things that didn't amuse me."
"But you used to laugh so loud with 'em! I tell you you're sick, my
child; when we go home, I'm going to make you eat a good dish of peas
and pork before you go to bed; that'll do you good."
Denise did not feel sick; she did not herself know why she was not
enjoying herself. At last the hour for retiring arrived, and the girl
was secretly well pleased to return to the cottage and leave her
companions, who glanced sneeringly at her and said to one another:
"Something's the matter with Denise, that's sure! At all events, if
she's always the way she is to-day, the fellows will soon give up liking
her and making love to her."
In spite of, or perhaps because of, the dish of peas and pork, Denise
slept little. She thought, not precisely of the fine gentleman who had
flattered her and kissed her and picked her up after her fall, but of
the one who proposed to take care of poor Coco; of the money of which
she was the depositary, and of the means of making the child happier.
At daybreak she left her bed. After completing her morning chores, she
made her escape and hurried to the Calleux cabin. She saw the child
playing in front of the door and was delighted to speak to him without
witnesses.
"Where's Madeleine?" she asked.
"She's asleep, my little Denise," the child replied, throwing his arms
about the girl's neck.
"And your father?"
"Papa Calleux, he didn't come home last night. Grandma says he slept at
the wine-shop."
"Coco, do you love that gentleman who came here and left money for you,
and kept you from being beaten for breaking the bowl?"
"Oh, yes! I do love him, just. He's got a pretty vest and a pretty
ribbon hanging on it. He's coming to play with me again, ain't he?"
"Yes, he said he'd come again. Do you know his name?"
"He's my dear friend."
"But his name--did he tell you that?"
"No, but he knows my name's Coco, and Papa Calleux----"
"You must love that gentleman dearly, for he means to do ever so much
for you. Would you like to learn to read and write?"
"Oh, yes! so's to read pretty stories in the books with pictures in 'em,
like you've got. But papa won't let me go to school."
"I'll speak to him and try to make him consent----"
At that moment old Madeleine's shrill voice was heard, calling the
child. He kissed Denise and went into the cabin, while the girl walked
rapidly back to the village.
Père Calleux, after passing three days at the wine-shop, resumed his
spade and watering-pot; but he would not consent to let Coco go to
school, although Denise told him that it would cost him nothing; and old
Madeleine would not allow the child to go any farther than the field
where his father worked. Denise went to the hovel every morning; she
always carried something secretly to the child, but she did not touch
Dalville's money.
"He won't come back," said Denise to herself; "here's a week gone
already! Psha! he's forgotten all about--Coco; still another reason for
saving that money. Some day the little fellow will be very glad to have
it. And yet that gentleman seemed to want to come again. Of course he's
been to Madame Destival's, and he didn't go through our village! What
liars they are, those young men from Paris! Still that one has some good
qualities. But why did that Monsieur Bertrand tell me to look out for
myself?"
The dancing days came around in due course, but Denise's good spirits
did not return, although she did her utmost to appear as of old, and
often danced when she felt no desire to do so, and tried to joke with
the young men. Her greatest pleasure now was to sit alone under a great
oak in her garden, or to go to the cabin and embrace Coco, to whom she
talked constantly of the handsome gentleman, who meant to do so much for
him.
A month had passed since Auguste's meeting with Denise, when one
morning, as she was about to start for the cabin, a peasant informed her
that old Madeleine had died during the night. The little milkmaid ran to
the child at full speed. The old woman's remains had not been removed;
and as Calleux was poor and was not liked in the neighborhood, the child
was watching alone by the body, while his father made the necessary
arrangements for the burial.
Denise halted in front of the solitary hovel, the aspect of which seemed
to her more wretched than ever, because Death casts a dark pall over
everything wherever he passes. The girl was surprised to find nobody
about; she drew nearer and bursts of laughter fell upon her ears. She
concluded that the person was mistaken who had told her of the
grandmother's death, and she put her head in at the door. She saw the
death bed, beside which a lamp cast a dim light; and close by she saw
the child playing with his goat on the straw, and greeting with shouts
of laughter Jacqueleine's antics and caresses.
That picture caused Denise a peculiar sensation. She entered the cabin
and walked toward the child, saying:
"What's this, my dear? playing beside your dead grandmother?"
"Will that make her mad?" queried the child, with an artless glance at
Denise.
"No, for she can't hear you; but you ought to be sorry for her death."
"Someone told me she wouldn't whip me again."
"Didn't you cry when she died?"
"No, Denise."
"Then you didn't love her?"
