Auguste kissed the child. Denise, who had taken the deepest interest in his story, said to him:
“I trust that now you will not go travelling over the world any more?”
“You must stay with us, my kind friend,” said Coco.
“Yes, I see that I must abandon the hope of making my fortune with such talents as I have. I have ceased to think of travelling. As to what I shall do—I haven’t any clear idea as yet; but still, among my dear friends in Paris, who no longer deign to look at me, there are many whom I have obliged, and who are still my debtors.There is something like twelve thousand francs owing to me, and I propose to try to collect at least half of it; then——”
“You will come and settle down near us, won’t you, monsieur?”
“At all events, Denise, I will come to see you often.”
“But you won’t go to Paris right away; you won’t leave us for a long while——”
“No, I promise.”
“Remember that you are in your own house here; we built this cottage with what you gave Coco, so you see that it belongs to you.”
“No, Denise, this house is the boy’s fortune; I am too happy to have been able to contribute to his welfare, and I only regret that I didn’t use in this way all the money I have wasted on my pleasures!—Nothing is left to me from my follies; but something always remains of the good that one does!”
“Then you have reformed? You won’t fall in love any more—with every woman you see, will you?”
“Faith, Denise, I wouldn’t swear not to as yet. I received a bitter lesson on my fifth floor—and in my travels I turned it to no advantage whatever. Ah! if I had won the love of a sincere, true-hearted, virtuous woman—like you, Denise—perhaps I should have reformed before this!”
“What, monsieur!” said Denise, blushing; “do you mean that I don’t love you?”
“No—you love me like a brother, I know, and your touchingly warm welcome of me, the delight that my return has caused you, show plainly enough your deep affection for me; but, my dear Denise, there is a sweeter, tenderer sentiment which I hoped to inspire in you before you told me that you could never love me. Don’t loweryour eyes, Denise; I am not reproaching you; we cannot control our hearts, and I admit that I did not deserve yours. I tried to accustom myself to look upon you as a sister; that is what I have been trying to do ever since our interview in your aunt’s garden. It will be hard, but with time I shall succeed—perhaps. Let us leave that subject; I am so happy to be with you now!—Well! haven’t you anything to say to me, Denise?”
“Yes, monsieur, yes! But you must feel the need of rest.”
“It is true that my journey has tired me; and my story has kept you up late.”
“Come, monsieur; I’ll take you to the little summer-house that I have had built in the garden; it makes the prettiest room in the house. I wish I could give you even better quarters——”
“You forget, Denise, that I am no longer the dandy of the Chaussée-d’Antin! Just cast your eye at my costume.”
“Oh, to me you are always the same, monsieur!”
She took Auguste to the summer-house and left him there with a loving: “Until to-morrow;” then she returned to the house and her own room, saying to herself:
“He thinks that my only feeling for him is friendship; he is very much mistaken; what I feel for him is love! Mon Dieu! why did I believe Monsieur Bertrand at that time? Why did I tell him that I didn’t love him? This is what comes of lying! But I’ll tell him the truth now, because I don’t want him to try to look on me as a sister.”
After travelling about for three years in quest of riches, and finding in all lands the same vices, the same passions, the same folly,—when one returns home even poorer than one went away, how delicious it is to wake beneath a hospitable roof, with faithful friends whom one’s evil fortune has not changed, and who are made happy by one’s return! It is the harbor after a gale; it is the clear sky after a storm; it is the gleam of dawn after a long night.
Such was Auguste’s waking; in his eyes the cottage was a palace, aye, better than a palace, since it held Denise and Coco. He rose, and after revelling for a few moments in the pure air of the garden, he turned his attention to his costume. Not with impunity does one live under the same roof with a lovely girl whom one has once loved, and still loves, although resolved to be nothing more than her friend. Moreover, it is quite natural to try to recover some of one’s former attractions, after making one’s appearance in the costume of an impoverished wayfarer.
In a short time, the razor had disposed of the beard. But Auguste’s modest portmanteau contained only a coat, a waistcoat and almost no linen. He was inspecting it with a dejected air when there came a soft tap at his door and he heard Coco’s voice:
“It’s me, my kind friend.”
Auguste opened the door to the child, who had a large bundle which he placed on the bed.
“What’s all this, my friend?” queried Auguste, after he had kissed the little fellow.
“I don’t know, my kind friend; it was Denise that told me to bring it to you. Good-bye; I’m going to feed my goat. You didn’t see her last night; hurry up and dress yourself and come and say good-morning to her.”
When the child had gone, Auguste opened the package, which contained a supply of linen and a paper on which was written:
“Coco gives you this; remember that he didn’t refuse your gifts a long time ago.”
“Dear Denise!” said Auguste; “how thoughtful of her! And to think of her being able to get them so early! She can’t have slept at all—she must have ransacked the village already. If this is the way her friendship works, what would happen if one had her love!”
However, it was a bitter thing to Auguste to accept the girl’s gifts; when one is in the habit of giving, it is hard to make up one’s mind to receive. He overcame at last the feeling of pride that caused him to hesitate; he realized that it would hurt Denise if he refused, and that consideration decided him to accept her presents.
After completing his toilet, Auguste went into the garden and found Denise there. She came to meet him with the most engaging smile, and a look in which there was something more than friendship. Coco ran to Auguste and said:
“Ah! I know you now—this is the way you used to look.”
“Thanks to you, Denise!” said Dalville in an undertone.
But the girl put her hand over his mouth, and he seized the hand and pressed it to his heart without more words. They showed him the cottage, the garden, every nook and corner, and Denise said to him at every step:
“Do you like this? Are you satisfied with the use I have made of your money?”
“What surprises me,” said Auguste, “is that you can build a house with three thousand francs.”
“In the first place, monsieur, we had the land; and then, you see, the cottage has only four rooms and attics above.”
“But that pretty summer-house where I slept last night?”
“Oh! I had that built after my poor aunt’s death. I preferred to live here than in our house. I felt as if I weren’t so far away from you.”
These words were accompanied by another sweet smile; all of which was not calculated to induce Auguste to look upon the lovely girl as his sister simply.
After breakfast they sat in the shade of a clump of lilacs. They talked a long while, having so much to say to each other after a long separation. The girl did not weary of listening to Auguste’s stories of his travels. When he mentioned Bertrand’s name, a sigh escaped him; whereupon Denise took his hand and pressed it affectionately, to give him to understand that he still had friends. He continued his story, but her hand remained in his, and she did not think of withdrawing it.
Engrossed by the pleasure of being with Denise, of exchanging soft glances with her, it did not seem to occur to Auguste that he must look upon her only with a friend’s eyes. Nor did Denise seek to conceal the state of her feelings from him; on the contrary, she wished him to read in the lowest depths of her heart.
Several days passed swiftly. In the morning Auguste and Denise went to walk in the country. Coco always went with them, but his presence did not incommode them; for their eyes alone betrayed their feelings, and an innocent heart has no fear of witnesses. At night, when they were together in the cottage, the hours flew more swiftly still, and when they separated, they exchanged a loving: “Until to-morrow.”
