your troubles; I tell you again, I propose to put an end to them."
Auguste's tone and his pleasant voice inspired confidence in the unhappy
father; he sat down beside the young man, as far as possible from the
small dressing-room, and began his story in an undertone.
"I was not born in poverty, monsieur, and perhaps that is my misfortune.
My family was highly considered; my name----"
"I do not ask it, monsieur; I do not need to know your name, to make me
wish to be of use to you; I wish to know your misfortunes only."
The old man's amazement redoubled. With another glance at Auguste, he
began once more:
"I received a superficial education; but I was to have twenty thousand
francs a year, and I was assured that I knew quite enough. I was left my
own master altogether too early in life. I was passionately fond of
pleasure; I was especially addicted to that charming sex which--of which
I must say no evil, since it is my Anna's. But I abandoned myself
blindly to my passions, and I squandered my fortune with mistresses who
deceived me, and with false friends who helped me ruin myself."
Here Auguste could not restrain a sigh, but he motioned to the old man
to go on.
"Sometimes I determined to reform, but I was never able to listen to the
counsel of reason. When I was thirty-nine, I had spent all my properly
and I was entirely unused to work.
"Thereupon a generous woman, who loved me for myself alone, determined
to throw in her lot with mine. She possessed a competence; she married
me and gave me my Anna. I might have been happy, but I had become so
accustomed to fashionable life that I had a craving for spending money.
I longed to supply my wife with the beautiful things that I saw on other
women; it angered me to see women who were not her equals wearing
cashmere shawls. In vain did she tell me that my love alone was enough
for her. I persuaded myself that she was concealing her wishes from me,
and that she suffered all sorts of privations. Endeavoring to add to our
means, I did the wildest things: I gambled, I mortgaged our property,
and I reduced to want the woman who had entrusted her destiny to me.
Thereupon, realizing the error of my ways, I tried to find employment,
but I was no longer young, and I could not succeed in obtaining it.
Regret tore my heart, and blanched my hair prematurely; I look to you
like a very old man, and I am not yet sixty. My wife did not reproach
me; she died commending our daughter, then eight years old, to my care.
I tried to utilize what little talent I had, but it was very little, and
as I grew older I rarely found anything to do. Meanwhile my Anna was
growing, and she began very early to work to support her unhappy father.
If you knew, monsieur, all that I owe her! How many nights she has
worked, in order to add to her earnings! Never any rest, never any
pleasure for her; and yet, not a word of complaint; it is she who
comforts me when she sees that I am more than ordinarily depressed, when
I reproach myself for my misconduct. Oh! I do not try to conceal my
wrong-doing, monsieur. It was my folly alone that led me to lose my own
fortune and squander that of my wife. My daughter might be happy, and
yet for ten years past, only toil and tears have been her lot! And I
alone am the cause! Do you still think that I am deserving of your
pity?"
"Yes, monsieur," said Auguste, pressing the stranger's hand. "But what
impelled you to such a desperate resolution to-night?"
"Despite my failings, monsieur, I have always been careful of my honor;
I have thrown away my fortune, but at least I have no reason to reproach
myself for failing to keep my engagements. Two years ago I met a man
whom I had known in my prosperous days; he came to me and called me his
friend as of old. I told him my troubles; he placed his purse at my
disposal and lent me twelve hundred francs. 'You may take your own time
about paying me,' he said. Alas! a long illness prevented me from
earning anything; however, my creditor made no demand on me, but the
excellent man, who is in business now, was unfortunate himself and lost
heavily by several failures. Two months ago he came to ask me if I could
repay him, but it was impossible. He did not reproach me, and he did not
come again; but I learned yesterday that a heartless creditor of his had
caused his imprisonment for a bill of one thousand francs. That news
made me desperate. If I had paid my debt, that honest man would still be
at liberty! Alas! I have brought misfortune upon everybody who has taken
an interest in me! My Anna deprives herself of everything for her
father's sake.--Ah! monsieur, ought I still to cling to an existence
which is a weary burden to me?"
