"I say, did it take you like this, all of a sudden, when you got off
your horse?"
"It always takes me this way."
"It's worse than a clap of thunder.--Look here! are you going to let me
go?"
"When I have kissed you."
"No, none of that.--Look out; while you're getting excited, your nag's
going off."
"I can find him again."
"Look, he's already trampling down Nicolas's beans."
"Let him trample."
"Monsieur, I tell you I'll yell if----"
The sound of a kiss interrupted the peasant, and echoed in Denise's
heart. She had heard it all, and she did not stir. This first victory
would perhaps have been followed by a second, had not Coco's voice made
itself heard; he ran toward Auguste, whom he had just caught sight of,
shouting at the top of his lungs:
"Here's my kind friend! Good-day, my kind friend! Have you come to play
with me?"
When he heard the child's voice, Auguste left the peasant and went to
meet him, while she walked away, saying to herself:
"It's mighty lucky the little fellow came, all the same; for it wa'n't
no use for me to fight--he kept right on! Jarni! what a scamp he is!"
Auguste took the child in his arms, kissed him, and received his
caresses with keen enjoyment.
"You weren't at the house, Coco," he said; "I found nobody there. Don't
you live there now?"
"No, I'm with my little Denise all the time now; since Grandma Madeleine
died, I've lived with Denise. I'm awful happy now, 'cos she loves me
ever so much; she loves me as much as Jacqueleine."
Wiping her eyes, to which the tears had risen, the girl left the great
tree and walked toward Auguste, trying to assume a laughing expression.
"Look, there's Denise," said the child, as he spied the little milkmaid
coming toward them.
Auguste instantly ran to meet her.
"So here you are, my dear Denise! How glad I am to see you again! It has
been so long!--On my word, you are prettier than ever."
Denise curtsied coldly to him, and replied in a constrained tone:
"You are very kind, monsieur."
"Had it not been for business that has kept me in Paris, I should have
come to see you long ago. I have wanted to do so more than once, for I
have often thought of the little milkmaid of Montfermeil. And you--have
you thought of me sometimes?"
"Oh! not often, monsieur," replied Denise, twisting the corner of her
apron.
"That is what I call plain speaking," said Auguste testily; but he soon
recovered his usual good humor and continued: "After all, Denise, you
would have been very foolish to bother about me. Do I deserve to arouse
the interest of so pure and sincere a heart as yours? No, I do myself
justice. I assure you, Denise, I am very glad for you that you have no
affection for me; but I hope to have your friendship, and I will be
worthy of it despite my vagaries. What do you say, Denise? You will be
my friend, won't you? and when some of the fashionable city ladies have
been guilty of fresh perfidy toward me, I will come to you to forget
them. The sight of you will reconcile me to your sex; you will make me
believe once more in virtue and fidelity, in all the qualities that we
seek in women, and--But I haven't kissed you yet, Denise, and a friend
has that privilege."
Denise blushingly offered her cheek, and Auguste imprinted upon it a
single kiss, because the little milkmaid's cold and constrained manner
led him to think that it was only from good-nature that she granted that
favor.
"It seems that there have been some important happenings here,"
continued Auguste. "Coco tells me that he lives with you, that his old
grandmother is dead----"
"Yes, monsieur; I asked Père Calleux to let us keep his son, and he
consented. I thought Coco would be happier at our house. Did I do wrong,
monsieur?"
"As if you could do wrong!"
"And then my little Denise takes good care of Jacqueleine," said Coco;
"and she lets me play all I want to,--if I'll pray to the good Lord for
my kind friend every morning and every night."
Denise blushed and looked at the ground.
"Isn't it natural to pray for one's benefactor?" she stammered.
Auguste was touched; he gazed at the girl and the child for some
moments, profoundly amazed that a little money, given for the purpose of
doing good, should afford him greater happiness than the money he spent
by the handful to pay for his pleasures. Then, as if he were ashamed of
his emotion, he exclaimed:
"Thanks for a mere trifle!--But, now that my little fellow is with you
for good and all, I don't propose that he shall be a burden to you. You
can hardly have anything left of the paltry sum I gave you, and to-day I
will make up for my neglect. I want Coco to do something, to learn----"
"Oh! Denise is teaching me my letters now," said the child.
"What! do you know how to read, Denise?" asked Auguste.