Auguste could not conceal from himself the fact that he adored Denise, and, being persuaded that she had no other feeling than friendship for him, he said to himself:
“This girl will end by turning my head. But she loves me only as a brother; she doesn’t know how dangerous to my repose her affectionate glances and caresses are. I must leave her and return to Paris; a few days more and I shan’t have strength to do it.”
On her side Denise said to herself:
“Great heaven! doesn’t he see that I love him? I do all that I can to show him! Is it that he doesn’t choose to understand me? In that case I must just tell him how it is; and now that he has nothing at all and I have a little money, perhaps he’ll not despise the little village girl.”
Although he continued to tell himself that he must go away from Denise, Auguste did not leave the cottage, where he was so comfortable. But one evening when he was alone with her, he inquired:
“How does it happen, Denise, that you are not married?”
“Because I didn’t choose to marry, monsieur!” she replied, raising her lovely eyes to his.
“But you were in love with someone, surely? You told me so. What obstacle has prevented you from marrying the object of your choice?”
Denise blushed and no longer dared to look at Auguste. At last she faltered in a tremulous voice:
“I—I lied that time, monsieur.”
“How so, Denise?”
“You know, that time in my aunt’s garden, when I told you that I had a sweetheart, it was because Monsieur Bertrand had told me that you didn’t come to the village for fear of falling in love with me; and I longed so to see you that that was why I said I didn’t love you.”
“Dear Denise! is it possible?” cried Auguste, throwing his arms about her.
“Yes, that’s the truth; and since then I’ve been awfully unhappy because I told you that; for you didn’t come again, and you thought I loved somebody else.”
Auguste gazed lovingly at the girl; but soon his brow grew dark; he fixed his eyes on the ground and seemed to be meditating deeply. Amazed by his silence and his depression, she drew nearer to him and said timidly:
“Are you angry because I love you?”
“Ah! Denise, it might once have made me perfectly happy—but now——”
“Well—now?”
Auguste made no reply; and after a moment she asked him:
“Will you marry me, monsieur?”
“Marry you, Denise?”
“Yes; formerly I wouldn’t have dared to hope for such a thing, for you were very rich, and you couldn’t have taken a village girl for your wife. But you have lost the fortune which kept you in fashionable society. You say every day that you no longer care for the fine ladies, the coquettes, who deceived you.—Now, if you want me, I am yours. I haven’t a great fortune, but I have enough for us two; and I will never deceive you!”
Auguste was deeply moved by Denise’s affecting offer; but he contented himself with pressing her hand and heaving a profound sigh. She impatiently awaited his reply; his silence made her think that her proposal had offended him; she walked away from him, and, unable to restrain her tears, faltered:
“I made you angry by proposing that you should marry me. Forgive me, monsieur; I forgot that I am only a peasant. I thought that you loved me.”
“Ah! I love you, Denise, more than I ever loved! my feeling for you is a hundred times sweeter and fonder than the passions which have led me into so many follies. You are only a peasant, you say! but your virtues and your good qualities make you the equal of a great lady, even though you had not in addition such lovely features, such charming ways, and a melting voice that goes to one’s very heart!”
“You love me! Oh! how happy I am! Then you will take me for your wife?”
Auguste gazed tenderly at her, and said at last:
“You shall have my reply to-morrow, Denise.”
“To-morrow! Why not at once? Do you need to reflect about it?”
The girl said no more. During the rest of the evening Auguste seemed more affectionate, more in love than ever; his eyes, which were constantly fixed on Denise, expressed the most genuine passion, and when he left her, to return to his summer-house, he pressed her to his heart and seemed unable to tear himself from her arms. He left her at last, and Denise said to herself:
“Oh! he will certainly marry me! but why not say so at once?”
She did not sleep; she was too excited to close her eyes. In default of dreams, her imagination conjuredup a thousand delightful pictures: she saw herself the chosen companion of the man she loved; she passed the rest of her days with him. So charming a future is surely not inferior to the pleasantest dreams, and we do not try to sleep when we possess the reality of happiness.
Day broke at last. Denise rose and spent a longer time than usual at her toilet. That is a venial offence when a woman knows that she is going into the presence of the man whom she wishes to call her husband. She left her room and went into the garden, where she found Auguste every morning; but he was not there, and the girl was surprised that he was still asleep; for she thought that he must have been unable to sleep, like herself, and that he would be in haste to see her.
She seated herself in the shrubbery where they had talked the night before. She could see the summer-house from there, and she waited impatiently for Auguste to come out. But the door did not open, and at last Coco, whom Denise had not yet seen, came running toward her with a letter in his hand.
“Here, my dear Denise, my kind friend gave me this for you,” he said, holding out the letter.
“Your kind friend! Why, have you seen Monsieur Auguste already?”
“Oh, yes! he was up before sunrise.”
“Where is he now, then?”
“He kissed me and then he went away; I don’t know where he went.”
Denise had a presentiment of evil; she opened the letter with a trembling hand and read:
“I love you, my dear Denise; do not doubt my love; but shall I join my poverty to your comfort, after I havelost my money by my own fault? shall I bestow on you the hand of a man who has not even any knowledge of the agricultural labors by which your little property can be made profitable? No, Denise, I am not worthy to be your husband, I cannot make up my mind to live at the expense of a woman who would sacrifice a happy future for me. Doubtless your kind heart led you to offer me your hand; perhaps you even pretended to love me so as to induce me to accept your generous offer; but I must not do it. Adieu, Denise! If I should become rich again, I shall fly to you; but I have no hope of it now. Adieu! I shall come to see you when I have strength enough to look upon you as my sister.”
“I love you, my dear Denise; do not doubt my love; but shall I join my poverty to your comfort, after I havelost my money by my own fault? shall I bestow on you the hand of a man who has not even any knowledge of the agricultural labors by which your little property can be made profitable? No, Denise, I am not worthy to be your husband, I cannot make up my mind to live at the expense of a woman who would sacrifice a happy future for me. Doubtless your kind heart led you to offer me your hand; perhaps you even pretended to love me so as to induce me to accept your generous offer; but I must not do it. Adieu, Denise! If I should become rich again, I shall fly to you; but I have no hope of it now. Adieu! I shall come to see you when I have strength enough to look upon you as my sister.”
The girl turned deadly pale and dropped the letter, crying:
“He doesn’t believe in my love!”
“Well, where’s my kind friend? Did he write you where he’s gone?”
“Alas! he has abandoned us, he has run away from us, he thinks we don’t love him!”
Denise burst into tears; the child ran to her arms and she pressed him to her heart, sobbing:
“Oh! I shall die of grief, and you must tell him that he’s the cause of it; then perhaps he’ll believe that I loved him!”
