[G]Rosièreis the name given to the maiden who is awarded the prize for virtue in a village competition.
[G]Rosièreis the name given to the maiden who is awarded the prize for virtue in a village competition.
“Morbleu!” whispered Bertrand to Auguste, “if the rosière corresponds with the bridegroom, I’ll bet we’re going to see some stout Pontoise cowherd.”
At last they heard Cadet Eustache’s voice introducing his chosen bride to the guests, and Auguste was not a little surprised to recognize Mademoiselle Tapotte, Monsieur de la Thomassinière’s gardener.
Mademoiselle Tapotte had grown taller, and she was still very plump; she was, in truth, a fine figure of a girl, and, as formerly, she kept her eyes on the floor and bowed without looking at anybody.
“Superb!” cried Père Rondin; “bravo! you’ve made a great find, Cadet, on my word! And it’s a fact that you can still see on her cheeks the down of chastity.”
Monsieur Cadet received these compliments with a smile and said:
“I have the honor to present Mademoiselle Suzanne Tapotte, who will be Madame Eustache to-morrow if God lets us live.”
Everyone kissed the bride—that is also the custom—and Bertrand, who knew nothing of Auguste’s adventure at Fleury, was reassured at sight of the maiden and flattered himself that she would not lead his master into any fresh folly.
But, when it came Auguste’s turn to kiss Mademoiselle Suzanne Tapotte, that young woman, despite her ingenuousness, raised her eyes, and a little shriek escaped her when she recognized the young man.
“I am very awkward,” said Auguste instantly, “to tread on your foot! I beg your pardon, fair fiancée!”
“Oh! was that what made her cry?” said Cadet, laughingly; “when anyone treads on the feet of our girls about here, they don’t yell; they know what it means. They ain’t like Suzanne! By the way, monsieur, uncle says you make portraits; do you make faces too?”
“What do you suppose that I make?”
“Why, I mean a head, with eyes and a nose, et cetera.”
“I generally find nothing else to paint.”
“Pardi, monsieur, if you had time to catch the likeness of my bride, just the face alone, I’d like it mighty well.”
“I haven’t anything but my pencils in my valise, but I can try to draw her.”
“Draw her! Will that be just the same?”
“To be sure.”
“Mademoiselle Suzanne Tapotte, monsieur is going to make your portrait; he’s going to catch you.”
The bride made some objection to allowing herself to be drawn; but Monsieur Cadet was obstinate about it, and she finally consented to lend her face to Auguste,who asked for a room where he could work quietly and without being disturbed.
He was taken to a small room at the top of the house and furnished with all that he required. Monsieur Cadet brought his fiancée, who seated herself, with downcast eyes, beside the table at which Auguste was working. Monsieur Cadet was preparing to watch the process of catching his charmer’s likeness when Auguste said to him:
“I am very sorry to send you away, but I cannot draw before anybody. If you want your wife’s portrait, you must leave me alone with her; indeed, that is the custom; a painter doesn’t like to have anyone see his work before it’s finished.”
“Oh, yes, that’s right,” said Cadet; “and then, if I watched you, I wouldn’t have any surprise.”
“That’s so.”
“All right, I’ll go away. You needn’t be afraid to stay alone with monsieur, Mamzelle Tapotte; he’s an artist—he’s going to catch you and surprise me. Ah! how nice that’ll be!”
Mademoiselle Tapotte smiled without raising her eyes, and Monsieur Cadet left her alone with Auguste, while he went to oversee all the preparations for the wedding.
Bertrand was already at table with Père Rondin. They were soon joined by several farmers of the neighborhood. Neighbors, male and female, kindred and friends came to take up their quarters under Eustache’s roof on the day before the wedding. Long tables were laid and covered with dishes and pitchers. They laughed and sang and shrieked and made a great uproar, for the hilarity of the peasant is exceedingly noisy. It seemed as if the wedding festivities had already begun; and Bertrand, who found the wine excellent and did not notice among the villagegirls any faces likely to inflame his master, concluded that they might safely pass a week at the farm.
But everybody asked for the bride, and Monsieur Cadet said:
“Someone’s catching her just at this minute, getting up a surprise for me, copying her face. I guess I’ll go and see how it’s coming on.”
Monsieur Cadet went up to the room where he had left Auguste and Mademoiselle Tapotte. But the door was locked, doubtless so that they might not be disturbed. The groom tapped gently on the door, saying:
“It’s me,—is it done?”
“No, not yet,” Auguste replied.
“Is it coming on all right?”
“Yes, it’s coming on well.”
“What are you doing now?”
“An ear.”
“Is it a good likeness?”
“It will be very striking.”
Cadet went down to the company, exclaiming:
“I couldn’t get in; he was just doing an ear, that’s going to be striking. Oh! that painter seems to be a smart one! I tried to look through the key-hole, but he must have her posed in profile, for I thought I saw an eye instead of an ear. I’m going to put my wife’s picture in our big room opposite the one of the boar my grandfather killed.”
At last, after two hours, Auguste appeared, leading the bride that was to be, who would not have raised her eyes to look at a diamond, and who was even more ruddy than usual. Everyone exclaimed at her beauty, her bloom, and her innocent air, and Monsieur Cadet swelled with pride.
The groom asked to see the portrait and Auguste exhibited a face which was as like that of the queen of clubsas one drop of water is like another. The guests all went into ecstasies over it, saying that the resemblance was striking, and furthermore that it had the advantage of resembling the groom and Père Rondin as well. Monsieur Cadet was overjoyed, and Auguste received compliments from the whole company.
The rest of the day passed in dancing and recreation; many guests did not leave the table except to go to bed, and Bertrand was among them.
The wedding day arrived at last. At daybreak the farm-house was astir. Monsieur Cadet donned a costume that he had had made in Paris: nut-brown coat, waistcoat and trousers. Mamma Eustache went to dress the bride. Mademoiselle Suzanne Tapotte was soon led in, armed with the virginal bouquet; whereupon they set out for the church, with the musicians at the head of the procession.
Bertrand enjoyed the festivities immensely; Auguste too, seemed not to be bored; he danced with the girls, while his companion kept the corks popping. The whole night was passed in games, feasting and carousing. But at midnight Monsieur Cadet led his wife away to the nuptial chamber, leaving the rest to drink and dance. Two hours later they were amazed by the apparition of the husband, in nightgown and nightcap, in the ball-room, crying:
“My friends, I am the happiest of men, that’s all I’ve got to say.”
And Monsieur Cadet returned to his spouse amid a shower of congratulations and jests from his friends, while Père Rondin said to Auguste:
“Didn’t I tell you my nephew was a sly one, and that it’s a sort of rosière, as you might say, that he’s brought from Paris?”
