distraught, so engrossed by his speculations, that I alone attend to the
invitations. Will you come?"
"Is it not absolutely necessary for me to see you again? If I should
yield to my inclinations, I would never leave you."
"Bless my soul! I believe that we are dropping into sentiment. Are you
going to make me a declaration?"
"Is it possible to see you without loving you?"
"Look out! you are becoming serious, and I like none but merry people.
That melancholy air doesn't suit you."
"Have you no pity, then, for the pain you cause?"
"Oh! not the least! Sighs do not move me an inch; to please me, it is
necessary to keep me laughing constantly."
While they talked, Auguste and his companion had strayed into the shaded
portion of the garden. He had taken the young woman's arm and was
pressing it tenderly. Athalie was still laughing, but was making no
effort to avoid Dalville's gentle caresses, when Bertrand appeared
before them at a bend in the path.
"They are waiting for you and madame at breakfast, lieutenant," said the
corporal, putting the back of his hand to his forehead.
Auguste stamped on the ground impatiently; but the vivacious Athalie had
already dropped his arm and was frisking away.
"Parbleu! you are exceedingly awkward, Bertrand!" said Auguste, glaring
at the corporal, who still stood before him.
"What have I done, lieutenant?"
"You seem to have made it your business to disturb me when I am engaged
in an interesting conversation with a pretty woman."
"Excuse me, lieutenant, but I can't tell what you're saying."
"A shrewd man can guess it at a glance. Once for all, when I am alone
with a woman, I forbid you to interrupt me."
"That settles it, lieutenant; if the house should burn down, I wouldn't
disturb you."
The whole party had assembled in the dining-room; even La Thomassinière,
having waked with a tremendous appetite, had not devised any previous
business which would have vexed his stomach, and he bestowed a most
affable nod upon Dalville, which meant that his wife had informed him
that she proposed to receive the young man at their house. Madame
Destival too seemed desirous to be reconciled to Auguste, who had
treated her coldly since the scene in the courtyard.
"I must be in Paris before noon," said La Thomassinière, shuffling a
mass of papers that he took from his wallet; "I have ten appointments
for to-day. I am sure that at least twenty people have called at my
house before this. A little more coffee, if you please. It isn't
Mocha----"
"I beg your pardon," said Destival, as he poured out some for him.
"Oh, no! I assure you that isn't; I know what I am talking about. I laid
in lately a _consequential_ supply; it's very different from this."
"I must be in Paris this morning," said Destival, puffing himself out;
"I have numerous matters on the carpet, some of great importance! Monin
wants to buy a house, and I have just what he wants."
"Who's he? that little man who bet two sous at écarté?"
"The very same."
"What! that fellow buy houses! I shouldn't have suspected it; his coat
was very threadbare--and patched on the elbows."
"Oh! that means nothing in the country."
"Never mind! you must admit that a man in a threadbare coat doesn't
promise great things--it doesn't give you a very exalted idea of his
wit. Oh! I have a keen glance, I have; and then, being used to seeing
only rich and well-dressed people,--I say, footman, just tell my people
to harness up, to put my horses to my calèche."
"I expect my milliner this morning," said Athalie; "she is to bring me
the sweetest bonnet. We must go at full speed, monsieur, for I am very
anxious to try on that bonnet."
"You are aware, madame, that my steeds do not travel like cab-horses. I
feed them rather well, and they cost me so much that I can afford to
make them gallop."
"Baptiste," Monsieur Destival called to his servant, who was leaving the
room, "you will hitch up too, do you understand?"
"That's the way," muttered Baptiste, "no sooner out of the kitchen than
I must go to the stable!"
"I say, Baptiste, while you're about it, tell my little Tony to put the
horse to my cabriolet," said Dalville, smiling at the pompous air of La
Thomassinière, who said, rubbing his hands:
"On my word, it's very pleasant for each to have his own carriage; it's
very genteel; one is certain at all events that one is with _comme il
faut_ people. To be sure, you have only cabriolets, but everybody can't
have a calèche, a coupé and a landau, like me."
"What, are you going too, Monsieur Dalville?" asked Madame Destival,
with a most expressive glance at the young man; "this is polite,
everybody abandons me!"