It was very early in the morning when Auguste left the pretty little cottage where he had passed a fortnight which he looked upon as the happiest period in his life. It was not without a mighty effort that he tore himself away from Denise; it requires a deal of courage to leave a woman whom one loves, when she has voluntarily offered one her heart. But we must remember that Auguste had been rich, and that every feeling of pride was not extinct within his breast. His pride could not accustom itself to the idea of offering Denise the hand of a penniless unfortunate; and furthermore he feared that it was from gratitude for what he had done for Coco that the girl offered him her hand. A heart bruised by misfortune is easily frightened; dread of humiliation makes us unjust; a benefaction seems like almsgiving, and consolation is nothing more than condescending pity.
With his little bundle tied to the end of his staff, Auguste started for Paris. When he saw the great city once more, he could not restrain a sigh. But he pulled his hat over his eyes and walked with lowered head, in dread of meeting some former acquaintance. However, it is no crime to be poor; why, then, should the unfortunate seem to avoid men’s eyes when so many scoundrels go about with their heads in the air? Why should one be any more ashamed to say: “I haven’t a sou,” than to say: “I owe a hundred thousand francs”? Because in society we see and seek and care for none but those whohave money; because we too often close our eyes to the source of the wealth of a multitude of schemers who cut a dash at the expense of the scores of families they have ruined, and who from their magnificent equipages look down in derision on those whom they have reduced to destitution; because we pardon all sorts of vices in the man who is able to cover them with gold, and refuse to pardon a trifling peccadillo in a poor devil; because we lavish attentions on a Messalina arrayed in silk and diamonds, and close our doors to a girl who has given herself for love to a man who cannot support her. All this is very sad, but it is all true.
Auguste was careful not to go near Rue Saint-Georges; he went in the direction of the Marais. It was necessary that he should be most economical in his outlay, and he found in an old house on Rue de Berry, a closet, said to be furnished, on the sixth floor, which he could hire for fifteen francs a month. He paid half of the first month’s rent in advance.
The man who formerly passed his life in dissipation, who set the fashion in manners and style, who was sought after and fêted, for whom women disputed at parties, and whom they were proud to subjugate,—the brilliant Dalville found himself reduced to the necessity of occupying a garret and sleeping on a wretched pallet. When he entered the miserable den he had just hired, he could not control a feeling of regret, and he threw himself on a chair which wavered under him. As he glanced at the walls, only partially covered by a few tattered strips of paper; as he contemplated the furniture of his closet, and the tumbledown roofs near by, Auguste recalled old Dorfeuil’s room; he remembered especially the old man’s story and he dropped his head on his hands, saying:
“And that did not reform me!”
In a few moments, summoning his courage, he took his portfolio, glanced over a list that he had made of all the people who owed him money, and determined to spend the next day calling upon his debtors. At that moment, the payment of a single debt would be of great service to him; for, despite the economy with which he had travelled, he had but eleven francs left after paying his rent for a fortnight. He had given his name to the landlady as a teacher of music and drawing; but was he likely to find any pupils, and how could he live before he received the price of his lessons? Such reflections were ill adapted to make the aspect of his abode more attractive. If only his former companion had been there to comfort him and revive his courage! Again and again, impelled by the force of habit, Auguste turned and looked about the room for Bertrand; but, just as he was on the point of calling him, he remembered his desertion, and his heart was torn anew.
For a moment Auguste had thought of going to his former lodgings to inquire whether Schtrack had seen Bertrand, and whether the ex-corporal was in Paris; but he abandoned the idea when he reflected that he might meet Bertrand in the old concierge’s quarters, and that he ought not to risk encountering a man who, by his ingratitude, had rendered himself unworthy of being regretted.
It was by thinking of Denise, by recalling the happy moments that he had passed with her, that Auguste strove to forget his deplorable plight. He was well aware that he would always find shelter under Denise’s roof, but he could not make up his mind to live at her expense.
“It may be that it was from compassion that she offered me her hand,” he said to himself.
On the following day, after carefully brushing his old coat, and trying to dissemble his destitution, Auguste set out to visit his debtors. His first two calls were not fortunate; one man was dead, the other had gone to Bordeaux, whither Auguste could not go to seek him. At his third attempt he was more fortunate; the debtor was a young man who, like Dalville, was devoted to pleasure; he was in the act of performing his second toilet when his creditor was ushered into his presence.
One does not put oneself out for a poorly dressed person, and the young man, who did not recognize Dalville, said to him while continuing to tie his cravat:
“What do you want?”
“First of all, to see you. Is it possible that Léon does not recognize me?”
Surprised at being addressed by his baptismal name, the young man bestowed a contemptuous glance upon Auguste and said:
“Deuce take me if I know you. Can it be that we have ever had anything to do with each other?”
“Yes, monsieur, for Auguste Dalville has had the privilege of doing you a favor more than once.”
“Auguste Dalville!” cried the young man, turning his head once more; “what! can it be you, my dear fellow?”
“Myself!”
“Oh! it’s impossible! you are dressed like a highwayman! Are you just out of prison?”
“No, thank God! unfortunate as I am, I have never put myself in the way of being imprisoned.”
“Look you, my dear fellow, that doesn’t prevent one’s being an honest man; I’ve been to Sainte-Pélagie more than once myself, and it’s likely that I shall go again. Poor Auguste!—Damn this knot! I shall never get ittied.—Well, what chance brings you here, my dear friend? You haven’t been seen anywhere for a century.”
“It’s three years since I left Paris; I have been in Italy and England.”
“The devil you say! Tell me, is it true that the English tie their cravats like a groom?”
“That isn’t the kind of thing I gave my attention to on my travels. As I have told you, Léon, I am not in luck; but when I was rich you had recourse to my purse more than once. I lent you more than a thousand francs; half of that sum would be of great service to me now, and I have come to ask you to pay me five hundred francs on account of what you owe me.”
“Parbleu! my dear Auguste, you have chosen a very bad time. I lost at roulette yesterday all the money I had. I determined to put my luck to the test. I have nothing left, and if I can’t pick up ten louis or so to-day, to take a lovely little woman to the Bois, I am a lost man. My charmer will probably go to the Bois with somebody else, and you can understand—Does my cravat look all right?”
“I thought that you had a better heart, Léon. You will find ten louis to take your charmer to drive, but you can’t find them for me, to whom you owe them, and who am in a lamentable plight.”
“I don’t say that I won’t find them for you, my dear fellow. Come again in a few days; I promise to put aside all I win at cards, and it shall be for you. Poor Dalville—on my honor, I am distressed.—This corner of my collar won’t stay in place; it’s terribly annoying, it spoils all the harmony of a costume.”
Auguste left the young dandy’s apartment, wondering how he could ever have been the friend of a man whose head was as empty as his heart. He called upon others of his debtors: some were out, some had moved. Hereturned home, tired out and with little hope of faring better on the morrow. For several days he persistently pursued them; but the majority were not to be found or not to be seen; those whom he succeeded in seeing never had any money, and it was impossible for him to catch young Léon at home again. He sought fruitlessly the abode of the Marquis de Cligneval; but one day, as he was going home, he saw monsieur le marquis, ran after him and stopped him.
“What do you want of me?” said Monsieur de Cligneval haughtily.
“I have something to say to you, monsieur.”