Auguste added his congratulations to those of the other guests. At daybreak, weary of dancing and eating, he went to bed, leaving the dauntless Bertrand to hold his own with three farmers, two of whom were all ready to slide under the table.
Auguste and his faithful companion passed the week of the wedding festivities at Monsieur Eustache’s farm; and during that time the bride gave the young man several more sittings, for she always found something to change in her nose or her eye or her ear.
At the end of the week the travellers resumed their journey, not without an invitation from Monsieur Cadet to repeat their visit.
“Beati pauperes spiritu!” said Auguste as they left the farm. To which Bertrand replied:
“Yes, lieutenant. Here is one place at all events where you have behaved yourself.”
Auguste and Bertrand arrived at Turin, undelayed by any fresh adventure. They took rooms at a modest hotel, for, before continuing their journey, Auguste desired to make the acquaintance of that pleasant Italian city, where one may fancy oneself in France, and where reigns an attractive mixture of French manners and Italian morals. The ladies of Turin are pretty, agreeable and piquant; in addition to the charm of our Frenchwomen they have more fire in their glance, a more sensuous intonation tothe voice, more abandon in their bearing. Bertrand, observing that his master gazed persistently at the Italian women, said to him again and again:
“Look out, lieutenant; we are travelling in search of fortune and not of conquests; we didn’t come to Italy to admire black eyes and Greek noses.”
“True, Bertrand; but as we find them here, there’s no reason why we shouldn’t admire them.”
“Remember, monsieur, that the fine arts alone are to occupy your mind.”
“The sight of a lovely woman kindles the flame of genius. Raphael was in love with his Madonna model.”
“Perhaps that wasn’t the best thing he did, lieutenant.”
“Bertrand, you understand nothing about art.”
“Perhaps not, but I know enough about it to calculate.”
“I want to paint one of these charming heads that have caught my eye; I want to take for a model one of the piquant faces that I notice among the girls of this region.”
“In that case you will do like Monsieur Raphael, you will fall in love with your model.”
“So much the better, if it results in my producing a chef-d’œuvre.”
“I’m afraid that it will result in your producing something else.”
“Have you heard them sing, Bertrand?”
“Who, monsieur?”
“The young girls in the suburbs, the villagers, the simple working-girls; they all sing with such taste and harmony! I hear delightful concerts every evening when I am walking. We are in the land of music, my friend.”
“I should prefer to be in the land of gold mines.”
“Here the common people, the workmen, are born musicians; the petty tradeswoman seeks recreation after herday’s labor with her guitar. The boatman as well as the great nobleman, the peasant woman as well as the rich lady, blends her voice with the chords that she strikes on that instrument.”
“It seems, then, that everybody plays it.”
“And the Italian women have a nonchalant air when singing that forms such a striking contrast to the fire of their eyes.”
“I certainly shall go back to Paris and make trousers, monsieur.”
Auguste left Bertrand and went out to walk in the suburbs of the city. The season being farther advanced in that beautiful climate, there was already a wealth of verdure, shrubbery and fragrant groves, which the Italian regards with the indifference of habit, but which arouse the admiration of the stranger who sees for the first time that lovely sky, that delicious landscape, and those flowering orange trees which spread the sweetest of perfumes all about.
In a pleasant country everything is calculated to inspire pleasure. The climate of Italy seems to be the fitting climate of love. The aspect of a wild landscape, of a rugged and sterile country inclines the soul to melancholy and sadness; that of a verdant grove, of a valley studded with flowers, makes our hearts beat more gently and gives birth to no thoughts save of pleasure and of love.
Auguste, who did not need to be in Italy to have his imagination take fire, was conscious nevertheless of the soothing influence of the climate; he sighed as he glanced at the lovely women who passed him by; and as the young Frenchman was a comely youth, his sighs were answered by some very expressive glances.
Among the attractive young women whom he met in the street, Auguste noticed one, modestly but respectablyattired, who usually had an older woman on her arm. The young woman’s face was fascinating; but her timid glances, far from challenging the young foreigner’s, were modestly lowered when they met. Auguste followed them, however. Sometimes the older woman turned her head, and, when she saw the young man, urged her companion to quicken her pace. When they reached a distant suburb of the city, the ladies entered a small isolated house. The young woman afforded Auguste one more glimpse of her lovely features as she furtively glanced at him; but the old woman closed the door behind them and the enchanting image vanished.
Auguste stood some time in front of the house which the pretty Italian had entered; but at last, tired of staring at a door and windows that did not open, he returned to his hotel, saying to himself:
“She’s an angel! she is ideally beautiful, the model of the Venus de Medici, of Girodet’s Galatea, of Psyche, of Dido; and I must make the acquaintance of such charms.”
The next day he went out to walk again, and again he saw the two ladies. Grown bolder, he approached them and, as a stranger, asked the older one for information concerning the first thing that his eyes fell upon. She answered courteously, and the young woman, without joining in the conversation, turned her beautiful eyes on the Frenchman from time to time. The old lady, who was very talkative, soon informed the young Frenchman that her name was Signora Falenza, and that her companion was her niece Cecilia; that they were far from rich, and for that reason lived in a retired quarter, and that they let a portion of their lodgings when they had applications from quiet and orderly people, because that enabled them to increase their slender income a little.
The old woman had not finished speaking when Auguste asked her to let the little apartment to him.
“I have come to Italy to study painting,” he said, “and I have rather neglected it; I have nobody with me but an old soldier, and we are as orderly as young ladies. I flatter myself that you will have no cause to regret having us for tenants.”
Signora Falenza made some objections; but Auguste was so urgent that she consented to show him the apartment. It consisted of two rooms, rather shabbily furnished; to be sure, the price asked was very moderate. Auguste expressed himself as delighted; he was satisfied with everything, and, after casting a passionate glance at the fair Cecilia, he hurried away to make his arrangements to return the same evening and take up his abode beneath the same roof with the two ladies.
“Pack our valises and pay our bill, Bertrand; we are going to move.”
“Are we going to leave Turin, monsieur?”
“Oh, no, my friend; I am more pleased with it than ever!”
“In that case, why do we leave this hotel, where we are well accommodated, and at not too high a price?”
“For economy’s sake, Bertrand; I have found much pleasanter lodgings, which will cost only half as much; I trust that you won’t find fault with me this time.”
Bertrand frowned and muttered:
“There’s a petticoat under this, I’ll wager.”
However, he packed the valises, paid the bill, and followed his master, who led the way to the suburb.
“We don’t seem to be moving into the fashionable quarter, monsieur,” said Bertrand.
“What do we care, so long as the lodgings suit us?”
“True.”
“See, there’s the house.”