"Yes, monsieur, and to write too," the girl replied, with an air of
importance.
"Upon my word, that is very fine for a milkmaid," said Auguste with a
smile, "and I am sure that you know more than any of your companions. In
that case I will leave Coco's education in your hands for a few years.
Later, we will see--I will have him come to Paris----"
"And Jacqueleine, too, can't she, my kind friend?" said the boy, taking
Auguste's hand.
"Yes, my boy.--But I am forgetting poor Bertrand, who is waiting for me
in some village wine-shop."
"He's at our house, monsieur; I left him with my aunt."
"Let us go and join him then, for I will confess, my dear Denise, that I
am dying of hunger and thirst."
"Mon Dieu! monsieur, and I never thought of asking you. Come along; we
shall soon be there."
They set out for the village. Auguste offered the maid his arm, which
she accepted with a blush, hardly daring to lean upon her escort, lest
the slightest pressure of her arm should lead him to guess what she
would have liked to hide from herself; and even holding her breath,
because she was afraid that anything might betray her. Blessed age!
blessed age of innocence, when love retains all its modesty, when she
whom love assails, while striving to conceal it, allows it to appear in
her eyes, in her voice, in her slightest acts! It would unquestionably
have been very easy to read the girl's heart at that moment; but is it
possible for a man accustomed to the manoeuvres of city coquettes to
recognize true love?
They reached the cottage and found Mère Fourcy sitting beside Bertrand
and listening with eyes as big as saucers to the tales of battle which
the ex-corporal watered with the native wine. Denise's aunt curtsied
again and again to the gentleman from Paris; Denise ran hither and
thither, turning everything topsy-turvy in order to give Auguste a
dainty luncheon at once; and while she was making it ready, Coco led his
kind friend to see Jacqueleine, and Mère Fourcy followed, to call the
visitor's attention to the beauty of her roosters, the size of her eggs,
and the gentleness of her cows. After inspecting the cottage, Auguste
went into the garden, still under the guidance of Mère Fourcy and Coco;
they gave him grapes and other fruit to eat, and presented him with the
finest flowers. Auguste expressed great admiration for everything, and
each of his encomiums procured for him an additional reverence.
At last the repast was served. It was one o'clock, the universal dinner
hour in the village. Denise had worked to such purpose that she was able
to offer Auguste a full meal. There were chickens, ducks and rabbits.
When he saw the bountifully-laden table, Auguste insisted that his hosts
should sit down with him. The villagers made some demur, but the young
man declared that he would accept nothing unless they bore him company.
They submitted, with renewed curtsies; Auguste took his seat between
Denise and his little protégé, with Mère Fourcy opposite; and at his
lieutenant's invitation, Bertrand seated himself beside the aunt.
The meal, enlivened by Auguste's sallies, Bertrand's bumpers, and the
child's artless joy, aroused an unfamiliar sentiment in each of those
who partook of it. Mère Fourcy, bursting with pride at the idea of
dining with such a fine gentleman, sat a foot away from the table, and
did not lift her glass without saluting the company. Bertrand was deeply
gratified to sit at table with his lieutenant; and, desirous to prove
that he was ever mindful of the respect he owed him, he maintained while
eating the attitude with which he would present arms; he did not lift
his eyes from his plate, even to fill his neighbor's glass, the result
being that he sometimes missed it. The child laughed and chattered,
played with Auguste, and fed his goat. Denise spoke very little; she was
embarrassed and did not eat, and yet she was conscious of being very
happy, seated beside the hare-brained youth who kissed every girl he
saw, and who had the secret of winning the love even of those to whom he
did not make love.
Auguste had never been in such high spirits as at that meal: he caressed
the child, he joked with Mère Fourcy, he forced Bertrand to drink with
him; it seemed to him that the fresh, pure air of the fields set him
free from all the trammels of society, and that he breathed more freely,
happy to be rid for a moment of etiquette and gallantry.
"Bertrand," said the young man, filling his glass; "I really believe
that I am happier here than at a sumptuously-laden table, surrounded by
pretty women covered with jewels, and served by an army of footmen."
"Here, monsieur, you see nobody but people who care for you, and who
will not ruin you by compliments and courtesies."
"Well, Bertrand, when the others have ruined me, this is where I will
come to seek consolation for the ingratitude of men and the perfidy of
women. But you say nothing, Denise; does that mean that you don't
approve of my plan?"