"It is a fact, my dear fellow," said Destival, "that my wife relied on
you to keep her company, and----"
"I never said that I relied on monsieur; most assuredly I should not
have dreamed of saying such a thing!" said Emilie, interrupting her
husband; "but as everybody else is going to Paris, I don't see why I
should stay here. Besides, you are to give a dinner this week, aren't
you, monsieur?"
"Yes, madame, a large dinner. I shall have some influential
people,--government officials and distinguished artists. I count upon
Monsieur and Madame de la Thomassinière, and upon friend Dalville too."
Dalville bowed simply, but La Thomassinière replied:
"We will see. I can't promise beforehand, because I may be invited to
other dinners by people high up on the ladder, and you must see----"
"So we are all going to Paris," said Madame Destival. "My husband will
take Baptiste and Julie with him. Will Monsieur Dalville be kind enough
to give me a seat in his cabriolet?"
"Why can't you come in our calèche?" hastily inquired the
petite-maîtresse.
"Oh! I am afraid that I should keep you waiting. I have several matters
to attend to, and you are in a hurry to see your milliner. Monsieur
Dalville will not object, I trust, to give me another half hour."
Auguste realized that it would be discourteous to refuse; moreover,
although that arrangement upset his plans, although the fascinating
Athalie made an enticing little pout at him, and although Madame
Destival had said many unkind things about him, still, Emilie was a
good-looking woman none the less, and one forgives a good-looking woman
many things, even when one is no longer in love with her.
They left the table. The carriages were ready. Madame de la
Thomassinière entered her calèche, with a malevolent glance at Auguste
and Madame Destival. The speculator called his two servants, who
assisted him to climb in; then he threw himself back on the seat,
crying:
"To my house in the Chaussée-d'Antin, and go at full speed; drive
_furiously_, do you hear, Lafleur? But look out and not run into
anything."
The calèche flew away like an arrow. Madame Destival had hurried her
domestics to such purpose that Julie and Baptiste were soon ready to
start with their master. But madame still had divers matters to attend
to, for which she did not need Julie. Monsieur Destival shook hands
cordially with his friend and urged him not to drive his wife too fast,
because it was bad for the nerves; then he took his seat in the
cabriolet beside Julie, ordering Baptiste to mount behind, which he did,
muttering because they made him do all sorts of things.
Bertrand and Tony stood by Dalville's cabriolet, awaiting the latter and
Madame Destival. But the little matters which the mistress of the house
had to arrange took nearly two hours. Bertrand fretted and fumed at
having to stand beside the cabriolet; but his master had ordered him to
await him there, and he did not leave his post.
"Perhaps monsieur thinks we've gone," suggested little Tony.
"No, no, he knows we're here."
"But perhaps he don't mean to go back to Paris to-day."
"Then he'll come and tell us so."
"And suppose he don't think of it?"
"We will stay here until somebody comes to relieve us from duty. I've
got my orders, that's enough for me."
At last, about noon, Auguste appeared with Madame Destival on his arm.
She leaned tenderly upon him and her face expressed nothing save
satisfaction and the most amiable unconstraint.
"It's strange!" thought Bertrand, "here's a lady that changes her face
three or four times a day. However, I ought to be used to it. I've seen
so many women like that. Everyone that comes to see monsieur as angry as
you please, rolling her eyes, and talking loud, is as mild and gentle as
a lamb when she leaves him; she hasn't the same face, nor the same eyes,
nor the same voice."
"Come, Bertrand, get in," said Auguste, who was already in the cabriolet
with Madame Destival.--"You will be a little crowded, madame; but my
faithful Bertrand isn't built to ride behind."
"Oh! I shall be very comfortable," said Emilie, bestowing a soft glance
on Auguste, and on Bertrand an affable smile; for nobody can be so
amiable as our fair friends when things are going to suit them! But when
you thwart them----
They drove away. When they passed the little path leading to
Montfermeil, Auguste put out his head and looked, saying to himself:
"I shall not always have a lady to drive to Paris."
VII
THE VILLAGE
Denise started to return to her village; but she did not sing as her
custom was, as she walked behind White Jean. Her heart was still heavy
because of what had taken place at Madame Destival's; and although she
had tried not to seem distressed, she did not forget the
word--_hussy_--that had been applied to her. To be called by such a name
as that, when she was virtuous, when she had nothing for which to
reproach herself, seemed very hard to the little milkmaid. It is said
that unmerited insults do not wound; but how can an honest and sincere
heart fail to feel outraged on receiving epithets usually reserved for
vice? It might much better be said that it is the vicious person who
does not blush and who laughs at anything that may be said to her,
because she retains no sense of shame. In my opinion the proverb "Only
the truth gives offence" is essentially false.