Auguste took out his wallet and took from it three one thousand-franc
notes, which he placed in the old man's hand, saying:
"Pay the twelve hundred francs that you owe, and with what is left buy a
small shop for your daughter. I am sure that happier days are in store
for you."
The old man could not determine whether he was the dupe of a dream. What
had happened to him seemed so extraordinary, that he dared not give way
to his delight. He looked first at Dalville, then at the bank-notes
which he had put in his hand, and could only falter:
"Great God! is it possible? Such unforeseen good-fortune! Excellent
young man!--Pardon me, monsieur! Why, you are an angel sent to us from
heaven!"
"No, I am no angel," said Auguste, with a smile; "on the contrary, I
have all the failings of mortals; but I am happy to be able to assist
two unfortunate fellow-creatures so easily."
"But, monsieur, this is a considerable sum----"
"It is not enough to pay for the lesson you have given me."
"How so?"
"Adieu, monsieur, it's very late; get some rest now; you need it, and I
trust that it will be of the sweetest."
"What! you are going to leave us already? Oh! please let me tell my
daughter how much I owe you. Allow her too to thank our benefactor. Ah!
you don't know my Anna--as lovely as she is good. The sight of her will
bring home to you all that you have done for me by giving me the means
to make the dear child happy!"
The old man walked toward the dressing-room, but Auguste stopped him,
saying in an undertone:
"Don't wake her, I beg you. I will see her another time; don't disturb
her sleep."
"As you insist, monsieur, I obey you; but tell me your name, I pray; let
me know to whom I am indebted."
"I will tell you to-morrow."
"My name is Dorfeuil, monsieur; I am most anxious that you should know
to whom you have restored life and honor."
Auguste escaped from the old man's thanks and finally left that abode
whither he had carried joy and repose. He went down the five flights in
high spirits, and better pleased with himself than he had ever been.
"There are two people whom I have rescued from despair," he said to
himself; "and all I have to do is to imagine that Destival carried off
another three thousand francs."
Returning to his fifth floor apartment, Auguste went to bed and did not
wake until the morning had far advanced.
"It seems to me, lieutenant, that you slept rather well in your new
lodgings?" said Bertrand as he entered Auguste's room.
"I really believe that I never slept so well on the first floor."
But the ex-corporal was amazed to see that his master did not once go to
the window, and at the end of the day he expressed his surprise.
"Don't you like our view any more, lieutenant?"
"No, my friend, I have reflected, and I think that it's a risky thing to
look into other people's rooms."
"But I should say that you saw some very pretty little things, didn't
you, lieutenant?"
"I saw some very sad things, too. All things considered, I think that
it's better not to pay any attention to what goes on in our neighbors'
houses."
Auguste had another reason for not going to his window; he did not want
to be seen by the old man, who would have recognized him, and whom he
did not propose to visit again. He knew that poor Dorfeuil's daughter
was lovely; he distrusted his own weakness and preferred not to run the
risk of spoiling his kindly action.
XVIII
THE GRISETTES AT THE VILLAGE.--THE EVENING PARTY AND THE GHOST
"We won't go to see Monsieur Auguste again," Denise declared on her
return to the village; and when her aunt asked her if the fine gentleman
in Paris had given them a warm welcome, the girl could not keep back the
tears as she murmured:
"We waited at his house more than three hours, and he only spoke to us
for a minute!"
"What! he didn't thank you for your chickens, my dear child, or say
anything about my cake?"
"Oh! yes, aunt."
"What more do you want, my child? In Paris, you see, people are always
in such a hurry that they don't have time to talk; it ain't as it is
with us."
Denise did not tell her aunt that Monsieur Dalville did not so much as
thank her for her present, for that would have made Mère Fourcy angry,
and the girl still hoped that the young man would come to see them; he
was so pleasant when he came to the village that she would soon forget
his coolness in the city.
"And what about that money?" asked Mère Fourcy; "what did he say about
that, my child?"
"Nothing, aunt--that is to say, we are to do what we please with it."
"Then we must have the house rebuilt and the garden sowed; that will be
Coco's own property."
"Yes, aunt."