"Oh! I was awful 'fraid of her!"
"My dear, it isn't nice not to have any feeling."
"Oh! if my goat died, Denise, I'd cry hard enough; Jacqueleine's so good
and she loves me so!"
Denise could think of no answer to make to the child; she sent him
outside with his goat. On Père Calleux's return, she obtained his
permission to take Coco with her for a few days, and Coco took with him
his darling goat, from which he refused to part.
Denise was anxious to keep the child with her; Mère Fourcy was
kindhearted, and Denise showed her that as he grew up Coco would be of
use to them, and that the money left by the gentleman from Paris would
be more than sufficient to educate him. Père Calleux, who realized that
his son could not make his soup, consented to leave him with Denise for
the present, and the girl was overjoyed.
Behold, then, Coco a member of the little milkmaid's family, and leading
a pleasant life. Denise, who knew how to read,--not a rare
accomplishment in our villages nowadays,--determined to educate her
little protégé, and did not fail to speak to him every day of the
handsome gentleman who had paid so generously for his bowl.
But another month passed, and the gentleman from Paris did not come
again. Denise, who still loved to muse beneath the great oak, often said
to herself:
"It was quite right to think that he didn't mean a word of all those
fine things he said to me. But, when he wasn't coming back, it wasn't
worth while for that Monsieur Bertrand to say: 'Look out for
yourself!'"
VIII
A BACHELOR'S MORNING RECEPTION
"Is Auguste in, Monsieur Bertrand?" inquired a young woman of
twenty-four, slender and graceful, with fine brown eyes, very black
hair, pale complexion, white, even teeth, and a somewhat fatigued
expression; a face, be it said, which was enlivened and made most
attractive by a mischievous smile. This young woman was a certain
Virginie, of whom mention was made in the cabriolet on the way to
Monsieur Destival's; she had just rung the bell at the door of Auguste's
apartment, although it was only eight o'clock in the morning.
"Monsieur Dalville has gone out," replied Bertrand, with a very slight
nod to Mademoiselle Virginie, which did not deter her from entering the
apartment.
"That's impossible, Bertrand; you say that because there's somebody
here, I suppose, and those are your orders. We know all about that. But
I must see him; I have something very important to say to him. Really,
my little Bertrand, I'm not joking."
"I give you my word, mademoiselle, that Monsieur Dalville has gone out;
or, rather, that he hasn't come in. He went to a grand ball last night,
and it seems to have lasted a long while."
"Great heaven! what actions! Why, it's shocking. That young man is
destroying himself. Bertrand, you don't keep a sharp enough lookout over
him; it isn't right. You ought to preach at him."
"In the first place, mademoiselle, Monsieur Dalville's the master; in
the second place, when I try to talk reason with him, he refuses to
listen to me, or sends me to the devil."
"That's very wrong! Ah! if I were only his mother or sister, you'd see
how good I'd make him! I'm going to wait for him, Bertrand, for he must
come in soon. Still at a ball at eight in the morning! Oh! I don't take
any stock in that yarn."
Mademoiselle Virginie, who was perfectly familiar with the apartment,
opened a door leading to a small salon in which she installed herself,
placing her hat on one chair, her shawl on another, and throwing herself
on a couch. Bertrand quietly followed her, and as if accustomed to such
performances from her, continued to eat the bread and cheese which he
had in his hand when she rang the bell.
"I certainly do not care for Monsieur Auguste any more," said Virginie,
after a moment; "I must be a confounded fool to care for a man who has
thirty-six mistresses; hasn't he, Bertrand?"
"Oh! mademoiselle, I can't say----"
"Yes, yes, he has thirty-six! I don't say all at once; he would have to
be a northern Hercules. And yet--if it could be--It isn't worth while;
one man's no better than another. I know them so well! Don't you think
I'm right, Bertrand?"
"Oh! as for that, there have been men who--the great Turenne, for
instance."
"Bah! what an ass the man is with his great Turenne! Does he take me for
a sentry-box? I don't know ancient history, Bertrand; I don't care about
anything except my own time, and I tell you Auguste's a rake. In the
first place, he played me a shameful trick three weeks ago. Think of
it! he made an appointment with me, and we were to pass the day together
and go to Feydeau in the evening; and monsieur left me to cool my heels
and went off into the country, to his Monsieur Destival, business agent.
He's another fox, that fellow! He'd better attend to what goes on in his
own house, eh, Bertrand?"