“I don’t know you.”
“You don’t know me!” cried Auguste angrily, standing in front of the marquis, who was about to walk away. His tone and the flash in his eyes evidently refreshed Monsieur de Cligneval’s memory, for he replied, trying to smile:
“Oh! I beg pardon! a thousand pardons! It’s Monsieur Dalville. I was so engrossed—I am going out to dinner—I am late, and——”
“Monsieur, you have owed me money for a long, long time, which you borrowed for a few days only.”
“I, owe you money? Oh! you are mistaken, I assure you.”
“What, monsieur?”
“I beg pardon—I paid you! I give you my word that I paid you, a long time ago; that’s why you have forgotten it.”
“You dare to assert——”
“My dear sir, you confuse my debt with somebody else’s; really I paid you. Think carefully and you will remember. When you lend to a number of people, you get them mixed and forget; it’s like boston—there arepeople who always ask you twice for the trick.—Adieu! au revoir! I am going out to dine.”
Monsieur de Cligneval was already far away. Auguste stood still, petrified by his debtor’s impudence; but what is one to do with a man who denies a debt, when one has no evidence thereof? To thrash him would be some compensation at least, but the law would put you in the wrong.
Auguste went home more depressed and dejected than ever, and, to cap the climax of his misfortunes, fatigue and anxiety had inflamed his blood. He was consumed by fever; he was alone, on a bag of straw, and ere long it would be impossible for him to obtain those things which were essential for his restoration to health.
Stretched on his bed, where he had passed the whole day, Auguste courted sleep, which avoided his eyes. He was in pain, he breathed with difficulty, and sounds of mirth disturbed the silence of his abode. The person who lived below him seemed to be singing over her work; her voice pierced the thin ceiling that separated her from the hapless invalid, and the latter, on his bed of suffering, distinguished from time to time a vaudeville air or the refrain of achansonnette.
“Those people haven’t a fever like me,” he said to himself. “Oh! this is an excellent time to be philosophical, but nature speaks louder than philosophy.”
After a sleepless night, the poor fellow, devoured by thirst, found that he had no more water with which to satisfy it. He summoned all his strength, left his bed, and dragged himself down to the concierge’s room; for he dared not apply to any neighbors, and moreover he was alone, between two lofts, on his sixth floor.
“Oh! are you sick, monsieur?” cried the concierge, at sight of Auguste.
“Yes, I have been suffering greatly since yesterday.”
“You must take care of yourself and not go out.”
“Oh! that would be impossible!”
“Leave your key outside, monsieur; I’ll come up to-night to see if you want anything.”
Auguste thanked the woman, crawled back to his garret with much difficulty, and threw himself on his bed once more.
The concierge, like all of her class, loved to talk, and very soon all the lodgers who stopped at her lodge knew that there was on the sixth floor a young man with a very distinguished bearing who was probably going to have inflammation of the lungs.
Among the persons who stopped to chat with the concierge was the singer who lived below the sick man. This singer was no other than Virginie, who had not succeeded in making a fortune by riotous living. Dissipation soon banishes the hues of health, late hours circle the eyes, fatigue of all sorts impairs beauty, and beauty was almost the sole possession of Virginie, who, with three years added to her age, had fewer lovers than of yore. All this was the reason why she was living in the Marais, in a very modest fifth floor apartment; that she often passed her evenings in working, because she no longer had some pleasure party for every evening; and lastly, that she sang over her work, because she had retained her voice and her cheerfulness.
Virginie had a kind heart, she had never sinned except through excess of sensibility. There are women who have no sensibility except where pleasure is concerned, but Virginie was still capable of sympathy with the unfortunate. On learning that there was a young man above her who was alone and ill, Virginie asked the concierge:
“Have you been up to see if he wanted anything?”
“I haven’t been yet because I’ve got to watch my stew; but I’ll go up to-night.”
“Well! you are a good one! Suppose the man gets sicker before then? I’ll go myself. I’m only sorry I didn’t know it sooner, for I sang all last evening, and when a person is feverish he don’t like trills; but I was in good voice! I could have sungArmide!I’m going up to see my neighbor. He’s young, you say?”
“Why, yes—twenty-nine or thereabouts.”
“Poor boy! perhaps he’s lovesick. But no, men never lose their health for love. I’m curious to see him; if he was old, I’d go all the same; but a young man is always more alluring.”
Virginie went upstairs, and kept on to the sixth, passing her own door without stopping. The key was on the outside of Auguste’s door.
“When a man lives in this hole,” thought Virginie, “he don’t eat green peas in January.” And she tapped softly on the door, saying aloud: “It’s your neighbor from downstairs, monsieur, come to ask if you want anything.”
There was no reply, so she decided to open the door noiselessly. She entered the hovel, in comparison with which her room was a palace. She went to the bed on which lay the sick man, whose fever had increased, and who no longer had the strength to open his eyes. She leaned over him and gave a little shriek when she recognized Auguste.
That shriek caused the invalid to open his eyes; he tried to give Virginie his hand, while she threw herself upon him, kissed him again and again, wiped the perspiration from his forehead, and the next moment drenched his face with her tears, crying:
“It is you, Auguste! it is really you! O mon Dieu! in this garret! on this wretched bed! My poor dear! sick, alone—and I didn’t know it! Poor Auguste! and I sang last night while he was groaning here! Oh! I feel as if I should choke! I can’t say any more.”
But at last Virginie realized that her tears and kisses were no longer sufficient for the invalid, who motioned that he was consumed by thirst.
“Wait—wait, my dear,” she said, “I’ll give you—Great God! there’s nothing here but water! Why, that’s no good—it increases the fever. I’ll go—the doctor must come right away; I’ll go and fetch him. I’m going. Don’t be impatient, my friend; I won’t be long; and after this you won’t be alone any more; I shan’t leave you again!”
Virginie ran to the door, returned to the bed, pulled the clothes over the sick man, arranged his head, then ran downstairs four at a time, and arrived at the concierge’s door all out of breath, saying:
“A doctor! where’s there a doctor?”
“Why, there’s several in the quarter. Is the gentleman sicker?”
“His address—quick!”
“A doctor’s address? There’s one on this street—yonder, next to the fruit store; then there’s the one that bled me; but——”
Virginie was no longer listening; she was already at the door the concierge had pointed out. She ran up to the doctor’s room and begged him to come instantly to see a sick man, in the tone that only women can assume when the object of their affection is involved. The doctor made no reply but took his hat, which was much better, and followed Virginie, who led the way to Auguste’s garret. He ascended the six flights almost as quickly asshe did, and when he entered the room apparently saw nothing but the invalid. All honor to the men who devote their lives to relieving the ills of mankind, and who show the same zeal for the poor as for the rich. Their number is large, and although Molière did poke fun at the doctors, doubtless he would be the first to do them justice to-day.
Virginie gazed anxiously at the doctor’s face while he was feeling the invalid’s pulse. His eyes gave no favorable indication; while Auguste, heedless of everything that was going on about him, seemed neither to see nor to hear anything.