Denise allowed her aunt to have her way; she no longer had any heart for
anything, her melancholy seemed to increase every day, and the child's
endearments were powerless to divert her. She sought relief from her
sorrows in toil; but in the midst of her rustic duties, which were
formerly her delight, Denise would pause, heave a sigh, and stand
sometimes for many minutes, lost in thought.
When Mère Fourcy surprised her in one of these fits of melancholy, she
would run to her and ask:
"What on earth is the matter with you, girl?"
"Nothing, aunt," Denise would reply, trying hard to smile.
"But you was standing there without moving, and you didn't say a word."
"Because I was thinking, aunt."
"What about, my child?"
"I don't remember."
"You're sick, that's what's the matter with you!"
"I'm sure I don't know, aunt."
"Pardi! I can see it plain enough. You're growing thin, and you're pale
as a ghost, and you don't eat anything. You must get married, my dear."
"Oh, no! I don't want to, aunt!"
"Then you must take medicine, for, I tell you, you need to take
something."
Mère Fourcy could think of nothing save a husband or medicine capable of
restoring Denise's bloom; but the girl declared that it would return
with the warm weather, because she hoped that the return of the spring
would bring Auguste back to the village.
The winter days were very long, especially to the village girl, who no
longer took any pleasure in the evening reunions, who listened without
interest to the jokes of the young men, and who had no one for whom she
cared to beautify herself. Although one may find enjoyment in musing
beneath an oak tree's shade, although the sight of green grass and
verdant shrubbery may allay the pangs of love, the interior of a
farm-house, and the quacking of geese and ducks must be intolerable to a
heart that craves silence and solitude. Denise, obliged to conceal her
unhappiness from her aunt, remained in her room and watched the Paris
road.
One day when a sharp frost had hardened the ground, although the sun
still made the gnarled and leafless trees attractive to the eye, Denise,
who was at her chamber window, heard talking and laughing on the path
leading to their house. The voices were evidently not those of
villagers, and, in fact, two ladies dressed like Parisians appeared on
the tree-lined path, looking about them, evidently with no very clear
idea where they were going, and stopping every minute to laugh, and to
rest by the hedge.
Denise recognized one of them as the young woman whom she had met at
Auguste's rooms in Paris, and who had walked with her to the stage
office, manifesting the deepest interest in her. The sight of a person
who knew Dalville, who had come perhaps with a message from him, caused
the girl keen pleasure, and she at once left her room, to go out and
accost the strangers.
Denise was not mistaken: Virginie, to whose mind the pretty village
maiden she had met at Auguste's apartment recurred now and again, had
spoken of her to one of her friends. This friend was a tall brunette of
some thirty years, with a fine figure, but with a bold expression that
would have intimidated a dragoon. A dressmaker by trade, but
passionately fond of the theatre, she neglected her thread and needle to
enact tragic princesses and heroines of melodrama in private theatres.
Despite her determined manner, sentiment was Mademoiselle Cézarine's
weakness; she always had a passion on the carpet, and would have gone on
the stage for good and all, had she been able to overcome an unfortunate
lisp. For the rest, Mademoiselle Cézarine was a good-natured soul and
incapable of trying to seduce a friend's lover.
A fine winter's day suggested to Virginie the idea of a trip to
Montfermeil. At the first mention of the country, Cézarine had
exclaimed:
"I'll go with you, my dear; I feel the need of dithtraction to-day.
Théodore hath been playing trickth on me. Let'th go and thee your little
peathant; we'll drink milk, and perhapth that will pathify my mind."
"Let's go," Virginie assented; "I don't know the exact address, but I
know it's Montfermeil, and my tongue ain't in my pocket."
"Oh! we'll thoon find the plathe. Do you thuppothe that I, who could
find Théodore in any corner in Parith, won't very thoon make a thorough
thearch of a village?"
"I'll introduce you as a relative of mine; for we must have some
excuse."
"Don't you be alarmed. Haven't I acted Themiramith? Don't I carry
mythelf like a queen?"
"I know you've played Semiramis, but there are times when no one would
suspect it."
