and such care taken with it as with this one, do you think it isn't to
be paid for? Do you propose to leave your fillets and sweetbreads on my
hands? It isn't my fault that you don't choose to eat."
"You can give them to some other party, monsieur."
"You had a bottle of old macon when you got here; and there's the soup
wasted, and the broken tureen."
"That's none of my affair, monsieur."
"Your dinner's your affair, madame; eat it and pay for it."
"I don't feel well, I tell you."
"Pay for it then."
"But I have no money with me."
"You shouldn't have let your friend run off as if he'd seen the devil! A
man ought not to leave a woman in a false position! The deuce! decent
people don't do that! He must be a nice kind of fellow, to disappear
with the money. You shouldn't go into a restaurant when you don't mean
to dine."
"Monsieur," retorted Madame Saint-Edmond, with an angry ring in her
voice, "this isn't the first time we've come here to dinner; do you take
us for riff-raff?"
"No, madame; of course I know perfectly well who I'm dealing with, but I
don't choose to give credit; a fine dinner like this ought not to be
refused when it's all cooked."
During this dialogue, Auguste had all the difficulty in keeping Virginie
from laughing aloud. At last, moved to pity by the sentimental Léonie's
plight, he went downstairs, followed by Virginie, and said to the
landlord, who did not take his eyes from Madame Saint-Edmond:
"As I have the honor to know madame, I beg you to add the amount of her
bill to mine, monsieur; I will pay both."
The host, whose only desire was to be paid, resumed his affable air and
made haste to reckon up the two accounts. Meanwhile the pretty blonde
sank into a chair, holding her handkerchief to her face.
Auguste having paid, Virginie, whose triumph was complete, took his arm
and left the inn with him, saying in a mocking tone:
"If we meet the gentleman in the forest, we will send him back to
madame."
That fling was the last straw, and Auguste felt amply avenged.
XI
A VISIT TO MONTFERMEIL
Auguste, who had no secrets from the faithful Bertrand, told him of the
meeting in Romainville forest.
"Well, lieutenant," said Bertrand, "was Madame Schtrack mistaken when
she told me about the little man that slunk upstairs as soon as you
left?"
"I thought that Léonie adored me."
"I'm surprised at that, lieutenant; you deceive the ladies so often
yourself, that you ought to be a little more suspicious of their oaths."
"On the contrary, my dear Bertrand, I assure you that those who are most
cunning in seduction allow themselves to be deceived with astounding
ease."
"Then it's no use to be cunning."
"Because you're very fond of a person, that doesn't prove that you know
that person thoroughly."
"It is certain that if you knew her thoroughly, you might not be so fond
of her; for instance, I love wine, I confess; I always know when it's
good, but I can't always tell what province it comes from."
"And I love women, I appreciate their charms, I admire their beauties;
but their hearts--Ah! if they exhibited them to the naked eye, the
prettiest ones wouldn't always be preferred."
"For all that, lieutenant, if I were you, I'd be a little shy of those
affected airs, and those voices always pitched in a falsetto key, which
never come from the chest; it seems to me that a person can't be talking
honestly when she always acts as if she was singing. I would be on my
guard too against fainting fits, tears and stifled sighs."
"Why, my dear Bertrand, when the tears are shed by lovely eyes, when the
voice comes from a pretty mouth, when the person who pretends to faint
displays a charming body, a shapely figure, is it so easy to resist? No,
one must surrender--with liberty to repent later."
"That is true. In fact, that's just like me: to find out whether a
wine's good, I must taste it; and it's never the bad one that a man does
himself harm with. It's a pity that this meeting didn't happen the day
before yesterday, before you paid the note for two thousand francs!"
"Let's not think any more about that!"
"No; only let it be a lesson for the future."
"Bertrand, when you meet Madame Saint-Edmond, I desire you to be as
polite to her as before!"
"Oh! never fear, monsieur, I'm a Frenchman, and an old soldier knows the
respect due to the sex. Parbleu! if one must needs look askance at
everybody who hasn't got the countersign, one would have to look
cross-eyed too often. At all events, lieutenant, that makes one less,
and we shall be able to straighten out our cash-box a little, and----"
"Oh, yes! I am fully determined to settle down. Destival has spoken to
me about another excellent investment. I will go to see my notary
to-morrow and turn my securities into cash.--Oh! by the way, you will
pay a small bill for furniture that will be sent here within a few
days."
"Have you been buying furniture, lieutenant?"
"Not for myself, for Virginie."