"No, monsieur," the girl replied under her breath; and her aunt
exclaimed:
"Come, speak up, my child; you don't eat and you don't talk! Something's
the matter, sure."
"It's a fact," said Auguste, "that you don't seem to share our
merriment. What is the matter, Denise?"
"The matter, monsieur? Why, nothing, I give you my word."
"And I give you my word that something is the matter!" cried Mère
Fourcy. "Pardi! for some time she's been all turned round; she don't
like dancing, she don't like games, she don't know what she does like.
But I know all about it, I tell you; when a girl gets to be like that,
it means that she's thinking about something.--Well, you needn't blush
for that, my child; you're a good girl, as everyone knows; but that
don't keep you from thinking about getting married, and I hope
monsieur'll do us the honor to come to the wedding."
"Yes, most assuredly," said Auguste, with a slight grimace; "yes,
Denise, I shall be delighted to be a witness of your happiness; and as
you love someone--You didn't tell me that you had made your choice."
Denise made no reply; she kept her eyes on her plate, and tried to
conceal her confusion by caressing Coco's faithful companion.
Auguste rose abruptly from the table, and, without a word to the others,
left the room in evident ill humor, and went out to walk in the garden.
He did not choose to admit to himself the nature of his feelings; but
what Mère Fourcy said had caused him a pang. Even while he told himself
again and again that he cared nothing for Denise, he felt in his heart
that the young peasant's face aroused in him a sweeter emotion than
those of all the coquettes in Paris.
He walked about at random through the winding paths, and did his utmost
to recover his merry humor.
"I can't understand myself," he thought; "losing my temper because that
girl loves someone, and that someone is not I! I! Why on earth should
she love me, whom she has seen but three times, and of whom she knows
nothing? I must have a deal of self-love to dream that she could care
for me. But no, I feel that it is not vanity that makes me wish that
she should.--Well, I must return to Paris and forget this little
milkmaid. That will be easy enough; for what is there so extraordinary
about her? There are a thousand women in Paris prettier, more alluring,
more----"
Auguste stopped short, for, happening to turn his head, he saw Denise
within a few yards. He fixed his eyes on the girl, who seemed afraid to
go forward and stood beside a tree. Her confusion, her flushed face, the
furtive glances that she cast at the young man, gave to her whole person
a grace and charm which art could not imitate; and Auguste said under
his breath: "No, there's not a woman in Paris to be compared with her."
Surprised to see their guest leave the table so abruptly, Denise had
followed him at a distance. She remembered what Bertrand had told her,
and as she desired nothing so much as that Auguste should come often to
the village, she determined carefully to conceal her secret sentiments.
Auguste walked toward her; for some time they stood face to face,
without speaking; at last the young man said, trying to assume an
indifferent manner:
"So you love someone, Denise?"
"Yes, monsieur," the girl replied, blushing and keeping her eyes on the
ground.
"If I remember rightly, when I first met you, in the little path in the
woods, you told me that you had no lover."
"That was true, monsieur."
"Then you have given your heart away since that time?"
Denise sighed and held her peace.
"I have no right to question you," continued Auguste sharply; "but it is
the interest you arouse in me, the--Do you know, Denise, I was sadly
mistaken, for I thought that you loved me a little."
"Oh, no! I don't love you, monsieur--not with love. I must tell you
that, as you wouldn't come to the village any more if it wasn't so. But
I do hope you'll come, monsieur; oh, yes! you must come to see the child
you've adopted! I shan't forget that I'm only a peasant and you're a
gentleman from the city; and I assure you that I shall never love you."
As she finished, the girl turned away so that Auguste could not see the
tears that fell from her eyes. But he was already far away, striding
toward the house. He entered the living-room and said:
"Come, Bertrand, we must return to Paris."
"Return to Paris it is, lieutenant; I'm all ready to do four leagues an
hour. Adieu, mamma; your wine's very nice. Some day when Schtrack has
the time, I'll bring him down here to reconnoitre."
The girl entered the room and tried to read Auguste's eyes; but he said
to her without looking at her:
"Adieu, Denise, we're off."
"Already!" cried Denise; "you seemed to be so comfortable here!"
"Yes, I am very comfortable here; that is true; but business calls me
back. I will see you again, Denise; I will come again to see you."
"You won't let so long a time go by without coming to see Coco?"
