; afine dinner like this ought not to be refused when it’s all cooked.”
During this dialogue, Auguste had all the difficulty in keeping Virginie from laughing aloud. At last, moved to pity by the sentimental Léonie’s plight, he went downstairs, followed by Virginie, and said to the landlord, who did not take his eyes from Madame Saint-Edmond:
“As I have the honor to know madame, I beg you to add the amount of her bill to mine, monsieur; I will pay both.”
The host, whose only desire was to be paid, resumed his affable air and made haste to reckon up the two accounts. Meanwhile the pretty blonde sank into a chair, holding her handkerchief to her face.
Auguste having paid, Virginie, whose triumph was complete, took his arm and left the inn with him, saying in a mocking tone:
“If we meet the gentleman in the forest, we will send him back to madame.”
That fling was the last straw, and Auguste felt amply avenged.
Auguste, who had no secrets from the faithful Bertrand, told him of the meeting in Romainville forest.
“Well, lieutenant,” said Bertrand, “was Madame Schtrack mistaken when she told me about the little man that slunk upstairs as soon as you left?”
“I thought that Léonie adored me.”
“I’m surprised at that, lieutenant; you deceive the ladies so often yourself, that you ought to be a little more suspicious of their oaths.”
“On the contrary, my dear Bertrand, I assure you that those who are most cunning in seduction allow themselves to be deceived with astounding ease.”
“Then it’s no use to be cunning.”
“Because you’re very fond of a person, that doesn’t prove that you know that person thoroughly.”
“It is certain that if you knew her thoroughly, you might not be so fond of her; for instance, I love wine, I confess; I always know when it’s good, but I can’t always tell what province it comes from.”
“And I love women, I appreciate their charms, I admire their beauties; but their hearts—Ah! if they exhibited them to the naked eye, the prettiest ones wouldn’t always be preferred.”
“For all that, lieutenant, if I were you, I’d be a little shy of those affected airs, and those voices always pitched in a falsetto key, which never come from the chest; it seems to me that a person can’t be talking honestly when she always acts as if she was singing. I would be on my guard too against fainting fits, tears and stifled sighs.”
“Why, my dear Bertrand, when the tears are shed by lovely eyes, when the voice comes from a pretty mouth, when the person who pretends to faint displays a charming body, a shapely figure, is it so easy to resist? No, one must surrender—with liberty to repent later.”
“That is true. In fact, that’s just like me: to find out whether a wine’s good, I must taste it; and it’s never the bad one that a man does himself harm with. It’s a pity that this meeting didn’t happen the day before yesterday, before you paid the note for two thousand francs!”
“Let’s not think any more about that!”
“No; only let it be a lesson for the future.”
“Bertrand, when you meet Madame Saint-Edmond, I desire you to be as polite to her as before!”
“Oh! never fear, monsieur, I’m a Frenchman, and an old soldier knows the respect due to the sex. Parbleu! if one must needs look askance at everybody who hasn’t got the countersign, one would have to look cross-eyed too often. At all events, lieutenant, that makes one less, and we shall be able to straighten out our cash-box a little, and——”
“Oh, yes! I am fully determined to settle down. Destival has spoken to me about another excellent investment. I will go to see my notary to-morrow and turn my securities into cash.—Oh! by the way, you will pay a small bill for furniture that will be sent here within a few days.”
“Have you been buying furniture, lieutenant?”
“Not for myself, for Virginie.”
Bertrand turned away, biting his lips, and struck himself repeated blows on the forehead to keep himself from speaking out and venting his wrath. Auguste, observing his cashier’s ill humor, continued with a smile:
“Come, don’t get excited, Bertrand! really, you are getting to be so severe!”
“I, monsieur! I haven’t said a word!”
“Deuce take it! I am rich; do you expect me to deny myself all pleasure?”
“I don’t expect anything at all, monsieur.”
“Ought a man in my position to lead the life of a petty tradesman with an income of twelve hundred francs?”
“We spent forty thousand francs last year, and your income only amounts to fifteen thousand; if we go onthat way, we’re perfectly certain to be left as naked as little St. John.”
“No; I shall succeed in keeping a better proportion between my expenses and my income this year. But this bill is a mere trifle. Poor Virginie! she’s so amusing!”