Bertrand turned away, biting his lips, and struck himself repeated blows
on the forehead to keep himself from speaking out and venting his wrath.
Auguste, observing his cashier's ill humor, continued with a smile:
"Come, don't get excited, Bertrand! really, you are getting to be so
severe!"
"I, monsieur! I haven't said a word!"
"Deuce take it! I am rich; do you expect me to deny myself all
pleasure?"
"I don't expect anything at all, monsieur."
"Ought a man in my position to lead the life of a petty tradesman with
an income of twelve hundred francs?"
"We spent forty thousand francs last year, and your income only amounts
to fifteen thousand; if we go on that way, we're perfectly certain to
be left as naked as little St. John."
"No; I shall succeed in keeping a better proportion between my expenses
and my income this year. But this bill is a mere trifle. Poor Virginie!
she's so amusing!"
"Oh, yes! she's amusing enough! but she'd ruin a platoon of
contractors!"
"You certainly can't call her voice falsetto."
"No, parbleu! there's no doubt about it's coming from her chest; and she
must have a strong one too, for she uses it devilish hard. Thunder and
guns! what a chatter!"
"She hasn't any prim ways or affected manners."
"Oh! as far as that goes, I'll admit that she's outspoken! She don't
conceal her game, at all events. But all the same, lieutenant, you can
scold me if you choose, but I tell you again that these women ought not
to occupy every minute of a man's time; and that it makes me feel bad to
see that they don't love you as you deserve to be loved; because, at
heart, you're a good man, you have lots of good qualities and fine
feeling; and all that ought to make you see that it isn't by running
after women all the time that--That's all, lieutenant."
Auguste was silent for some time, and Bertrand, surprised to see him so
pensive, feared that he had offended him, and dared not open his mouth.
"I believe that you're right, Bertrand," said Auguste at last.
"Really, lieutenant--you agree with me?"
"Yes, I feel that a genuine passion, a sincere attachment, must make a
man happier than all these momentary fancies. But is it my fault that it
is so difficult to find a frank and sincere heart in society?"
"No, certainly not; it isn't your fault."
"Or that coquetry and falsity take the place nowadays of love and
friendship?"
"Such substitutes shouldn't be allowed!"
"Ah! my dear Bertrand, we should be too fortunate if all women were
faithful."
"True, we should be too fortunate."
"And yet the whole business of living would be intolerably monotonous
then."
"Ah! do you think it would injure business?"
"You see, Bertrand, we must take the world as it is."
"We have no help for that."
"But when I have found a woman who will love me for myself, who will be
incapable of deceiving me, who will try to please nobody but myself
alone, why then----"
"Then, lieutenant?"
"Oh, Bertrand! such a pleasant memory! And it's so long since I thought
of her!"
"Who, lieutenant?"
"Lovely Denise, the pretty little milkmaid of Montfermeil. Ah! she is
virtuous, I'll swear to that."
"That would be taking a big risk; you hardly know her, and you haven't
seen her for two months."
"Do you know why I haven't seen her, Bertrand?"
"Because you forgot her."
"No, it isn't that alone. I have had another reason; you'll laugh, but
it is that I am afraid of becoming too fond of that girl."
"In that case, it's very delicate on your part."
"Yes, of course it is; for why should I try to seduce that child, who is
virtuous and innocent, and who is living a tranquil life in her
village?"
"That would be very wrong, monsieur; there's girls enough willing to be
seduced in Paris, without going into the suburbs to look for others."
"Saddle my horse, Bertrand, and saddle the cabriolet horse for yourself;
make haste."
"Why, where are we going, monsieur?"
"To Montfermeil, to see Denise."
"What! when you just said----"
"I have reflected that there's no danger for her, because she doesn't
love me."
"Do you think not, monsieur?"
"She told me so many times. But I want to see Coco, my little protégé,
poor child. I really long to hug the little fellow. You will see how
pretty he is, Bertrand--and such vile relations!--Put some money in your
pocket, Bertrand."
"Oh! as much as you choose, lieutenant, to relieve the unfortunate, to
help an orphan; one never regrets such things, and it gives one a
hundred times more pleasure than paying for the brunette's hangings and
the blonde's shawls."
The horses were saddled; Auguste and Bertrand mounted, and started for
Montfermeil about ten o'clock in the morning. At eleven they had passed
Raincy; a little later they reached Livry, turned to the right, and soon
saw the village of Montfermeil before them.