“It’s a long way from any other. Do you remember that we’re in Italy, monsieur? It looks to me like a cut-throat sort of place.”
“Do you mean that you’re afraid, Bertrand?”
“Oh, lieutenant!”
“You are growing absurdly suspicious. This is a very pleasant house; the outlook is on fields and gardens. It’s very quiet here, and that is what I like.”
“Ah! you like quiet now, do you?”
“Very much.”
Auguste knocked. The door was opened by Signora Falenza, at sight of whom Bertrand said to himself:
“If there’s only faces like this one here, we shall certainly be very quiet.”
The old woman escorted the strangers to their rooms, showing them every courtesy. As they passed through a passageway they met the fair Cecilia, who bowed pleasantly to the young Frenchman. Whereupon Bertrand heaved a sigh and thought:
“This is the economy the lieutenant mentioned!”
The travellers being installed in their apartment, Signora Falenza left them, saying:
“When you gentlemen wish for anything, you need only come to my room; my niece and I will hasten to offer our services.”
“In that case,” thought Auguste, “I hope that I shall frequently have occasion to seek them.”
Bertrand inspected the two rooms, and at each object that he examined, frowned and muttered:
“This is very nice!”
“Isn’t it, Bertrand?”
“Yes, indeed! a wretched bed and no pillows!”
“So much the better! we will go and ask for one.”
“Two broken chairs!”
“So much the better! I’ll go and change them.”
“Closets that won’t lock!”
“Bah! they’re good enough for what we have to put in them.”
“A desk that I can’t find any key to!”
“I’ll go and ask the ladies for it.”
“Not a candlestick on the mantel!”
“The ladies will give us one.”
“Not even a jar of water.”
“Perhaps it isn’t the custom in the country.”
“Well! it’s a very clean custom that don’t allow a person to wash his hands! In fact, monsieur, we lack everything here.”
“We shall lack nothing if we ask the ladies for it.”
“The ladies! the ladies!”
“And the low rent, Bertrand—don’t you take that into account?”
“If there wasn’t anybody but the old landlady in the house, you wouldn’t have been tempted to come here to live.”
“That may be; but if I can enjoy the company of a pretty woman, and at the same time reduce my expenses, it seems to me, Bertrand, that you can’t object to that.”
Bertrand said no more; he went into a corner and filled his pipe, and as it was growing dark, Auguste went to his landladies’ room to ask for a light. The old lady was absent, but her niece was there, and our Frenchman, overjoyed at the opportunity of a tête-à-tête with the fair Cecilia, sat down beside the young woman, who seemed less shy at home than on the street, and who replied with a smile to the soft avowals that he addressed to her. The conversation lasted until very late. Auguste forgot Bertrand, who was without a light; he was in a fair wayto forget a great many things, but Signora Falenza returned and by her presence revived his memory. He went up to his own room; Bertrand had thrown himself on the bed and was asleep. Auguste did not think it best to wake him, and he too fell asleep, his mind full of the fascinating Cecilia’s image, convinced that he had never been more comfortably bedded.
Three days passed in the new lodgings. Auguste almost never went out; he watched for opportunities for a tête-à-tête with Cecilia; but the aunt was seldom absent and kept a much closer watch upon her niece. However, Auguste obtained a sweet avowal; he knew that he was beloved; but that was not enough, and Cecilia’s eyes seemed to promise him more.
Bertrand had become accustomed to his new quarters; but he said to his master every day:
“You came to Italy to study and work, monsieur; instead of doing that, you pass all your time running after our young landlady.”
“Cecilia is teaching me to speak Italian better, Bertrand; and I am teaching her French.”
“I don’t see what good this reciprocal teaching will do you.”
“Why, the pleasure of it, Bertrand—is that to be counted nothing?”
“Are we travelling for pleasure?”
“Not entirely; but, when it offers itself, why not make the most of it?”
“Remember, monsieur, that your pleasures have always cost you dear.”
“You can’t say that I am squandering my money here; I have never been so quiet and orderly. I never go out; these ladies, when I invited them to go to the theatre, declined.”
“I agree that they are stay-at-homes and don’t try to make you take them all over the city. But I don’t like that old Falenza with her reverences and her compliments.”
“Really, Bertrand, you are getting to be too particular. When you travel, my friend, you must accustom yourself to the idea of finding different customs and different manners.”
“True, monsieur; but I’m very much afraid that the foundation is the same everywhere! Selfish men, coquettish women, schemers who make a great show of wealth in order to make dupes more easily, rascals who open their mouths only to lie; and here and there a few honest people, who nevertheless consider their own interests before everything. I fancy that that’s what we shall find in every country.”
“Travelling makes you very eloquent, Bertrand. Write down your reflections; I’ll read them—when we return to France.”
“It will be high time, monsieur.”
Auguste was no longer listening to his companion; he had overheard Cecilia’s voice, and he went to her. But the young Italian had but a moment to speak to him, as her aunt would soon return. Yielding to the young man’s urgent entreaties, she gave him an assignation for the next day. A pretty little wood, about a fourth of a league from the city, was the spot to which Cecilia was to go secretly. The time was agreed upon, and they parted, to avoid arousing her aunt’s suspicions.
Auguste returned to his room with the inward satisfaction that one always feels at the approach of a long-desired moment. Never did evening seem longer to him, and he retired early so that the morrow would come the sooner.
Day broke at last. Auguste rose, dressed himself with care, and went out, leaving Bertrand still asleep. The place appointed for the meeting was a very long way from Signora Falenza’s abode; but Auguste supposed that Cecilia had chosen it from prudential motives. He traversed a large part of the city, followed the bank of the Po, and at last reached the little wood, where he hoped soon to see his young landlady.
He waited patiently a long while; hope sustained him; it must be that some accident had kept Cecilia at home. But several hours passed and the fair Italian did not come. Auguste, weary of walking back and forth on the same spot, decided at last to return to the house, cursing the mischance that had prevented Cecilia from keeping her appointment.
As he approached the suburb where he lived, Auguste saw Bertrand in front of him, evidently returning home, like himself; he quickened his pace in order to overtake him. When the ex-corporal caught sight of his master, he uttered a cry of joy, saying:
“Morbleu! you are not wounded?”
“Why in the devil should I be wounded?” demanded Auguste.
“What would there be so surprising about it, monsieur, when you have been fighting a duel?”
“A duel—I?”
“At all events that’s what our landlady told me this morning; she declared that a young man called for you at daybreak, and that from the few words that fell from you she gathered that there was a duel in the wind.”
“Parbleu! this is very strange!”
“She even mentioned several places where she thought you might have gone to settle your dispute; so that, since early morning, I’ve been running in all directions,and have been well laughed at by everybody that I asked if they’d seen two men fighting.”