"No, I promise you that. Take this--it's for him. I have no need to
commend him to you, you are so kind!"
"Oh! as to that, monsieur, she loves the child as if he was her
brother."
"But what is the use of leaving me so much money, monsieur?"
"His house is falling to pieces; you must have it repaired; then have
the little garden behind it enclosed, and buy the whole place for my
little boy."
"But, monsieur, this is three thousand francs that you've given me, and
it won't take so much money for that."
"Take it, I insist; and if it isn't enough,--here is my address in
Paris. Write me, Denise, and you shall hear from me at once."
Auguste tossed his card on the table, and kissed the child.
"Good-bye, my kind friend!" said the little fellow, throwing his arms
about Auguste's neck. Mère Fourcy made the young man a curtsy, which
lasted as long as it took to count the three thousand francs. Denise
glanced at him with an embarrassed air, expecting that he would kiss
her; but he did nothing of the sort. After bidding the child adieu, he
bowed to the others, sprang lightly to his saddle, and rode away with
Bertrand, leaving the girl greatly depressed by the cold manner in which
he had left her.
"What does it mean?" she said to herself; "he stayed away because he was
afraid he'd fall in love with me, and now he acts as if he didn't like
it because he knows I'm not in love with him. What should I do, so that
I can see him often?"
As he trotted along beside his lieutenant, Bertrand, as his custom was,
ventured to indulge in a few observations.
"It's a fine thing to be generous, certainly, and we shouldn't regret
the money we give to do good. Still, monsieur, it seems to me that three
thousand francs is a good deal just at this time when our cash-box isn't
very well supplied; you might have embarrassed yourself less by giving
it in several instalments, and it would have amounted to the same
thing."
"I probably shall not come to the village again for a long while," said
Auguste pensively.
"Oh! that makes a difference, and I am wrong."
XII
INVESTMENTS AND INNOCENT GAMES.--THE PUNCH AND THE LAMP-POST
On his return to Paris, Auguste found Monsieur Destival waiting for him
at his rooms. The business agent shook hands effusively with his dear
friend.
"Dear Dalville, where in the deuce have you been?" said Destival,
casting a glance out of the window, into the street, from time to time.
"You have been waiting for me--I am very sorry."
"Oh! there's no harm done. To be sure, I have a thousand and one places
to go to; but my new horse is splendid. By George! he's an invaluable
beast! Did you notice him at the door?"
"No, I didn't pay any attention."
"I have had my cabriolet repainted, and I have hired a negro groom. One
must needs increase his household when his business is increasing. I
have presented my wife with a cook, a _cordon-bleu_; you will have a
chance to judge of her talent, for I want you to come to dinner
to-morrow. There will be a few other people, all very rich. Not that I
care for that; I am not like La Thomassinière, who is always dinning his
fortune and his houses into your ears! It's all the more ridiculous to
one who, like myself, knows about our dear speculator's origin; for to
such a one his pretensions are simply laughable.--Did you notice my
negro below?"
"No, I didn't notice."
"He's a well-built fellow, of magnificent color. I prefer a single negro
to a lot of long-legged varlets who ruin a carriage.--By the way, my
wife has a bone to pick with you, my friend; she says that you are
neglecting her."
"But I assure you----"
"Oh! you never come to the house now! That is not kind! No more music,
no more singing, no more theatre parties; you have deserted us,
Dalville, and yet you must know that we are your true friends. But let's
talk business a little. I have had your interests in mind; for although
I don't see you, I think of you none the less."
"You are too kind!"
"You are a heedless fellow, and you don't think about making money. But
I am not, like La Thomassinière, one of those selfish men who think of
nobody but themselves. I find an opportunity to get a handsome return
for my funds, but I say to myself: 'Why shouldn't I take my dear friend
Dalville into this affair? Why enrich myself alone? A friend's happiness
doubles our own.' And then I am not ambitious, I have no desire to throw
dust in people's eyes and put on airs, like certain acquaintances of
ours. I want to make myself comfortable, that's all. In a word, the
matter that I spoke to you about some time ago can be carried through; I
will guarantee a certain profit; but I must have funds."
"I can raise two hundred and fifty thousand francs."
"That's enough; with what I have we can go ahead. In less than a year I
propose that that amount shall bring you in twenty-five thousand. Not so
bad, eh?"