Bertrand was drenched with perspiration; he was not used to riding hard,
as Dalville was; and although it was September, it was still exceedingly
warm. Bertrand drew rein, observing to Auguste that their steeds needed
a breathing-space; but, thinking that he recognized the path by which
Coco had taken him to his cabin, Auguste urged his horse forward,
calling to Bertrand:
"Ride on to the village; I'll join you there."
"All right, I'll go on to the village," said Bertrand to himself,
letting his horse walk. "Shall I go to the inn? Or shall I inquire for
the little milkmaid? No, I don't want milk for my horse, and the girl
probably wouldn't be able to feed us both.--A very pretty village, but I
don't see any signs of an inn."
Bertrand allowed his horse to go where he chose; he passed several
hovels of only one story, not caring to halt at such wretched abodes;
but he soon found himself beside a rippling stream bordered by willow
trees, with a pretty cottage on the opposite side. Bertrand crossed the
brook and stopped in front of the yard. A small boy was playing with a
goat; a little farther on a girl was churning butter, and at the rear
was an elderly woman arranging fruit in a basket.
From his saddle Bertrand could overlook the whole yard, and he watched
that rustic picture. Suddenly the girl raised her eyes, saw the
horseman, and rushed toward him, exclaiming:
"I can't be mistaken--it's Monsieur Bertrand."
And as she spoke, the girl's eyes searched the road for another
horseman.
Bertrand recognized Denise and bestowed an affable nod upon her, saying:
"By the great Turenne, I couldn't have stopped at a better time. Bébelle
has a most amazing scent!"
"Pray come in, Monsieur Bertrand," said Denise, her eyes still fixed on
the road.
"You're very kind, mamzelle, but I'm looking for an inn, where my horse
and I can get something to eat."
"You'll find all you want here. We won't let you go anywhere else, will
we, aunt?--Come in, Monsieur Bertrand."
Bertrand could not resist the girl's courteous insistence. He was
surprised to hear her call him by name, having no idea that Dalville
could have amused himself by mentioning him to Denise. While he
dismounted, the girl ran to her aunt, and, to induce her to treat the
newcomer cordially, she made haste to tell her that Bertrand was the
companion of the gentleman who had been so kind to Coco. Mère Fourcy
rose and made a low reverence to Bertrand, who could not conceive the
cause of so much politeness.
Bébelle was taken to the stable, the child left his goat, to go and look
at her, and Denise ushered Bertrand into the house and made haste to
offer him wine. Meanwhile Mère Fourcy made an omelet, Bertrand having
admitted that he would be glad to eat a morsel.
Denise was burning to learn something about the young man who had
commended Coco to her care; but she waited for her aunt to leave the
room before mentioning him. She did not know how to question Bertrand,
whom she supposed to have been sent by the handsome young man to make
inquiries about the child; and she waited for Bertrand to speak first;
but as he did nothing but eat and drink, Denise decided to question him.
"He sent you to find out whether Coco had everything he wants, and
whether I'd made a good use of the money he left with me, didn't he,
monsieur?"
Bertrand emptied his glass at a draught and replaced it on the table
with a bang, saying:
"For a village wine, that ain't bad at all."
"Didn't you hear what I said, monsieur?" asked Denise timidly.
"I beg pardon, but you will be very good to act as if I hadn't heard,
for I didn't understand."
"I asked you if that gentleman, that young man I saw with you, first in
a cabriolet, and afterward at Madame Destival's----"
"You mean Monsieur Auguste Dalville?"
"Ah! is his name Auguste Dalville?"
"How is it that you don't know his name and do know mine?"
"Because he called you by name twice before me, in the courtyard, and I
haven't forgotten your name."
"You are very kind, mademoiselle."
"So Monsieur Auguste Dalville didn't come with you to-day?"
"I beg pardon, but he's close by! he'll be here very soon."
"He is here, he is coming!" cried Denise, jumping for joy. But she
added, to conceal her emotion: "You see, when you came alone, I thought
that you wasn't with him any more."
"Do you suppose I'll ever leave my master, my benefactor, a man who has
done everything for me, and who still calls me his friend? Ten thousand
bayonets! No, my dear child, that can never be; I'm attached to Monsieur
Auguste, just as my sword hilt is to the blade; nothing can ever
separate me from him, except himself. But I don't worry about that;
although I do make bold to scold him a little, he knows old Bertrand's
heart."
Denise wiped away the tears of emotion which the old soldier's devotion
brought to her eyes; then she cried, taking Bertrand's hand and pressing
it in hers:
"Ah! what a fine thing for you to say, Monsieur Bertrand! How nice it is
to love a person like that!"