“Oh, yes! she’s amusing enough! but she’d ruin a platoon of contractors!”
“You certainly can’t call her voice falsetto.”
“No, parbleu! there’s no doubt about it’s coming from her chest; and she must have a strong one too, for she uses it devilish hard. Thunder and guns! what a chatter!”
“She hasn’t any prim ways or affected manners.”
“Oh! as far as that goes, I’ll admit that she’s outspoken! She don’t conceal her game, at all events. But all the same, lieutenant, you can scold me if you choose, but I tell you again that these women ought not to occupy every minute of a man’s time; and that it makes me feel bad to see that they don’t love you as you deserve to be loved; because, at heart, you’re a good man, you have lots of good qualities and fine feeling; and all that ought to make you see that it isn’t by running after women all the time that—That’s all, lieutenant.”
Auguste was silent for some time, and Bertrand, surprised to see him so pensive, feared that he had offended him, and dared not open his mouth.
“I believe that you’re right, Bertrand,” said Auguste at last.
“Really, lieutenant—you agree with me?”
“Yes, I feel that a genuine passion, a sincere attachment, must make a man happier than all these momentary fancies. But is it my fault that it is so difficult to find a frank and sincere heart in society?”
“No, certainly not; it isn’t your fault.”
“Or that coquetry and falsity take the place nowadays of love and friendship?”
“Such substitutes shouldn’t be allowed!”
“Ah! my dear Bertrand, we should be too fortunate if all women were faithful.”
“True, we should be too fortunate.”
“And yet the whole business of living would be intolerably monotonous then.”
“Ah! do you think it would injure business?”
“You see, Bertrand, we must take the world as it is.”
“We have no help for that.”
“But when I have found a woman who will love me for myself, who will be incapable of deceiving me, who will try to please nobody but myself alone, why then——”
“Then, lieutenant?”
“Oh, Bertrand! such a pleasant memory! And it’s so long since I thought of her!”
“Who, lieutenant?”
“Lovely Denise, the pretty little milkmaid of Montfermeil. Ah! she is virtuous, I’ll swear to that.”
“That would be taking a big risk; you hardly know her, and you haven’t seen her for two months.”
“Do you know why I haven’t seen her, Bertrand?”
“Because you forgot her.”
“No, it isn’t that alone. I have had another reason; you’ll laugh, but it is that I am afraid of becoming too fond of that girl.”
“In that case, it’s very delicate on your part.”
“Yes, of course it is; for why should I try to seduce that child, who is virtuous and innocent, and who is living a tranquil life in her village?”
“That would be very wrong, monsieur; there’s girls enough willing to be seduced in Paris, without going into the suburbs to look for others.”
“Saddle my horse, Bertrand, and saddle the cabriolet horse for yourself; make haste.”
“Why, where are we going, monsieur?”
“To Montfermeil, to see Denise.”
“What! when you just said——”
“I have reflected that there’s no danger for her, because she doesn’t love me.”
“Do you think not, monsieur?”
“She told me so many times. But I want to see Coco, my little protégé, poor child. I really long to hug the little fellow. You will see how pretty he is, Bertrand—and such vile relations!—Put some money in your pocket, Bertrand.”
“Oh! as much as you choose, lieutenant, to relieve the unfortunate, to help an orphan; one never regrets such things, and it gives one a hundred times more pleasure than paying for the brunette’s hangings and the blonde’s shawls.”
The horses were saddled; Auguste and Bertrand mounted, and started for Montfermeil about ten o’clock in the morning. At eleven they had passed Raincy; a little later they reached Livry, turned to the right, and soon saw the village of Montfermeil before them.
Bertrand was drenched with perspiration; he was not used to riding hard, as Dalville was; and although it was September, it was still exceedingly warm. Bertrand drew rein, observing to Auguste that their steeds needed a breathing-space; but, thinking that he recognized the path by which Coco had taken him to his cabin, Auguste urged his horse forward, calling to Bertrand:
“Ride on to the village; I’ll join you there.”
“All right, I’ll go on to the village,” said Bertrand to himself, letting his horse walk. “Shall I go to the inn? Or shall I inquire for the little milkmaid? No, I don’twant milk for my horse, and the girl probably wouldn’t be able to feed us both.—A very pretty village, but I don’t see any signs of an inn.”