"How unkind those city people are!" thought the girl; "the idea of
calling me a hussy! That sounds well from them! What did I do to deserve
it? I kissed that gentleman because he's got a kind heart, and because
he's going to look out for Coco; it seems to me that was no more than
natural, and I ain't ashamed of it. That Madame Destival, who came
rushing at me with such a scowl! I thought she was going to hit me.--The
idea of telling me that my cheeses are bitter, and that I put water in
my milk! Ah! I felt just like crying, but I did well to keep the tears
back, she'd have been too pleased to see them. And that other one, who
did nothing but laugh and make all sorts of faces and monkey tricks at
that young man! Mon Dieu! as if I had done anything to make such a fuss
about! Should I have refused that money when it was to help that poor
boy? No, indeed! and it would have made the gentleman angry, and I'd
much rather make the lady angry. He isn't wicked, he's only a flatterer.
Well! that ain't a crime--all one has to do is not to listen, that's
all. And he's very nice and polite. I clawed his face and he didn't get
mad. By the way, he didn't tell me his name. Why should he? I don't need
to know it. Perhaps he told Coco--I must ask him.--Go on, White
Jean!--Shall I show my aunt this purse? Yes, I'll tell her the whole
thing. But I didn't tell her yesterday about my fall, and what that
gentleman saw. When I think of that, it troubles me, and I want to cry
again. And that other gentleman, who calls him lieutenant, and who
whispered 'Look out for yourself!' when he passed me. His name's
Bertrand, I remember that. He looks like a good fellow, that Bertrand;
but what in the deuce did he mean with his 'Look out for yourself'?"
Meditating thus, Denise arrived at Montfermeil, a pretty little village
where the people are not badly off; where there are several comfortable
bourgeois houses, and nothing to indicate want, because the occupant of
the humblest cottage works instead of begging.
Denise's cottage was at the end of the village, on the bank of a little
stream that followed a winding course between rows of willows. It was of
two stories; the walls were sound, and the roof was covered with tiles,
which gave the cottage a certain air of elegance. There was a yard in
front, separated from the street by a low wooden fence; the stable was
at the right, and hens, chickens and ducks wandered about the yard,
which they seemed to look upon as their property, giving vent to all
sorts of cries when any other person than Denise or her aunt ventured to
enter. The garden was behind the house; it was about two acres in
extent, but there was no semblance of order; fruit and vegetables grew
in confusion, according to the custom of the peasant, who thinks first
of the useful. There were not many flowers, but as Denise was fond of
them, there were a few rose-bushes among the potatoes, and now and then
a syringa, its branches enlacing the trunk of a plum or an almond tree.
It will be evident from these details that the cottage did not belong to
poor people. Everything about it indicated the possession of a
competence; and in fact Mère Fourcy, Denise's aunt, was one of the
richest peasants in the neighborhood; she owned two pieces of land, one
of which was on the other side of the stream that flowed by her house;
and Denise, who was her sole heir, was able by her activity and her
little trade in milk and cheese, to add to the income of her aunt, who,
although she was a worthy woman, was a little inclined to be miserly.
That is said to be a failing of the rich; indeed, how can you expect
those who have nothing to exhibit such a failing?
White Jean entered the yard without guidance, and headed for his stable.
Denise was a little distance behind, having been stopped by some of her
neighbors, who, as the custom is in villages, talked with every
passer-by, because everybody knew everybody else. But the little
milkmaid, who was in no mood for talking, hastened after White Jean, and
relieved him of the baskets containing the milk and cheese that she
brought back.
"What will my aunt say when she sees that I've brought these things
back?" Denise asked herself; and she could not restrain a sigh. But
Denise did not fear her aunt, for Mère Fourcy, knowing her niece's
virtue, and considering that she knew more than all the other people in
the village, always approved what she said and did, except when it was a
matter of lending money. That is why Denise, despite her fondness for
Coco, had been able to do very little for him.
"His father's a drunkard," Mère Fourcy would say; "to give the child
money is just giving that good-for-nothing Calleux the means of
drinking."
Mère Fourcy was a stout woman of fifty-five, who, despite her
corpulence, was active and alert; she heard her niece come in, and came
downstairs to help her unload her ass.