“Well, monsieur?” queried Virginie at last.
“The young man is in bad shape; he has a high fever and there is every reason to expect that it will increase; however, with extreme care, I hope we shall save him.”
“Oh, monsieur, don’t neglect anything, I beg you!”
“But he is very badly off here; the room is so small, there is so little air, and the sun beats down so fiercely on the roofs, and makes these garrets burning hot; this is a very unhealthy place.”
“Oh! he shall leave this garret this very day; he shall live in my room as long as he’s sick. It’s right below here; he’ll be much more comfortable there, for it’s a good size, at least—one can turn round in it. He’d have been there before this if I could have carried him alone. If you would be kind enough to help me, monsieur, it would soon be done!”
“Let’s try it, mademoiselle.”
And the doctor went to the bed and lifted the only mattress that there was on the straw; Virginie did the same on the other side, and thus they carried Auguste to the floor below and laid him upon the only bed in the room.
“Where will you sleep, mademoiselle?” queried the doctor.
“Oh! that don’t worry me, monsieur. I’ll bring down the straw bed from upstairs; indeed, I shan’t feel like sleeping as long as he’s sick.”
The doctor looked at her again, then wrote a prescription and took his leave, promising to come again early the next morning.
When Virginie was alone, she looked at the prescription and tried to read it.
“Bless my soul!” she muttered, “how badly these doctors write! like cats. ‘Syrup of—infusion of’—No matter, the druggist will understand; this much is clear, that here’s syrups and infusions—consequently, money. Poor Auguste! I’m quite sure he hasn’t any. And I haven’t much more. But never mind—I have got to find some. He gave me enough when he was rich. I must go at once and get whatever he needs.”
Virginie took her purse and went out to buy what was required for the draught the doctor had ordered. She did not amuse herself by babbling with the concierge, but made haste back to her room to nurse the sick man. His fever had changed to delirium; he did not know her, and he seemed to be much worse. Virginie nursed him with redoubled zeal. She succeeded, not without difficulty, in making him take the potion prescribed for him. She did not take one moment’s rest during the night; she was constantly beside the sick-bed, leaving it only to return to her work. Her work was making linen garments, for since her opportunities for pleasure had fallen off, she had realized that in order to live something more was required than fine eyes and a fetching smile. This work brought her but little money; but she redoubled her efforts when she had Auguste to care for.
While she worked, Virginie kept her eyes on the invalid.
“Poor boy!” she would say to herself; “his travels evidently didn’t bring him luck. But how does it happen that good old Bertrand isn’t with him? He must be dead, not to be with Auguste. He was a true friend, he was! not like those popinjays who swindled him! And Denise, who loved him so dearly! If she knew he was in this condition! Suppose I should write to her? But no, that might make Auguste angry; perhaps he’s seen her again, and they’ve had a row; one can never tell! I must cure him first; then he will tell me all his adventures.”
The doctor came the next day, as he had promised; he was unable as yet to give a definite opinion, but he agreed to come again in the evening, and told Virginie to follow the same treatment.
For three days Auguste was very ill. The doctor was not sparing of his visits, and Virginie followed all his prescriptions to the letter. But in the afternoon of the third day she found nothing in her purse, and she had no work ready to carry back. She needed money, however, for a thousand things that her patient must have. Virginie was not at a loss; she took off her bracelets and earrings, the sole relics of the days of her early prosperity, and sold them to a jeweller as gayly as if she were going to a party.
The doctor’s treatment and Virginie’s nursing were not thrown away. On the fourth day Auguste was better; he was no longer delirious and was surprised to find himself in a room which he did not recognize. He pressed Virginie’s hand and would have spoken; but the doctor had prescribed perfect rest, so Virginie said to him:
“Hush! wait till you’re better before you talk; meanwhile, don’t worry about anything; you’re in my room, and I’ll take care of you as well as if you had a dozen black servants. All that I ask you is to drink your medicine like a good boy, and think of nothing but rose-bushes. When you are getting better, I’ll sing as much as you want me to; I’ll even go so far as to dance, if that will amuse you, so as to bring back your spirits.”
Auguste smiled and held his peace. He continued to improve, but his convalescence bade fair to be very long; and as a sick man always requires innumerable things, the jewelry money was soon expended. Thereupon, while Auguste was asleep, Virginie looked over her wardrobe to see what she had that she could do without. In reality it contained nothing that was not strictly necessary, but she succeeded in finding several things of which she made a bundle, saying to herself:
“This will rid me of a lot of old stuff that I am sick to death of.”
And the bundle went to join the jewels.
When Auguste had recovered a little strength, he was able to tell Virginie the story of his adventures. When she learned that Bertrand had voluntarily left his master, she dropped a glass of medicine that she was about to hand to Auguste, and exclaimed:
“My arms have gone back on me! That Bertrand, whom I always thought worthy of being embalmed! whom I looked upon as a faithful dog in his attachment to you! You can’t trust a man! My friend, the English beer must have changed all his feelings!”
But when Auguste told her of his stay at Denise’s cottage, Virginie interrupted him to describe the peasant girl’s grief and despair when she learned of his departure—in short, all her love for him.
“Is it possible?” said Auguste; “she really loves me? Then she did not deceive me! it wasn’t pity that made her offer me her hand!”
“Does she love you! She adores you, monsieur. The poor child made me feel so sad. She cried so! But you men are unique! when a woman loves you, you’re surprised, and when she doesn’t love you, you’re surprised too.”
“Oh! how happy you make me, Virginie!”
“In that case, get well right away, and go and console poor Denise.”
“Oh no! I shall not go there.”
“What’s that? you won’t go? You know that she loves you, that she is in despair at your absence, and you won’t go back to her?”
“I am destitute—I can’t accept her hand.”
“My dear friend, that’s a piece of delicacy that I can’t understand. When a person loves us, what’s theirs is ours; and if a prince should fall in love with me, although I haven’t any more money than you have, I shouldn’t hesitate a moment about marrying him.”
Auguste held his peace, and Virginie said nothing further on a subject that seemed to distress him. To restore the sick man’s strength, he was given no more infusions to drink; old wine and rich soups were prescribed by the doctor, and Virginie, who searched her drawers in a vain endeavor to make money, decided to sell a shawl which was her most beautiful possession, and which she almost never laid aside.
But Auguste saw how much he was costing Virginie, and his distress on that account retarded his convalescence. He watched her as she worked incessantly, often passing a large part of the night at her sewing, and he sighed, as he said to himself:
“She is killing herself for me! and I shall never be able to requite all her care of me!”
When Virginie returned after procuring a sum of money by means of her remaining resource, Auguste noticed that she was without the shawl she usually wore.
“Where have you been, Virginie?” he asked in a feeble voice.
“For a little walk, to take the air. I saw that you were asleep and didn’t need me.”
“Why aren’t you wearing your shawl?”
“My shawl? Why, I didn’t put it on because it’s too warm.”
“You had it on when you went out.”