Bertrand allowed his horse to go where he chose; he passed several hovels of only one story, not caring to halt at such wretched abodes; but he soon found himself beside a rippling stream bordered by willow trees, with a pretty cottage on the opposite side. Bertrand crossed the brook and stopped in front of the yard. A small boy was playing with a goat; a little farther on a girl was churning butter, and at the rear was an elderly woman arranging fruit in a basket.
From his saddle Bertrand could overlook the whole yard, and he watched that rustic picture. Suddenly the girl raised her eyes, saw the horseman, and rushed toward him, exclaiming:
“I can’t be mistaken—it’s Monsieur Bertrand.”
And as she spoke, the girl’s eyes searched the road for another horseman.
Bertrand recognized Denise and bestowed an affable nod upon her, saying:
“By the great Turenne, I couldn’t have stopped at a better time. Bébelle has a most amazing scent!”
“Pray come in, Monsieur Bertrand,” said Denise, her eyes still fixed on the road.
“You’re very kind, mamzelle, but I’m looking for an inn, where my horse and I can get something to eat.”
“You’ll find all you want here. We won’t let you go anywhere else, will we, aunt?—Come in, Monsieur Bertrand.”
Bertrand could not resist the girl’s courteous insistence. He was surprised to hear her call him by name, having no idea that Dalville could have amused himself by mentioning him to Denise. While he dismounted, thegirl ran to her aunt, and, to induce her to treat the newcomer cordially, she made haste to tell her that Bertrand was the companion of the gentleman who had been so kind to Coco. Mère Fourcy rose and made a low reverence to Bertrand, who could not conceive the cause of so much politeness.
Bébelle was taken to the stable, the child left his goat, to go and look at her, and Denise ushered Bertrand into the house and made haste to offer him wine. Meanwhile Mère Fourcy made an omelet, Bertrand having admitted that he would be glad to eat a morsel.
Denise was burning to learn something about the young man who had commended Coco to her care; but she waited for her aunt to leave the room before mentioning him. She did not know how to question Bertrand, whom she supposed to have been sent by the handsome young man to make inquiries about the child; and she waited for Bertrand to speak first; but as he did nothing but eat and drink, Denise decided to question him.
“He sent you to find out whether Coco had everything he wants, and whether I’d made a good use of the money he left with me, didn’t he, monsieur?”
Bertrand emptied his glass at a draught and replaced it on the table with a bang, saying:
“For a village wine, that ain’t bad at all.”
“Didn’t you hear what I said, monsieur?” asked Denise timidly.
“I beg pardon, but you will be very good to act as if I hadn’t heard, for I didn’t understand.”
“I asked you if that gentleman, that young man I saw with you, first in a cabriolet, and afterward at Madame Destival’s——”
“You mean Monsieur Auguste Dalville?”
“Ah! is his name Auguste Dalville?”
“How is it that you don’t know his name and do know mine?”
“Because he called you by name twice before me, in the courtyard, and I haven’t forgotten your name.”
“You are very kind, mademoiselle.”
“So Monsieur Auguste Dalville didn’t come with you to-day?”
“I beg pardon, but he’s close by! he’ll be here very soon.”
“He is here, he is coming!” cried Denise, jumping for joy. But she added, to conceal her emotion: “You see, when you came alone, I thought that you wasn’t with him any more.”
“Do you suppose I’ll ever leave my master, my benefactor, a man who has done everything for me, and who still calls me his friend? Ten thousand bayonets! No, my dear child, that can never be; I’m attached to Monsieur Auguste, just as my sword hilt is to the blade; nothing can ever separate me from him, except himself. But I don’t worry about that; although I do make bold to scold him a little, he knows old Bertrand’s heart.”
Denise wiped away the tears of emotion which the old soldier’s devotion brought to her eyes; then she cried, taking Bertrand’s hand and pressing it in hers:
“Ah! what a fine thing for you to say, Monsieur Bertrand! How nice it is to love a person like that!”
“Does it surprise you? did you think that Monsieur Auguste didn’t deserve to be loved so well?”
“I don’t say that, monsieur; far from it. Another glass, Monsieur Bertrand?”
“With pleasure, mamzelle.”