"Does it surprise you? did you think that Monsieur Auguste didn't
deserve to be loved so well?"
"I don't say that, monsieur; far from it. Another glass, Monsieur
Bertrand?"
"With pleasure, mamzelle."
Denise was delighted to hear him talk of Auguste; and as the wine made
him very communicative, he went on; for when he was talking about his
benefactor, it was the same as with his campaigns--there was no way of
stopping him.
"Yes, my pretty child, Monsieur Auguste's a fine fellow--a rake, a
lady-killer, fickle and dissipated, it's true; but those things don't
touch the real man."
"What, monsieur! he's all that? Why, it's very wicked to be a rake and
fickle. And you said such fine things about him just now!"
"Have I said any ill of him, my girl? Don't you know that young men must
sow their wild oats? But I trust that with my advice--Corbleu! if
Schtrack knew of this wine--And when it's so hot, it makes you thirsty
as the devil."
"I believe, monsieur, that while Monsieur Auguste was talking to me in
Madame Destival's courtyard, you whispered in my ear: 'Look out for
yourself!'"
"It's possible, my child, quite possible.--Look you, Mamzelle Denise,
you're a pretty girl----"
"Very polite of you, Monsieur Bertrand."
"Oh, no! I say that in all honesty. You look to be a good girl, too, and
it would be a pity to let you get caught. My master's a fine fellow, but
as soon as he sees a pretty face, he flashes up like powder! it's too
much for him. He'll swear that it will last forever; but at the first
village where he sees another pretty girl, he'll take fire and swear the
same to her."
"Oh! that's very wicked!"
"No, it's a disease of youth, and it will pass away!--You see, in Paris
I can't always be at his heels to warn the pretty girls he makes love
to; besides, in the big cities, the girls know enough about such things
not to need any warning. But when I happen to see my lieutenant talking
to a child who looks to me to be virtuous and respectable, like you,
then I just whisper in her ear: 'Look out for yourself!' and if that
don't save her, it ain't my fault, at all events."
Denise made no reply, for she was reflecting upon what Bertrand had just
said; he wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, drank, and replied:
"However, the proof that Monsieur Auguste's a fine young man is that,
when he reflects, he don't make a fool of himself. For instance, he
found you to his taste; well, he didn't come again to see you; he told
me that it was for fear of getting to be too fond of you."
"Too fond of me!" cried Denise. "What! did he really say that, monsieur?
Then he loves me."
"Not at all, my pretty child; that is to say, not any more than the
others. But he would have tried to seduce you as a matter of habit, and
you might perhaps have listened to him; for he's a good-looking fellow,
and he has such a way of telling of his love that he'd make a woman of
sixty believe in it."
"And that's why he hasn't been here?" Denise inquired, with a sigh.
"Yes; but to-day he remembered your saying that you didn't love him; so
then he came."
"I didn't say that, Monsieur Bertrand."
"No? then he did wrong to come."
"I don't say that I do love him either."
"So much the better for you, Mamzelle Denise; for that would be laying
up trouble for yourself."
"Whoever heard of a village girl loving a fine gentleman from the city?"
"I don't know whether it's possible, but I know that it sometimes
happens."
"Don't worry, Monsieur Bertrand, I shall never have any feeling but
friendship for Monsieur Auguste; and if it's the dread of my loving him
that keeps him from coming to the village, why, tell him he can come as
often as he likes. Denise knows only too well that she isn't capable of
winning the heart of a city gentleman; she won't ever forget it."
"Bravo! that's what I call talking, my dear child. I drink to your
virtue,--and, as you see, I leave no heel-taps.--But what's the matter,
pray? are you crying?"
"No, Monsieur Bertrand, no; you see, I should be very sorry to--But it's
all over now. Monsieur Auguste won't be afraid any more to come to see
his little protégé. He won't let two months go by again, without
coming."
"Oh! that depends. At Paris, you know, Mamzelle Denise, my master don't
have a minute to himself; he's always at some party or some
entertainment! People fight to see who shall have him! He gets ten
invitations a day."
"Oh, yes! he don't have time to think of the village. Is he so very rich
then, your Monsieur Auguste?"
"Rich? Yes, to be sure, he is as yet; but if he keeps on at this rate,
he won't be rich long!--Your health, Mamzelle Denise."
"What do you mean by that, Monsieur Bertrand?"