"What have you got there, my child?" she asked.
"The cheeses I made for Madame Destival."
"Why didn't she take 'em?"
"Because--because she didn't want 'em."
"Oh! that's different.--What! all this milk too?"
"Oh, dear! yes, aunt."
"And I wouldn't let Monsieur Brichard have any this morning!"
"Oh! we'll use it up, aunt."
"Has Madame Destival taken her trade away from you?"
"Yes, aunt."
"That's what makes you look so cut up then. Where does she expect to get
better milk?"
"Oh! it ain't on account of the milk, aunt."
"On account of something else, is it?"
"Yes, aunt."
"That makes a difference. Tell me about this other thing, my child."
Denise thought a moment, then replied:
"You know, aunt, I told you yesterday that I met a fine gentleman who
asked me the way to Monsieur Destival's?"
"Yes, my dear."
"And that it was the same man who gave a lot of money to Coco's
grandmother, because Coco broke the soup-bowl?"
"Yes, yes, I know. That sot of a Calleux will drink it all up."
"Well, aunt, I saw that young man again this morning, at Monsieur
Destival's."
"So he's a young man, is he? You said a gentleman yesterday."
"Bless me! so he is, a gentleman who is young."
"Oh! that makes a difference."
"He was very pleasant and friendly with me, and when he learned from me
that Père Calleux spent all the money, he gave me this purse and told me
to see that poor Coco has everything he needs. I took it, aunt; did I do
wrong?"
"Of course not, my dear; as if you didn't always do right, dear Denise.
Well! you're a good girl too, and you don't let the men talk nonsense to
you."
"No, indeed, aunt; but I let that gentleman kiss me."
"Oh! that makes a difference. What did he want to kiss you for?"
"To thank me for agreeing to look after Coco, for he's very fond of
him."
"Well, I don't see any harm in all that, my child."
"But Madame Destival did, for she came up to me in a rage and called
me----"
"She called you----?"
"Oh! I don't want to repeat the horrid word.--Well! she called me
a--a--hussy."
"God in heaven! my niece, my Denise, a hussy! the virtuousest girl
within ten leagues! And you didn't jump at her face?"
"No, aunt; I just said that it was horrible to believe--to think--then I
came home with my milk and my cheese."
"You did right, my child, you did right; those folks don't deserve to
eat such good things."
Denise did not tell her aunt what Madame Destival had said about her
milk and cheese, because Mère Fourcy would be just the woman to go to
the business agent and demand satisfaction for such an insult. The girl
did not like quarrelling and she wished never to hear Madame Destival's
name again. Mère Fourcy went to the village to try to find customers for
the milk and cheese. When she was alone, Denise took out the purse and
counted its contents in her apron. There were twelve twenty-franc
pieces, and six of five francs.
"Two hundred and seventy francs!" exclaimed Denise, throwing up her
hands in amazement; "why, that's quite a lot of money. That gentleman
must be very rich to give away so much all at once. Perhaps I ought not
to have taken it all. But still, as it's for Coco--there's enough to
send him to school, to have him learn to read. Yes, but his father don't
want him to learn to read. That's a pity, I should like so much to make
Coco a gentlemanly, well-taught boy; it would please that gentleman when
he comes back--for he'll come to see his little boy; at least, he said
he would. Never mind, I'll be very careful of the money; and while I
have the time, I think I'll go to the cottage and see if they've done
what that gentleman intended they should."
By taking crossroads, one could go in a quarter of an hour from
Montfermeil to the home of the Calleux family. Denise walked rapidly
along the paths, which were well known to her. She entered the wretched
hovel. Coco was seated at a table with old Madeleine. They were dining
without Père Calleux, who, finding himself in funds, preferred the
wine-shop to his house.
At sight of Denise, the child gave a joyful cry and ran to her. Denise
was so good to him! she always brought him something nice; she often
prevented his being beaten; in short, she showed great affection for
him; and children love those who love them; it is not always so with
men.
"Good-day, little Denise!" said Coco, opening his arms to the girl.
"Take care, good-for-nothing!" said old Madeleine; "you almost upset the
table and spilt my soup! I'd have given you a good licking, if you had!"
Denise glanced about the hovel, and saw that the only change that
Dalville's money had wrought was the presence of a large new bowl, which
was in front of the fire. The child's bed was no softer than before.