“I don’t understand it at all, Bertrand.”
“Do you mean to say that it isn’t all true?”
“There isn’t a word of truth in it.”
“Ah! that old signora shall learn that I’m not to be made a fool of like this.”
“Let’s hurry, Bertrand.”
“What’s the matter, lieutenant? You seem anxious.”
“Yes. I’m afraid that the niece has made a fool of me too. Here have I been waiting for her in vain three hours and more at the other end of the city.”
“Ten thousand bullets! there’s something very crooked in this long excursion they made us both take. Didn’t I tell you, lieutenant, that the old woman made too many reverences?”
“Perhaps we are frightened without cause. But here we are. Knock, Bertrand.”
Bertrand knocked, but no one opened the door. He knocked again until the window panes rattled, and there was no response.
“What does this mean, lieutenant?” he cried, looking at Auguste.
“Why, it means that there’s no one here, that is very certain.”
“Still, we must get in.”
As he spoke, he broke in the door with a kick, and entered the house, followed by his master. It was deserted; they had carried off everything except a few wretched pieces of furniture, and the travellers’ apartment too was dismantled.
“We are robbed, monsieur,” said Bertrand.
“It looks to me very much like it, my friend.”
“Did you leave our money here?”
“Alas! yes, in the desk. It was all there except these ten gold pieces that I have in my pocket.”
“Ah! the rascals! To the devil with signoras, fine eyes and reverences! Why did we leave our hotel?”
“It was my fault, Bertrand, I realize it. It is my folly again that has caused this misfortune. But what’s the use of talking? the harm is done.”
“We must enter a complaint, monsieur; we must obtain justice.”
“Enter a complaint, my friend, in a country where we are strangers, and when we have nothing with which to pay for obtaining justice, which is very dear everywhere?”
“In that case, monsieur, we must allow ourselves to be robbed and say nothing, must we?”
“That is the wisest course in this case, Bertrand.”
“It’s very amusing!”
“We must make haste, too, to leave this house, which was undoubtedly let to those sharpers, and of which we have smashed the door; for we may be asked by what right we are here, and be punished for breaking in as we did.”
“That would be the last straw! Ah! my poor old Schtrack, it would have been much better to stay with you!”
“Courage, Bertrand, let us rise superior to disaster. We have nothing left—very good! that compels me to work. We will travel on foot; in that way one doesn’t run the risk of making evil acquaintances as one does in a diligence. And then our baggage is lighter than ever, and each of us can say with the Greek philosopher:‘Omnia mecum porto.’”
“That must mean that he hadn’t a sou, doesn’t it, lieutenant?”
“Pretty nearly that, Bertrand.”
“In that case we are getting to be mighty philosophical!”
“Let’s leave Turin and go elsewhere in search of prudence.”
“Ah! where shall we stop, monsieur?”
Let us leave Auguste and Bertrand to pursue their travels, the one promising never again to allow himself to be led astray by the sly glances of the first pretty face he may meet; the other, swearing because his advice was not heeded, and reviling the sex which led his master into so many scrapes. You must forgive Bertrand, ladies, and pardon his ill humor; he really had some reason to distrust beauty. But if he had been twenty years younger, and some pretty creature had undertaken to make a conquest of him, who can say that, like his master, he would not have succumbed? Let us return to the village, to the little milkmaid, from whom Auguste’s follies have kept us away too long; and may the picture of innocence and of true love give our eyes a little rest after that of the passions and intrigues of cities, and the hypocrisy and selfishness of society. It is like turning to a lovely landscape of Regnier after looking at one of Gudin’s tempests; but, if the representation of the conflict causes us keen emotions, the sight of a pure sky and fields bright with blossoms brings sweet repose to our souls and often arouses pleasanter sensations within us.
Denise took back to her aunt the three thousand francs that she had intended to force upon Auguste; she heaved a profound sigh as she handed her the bag of money.
“Wouldn’t he take it?” asked Mère Fourcy.
“Alas! it was too late, aunt! he had gone away! He’s gone round the world! and God only knows when he will come back!”
“It ain’t our fault, child; we got the money together just as quick as we possibly could; for, you see, three thousand francs ain’t like a cheese. If he’s gone travelling, it must be that he wasn’t in need of money; at any rate we’ve nothing to blame ourselves for, and when he comes to see us again, he’ll see what a pretty cottage we’ve had built for Coco.”
Denise felt confident that Virginie would keep her promise, that she would succeed in finding out where Auguste had gone, and that she would send her news of him; that hope was the sole joy of her life. Hope always counts for much in the sum total of happiness that we mortals enjoy on earth; how many people have never known any other happiness than that which it gives!
Virginie had said to Denise, to console her:
“You will see Auguste again, and when he knows how dearly you love him, I am sure that he will care for you.”
Those words were engraved on the girl’s heart, and she said to herself every day:
“That lady will tell him that I love him, and when he comes here again I shall blush to meet him! I shan’t dare to look him in the face! Perhaps he won’t like it, but it’s his own fault; why did he tell me that he loved me? Ought a man to say such things if he doesn’t mean them? I made believe to laugh when I heard him, but in the bottom of my heart I realized how happy it made me!Of course he only meant to joke with me; he talked to me as he does to all the women he thinks pretty. He doesn’t know what misery he has caused me!”
On the site of the hovel occupied by the Calleux family, a pretty cottage had been built, consisting of a ground floor and attics only. Behind it was a garden of considerable size, surrounded by a fence. The cottage was constructed with the three thousand francs left by Dalville; it belonged to Coco, although he was still too young to live there. But Denise took pleasure in beautifying the little place for which the child was indebted to his benefactor; and there she passed a large part of every day, after performing her morning tasks, dreaming of him whose return she never ceased to expect. There, alone with the child, she talked to him about Auguste, taught him to love him, to remember that he owed everything to him, and never to enter the cottage without giving a thought to gratitude.
The garden was carefully tended. Denise planted flowers there. She remembered what she had seen in the lovely bourgeois gardens that she had visited, and she determined that the garden of the cottage should be laid out on the same plan. She desired that Auguste should be agreeably surprised when he visited the cottage, and should compliment her on her taste.
“He will see these shrubs,” she thought, “these beds of verdure; and he will be surprised that peasants should have done it all as well as people from Paris.”
But in another moment the girl would sigh and say to herself sadly:
“If he has gone to the end of the world, it will be a long time before he comes to see my garden.”
The winter was succeeded by the lovely days of spring, and Denise heard nothing from Virginie.
“She hasn’t found out anything about him,” thought the girl; “otherwise she would have come to tell me about it.”