"In his own house, mademoiselle? Do you mean----"
"Yes, you understand well enough! That is, unless he likes it. Bless my
soul! there are husbands whom that sort of thing just suits! Did you
spend the night at that place?"
"Yes, mademoiselle."
"Mon Dieu! how rural! Did you stay there several days? Come, Bertrand,
speak out--you have time enough to eat; you know that I haven't set foot
inside this door for an age, and Monsieur Auguste hasn't so much as had
the decency to come to inquire for my health. And yet I've been very
ill; I nearly died! I am ever so much changed, am I not, Bertrand?"
"Why, no, mademoiselle, I don't see that----"
"Oh, yes! the whites of my eyes are yellow yet. To be sure this dress
isn't becoming. It's too high, it cramps me.--Well, Bertrand, what did
you do in the country?"
"I taught Monsieur Destival the manual, mademoiselle."
"Oho! is he going to enlist in the voltigeurs? How about his wife--does
she do the manual too? She ought to learn to drum so that she can march
in front of her husband when he goes out to fire his gun."
"I don't know what madame was doing, mademoiselle."
"Of course not; it was your business to keep the husband busy, while
Monsieur Auguste dallied with madame in the thick shrubbery! I can see
that man firing at crows while his wife hunts strawberries! Ha! ha!"
Mademoiselle Virginie laughed so heartily that it was several minutes
before she could speak again. Meanwhile Bertrand paced the salon floor,
continuing his breakfast.
"Oh dear! it hurts to laugh like that.--Tell me, Bertrand, when did you
come back?"
"The next day, mademoiselle."
"And Auguste hasn't been there again since?"
"No, mademoiselle; he's often wanted to go, but he hasn't had time."
"Oh! of course not; he has so much to do! And he hasn't been to see me
once in the last fortnight! He leaves me sick, almost dying! And I am
not well yet. Oh, no! I am still suffering terribly.--What's that you're
eating, Bertrand?"
"Just plain Roquefort cheese, mademoiselle."
"It's queer to watch another person eat; it makes me want to eat too;
you see, I always have to do what I see others do. You may as well give
me some breakfast, my little Bertrand, because, you see, if I should
whine and cry till to-morrow, it's all nonsense, and my calf wouldn't be
any bigger for that; would it, Bertrand?"
"Mademoiselle, if you----"
"He's a good fellow, this Bertrand; I love him a lot, I do; yes, I'm
very fond of him, although he's a bit of a traitor, like his master."
"Oh! as for that, mademoiselle, when you talk about being honest, I
flatter myself----"
"All right, Bertrand; I only said that for fun. But I'm not going to
breakfast on honesty. What are you going to give me?"
"If mademoiselle would like coffee, I'll go down and have some sent up."
"Coffee! oh! that makes a hole in my stomach, it's no good. Haven't you
got anything to eat here?"
"We have the remains of a pie, a bit of fowl, and some Lyon sausage."
"Ah! I like those better than coffee; bring 'em all, my little Bertrand;
just to pass the time till Auguste comes back."
Bertrand moved a small tea-table to the couch, and lost no time in
laying it for Mademoiselle Virginie's breakfast, who assisted him by
going to the sideboard herself for whatever she needed, saying:
"I am sorry to put you to so much trouble, Bertrand."
"You are joking, mademoiselle."
"Where's little Tony?"
"He's with monsieur; he has to have somebody on account of the
cabriolet."
"That boy's a sly little rascal; he'll never tell me anything, whereas
you, Bertrand, you do at least talk; to be sure, I know that you don't
tell me everything. After all, you're right; there are some things I
ought not to know, they'd make me too unhappy. Meanwhile, I'll have my
breakfast."
Mademoiselle Virginie took her place before the breakfast, and, while
repeating from time to time that she was still sick, speedily caused the
cold fowl to disappear, and made a vigorous assault on the pie and the
sausage, washing them down with claret, in which she did not deem it
necessary to put water.
But, while she was eating, Virginie glanced at a clock in front of her
and cried:
"The rascal! Why doesn't he come home? You must admit, Bertrand, that
people don't stay at a ball till nine o'clock in the morning. I know
myself that bourgeois balls always end by five; my aunt used to give one
sometimes. Poor aunt! I shall have to make up with her now!--I say, this
pie isn't half bad.--You see, Bertrand, my aunt's a woman of your sort."
"I understand--a tall woman, five feet six inches, like me, eh?"