“Did I?—Well, the truth is that I’ve lent it to a friend of mine who’s going to a party to-night; but she’ll give it back.”
“You are deceiving me, Virginie.”
“No, monsieur, I am not deceiving you.”
“I am costing you a great deal; and you deprive yourself of everything in order to take care of me, so that I may lack nothing! You are stripping yourself clean for me!”
“What are you talking about, Monsieur Auguste? I deprive myself of everything! Let me tell you, monsieur, that I deprive myself of nothing. Who told you that I am not well fixed, that I haven’t money put by?”
“And you work a great part of the night!”
“I work because it amuses me, and because I don’t care to sleep. The fact is that I have all I want; I had a hoard; I am certainly at liberty to spend it as I please.—The idea of telling me that he is a burden to me! How shameful of him! I, whom he has been kind to so many times! And he is angry because I am taking care of him!—Monsieur would prefer that somebody else should doit, perhaps. If you give me any more nonsense like that, I’ll throw the stew out of the window. As for my shawl, it’s true that I haven’t got it now; but I didn’t like it. In the first place, the color isn’t in fashion any longer; and then I don’t want a flower pattern—it’s bad form.”
Auguste said no more; he simply sighed as he took Virginie’s hands in his; and she pretended to be more lighthearted than ever, and sang all day to prove that she did not regret her shawl.
The doctor came to see his patient; he found him much better, and complimented Virginie on her nursing. She, although she had no idea how she was going to pay him, asked him to tell her how much she owed him. But the doctor replied that he never charged anything when he went higher than the fourth floor; and he ran away from the thanks of Auguste and Virginie, enjoining anew upon the convalescent to be careful and to wait until his strength had returned before going out.
“There’s a mighty fine man!” cried Virginie, looking after the doctor. “He isn’t handsome; certainly no one can say he’s handsome; in fact, one eye’s smaller than the other. But for all that he’s been a little Cupid in my eyes ever since I saw what zeal he showed in his care of you.”
Auguste smiled; Virginie’s remarks often made his eyes sparkle; but when he thought of his plight, his brow darkened and he sighed, despite all the efforts of his nurse, who said to him constantly:
“You didn’t use to sigh like that when you made love to me.”
Auguste was anxious to get up and go out, but he was not strong enough; and yet Virginie gave him everything that the doctor ordered. But his convalescence seemed certain to be very slow, and although she toldAuguste every day that he must not worry, that she had money enough to last a long while, Virginie discovered one morning that she had nothing left of the proceeds of the sale of her shawl.
But the doctor, who had called on the evening before, had said that Auguste could eat chicken, and Virginie, after searching her boxes, her drawers and her purse, where she found nothing, muttered under her breath:
“It’s no use for me to look; there’s nothing to raise money on—not even enough to buy a lark; and my work won’t be done till day after to-morrow! No matter! if I have to put myself in pawn, he shall eat chicken to-day!”
And Virginie put on her cap and the little neckerchief which had replaced her shawl; then, leaving Auguste still asleep, she stole softly from her room, saying to herself:
“I won’t come back without a chicken.”
Virginie walked along the street, with no very clear idea as to where she was going; she cudgelled her brains to think of somebody who might accommodate her, but the memory is often in default when one asks it the name of a true friend. If Cézarine had been in Paris, Virginie would not have hesitated to call on her, because she knew her kindness of heart; but Cézarine was thenon the track of her Théodore, who had left the capital, and her Théodore was likely to lead her a long way.
Virginie’s other acquaintances offered too unpromising a prospect; there were several to whom she would not have dreamed of applying. However, the result of her reflections was always the same:—“I must have a chicken for Auguste, and I will have one. I don’t know just how I shall do it; but whenever I’ve taken it into my head to do a thing, I’ve always succeeded in doing it, and it’s often been a question of things much more interesting than a chicken; it would be a deuce of a go, if I couldn’t acquit myself creditably in the matter of a little chicken!”
And Virginie stopped in front of poultry shops and cookshops; she walked back and forth, cudgelling her brains to no purpose; she found no money, and she heaved a sigh as she gazed at the delicacies with which she desired to regale the convalescent.
The amusing faces that Virginie made—her decent dress did not indicate want—and the way she glared at the roast chickens, made the passers-by smile now and then, for they saw in the grisette’s emotion only an outburst of gluttony; and she, seeing them smile as they looked at her, muttered between her teeth: “The idiots! Suppose they do laugh in my face—what difference does that make to me? Isn’t there one of them who will be polite enough to offer me a chicken? Men are getting to be brutes!”
For ten minutes Virginie had been walking back and forth before a cookshop, beside which was the small establishment of a linen-draper. Virginie had not noticed the proprietress, because she had no eyes for anything but the chickens; but through the gloves, ribbons and drygoods in her window, the tradeswoman had noticedVirginie, whose strange behavior was calculated to arouse curiosity. Women have a sentimental instinct which enables them to understand at once what men cannot divine in an hour, or what they cannot divine at all. The young linen-draper saw in Virginie’s eyes that it was not gluttony that caused her to stand in contemplation before her neighbor’s merchandise. She went out of her shop by the rear door,—her yard and that of the cookshop were the same,—entered the cookshop, purchased a fine, fat chicken, wrapped it in two thicknesses of paper, and returned to her own shop by the same road. Then she stood in her doorway and looked at Virginie, not knowing how to proffer her gift. For some time Virginie paid no heed to the young woman; but the latter gazed at her with such a meaning expression, and seemed so anxious to speak to her, that Virginie walked toward the shop-door.
The young tradeswoman at once said to her, in a low tone and blushing hotly:
“Madame, you have forgotten your purse, haven’t you? If you would allow me to offer you——”
And as she spoke, she thrust the chicken under Virginie’s arm, trembling as if she had done a ridiculous thing; but one often trembles much more when doing a kind deed. Virginie could only squeeze the young woman’s hand and say:
“You guessed my plight. Ah! if you knew how happy you have made me! if you knew why—But you will see me again; I will come again to thank you and pay my debt to you.”
“Yes, yes, madame,” said the young tradeswoman; and she retreated, sorely embarrassed, to the back of her shop, while Virginie, light as a feather, tripped gayly homeward, her chicken under her arm, saying to herself:
“I knew that I’d get one! I never lose hope, I don’t!”
However, the chicken had not yet reached Auguste. At a street corner, Virginie, who probably was looking at her feet and nothing else, was roughly jostled by a man who knocked the chicken to the ground.
“You infernal idiot!” cried Virginie, stooping to pick up the chicken. But her voice caught the ears of the man who had jostled her, and who had simply apologized and kept on his way. He stopped, retraced his steps and exclaimed in his turn:
“Why—yes! ten thousand bayonets! it’s Mamzelle Virginie! Morbleu! perhaps she’ll be able to tell me something about him.”
“Hallo! it’s Bertrand!” said Virginie, as she recognized the ex-corporal; “it’s good old Ber—But what am I saying! he’s a villain, an ungrateful, hardhearted wretch, and I don’t like him any more. Let me carry my chicken—don’t hold me, monsieur.”