The hope of hearing from Auguste induced Denise to make another trip to Paris. She easily obtained her aunt’s permission, and one morning she appeared at Auguste’s former abode.
As usual, Schtrack was smoking on a bench in front of his lodge. He recognized the girl, and although it was nearly four months since she had fainted in his arms, he called out when he saw her:
“Wasn’t all the money in the bag?”
“What, monsieur? what bag? Has Monsieur Auguste come back?” inquired Denise, gazing anxiously at the old German.
“Oh, no! no! The young man is still travelling with Pertrand. But I thought you haf come about the bag of money that fell in the yard, and that you didn’t find it all. Sacretié! you see, Schtrack don’t joke about questions of honor.”
“Oh, monsieur! of course I didn’t come about that!—Haven’t you heard from him, monsieur?”
“From who, my child?”
“From Monsieur Auguste.”
“How in the devil do you suppose I could hear from him when he’s gone round the world?”
“And that lady—have you seen her?”
“A lady?”
“The one who was here with me the last time I came, and who was kind enough to help me.”
“Oh ja! the demon! the hussy! the little grenadier!”
“Has she been here, monsieur?”
“Oh ja! she’s been twice to ask for news of the young man.”
“And she told you nothing about Monsieur Auguste?”
“Sacretié! don’t I tell you that she came to ask about him? Don’t you understand?”
“Do you know her address, monsieur?”
“The little hussy’s?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“No, I don’t know it.”
Schtrack resumed his smoking, and as Denise could learn nothing from him, she turned away, regretting that she did not know Virginie’s address. If she had, she would have gone to see her, not because she supposed her to be any better informed than herself concerning the whereabouts of the travellers, but because she could, at least, have talked with her about Auguste; and it is so great a delight to talk of the person we love, especially with someone who understands us!
Several more months passed without bringing any news of Auguste, nor had Virginie come to the village. Hope began to fade in Denise’s heart, but love did not die out; that sentiment, when it is genuine, defies obstacles, time, and absence, and it alone does not pass away when everything about it passes away.
Denise was seventeen years of age. She had grown no taller, but her features seemed to have acquired a greater charm, her face more expression; the secret sentiment that engrossed her thoughts gave to her features a gentle melancholy which was most becoming to her sweet face. Village maidens rarely have that look; perhaps that is why the young men of Montfermeil and the neighborhood found in Denise a something that fascinated them and turned their heads. But she had very little to say to them, she no longer laughed and joked with them, she shunned their dances and their sports; and the other girls sneered at the little milkmaid, saying:
“How high and mighty she is! She puts on the airs of a great lady! She’s trying to copy city folks. But with her scowling face she won’t get any lovers.”
Despite the prophecies of the peasants, Denise, involuntarily and unconsciously, made conquests every day; and the village maidens, with all their loud laughter, their merriment and the lusty blows they dealt out to the beaux of the neighborhood, saw that they all sighed for her who did nothing to attract them. And as Denise, in addition to her sweet face, was an excellent match, several young men applied to Mère Fourcy for her hand.
The excellent aunt had noticed that there had been something wrong with her niece for a long time; but she was convinced that marriage would rid her of that something which caused her to sigh night and day. Mère Fourcy flattered herself that she had had much experience, and remembered that a great many young women, after taking unto themselves husbands, recover the fresh color that is beginning to fade. So one fine morning she went to her niece, who was, as usual, alone in the garden of Coco’s cottage.
“My child,” said Mère Fourcy, sitting down beside her, “I have come here to talk to you about something.”
“Whatever you please, aunt,” replied the girl, with her eyes fixed on a marguerite from which she had just plucked the petals, and in which she had read that the young traveller loved her dearly.
“My child, you were seventeen years old on Saint-Pierre’s day. A girl of seventeen ain’t a child any longer—do you understand that, Denise?”
“Oh, yes, aunt!”
“Besides, you’ve known all about housekeeping for a long time, and your sewing’s like a charm, and you make cheeses that a body could eat all day long withouthurting ‘em; and then you know all the ins and outs of a house. You’re active and a good worker; you have three times more wit than you need to guide a man who might try to go wrong; and morguenne! the man who gets you won’t ever regret it!”
Denise looked at Mère Fourcy in surprise, and faltered:
“I don’t understand, aunt.”
“That makes a difference, my dear; I’ll cut it short. You’re old enough to get married, and there’s several chances offered. First of all, big Fanfan Jolivet, and then neighbor Mauflard’s nephew, and tall Claude-Jean-Pierre-Nicolas Lathuille, who’s just inherited his father’s estate; there’s lots more too that would like you, but those three are the best fixed. They’re good boys and hard workers. It’s your business to choose which one you want for a husband.”
Denise had turned pale and shown great embarrassment during her aunt’s speech; but she glanced again at the remains of her marguerite and replied in a very low tone:
“I don’t want any one of them, aunt.”
“What do you say, my child?”
“I say that—that I don’t want to marry.”
“You don’t want to marry? Nonsense! You’re joking when you say that! As if girls mustn’t marry! I tell you, on the contrary, marriage will do you good. For a long time now you haven’t been yourself, you don’t laugh or sing any more. A husband, my child, makes you sing, brings back your spirits, and—Great heaven! you’re crying, my poor Denise! Do you think I mean to make you feel bad? No, no! I’ll send all your suitors to the devil first. My poor child crying! I don’t want you to do that. Come, tell me right away what makes you cry.”
“To have to refuse you, aunt.”
“The idea of crying for that! Do you think I’ll ever drive you to do what you don’t want to do?”
“Oh, no! you’re so kind to me, aunt!”
“But if you cry, I’ll scold you. You don’t want any of these husbands, so we won’t say any more about it, my child. But, jarni! something’s the matter with you, all the same. A girl don’t sigh all day thinking about flies.”
“Oh, aunt!”
“Tell me what the trouble is, my child.”
“I don’t dare to.”
“I want you to dare to. You’ve got a pain in your heart, that’s sure.”
“Oh! I am very silly! I know that.”
“You, silly! you, the cleverest, the smartest, the shrewdest girl in the world! Anyway, my dear, a body don’t cry because she’s silly. It can’t be you’re in love with anybody, are you?”
Denise heaved a profound sigh, and replied at last, lowering her eyes:
“Yes, aunt.”
“Well, my dear, there’s no law against it! and if it ain’t one of the fellows that’s offered himself, why, never mind, so long as he’s an honest man and will make you happy; for he loves you dearly too, no doubt?”
“No, aunt, he doesn’t love me at all; he doesn’t give me a thought.”
“Jarni! I’ll go and tear his eyes out! Do you mean to say he’s forgotten you, or deceived you? The idea of my Denise loving him, and him not being too happy to marry her!”
“But he has never spoken of marrying me, aunt.”