"I trust to your prudence; I understand very little about business, but
I should not want to risk my fortune."
"Oh! never fear, my friend; when it comes to prudence, I am a regular
serpent! Besides, what about myself? do you suppose that I mean to risk
my own money?--When will you be able to obtain the cash?"
"To-morrow."
"Bring it when you come to dinner."
"Certainly."
"That's settled; the receipt will be all ready, for everything must be
done in due form.--My dear fellow, you are growing fat; you look
delightfully well."
"Do you think so? The fact is that I feel a little tired to-day."
"Faith, it doesn't show. You're a hearty buck! How old are you? Not more
than twenty-two, surely?"
"Almost twenty-seven."
"That is most extraordinary!--But I must leave you; I have so much
business on hand. I must go to see Monin; I have sold his drug shop for
him. I am going to ask him to dinner, and his wife too. They are not
very brilliant, especially poor Monin himself, who allows his wife to
lead him about like a baby; but he's honest, yes, he's probity itself;
and I demand that, yes, I demand that above all things.--Until to-morrow
then, my dear fellow, and don't forget the money."
"That is understood."
Destival left Auguste after shaking hands with him again, as if he had a
convulsion. In the reception room the business agent met Bertrand. New
salutations to the ex-corporal, with whom he also shook hands, saying:
"The excellent and worthy Bertrand! I am so glad to meet you! How's the
health, old fellow? still robust? As well set up as ever, I see! What a
fine thing it is to have been a soldier! But I assure you that that one
lesson you gave me did me a deal of good! I hope that one of these days
you will be willing to give me another, my good fellow, and I shall
always be proud to receive them.--Au revoir, excellent Bertrand!"
And without giving Bertrand time to say a word in reply, Monsieur
Destival rushed through the door and down the stairs; and shouted at the
top of his voice before he reached the foot of the last flight:
"Domingo! Holà, Domingo! my negro! open the door for me!"
A short, thick-set negro, wearing a red jacket, and a little jockey cap
with a ten-inch visor, came forward, walking with difficulty in a pair
of doeskin trousers which Monsieur Destival had worn ten years, and
which he had thought it best to resign to his groom, for whom they were
much too small; assuring him that they would be as much too large before
he had been two years in his service.
When his negro appeared, Destival looked to the right hand and to the
left, to see if he were observed; but as no one stopped to look at
Domingo, the business agent concluded to enter his cabriolet; and having
assured himself by looking through the little window, that the negro was
behind, Monsieur Destival lashed his horse, and shouted "look out!" even
when nobody was in danger.
"You won't have any further occasion to scold me, my dear Bertrand,"
said Auguste to the ex-corporal, after Monsieur Destival had gone.
"Why not, lieutenant?"
"Because I am about putting my affairs in order. I am going to entrust
my money to Destival, who will invest it to such good advantage that in
a short time I shall be as rich as I was before."
"You are going to turn over your money to that gentleman, who is so
polite?"
"Yes, my friend."
"All of it?"
"Why, almost all; I am going to give him two hundred and fifty thousand
francs; that will leave me about twenty thousand francs to live on and
enjoy myself, until I settle with him, which I don't expect to do for
some time."
"That is all very well, monsieur, but have you got any security? For two
hundred and fifty thousand francs is quite a little sum, you know! and
when it's all you have----"
"Don't be alarmed; I shall have all possible security. Besides, Destival
is a shrewd, prudent man. I have more confidence in him than in La
Thomassinière, who is much richer, however; and then, when I want my
money, I shall only have to give him three months' notice."
"But suppose he meant to keep it, would he give you notice, lieutenant?"
"For shame! must we look upon everybody as a knave and sharper,
Bertrand?"
"God forbid, lieutenant, for in that case we should have to keep up a
continual fire on everybody we met."
"In truth, I have no reason to complain of my lot: I enjoy life, I deny
myself nothing, and my fortune will soon be increased. If a coquette
does deceive me now and then, I pay her back in her own coin. But I am
angry with that little Denise; I feel that I should have loved her so
dearly! The idea of her giving her heart away without telling me!"
"Did she require your permission, lieutenant?"
"No, but if I had fallen in love with her, if I had formed the hope of
winning her love--You must agree, Bertrand, that it is most unpleasant
for a young man who has some good qualities to think that such a pretty
girl prefers some clodhopper, some lubberly peasant to him!"