"Oh! nothing, nothing!--At any rate, I ought not to presume to
criticise. Monsieur Dalville's money's his own; let him give it to women
who deceive him, to grisettes who ruin him; let him pay for furniture
and rugs and calico dresses--it's none of my business; I must just obey
and pay; but it makes me feel bad because--damnation!--what with women
on one side and écarté on the other----"
"What's écarté, Monsieur Bertrand?"
"Oh! that's a little game at which people ruin themselves while they
imagine they're enjoying themselves. They say it's a delightful game,
because it's played so fast. For my part, I think it's played much too
fast; but Monsieur Auguste gambles so as to do like the others. That's
his business. Besides, if he chooses to ruin himself, why, you
understand, subordination before everything.--Your health, Mamzelle
Denise."
Denise was greatly surprised by what she had heard; she was wondering
whether she ought to believe Bertrand, who continued to drink and talk,
when Coco came bounding into the room.
"Who is that child?" queried Bertrand.
"The little boy to whom Monsieur Auguste gave so many tokens of his
generosity."
"He's a pretty little fellow.--Come here, my boy; get up on my knee--so.
Haven't you got any father or mother, little white head?"
"Yes, monsieur, I've got Papa Calleux," Coco replied, looking up at
Bertrand.
"What does Papa Calleux do?"
"He works in the fields."
"He's a drunkard," Denise whispered to Bertrand.
"The devil! that's a villainous fault," the latter replied, putting his
glass to his lips. "A man must drink--it's a necessity--but he should be
able to govern his thirst, and above all things, never lose his
wits.--But, by the way, seeing this little fellow reminds me that he's
the one my master's gone to see; when he left me, he said: 'I'm going to
the child's cabin.'"
"Oh dear! he won't find anybody there," said Denise. "And you never told
us! We must go to meet him. I supposed he was at Madame
Destival's.--Come, Coco, come; we are going to find your kind
friend--the one you love so much."
"The one you talk to me about every day, Denise?" asked the child.
"Yes, your benefactor.--Are you coming with us, Monsieur Bertrand?"
"Faith, Mamzelle Denise, I'm very comfortable here; and if you don't
need me----"
"No, no; my aunt will keep you company.--Come, Coco, let's make haste to
look for your kind friend."
The child asked nothing better than to go with Denise. They left
Bertrand in the act of making a military salute to Mère Fourcy, who had
just entered the room, and they started for the cabin.
But Denise was moved by conflicting emotions, of whose source she had no
very definite idea: she was happy, and yet she trembled, and her
breathing was labored; and as one cannot run far under such
circumstances, Denise slackened her pace. But Coco ran on ahead, because
at seven years of age such emotions are unknown.
Denise was so engrossed by what Bertrand had said to her, that she did
not at first notice that the child had left her; but Coco was well
acquainted with the roads, so that the girl was not anxious about him,
and she paused a moment under a great tree, glad of an opportunity to
prepare for her meeting with the young man. A thousand thoughts passed
through her mind; but the one that recurred most frequently was that
Auguste had come to the village again solely because he thought that she
did not love him.
"Is it quite certain that he thinks that?" said Denise to herself;
"perhaps Monsieur Bertrand heard wrong. Is it quite true that Monsieur
Auguste is such a deceiver as he says? An old soldier can't know much
about all those things. But after all, what difference does it make to
me, as I don't care for the young man? As Monsieur Bertrand says, what
good would it do me to love him? He'd just laugh at me afterward. Oh!
there's no danger of my marrying a young man from Paris.--A rake, a
seducer, fickle----"
Having reflected thus, the maiden arranged her neckerchief, adjusted her
cap, retied her apron, and looked down at herself, murmuring:
"Oh dear! how tumbled I am! If I had known this morning--if I could have
guessed. That gentleman won't think me pretty again--Bah! it's all one
to me; but a body don't like to look as if she was careless and hadn't
any taste."
At last, having completed her scrutiny of her toilet, Denise was about
to leave the tree, when she heard a voice. It was Auguste's. The girl
recognized it, and she had to stop again to recover her breath.
But Auguste was not alone; he was talking and laughing with a pretty,
rosy-cheeked peasant girl, by whose side he was walking, leading his
horse by the rein. Denise being hidden by the great tree, Dalville did
not see her.
The peasant halted a hundred yards from the tree which concealed Denise.
"Adieu, monsieur; I'm going this way; and if you're going to
Montfermeil, that's your road straight ahead."
"We shall not part like this, my beauty," said Auguste, dropping his
horse's rein to put his arm about the girl's waist; "we must at least
bid each other adieu----"
"Let me go, monsieur, let me go, I say! You squeeze too hard."