Denise was delighted to hear him talk of Auguste; and as the wine made him very communicative, he went on; for when he was talking about his benefactor, it wasthe same as with his campaigns—there was no way of stopping him.
“Yes, my pretty child, Monsieur Auguste’s a fine fellow—a rake, a lady-killer, fickle and dissipated, it’s true; but those things don’t touch the real man.”
“What, monsieur! he’s all that? Why, it’s very wicked to be a rake and fickle. And you said such fine things about him just now!”
“Have I said any ill of him, my girl? Don’t you know that young men must sow their wild oats? But I trust that with my advice—Corbleu! if Schtrack knew of this wine—And when it’s so hot, it makes you thirsty as the devil.”
“I believe, monsieur, that while Monsieur Auguste was talking to me in Madame Destival’s courtyard, you whispered in my ear: ‘Look out for yourself!’”
“It’s possible, my child, quite possible.—Look you, Mamzelle Denise, you’re a pretty girl——”
“Very polite of you, Monsieur Bertrand.”
“Oh, no! I say that in all honesty. You look to be a good girl, too, and it would be a pity to let you get caught. My master’s a fine fellow, but as soon as he sees a pretty face, he flashes up like powder! it’s too much for him. He’ll swear that it will last forever; but at the first village where he sees another pretty girl, he’ll take fire and swear the same to her.”
“Oh! that’s very wicked!”
“No, it’s a disease of youth, and it will pass away!—You see, in Paris I can’t always be at his heels to warn the pretty girls he makes love to; besides, in the big cities, the girls know enough about such things not to need any warning. But when I happen to see my lieutenant talking to a child who looks to me to be virtuous and respectable, like you, then I just whisper in her ear:‘Look out for yourself!’ and if that don’t save her, it ain’t my fault, at all events.”
Denise made no reply, for she was reflecting upon what Bertrand had just said; he wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, drank, and replied:
“However, the proof that Monsieur Auguste’s a fine young man is that, when he reflects, he don’t make a fool of himself. For instance, he found you to his taste; well, he didn’t come again to see you; he told me that it was for fear of getting to be too fond of you.”
“Too fond of me!” cried Denise. “What! did he really say that, monsieur? Then he loves me.”
“Not at all, my pretty child; that is to say, not any more than the others. But he would have tried to seduce you as a matter of habit, and you might perhaps have listened to him; for he’s a good-looking fellow, and he has such a way of telling of his love that he’d make a woman of sixty believe in it.”
“And that’s why he hasn’t been here?” Denise inquired, with a sigh.
“Yes; but to-day he remembered your saying that you didn’t love him; so then he came.”
“I didn’t say that, Monsieur Bertrand.”
“No? then he did wrong to come.”
“I don’t say that I do love him either.”
“So much the better for you, Mamzelle Denise; for that would be laying up trouble for yourself.”
“Whoever heard of a village girl loving a fine gentleman from the city?”
“I don’t know whether it’s possible, but I know that it sometimes happens.”
“Don’t worry, Monsieur Bertrand, I shall never have any feeling but friendship for Monsieur Auguste; and if it’s the dread of my loving him that keeps him fromcoming to the village, why, tell him he can come as often as he likes. Denise knows only too well that she isn’t capable of winning the heart of a city gentleman; she won’t ever forget it.”
“Bravo! that’s what I call talking, my dear child. I drink to your virtue,—and, as you see, I leave no heel-taps.—But what’s the matter, pray? are you crying?”
“No, Monsieur Bertrand, no; you see, I should be very sorry to—But it’s all over now. Monsieur Auguste won’t be afraid any more to come to see his little protégé. He won’t let two months go by again, without coming.”
“Oh! that depends. At Paris, you know, Mamzelle Denise, my master don’t have a minute to himself; he’s always at some party or some entertainment! People fight to see who shall have him! He gets ten invitations a day.”
“Oh, yes! he don’t have time to think of the village. Is he so very rich then, your Monsieur Auguste?”
“Rich? Yes, to be sure, he is as yet; but if he keeps on at this rate, he won’t be rich long!—Your health, Mamzelle Denise.”
“What do you mean by that, Monsieur Bertrand?”