“Whether you like me or not, mademoiselle, isn’t the question just at this moment. One word, if you please: have you seen him, do you know where he is, what’s become of him?”
“Of whom?”
“Morbleu! my lieutenant, Monsieur Auguste.”
“On my word! do I know where he is? What a question! when he’s been living in my room a fortnight!”
“He’s in your room?—I have found him! I shall see him again!”
In his joy, Bertrand embraced Virginie and once more knocked the hapless chicken to the ground. This time it fell into the gutter and Virginie was ready to weep.
“Won’t you please let me alone!” she cried; “this chicken’s for Auguste; and after I’ve had so muchtrouble to get it, you’ll be the cause of his not being able to eat it!”
“Oh! don’t cry! I’ll buy you more chickens—ten—twenty—an ox, if you choose! But, for the love of God, take me to my lieutenant straight away. I am in haste to embrace him!”
“What! then you still care for him?”
“Care for him! Who can ever have doubted my attachment, my devotion to his person?”
“Then you didn’t abandon him in England on purpose?”
“Abandon him! when it was in his service—for his welfare——”
“Oh! dear old Bertrand! I was perfectly sure he was a good fellow. Come, my little Bertrand, let’s go to Auguste. My! but he’ll be glad when he knows that you are still worthy of his affection!”
Virginie and Bertrand walked toward Rue de Berry. On the way, Virginie told the old servant of all the disasters that had befallen Auguste, and of the serious illness that he had had. As he listened to these details, Bertrand wiped his eyes now and then and exclaimed:
“Sacrebleu! why didn’t I find him sooner? But I only returned to Paris the day before yesterday; and I intended to go to Montfermeil to-morrow to look for him, hoping to be luckier there than in this city, where Schtrack and I have been scouring every quarter for two days, without success.”
At last they reached the house in which Virginie lived; as they went upstairs Bertrand was as excited as if he were going to see a long lost son; and Virginie said to him:
“You mustn’t show yourself to Auguste right away; he is still very weak, and the sight of you might causehim too much emotion. You understand, don’t you, Bertrand?”
“Yes, mademoiselle.”
“I’ll go in first, and prepare Auguste gently; then I’ll motion to you.”
“Yes, mademoiselle, I’ll wait in another room.”
“No; as I have but one, you must wait on the landing. I’ll leave the door ajar.”
“All right; but don’t wait long before you give me the signal, for I am crazy to have my arms around him.”
They arrived at Virginie’s door; she opened it, then partly closed it, and Bertrand stood as close as possible, hardly daring to breathe.
Auguste had risen and was sitting at a window, impatiently awaiting Virginie, whose long absence made him anxious.
“Here I am, my friend,” she said, as she entered the room; and she hung about Auguste with as much embarrassment as she had shown in front of the cookshop. “Here I am; I’ve been rather long, but—but—it was because I met someone who is much better than a chicken.”
“You met someone?”
“Yes—someone who—someone——”
Before Virginie could think of what she wanted to say, Bertrand, unable to contain himself any longer, opened the door, rushed to Auguste, and threw his arms about him, crying:
“It was me, sacrebleu! it was me! But I can’t stay hidden any longer; I must embrace him!”
Bertrand could not make up his mind for some minutes to release his hold of Auguste, and Virginie exclaimed reproachfully:
“There! you see! he couldn’t wait till I motioned to him; he’ll make Auguste worse!”
“No,” said the convalescent, “no, happiness never does that! My poor fellow! so you have come back!”
“And you could believe that I abandoned you!” said Bertrand, taking Auguste’s hand. “You doubted the love of your old comrade, your faithful servant!—I admit that my hurried departure must have surprised you; but when you know!”
“You are here, Bertrand, and everything is forgotten!”
“Oh! listen to me first, and then tell me if I behaved so very badly.—You remember that I left you in the common room of a village tavern where we had just breakfasted. I had just paid our bill when, as I crossed the courtyard, I saw a man whose face attracted my attention, and whom I recognized instantly as our rascal of a Destival.”
“Destival!” cried Auguste.
“The man who robbed you!” said Virginie.
“He was just getting into a post-chaise when I caught sight of him. He couldn’t have seen me, but the carriage had started before I recovered from my surprise. So then, without taking the time to warn you, because I didn’t want to lose a minute for fear our man would escape me, I ran to the stable, saddled my horse, and galloped off in pursuit of our rascal. I soon overtook the post-chaise; but I knew that, in a foreign country, it would be a hard matter to make the villain disgorge, and that I could not rely on anyone but myself to do justice. So I followed the carriage, awaiting a favorable opportunity to see my man in private. For two days the infernal chaise stopped only to change horses; at last, at the end of the second day, they stopped at the posting inn, and my rascal, who evidently needed rest, entered the inn. I lost no time in following him, and asked tospeak to the traveller who had just come in. They showed me his room. I went upstairs, entered the room, and began by locking myself in with our man, who, when he saw me, nearly fainted in an easy-chair. I went up to him, took his arm, and said to him: ‘You are a thief, you ruined my master, but you won’t ruin anybody else; I taught you once to handle weapons, and we’ll see if you remember my lessons. Here are two pistols—take one. We shall be very comfortable in this room—four paces is distance enough when one doesn’t want to miss. Let’s make haste.’
“Instead of taking the pistol I handed him, the miserable wretch threw himself at my feet and begged for mercy. I demanded your money back. He took a wallet out of his pocket, showed me a hundred and sixty thousand francs in notes of the Bank of France, and swore that that was all that was left of what he took away from Paris. I concluded that that was better than nothing, and that I ought to get your money back for you rather than kill the villain. So I took the wallet, and, leaving the scoundrel more dead than alive, I went out of his room and locked him in. I remounted my horse and rode back as fast as I could to the place where I had left you; when I got there, my horse was foundered and I didn’t find you. I rode about in all directions, but no one could tell me anything about you. I started for Scotland, where we had intended to go. I passed three weeks visiting every corner there, even the smallest villages, but I wasn’t any more fortunate. At last I decided to return to France, and I got to Paris the day before yesterday. My first thought was to go and question Schtrack; he hadn’t seen you and he didn’t know mademoiselle’s address; we began to walk the streets trying to find you. But here you are! I have found you. I can give you what I haverescued of your property.—That is a report of my conduct, lieutenant; now, are you angry with me?”
For all reply, Auguste opened his arms to Bertrand, who handed him the wallet; while Virginie capered about the room, dancing with the chairs, and tossing her cap in the air, crying:
“Vive Bertrand! Auguste isn’t poor any more! we’ll have a high old time now!”
When the first outburst of joyous excitement had subsided, Auguste told Bertrand what he had done since he left him. He did not conceal from him the miserable plight to which he was reduced when Virginie came to his garret. He told him all that she had done for him—how she had worked and sat up all night, and all the sacrifices that she had undergone every day in order to provide him with whatever he required.
During this story, Virginie tried to make Auguste keep quiet by saying:
“That isn’t true; he makes too much of it; don’t believe him, Bertrand. Anyhow, if I did do all that, it must have been because I enjoyed it.”