“Then he’s a deceiver, is he, a rake?”
“No, aunt; but he’s—it’s that gentleman from Paris.”
“Monsieur Dalville?”
“Yes, aunt.”
“O mon Dieu! what on earth are you thinking about, Denise? You’re in love with a fine gentleman from Paris, a man in the best society, a man who would never look at a peasant girl!”
“Oh, yes! he did look at me a great deal, I assure you.”
“But you can’t think of such a thing as loving Monsieur Dalville, my dear!”
“Alas! it isn’t my fault—I can’t help it.”
“How did this love come to you, my child?”
“When I fell from my donkey, aunt.”
“Is it possible?”
“Mon Dieu! yes. I met Monsieur Auguste on the road; he was in his cabriolet and I was walking behind Jean le Blanc.”
“You told me that, my child.”
“He kept looking at me, and I pretended not to notice it. He got out of his carriage and followed me along the narrow path through the wood; he told me I was pretty and I laughed at his compliments.”
“You told me that, too.”
“He tried to kiss me, and in defending myself I scratched his face.”
“You didn’t tell me that, my dear.”
“Oh! I was very angry then! I hated the man! I got on Jean le Blanc so as to get away from him faster, but Jean began to gallop and threw me off. I fell—I don’t know how.”
“Mon Dieu! my child! And then what?”
“The gentleman ran up to me; but he lifted me up so respectfully—he seemed so sorry for my fall—he was paler and trembled more than I did. Then, I don’t knowhow it happened, but all of a sudden my anger went away, and—and I believe that I loved him already.”
“And then?”
“Bless me! you know, aunt, that we found what he’d given Coco and his grandmother, and I felt that that made me love him still more. I saw him again at Madame Destival’s, and he told me to take care of Coco; and since then, you know, aunt, he hasn’t been to see us but once.”
“Have you told him that you loved him?”
“No; on the contrary, as Monsieur Bertrand told me that would keep him from coming to see us, I told him that I should never love him.”
“You did well, my child.”
“Oh, no, aunt! I think that I did wrong rather, for he hasn’t been here since then, and he went away without bidding us good-bye.”
“Well, well, now she’s crying again! But, my child, what good does this love do you?”
“None at all, aunt.”
“Monsieur Auguste wouldn’t have married a poor village girl. Now he’s gone away, and we shan’t ever see him again probably.”
“Do you mean to say that he may not come back? Won’t he want to see—Coco again? He will come back, aunt; ah! I am still hopeful.”
“Even if he should, remember that he’s a gentleman, and used to fine ladies; while you—Well! what are you looking at that flower so for?”
“It told me that Auguste loved me dearly.”
“Who told you so?”
“This marguerite, aunt.”
“Pluck another one to-morrow, my dear, and it will tell you just the opposite.”
“Oh! I pluck them every morning, aunt.”
“And does the flower always tell you he loves you?”
“When there’s one that doesn’t I question another, and I keep on till I find one that gives me the answer I want.”
“That’s the way girls tell their own fortunes. But look you, my child, it would be much more sensible to forget a man who don’t give you a thought.”
“I can’t do it, aunt.”
“If you should take a husband instead of plucking marguerites, your love would soon pass away, I promise you.”
“No, aunt, I don’t want to marry. Leave me at liberty to think of him and to consult the flowers, and I promise you that I won’t cry any more.”
“As you please, my dear Denise; and if that’s your taste, stay unmarried. But you’re so pretty, and such a figure. Ah! it would be a great pity if you should pass your youth consulting flowers.”
The worthy aunt said no more to Denise on the subject of marriage, and the suitors were dismissed. The villagers indulged in various conjectures concerning the girl’s conduct. The young women laughed at the gallants who had been rejected; the gallants hoped that in time Denise would be less cruel. But time passed and Denise’s determination did not waver.
Mère Fourcy became infirm and her niece waited upon her with the most loving solicitude. Coco, who as he grew up had learned to love his benefactresses as dearly as his goat, strove to make himself useful, and often diverted Denise from her melancholy by his childish prattle. She loved to watch and to fondle the child whom Auguste had loved; she had him taught all that could be taught him in the village; she guided his heart intothe paths of virtue, for she wished him to do credit to his benefactor.
Two years had passed since Auguste and Bertrand started on their travels. During that period Denise had been to Paris six times in quest of news of the travellers; but Schtrack had never been able to give her any, and she heard nothing from Virginie. At the end of two years Mère Fourcy fell sick, and, despite her niece’s care, soon died in her arms.
The loss of her aunt caused Denise the keenest sorrow; we can but regret profoundly those who throughout their lives have sought only to make us happy, without ever reminding us of what they have done for us—the latter being a method of conferring favors which freezes gratitude; for there are many people who do good, but there are very few good people.
Denise was left alone on earth but for Coco, who was not yet eight. She let her house, which was now too large for her, and went to live in Coco’s cottage, to which she added a small wing. There Denise was happier: it seemed to her that she was nearer Auguste. She was no longer obliged to be a milkmaid, and she hired an old peasant woman who undertook the house work. Denise busied herself about her garden and sought additional knowledge in books. In her aunt’s lifetime she was rarely able to gratify her taste for reading, because Mère Fourcy considered that she already knew too much for a peasant. But nothing now prevented her from following her inclination and trying to train her mind.
One by one Denise laid aside the coarse woolen skirt, the apron, the sackcloth waist; she wore clothes which, while they were most simple and unpretending, approximated the costume of Parisian ladies. Thereupon the villagers said to one another:
“Denise Fourcy is trying to play the fine lady, that’s sure. Don’t you see that since her aunt died she don’t dress like us any more, but puts on style and uses big words when she talks?”
Denise cared little what the people of the village thought; her only desire was to please him whom she still expected; and she would say to herself as she looked in her mirror:
“Perhaps he’ll like me better like this. He won’t find me so awkward and embarrassed as I was; but it will be all the same to him, for he doesn’t love me, and he thinks that I don’t love him either. Mon Dieu! why did I tell him that? It was Monsieur Bertrand that made me do it; he deceived me by telling me that Auguste wouldn’t come to the village if I loved him. Yes, I am sure that he deceived me; for it was after that that Auguste received me so unkindly in Paris; and he didn’t come here again. But when I see him, ah! then I’ll tell him the truth; it is always wrong to lie. And I will beg him not to lie to me either.”
Another year passed; Denise was twenty and Coco nine. The child was happy; mirth and health shone on his pretty face. Denise was still melancholy; she tried in vain to banish from her mind the memory of Auguste whom she was beginning to lose hope of seeing again.
“Perhaps he has settled in some foreign land!” she would say to herself; “perhaps he is married—and will never come back!”