"See how fine I am, Denise!" cried the child, exhibiting the trousers
and the little brown jacket which replaced the ragged garments that
covered him on the preceding day.
"Yes, I see," said Denise, scrutinizing the garments, "but none of these
things are new."
"Pardi!" cried old Madeleine, "do you s'pose we was going to have 'em
made to order for him? The things are good enough for a brat as plays
all the time like him. You'll see in a day or two! they'll soon be full
of holes! Ah! he'd wear out clothes made of iron."
"But why didn't you buy him a mattress, Mère Madeleine? I thought that
gentleman told you to when he gave you the money."
"Because his father wouldn't have it; he says a boy hadn't ought to be
coddled so, because it keeps 'em from getting strong."
"Still, when the money was given for Coco----"
"For Coco? yes, and for us too, my girl; hadn't the parents ought to
come before the children?"
"Is Père Calleux in the field?"
"In the fields! oh, yes! in the fields indeed! He's at Claude's
wine-shop. He took all there was left of the money that gentleman give
me, and told me he was going to put it into some great undertakin'. Oh,
yes! I know all about that; he'll undertake to drink it all up in a day,
if it's possible."
"Would you like to have me take Coco away with me till night, Mère
Madeleine?"
"No, my girl, no; I'm an old woman, and I don't want to be left alone.
Coco's got to stay with me."
Denise kissed the child, who ran off to play and roll on the ground with
his goat; then she returned to the village, asking herself:
"How shall I go to work to do what that gentleman wants done?"
The next day was Sunday. No work in the village. The women paid more
attention to their toilet, they donned their prettiest gowns, and in the
evening the whole population assembled on a beautiful greensward shaded
by oaks and walnuts. There a wretched violin and a huge tambourine
played for the young men and women to dance; they considered the
orchestra divine, because it gave the signal for their enjoyment. Denise
was the favorite among the young men, and aroused some jealous pangs in
the hearts of her companions. The passions insinuate themselves
everywhere; there are envious and evil-speaking folk in the village as
well as in the city; but they are less skilled in disguising their
sentiments.
Denise was the prettiest girl in the village and in the country
roundabout; that was what all the men said; but all the women did not
agree. Denise was no coquette, but she was a woman; and what woman is
there who is not conscious of a secret pleasure in the certainty that
she is attractive, that she can prevail over her companions? But Denise
did not play the coquette with the young men; she did not bestow a smile
upon this one, a glance upon that one, a word of hope upon the other;
but she laughed and joked and was pleasant to one and all alike; for she
was very fond of dancing, and she liked to have everyone invite her to
dance.
On the Sunday in question, however, Denise, who had gone to the green
with her aunt, as usual, did not seem to enjoy herself so much as she
ordinarily did; she laughed less with the young men and seemed not to
take any pleasure in dancing. And finally, a thing that had never been
seen before, Denise, after four contradances, declared that she was
tired and would like to rest a while.
"Is it because you're sick, my child?" Mère Fourcy asked her niece, when
she came and seated herself by her side.
"No, aunt, I ain't sick, but I'm tired."
"Tired! you! the greatest dancer in the whole country!"
"Well! I guess one gets tired of everything, aunt. I don't feel in the
mood to-day."
"That makes a difference."
"Come on, Mamzelle Denise, come and have a dance," several young men
said to the little milkmaid. And one of them pulled her arm until he
almost dislocated it, another struck his palm against hers with all his
might, and a third, while saluting her, trod on her feet. With such
delicate attentions it is customary to pay court to a village belle, who
sometimes retorts by a ringing slap on the gallant's face, thereby
indicating that he is in her good graces.
But Denise distributed no slaps among the youths who surrounded her; she
simply sent them away, saying:
"Let me alone, when I tell you that I don't want to dance."
"Oh, yes, you do! oh, yes! She'll dance--you'll dance--she's joking when
she says that."
But Denise held her ground, and when the dancers had taken their leave,
she said to her aunt:
"Bless my soul! how stupid they all are!"
"Who, my girl?"
"Why Gros-Jean and Lucas and Bastien."
"They're the sharpest fellows in the village! What are you thinking
about, to say that? Gros-Jean, who's so funny when he dances and always
mixes up the figures on purpose! Lucas, who's taken the prize at _goose_
three years running! And Bastien, who's been to Paris twice and learned
to play at quarter-staff! And you call those boys stupid!"