But Bertrand, who could not listen unmoved to Auguste’s narrative, ran to Virginie, took her in his arms and kissed her, saying:
“That was fine! that was mighty fine!”
“Yes, but you are squeezing me too tight, Bertrand.”
Melancholy thoughts gave place to thoughts of happiness. Auguste no longer sighed when he thought of Denise. He was already longing to be with her, he burned to see her again, to requite her love; for after all that Virginie had told him he could no longer doubt the village maiden’s heart. But he was unable to go to Montfermeil at once; however, as happiness is a great restorer of health, after two days passed in formingdelightful plans for the future, Auguste was in condition to go out.
Before going to the village, where he expected to stay for some time, Auguste put his affairs in order. He went to his old notary and instructed him to invest his funds, keeping back only so much as was necessary for the execution of his plans. He intended to assure Virginie’s future; since she was no longer as young as she had once been, she was anxious to carry on a little business. Auguste hired a pretty shop for her and stocked it with embroideries and novelties, and Virginie became a dealer in small wares. She proudly took her seat behind her counter, after having a sign put over her door:A la Pucelle; and she swore to Auguste that she proposed thenceforth to devote herself exclusively to her business.
Auguste received Virginie’s thanks and her kindest regards for Denise, whom she did not propose to visit until her new line of conduct had covered her former aberrations with oblivion. He was on the point of starting for Montfermeil with Bertrand, when Virginie exclaimed:
“Mon Dieu! I forgot the little shopkeeper and the chicken! I meant to recommend her to you, so that you might at least buy your gloves of her.”
“What shopkeeper? what chicken?” inquired Auguste.
Virginie told of her adventure on the day she met Bertrand. Auguste, after expressing anew to Virginie his gratitude for all that she had done for him during his sickness, determined to call upon the young woman who had displayed so much delicacy in conferring a favor, and to thank her. He took Virginie in his cabriolet and they drove to the young linen-draper’s shop.
The cabriolet stopped at her door and the three occupants alighted. The young woman was amazed; shewas not accustomed to having customers come in a carriage to buy needles and thread. But she blushed when she recognized Virginie, who entered first, saying to Auguste:
“It was madame here, who was so kind to me when you were convalescent.”
Auguste stepped forward to salute the young tradeswoman, who was sorely embarrassed by the thanks he expressed. But before she could speak, an old man, who was in the back shop, and whom they had not noticed, came toward them, crying:
“Daughter! Anna! it is our place to thank this generous man! He is our benefactor! It is he to whom I owe my life and the happiness of seeing you happy!”
Auguste looked at the old man and recognized poor Dorfeuil; and before he had recovered from his surprise, father and daughter were at his feet, covering his hand with tears of gratitude.
Thereupon it was the turn of Bertrand and Virginie to demand explanations. Auguste tried to slink away, but old Dorfeuil held him fast while he told of all that he owed him, and finished his story by saying to Auguste:
“As you see, your benefaction brought us good luck. I have paid my debt; and in the last three years, my Anna, having succeeded in all her undertakings, has been able to set up in business here, where I am passing my declining years with her, in peace.”
Bertrand embraced Auguste again, Virginie embraced everybody, and they parted, promising to meet again. Virginie returned to her shop, from which she could not be absent longer, and Auguste drove off at last toward Denise’s village.
As they drew near Montfermeil his heart beat fast. He looked at Bertrand and said:
“We are going to see her! Oh! if you knew how they welcomed me, how they fêted me when I was unfortunate!”
“And yet you left them!”
“My dear fellow, I had nothing to offer Denise.”
“And now that you are much richer than she is, what if she should take her turn at refusing you? Then there’d be no end to it. Lovers have no common sense.”
Instead of taking the road to the village, Auguste could not resist the desire to go by the little wood path where he had kissed the little milkmaid long ago. When he was near the place where Jean le Blanc ran away, he saw a small boy on a donkey in the woods; and a little farther on was a young girl, sitting at the foot of a tree.
“There they are!” cried Auguste.
In a twinkling he had jumped out of the cabriolet; he ran into the woods to where the girl sat, threw himself at her feet, covered her hand with kisses, and said:
“It’s I, Denise; I have come back to you, never to leave you again.”
The girl was in doubt as to whether she was awake; she gazed at Auguste, who was fashionably dressed as in the old days, while Coco ran up to them, saying:
“Here’s my kind friend! he’s dressed like he was the day I broke the bowl.”
“Is it really you?” said Denise. “Oh! if you knew how your letter grieved me! Wicked! to leave me because you were poor! to dare to say that I didn’t love you! that you wouldn’t come to see me again till you had ceased to love me! Is that what your coming now means? Oh! tell me quickly, don’t let me hope for happiness—it is too hard to be cheated out of what one longs for!”
Auguste made no other reply than to press her to his heart, while his eyes told the sweet girl that it was something more than friendship that had brought him back to her.
Bertrand, having left the cabriolet, came forward to pay his respects to Denise.
“Bertrand too!” she exclaimed; “he has come back!”
“Yes, and it is to him, whom I accused of deserting me, that I owe my good fortune to-day.”
A few words put Denise in possession of the whole story, and she held out her hand to Bertrand, saying:
“Oh! my heart never doubted his! As if one could cease to love a person because he is unfortunate!” Then suddenly remembering that Auguste had recovered a large part of his property, she exclaimed: “Oh! mon Dieu! then I cannot be your wife!”
“Yes, Denise, you will be my wife,” said Auguste, taking her hand, “for you are the only woman who could make me happy, and I cannot doubt the sincerity of your love.”
“But I am only a village girl——”
“Whom I prefer to all the fine ladies of the city.”
“I shall be awkward in society.”
“I have learned the worth of society, and I care very little for its judgments; besides, when it knows you, my Denise, it will be compelled to do you justice.”
“Oh! I don’t want to know it, for my part, my dear; let us agree that, if you marry me, I shall stay here. When you want to go to Paris, you shall go alone; and then, when you are tired of the city, you can come back to your little milkmaid.”
Auguste kissed her and they started for the cottage. When one is happy, everything seems delightful; in the eyes of the lovers the cottage had become a palace; butBertrand, who was not in love and who always thought of the future, said to Auguste:
“This house isn’t big enough for you, lieutenant; besides, it belongs to Coco—it’s his property. You must buy a pretty house, not too expensive, which you can see from here, where you will have suitable accommodations and where you can entertain a few friends; because, you know, you mustn’t isolate yourself from society altogether; the sure way to have your love last only a short time is to shut yourself up with your wife for six months. Now that you know the world, you won’t be taken in again. You will take men at their true value; you can associate with the people whose company is agreeable, and you mustn’t play for such high stakes as you used to; for now, or never, is the time to be prudent.”
Auguste approved Bertrand’s suggestion. The house was hired, and a week later, Denise, beaming with love and happiness, embellishing by her charms and her grace the modest costume she had selected, was led to the altar by the man she loved.