Then her eyes would fill with tears, and the child’s caresses served only to intensify her grief, for he was forever asking her:
“Shall I see my kind friend soon?”
Denise often determined to be sensible, to drive her insane passion from her heart, and to think no more ofAuguste. Then she would go out to seek distraction in the fields; but, whether by chance or from preference, she always found herself on the narrow path in the wood, where she fell from her donkey.
One lovely spring evening Denise sat under the shrubbery in the garden, reading, while Coco played in front of the cottage, beside the old peasant woman, who had fallen asleep on a bench.
Happening to look out on the road, Coco saw a man standing there, apparently gazing at the house, and so engrossed by his thoughts that he did not notice the child playing near by.
The man was not dressed like a peasant; a gray woolen jacket, trousers with gaiters, and a bundle slung over his shoulder, seemed to indicate a traveller. He wore a shabby round cap, and in his hand he carried a stick which he evidently needed to lean upon; for his face was pale and worn, and his long beard and the expression of his eyes denoted poverty and suffering.
Coco stole toward him, staring at the stranger with childish curiosity and was surprised to see tears falling from his eyes as he gazed at the cottage.
The child had learned from Denise to be compassionate to the sufferings of the unfortunate. He stood in front of the stranger and said in an artless and kindly tone:
“Are you unhappy, monsieur? If you’d like to rest in our house, come in and we’ll give you some supper.”
The child’s voice startled the stranger, he started in surprise and scrutinized Coco closely; then he took his hand and squeezed it tenderly, saying in a voice choked by emotion:
“What! is it you, my friend?”
The boy, surprised to be addressed in that way, answered with a smile:
“Do you know me, monsieur?”
The wayfarer sighed, and replied after a moment:
“Yes, I saw you once, long ago, here, on this spot; but at that time, instead of this pretty cottage, there was only an old ruined hovel here! What a transformation has taken place!”
“Oh! it was my good friend who gave me the money for all this; for that’s my house, monsieur, that is; but when he comes back, I’ll thank him ever so much!”
The stranger pressed the child’s hand again, as he continued:
“Won’t you come in? Come, I’ll tell Denise that you’re going to have supper with us.”
“Denise! what, is Denise here?” exclaimed the stranger, detaining the child.
“Yes, monsieur, we’ve lived together ever since her dear aunt died.”
“And is Denise married?”
“No, monsieur.—Well, are you coming?”
After a moment’s hesitation, the stranger decided to follow the child, who took his hand and led him into the house.
“Denise! Denise!” cried Coco, “here’s some company! here’s a gentleman, who’s hungry!—You are hungry, ain’t you?—Denise, come, I say!”
But Denise was at the end of the garden and did not hear the child’s voice; so he ran to the thicket of shrubbery to fetch her, and the stranger slowly followed him.
“Dear Denise,” said Coco, “I just saw a man on the road who looked very unhappy, and I asked him to come into the house; we’ll give him some supper, won’t we?”
“Yes, my dear.”
“I did well to bring him in, for he looks as if he was poor; and yet he didn’t beg.”
“Yes, you did well; let’s go to him.”
“Look, he has followed me—there he is.”
The stranger had stopped at a little distance and was looking at Denise; the last rays of daylight rested on his face, and the girl examined him with interest as she walked toward him. But she had not taken four steps when she gave a little cry and ran, flew toward the stranger.
“Auguste!—Monsieur—is it you?”
That was all she could say; and Auguste, for he it was, received her in his arms.
“Denise! dear Denise!” said Auguste, pressing to his heart the girl whom surprise and joy had almost deprived of consciousness.
At last she recovered the power of speech.
“Coco, it is your kind friend,” she cried, “your benefactor has come back! Come and kiss him.”
The child stared at Auguste in open-mouthed amazement; he had difficulty in reconciling himself to the idea that that shabbily dressed man with the long beard was his benefactor; but if his eyes did not recognize his kind friend, his heart was not silent: something drew him to the stranger, so that he ran joyfully to Auguste and kissed him, and the latter abandoned himself forsome moments to the pleasure of holding the child and the girl in his arms.
“So you knew me, did you, Denise?” he said at last.
“Oh! always! I shall always recognize you! Even if your face were not the same, my heart would tell me that it was you.”
“Dear Denise!”
“Well, I didn’t know you, my kind friend,” said Coco, “because you’ve got a beard; and then, you were crying.”
“Alas! you did not expect to see me in this pitiable costume, did you?”
“Oh! we expected you, dressed no matter how! In our eyes, aren’t you always well dressed? But when I see you like this, I fear that you have been unfortunate; and that is what grieves me.”
“Yes, Denise, yes, I have been unfortunate, but I have earned it! It’s my own folly that has reduced me to this condition! But as I still have your friendship and this little fellow’s, I feel that I have not lost all.”
“Oh! monsieur, is it possible that you could doubt our hearts?”
“What would you have? misfortune often makes men unjust. I was wrong, I see. I will tell you everything that has happened to me, Denise; I will tell you frankly what I have done; you are the last one from whom I would conceal my shortcomings, for I am sure beforehand that you will forgive me.”
“Oh! I am so glad to see you again, monsieur! But come in and sit down in the house, and rest; you must want something to eat and drink.”
“It is true that I have had nothing since yesterday.”
“Since yesterday!” cried Denise; and a deathly pallor overspread her cheeks, her eyes filled with tears, andshe could not speak; she laid her head on Auguste’s shoulder and gave free vent to the tears that were choking her.
“Denise, dear Denise, pray be calm! I am with you; I have already forgotten part of my misfortunes—don’t be alarmed about me! Besides, I am not entirely without resources. The reason why I have eaten nothing since yesterday is that sad thoughts took away my appetite. I still have a little money, but I am saving it to procure lodgings in Paris; for nothing is so conducive to economy as misfortune. Oh! the loss of my wealth is not what grieves me most, as you know; blest with a happy disposition, hope and cheerfulness continued to travel with me even when my purse was light; but the ingratitude of men, the desertion of him whom I loved like a brother—that is what cut me the deepest! that is what took away my courage! I know that a man may bear the blows of destiny philosophically; but I could find no philosophy to enable me to bear the loss of a friend, the pains of the heart.”
“O mon Dieu!” said Denise; “is it possible! But, it is true, you are alone—What has become of Bertrand?”
“He has deserted me! He got tired of my follies, and he left the man who, in his prosperous days, treated him as a friend, not as a servant.”
“Bertrand deserted you—left you when you were unfortunate and a long way from home! Oh, no! no! that is impossible, monsieur! He loved and honored you! Bertrand is an old soldier, he has not forgotten all that he owes you; I will answer for his heart as surely as for my own.”