"No, no! what a donkey you are with your six inches! Still, it would be
rather nice[C] if my aunt had six of 'em. When I say of your sort, I
mean a fine woman, a respectable woman. Oh! she preaches to me, I tell
you, she does! She used to say such touching things to me that I wept
like a Magdalen while I was listening; but once outside--prrr!--I forgot
all about it.--A body could eat a two pound loaf with this devilish
sausage!--That wretched Auguste! Ah! he shall pay me for this. In the
first place, I don't propose to go till he comes back, if I have to stay
here till to-morrow. It don't make any difference to me, I'm my own
mistress."
[C] The joke consists in the fact that the same word--_pouce_--means
"inch" and "thumb."
At that moment the bell rang softly.
"Ah! there he is!" cried Virginie; "don't tell him I'm here, Bertrand,
do you hear? I want to surprise him. Shut the door of the salon."
"Very well, mademoiselle; but I have an idea that it isn't monsieur; I
didn't recognize his ring."
Having closed the door of the salon, Bertrand opened the one leading to
the hall; whereupon, instead of Auguste, he saw the pretty neighbor of
the third floor to whom he had restored the poodle.
The pretty neighbor was a blonde, with blue eyes and a pink complexion;
her voice was low and sweet, her manners and her bearing savored of
affectation; but she was pretty, and her natural charms won forgiveness
for those which she tried to impart to herself.
"Isn't my little Lozor in your rooms, Monsieur Bertrand?" asked the
young blonde in an undertone, with a furtive glance about the apartment.
"I have not had the honor to see him, madame," replied Bertrand, still
holding the door only partly open; which fact did not prevent the
neighbor from stepping farther into the room.
"That is strange; he went out this morning; my maid is at market, and I
hoped to find him here."
"If the deserter appears, madame, I shall have the pleasure of bringing
him back to you at once."
"Poor Lozor! I am really anxious about him."
And the neighbor, advancing step by step, found herself in the centre of
the reception room, while Bertrand still held the door ajar, hoping thus
to induce her to go away.
"Monsieur Dalville went out last night in full dress, didn't he,
Monsieur Bertrand?"
"Yes, madame."
"I happened to be at my window and I saw him. I would have liked to say
a word to him, to ask him for a book that he promised to let me have
to-day. But he went away so fast! If it wasn't so early, I would ask him
to be kind enough to give it to me now. But that would disturb him
perhaps?"
The neighbor seemed to await a reply, but Bertrand kept silent and
contented himself with swinging the door back and forth.
"Is Monsieur Dalville still in bed?" inquired the pretty blonde at last,
bestowing upon the ex-corporal a glance as tender as her voice was
sweet. He was about to reply when the door of the small salon was
abruptly thrown open, and disclosed Virginie, who came forward with an
air of deliberation, saying:
"Well! is it coming off to-day, Bertrand? Are we playing hide-and-seek?"
When Virginie appeared, Bertrand closed the hall door and sat down,
muttering between his teeth:
"Fight it out; it's none of my business."
At sight of Mademoiselle Virginie, the neighbor turned a little pinker
than she was, and her eyes lost their usual soft expression. Virginie,
for her part, scrutinized the neighbor from top to toe, contracting her
dark eyebrows, and allowing a scornful smile to play about her lips.
Bertrand alone seemed unmoved; and while the two ladies eyed each other
from head to foot, he calmly swallowed a glass of wine, to wash down his
Roquefort.
"You didn't tell me, Monsieur Bertrand, that Monsieur Dalville had
company," said the neighbor at last, in a voice which she strove to make
as soft as usual, but in which one could detect a note of something
resembling anger. "If I had known, I certainly would not have ventured
to disturb him."
"Does madame want to see Auguste, Bertrand?" inquired Virginie
carelessly, smiling with a sly expression.
The familiar manner in which the pretty brunette referred to her
neighbor seemed to confound Madame Saint-Edmond, who did what she could
to conceal her agitation, saying:
"Yes, madame, I wish to see Monsieur Dalville."
"If it is anything that someone else can say to Auguste, I will
undertake to do so, madame."
"You are too kind, madame, but I wish to speak to Monsieur Dalville in
person."
"Ah! I understand. Auguste is already acquainted with madame, I
presume?"
"Yes, madame, I have the honor of Monsieur Dalville's acquaintance."
"As Auguste tells me all his business, I might be able to answer madame,
if she cared to explain the purpose of her call."
"Am I to understand that madame is now commissioned to receive the
persons who may call on Monsieur Dalville?"
"That may be, madame."