“Oh! nothing, nothing!—At any rate, I ought not to presume to criticise. Monsieur Dalville’s money’s his own; let him give it to women who deceive him, to grisettes who ruin him; let him pay for furniture and rugs and calico dresses—it’s none of my business; I must just obey and pay; but it makes me feel bad because—damnation!—what with women on one side and écarté on the other——”
“What’s écarté, Monsieur Bertrand?”
“Oh! that’s a little game at which people ruin themselves while they imagine they’re enjoying themselves. They say it’s a delightful game, because it’s played sofast. For my part, I think it’s played much too fast; but Monsieur Auguste gambles so as to do like the others. That’s his business. Besides, if he chooses to ruin himself, why, you understand, subordination before everything.—Your health, Mamzelle Denise.”
Denise was greatly surprised by what she had heard; she was wondering whether she ought to believe Bertrand, who continued to drink and talk, when Coco came bounding into the room.
“Who is that child?” queried Bertrand.
“The little boy to whom Monsieur Auguste gave so many tokens of his generosity.”
“He’s a pretty little fellow.—Come here, my boy; get up on my knee—so. Haven’t you got any father or mother, little white head?”
“Yes, monsieur, I’ve got Papa Calleux,” Coco replied, looking up at Bertrand.
“What does Papa Calleux do?”
“He works in the fields.”
“He’s a drunkard,” Denise whispered to Bertrand.
“The devil! that’s a villainous fault,” the latter replied, putting his glass to his lips. “A man must drink—it’s a necessity—but he should be able to govern his thirst, and above all things, never lose his wits.—But, by the way, seeing this little fellow reminds me that he’s the one my master’s gone to see; when he left me, he said: ‘I’m going to the child’s cabin.’”
“Oh dear! he won’t find anybody there,” said Denise. “And you never told us! We must go to meet him. I supposed he was at Madame Destival’s.—Come, Coco, come; we are going to find your kind friend—the one you love so much.”
“The one you talk to me about every day, Denise?” asked the child.
“Yes, your benefactor.—Are you coming with us, Monsieur Bertrand?”
“Faith, Mamzelle Denise, I’m very comfortable here; and if you don’t need me——”
“No, no; my aunt will keep you company.—Come, Coco, let’s make haste to look for your kind friend.”
The child asked nothing better than to go with Denise. They left Bertrand in the act of making a military salute to Mère Fourcy, who had just entered the room, and they started for the cabin.
But Denise was moved by conflicting emotions, of whose source she had no very definite idea: she was happy, and yet she trembled, and her breathing was labored; and as one cannot run far under such circumstances, Denise slackened her pace. But Coco ran on ahead, because at seven years of age such emotions are unknown.
Denise was so engrossed by what Bertrand had said to her, that she did not at first notice that the child had left her; but Coco was well acquainted with the roads, so that the girl was not anxious about him, and she paused a moment under a great tree, glad of an opportunity to prepare for her meeting with the young man. A thousand thoughts passed through her mind; but the one that recurred most frequently was that Auguste had come to the village again solely because he thought that she did not love him.
“Is it quite certain that he thinks that?” said Denise to herself; “perhaps Monsieur Bertrand heard wrong. Is it quite true that Monsieur Auguste is such a deceiver as he says? An old soldier can’t know much about all those things. But after all, what difference does it make to me, as I don’t care for the young man? As Monsieur Bertrand says, what good would it do me to love him?He’d just laugh at me afterward. Oh! there’s no danger of my marrying a young man from Paris.—A rake, a seducer, fickle——”
Having reflected thus, the maiden arranged her neckerchief, adjusted her cap, retied her apron, and looked down at herself, murmuring:
“Oh dear! how tumbled I am! If I had known this morning—if I could have guessed. That gentleman won’t think me pretty again—Bah! it’s all one to me; but a body don’t like to look as if she was careless and hadn’t any taste.”
At last, having completed her scrutiny of her toilet, Denise was about to leave the tree, when she heard a voice. It was Auguste’s. The girl recognized it, and she had to stop again to recover her breath.
But Auguste was not alone; he was talking and laughing with a pretty, rosy-cheeked peasant girl, by whose side he was walking, leading his horse by the rein. Denise being hidden by the great tree, Dalville did not see her.
The peasant halted a hundred yards from the tree which concealed Denise.
“Adieu, monsieur; I’m going this way; and if you’re going to Montfermeil, that’s your road straight ahead.”