“Nevertheless, Denise, I have told you the truth. But let us go into the house; later I will tell you the story of my travels.”
“Oh! forgive me, monsieur; to think of my forgetting! Let’s go in quickly; come and rest.”
Denise led Auguste into the house. Coco followed them, jumping and crying aloud for joy.
“Here’s my kind friend come back! Denise won’t be sad any more!”
The girl ran to wake her old servant, and turned everything topsy-turvy in her haste to set before the wayfarer the best that she had; and as she went to and fro by Auguste, she stopped constantly to look at him, as if to make sure that he was not a delusion, then exclaimed:
“He is here! he has come back at last! he hadn’t forgotten us!”
And she wiped away a tear born of her emotion, which was instantly succeeded by a smile. Auguste was deeply moved by the pleasure that his arrival caused in the cottage. He did not tire of gazing at Denise, he noticed the change that had taken place in her language and manners and dress; and as he turned his eyes upon himself, he sighed and said:
“The three years that have passed have wrought vast changes: instead of the milkmaid, a rather awkward village girl, I find in you a young woman full of charm. And I, whom you used to see so dandified and elegant—here am I arrayed like any poor devil who travels on foot without the means to pay for a lodging!”
“What difference does that make? Are you Coco’s benefactor any the less? or he who made love so ardently to the little milkmaid?”
“You will agree, Denise, that in this costume I don’t look very much like a benefactor or a seducer.”
“For my part, if you don’t like me this way, I will very soon go back to the woolen waist and the little cap.”
“You will always be lovely. However, I have no right—I must not forget——”
Auguste paused and Denise looked at him anxiously; but he seemed to make an effort to banish a painful memory and took his place at the table, saying:
“Let us not think of anything but the pleasure it affords me to be here! Denise, Coco, come beside me; one evening of happiness will help me to forget several months of suffering.”
They sat down at the table. Auguste was the object of the most zealous attentions on the part of the occupants of the cottage; the presence of a sovereign would not have made them so happy as that of the poor wayfarer.
When Auguste had recovered from the fatigue of his journeying, he took Coco on his knee, seated himself in front of Denise, and began his story:
“I determined to travel, hoping that travelling would ripen my wits; moreover, it was necessary that I should make an effort to put my talents to some use. I know how to paint, I am a good musician, but it was very hard for me to look for pupils in Paris, the scene of my days of splendor, where I could not take a step without meeting old acquaintances, who turned their heads to avoid bowing to me when they learned that I was ruined! So I started with Bertrand——”
“Yes, and without coming to bid me good-bye!” interjected Denise with a profound sigh.
“I was afraid to see you again. I supposed that you were married. I have not forgotten what you told me in your garden when I came to call on you.”
Denise blushed, and Auguste continued:
“So I started. We had six thousand francs left; with economy, that was enough to carry us a long way. But it is so hard for me not to do foolish things!”
“And to be good!” said Denise under her breath.
Auguste smiled and continued:
“At Turin we were robbed by adventuresses of our whole fortune except a few gold pieces, with which we travelled to Rome. There I worked and earned a little money with my violin, and Bertrand gave fencing lessons. We went to Naples, where I met by mere chance a lady whom I had known in Paris; she interested herself in my behalf and procured me some rich pupils. We had lived there very comfortably for a year when I received two or three stiletto thrusts on account of an Italian damsel’s lovely eyes.”
“Mon Dieu!” cried Denise; “why did you need to love an Italian too?”
“I was driven to seek distraction. That adventure disgusted me with Italy, where, in truth, I saw no prospect of making a handsome fortune. I determined to go to England, where moderate talent often commands a very high price. Bertrand was still ready to go with me; we left Italy and reached London without mishap. There, after a very short time, having acquired the friendship of a man who frequented the first society, he made me the fashion, and I had more pupils than I could give lessons to. I charged very high rates, and I was overjoyed to find that I should be able some day to return to my native land with a good round sum of money. But, alas! I had the ill luck to become acquainted with a young English-woman.”
“Well! still another woman!” exclaimed Denise testily.
“She lived with some relations, who, so she said, made her very unhappy. She proposed to me to carry her off, and I dared not refuse. Despite Bertrand’s advice I indulged in that escapade. But the abduction created anuproar, and I was proceeded against; I was obliged either to marry the young woman, or to pay a large sum; for in England one must always give compensation. I did not choose to marry, so I paid.”
“Ah! that was much better than—than to marry by force,” said Denise.
“But that adventure caused me to lose my pupils and the fruit of my labors. Distressed by this catastrophe, for which I could accuse no one but myself, I proposed to Bertrand that we take a trip to Scotland before returning to our own country. One of my pupils had presented me with a horse, I bought one for Bertrand, and we left London in the saddle. We stopped at a lovely village called, I believe, Newington. After breakfasting at an inn, I sat alone, waiting for my companion, whom I had sent to pay our bill. Surprised at his failure to return, I went downstairs and made inquiries. ‘Your companion has gone,’ they told me; ‘he just mounted his horse and rode off at a gallop.’ Utterly unable to understand his absence, I remained at the inn all day, waiting for him. I could not imagine that Bertrand had left me; but the next day again I waited in vain. I questioned the people at the inn; they could tell me nothing except that, after paying our bill, he had crossed the courtyard, and a moment later they had seen him riding away at full speed. I was driven at last to a realization of the fact that Bertrand had voluntarily turned his back on me. Ah! Denise, I can’t tell you how I suffered because of his desertion! Accustomed to living with my old friend, I had often paid little heed to his advice, but I set great store by his friendship. No doubt he was tired of my foolish performances; he probably lost patience, and despairing of making me less reckless, did not choose to share my evil fortune any longer. However, he had oftensworn never to leave me while he lived, and I trusted his oath, for a friend’s is more sacred than a mistress’s.”
“Bertrand—leave you! I can’t understand it!” said Denise.
“I changed my plans, and, having no further desire to go to Scotland, determined to return to France. Oh! how I longed to stand on my native soil! I felt a most intense craving to see you and to embrace this little fellow! I sold my horse to pay my passage. When I arrived at Calais, I reckoned up my resources and determined to travel on foot. But, I confess, my strength frequently betrayed my courage. Accustomed as I am to wealth, to the comforts of life, my health is still that of a dandy, while my modest costume stamps me a humble wayfarer; and more than once I had to stop on the way. At last I reached this village; before going on to Paris, I longed to see this spot once more, to learn what you were doing, Denise. And here I am by your side! Unhappiness, fatigue, everything is forgotten; and to-morrow, with a razor, clean linen, and a few changes in my costume, you will see once more, not the resplendent Dalville, but at least poor Auguste, for whom your friendship is not dead.”