"Monsieur Bertrand, you ought to have told me--to have spared me--But I
absolutely insist on speaking to Monsieur Dalville. Let him know that I
have just a word to say to him. Then I will leave him at peace with
madame."
"If I had had a chance to answer sooner, madame, I'd have told you
before this that my lieutenant hasn't come home from the ball yet;
that's why madame was waiting in the small salon."
"Very well! I am going to wait for him too," said the neighbor, whose
voice was no longer of the most honeyed kind; and as she passed Bertrand
on her way to the salon, she whispered to him:
"I don't know who this woman is, but she's very bad style!"
Virginie stayed behind in the reception room a moment, to say to
Bertrand:
"Who's that little jackdaw? Don't lie to me, my little Bertrand, or I'll
make a row."
"She's a lady who lives in the house."
"Aha! lives in the house, does she? That's very convenient! She looks
like a regular slut! Has Auguste known her long?"
"Why, no; about six weeks."
"Does he love her?"
"How do you expect me to know that? Do you suppose I ask my lieutenant:
'Do you love So-and-So, or Such-a-One?'"
"All right! you're a villain. I can only say that Auguste shows poor
taste! She's a homely creature, that woman; she has red rims about her
eyes, just like a rabbit's, and she has an ugly mouth, hasn't she,
Bertrand?"
"Why, I don't think so."
"As if you knew anything about it! I tell you that she's a horror, with
her princess's airs! Ah! if she expects to impose on me, she's very much
mistaken. The sinner, to insist on speaking to Auguste in private! Just
to tease her, I'm going to eat some more pie, even if I die of
indigestion."
Virginie returned to the salon, resumed her seat on the couch and
attacked the breakfast once more. The neighbor seated herself on a chair
at the other end of the room, and while making a pretence of looking out
into the street, watched Virginie's every movement from the corner of
her eye. Bertrand meanwhile remained in the outer room, leaving the
ladies to adjust matters as they chose. As she ate, Virginie hummed
snatches of comic opera airs; Madame Saint-Edmond did not make a sound.
This situation lasted for some time. At last Virginie, beginning to lose
patience, called Bertrand and said to him:
"Your pie isn't at all nice; the last time I breakfasted with Auguste,
we had a much better one."
Bertrand simply removed the scanty remains of the pie, saying to
himself:
"I'd have sworn that she found it good!"
"Bertrand," said Virginie, after a moment, "will you give me a little
water and some sugar, please? It will do me a lot of good."
"She must need it," said the neighbor to herself, with a sarcastic
smile.
"By the way, my little Bertrand, you have some orange flower water,
haven't you? It will allay nervous excitement."
Virginie laughed when she said this, and was evidently making fun of
Madame Saint-Edmond; but that lady seemed to pay no heed to what she
said.
"Upon my word, I am very sorry that I disturbed you, Bertrand," resumed
Virginie, preparing some sweetened water for herself; "I might just as
well have gone to get it myself, for I know where everything is. I am
perfectly at home here. But you are so good-natured!"
"I do my duty, mademoiselle," said Bertrand, with a military salute.
"I know, Monsieur Bertrand, how attached you are to Auguste," said
Virginie, assuming a sentimental tone. "And so, whenever I mention you
to him, I am very glad to speak in terms of praise. That's no more than
justice, that's sure. Auguste, who has every confidence in me, will
follow my advice, I trust, and you'll find, Monsieur Bertrand, that I am
not capable--of--of never doing----"
Virginie always became entangled when she tried to talk sense or to be
sentimental. Bertrand confounded himself in reverences, awaiting the end
of a speech which he did not comprehend; but luckily for Virginie, the
bell rang.
"There's Auguste!" she cried, while Bertrand went to the door.
Thereupon there was a great commotion in the salon. Virginie rose, all
ready to rush to the door, glaring at the blonde lady with an expression
of defiance. The latter, too, had risen; but she did not look at
Virginie, and did her utmost to maintain a calm and indifferent
attitude.
But their hopes were blasted once more. It was not Dalville who had
rung, but Tony, his diminutive groom, who came to inform Bertrand that
after the ball, which was at Madame de la Thomassinière's, the
resplendent Athalie had carried away a part of the company to breakfast
at her country estate. Auguste was among the number; his hostess had
refused to allow him even a moment to return home and change his
clothes. But, as Auguste had emptied his purse at cards during the
evening, he sent his little jockey, with the cabriolet, to obtain some
money, which he was to deliver to his master at Madame de la
Thomassinière's estate.
As Virginie had held the salon door ajar, both ladies heard what the
little groom said to Bertrand.