"Let'th be off and take the thage."
"All right. I'm sure that the little girl will be glad to see me. My
dear, you are going to see a case of perfect innocence."
"Tho much the better; I don't like anything but innothenthe, now I know
that rathcal Théodore is falth to me."
"Great heaven! are you going to talk about your Théodore all the way?
that will be amusing!--By the way, there's one difficulty--I haven't a
sou."
"Oh! I've got enough for both. Wait till I count. I've got a hundred and
fifteen thouth."
"With that sum we can go to the Mississippi. Put on your Sunday hat and
your home-raised cashmere; and off we go."
Mademoiselle Cézarine put on her bird-of-paradise hat, which the sun had
faded to a pale yellow, and the shawl, once of amaranthine hue, in which
the flowers had become so blended with the background that it was
difficult to distinguish them. But when one indulges frequently in grand
passions, one sometimes makes sacrifices, and Mademoiselle Cézarine
preferred one glance from the man of her choice to the diamonds of a
Russian prince; therein she differed essentially from Mademoiselle
Virginie.
The young women took their seats in the stage; there were no other
passengers except two old peasants, at whom they made faces all the way,
because they detected an unpleasant odor about them. At last they
arrived at Montfermeil, and, Virginie having inquired where Denise
lived, they were directed to the path where the girl discovered them.
"My dear love," said Cézarine, "I don't thee the ruthtic roof that
thelterth your young friend, and I am beginning to be doothid hungry."
"Wait, it must be close by."
"What a lovely morning! If that ungrateful Théodore had only come with
uth!"
"Yes, to eat up your hundred and fifteen sous in one meal! Dieu! what a
fool you are to go wild like this over a man who ruins you! Let's go on
a little farther."
"My dear, it'th too much for me; it'th no uthe for me to thay: 'I mutht
forget him!'"
"I'll sing it for you, if you want; perhaps that will have more effect
on you."
"Ah! he hath thuch lovely whithkerth. It wath hith whithkerth that
fathinated me firtht."
"You ought to have had them made into a cravat."
"You're alwayth joking. How lucky you are, Virginie! you don't know what
a violent pathion ith."
"The deuce I don't! I've had more of 'em than you have!--Oh! see that
pretty little house, and the farm--That must certainly be the place."
"I don't believe your village girl livth in thuch a nithe houthe."
"Why not, pray? If you had seen the plump chickens she brought Auguste,
you wouldn't be surprised."
The appearance of Denise put an end to their uncertainty. The girl ran
to meet Virginie, kissed her, and made a respectful curtsy to Cézarine,
who cried:
"What! ith thith your young village girl? How pretty she ith! The
deuthe! what a pretty fathe! Ah! I'm very glad now that Théodore didn't
come!"
Virginie trod on Cézarine's foot, as a hint to her to be quiet, and said
to Denise:
"I haven't forgotten you, you see, my dear; I have come to see you
without ceremony, and brought my cousin with me. We don't put you out of
the way, do we?"
"Oh, no, madame! on the contrary, I am very glad. It's very kind of you
to come. My aunt will be delighted to see you--and madame too."
"Will you let me kith you, my child?" said Cézarine.
"Yes, madame, with pleasure. But come--come into the house. You may not
have dined yet?"
"Well, hardly, my dear; all I've had ith a little piece of thauthage
when I got up."
"Yes," said Virginie, treading on Cézarine's foot again, "my cousin and
I have begun to realize that fresh air sharpens the appetite. But we're
going to the inn----"
"Oh! I hope that you'll stay with us, madame. It would be very unkind of
you to refuse."
"Dieu! how pretty the ith! the hath Théodore's nothe."
"We accept, my dear Denise, so long as it won't put you out. Besides,
the merest trifles from people one likes always give more pleasure--than
the dainty dishes one mightn't find somewhere else----"
Denise's only reply was to run ahead to tell her aunt, and Virginie said
to her friend:
"For heaven's sake, be careful what you say, and remember to behave
decently. What with your Théodore, whom you lug into the conversation at
every turn----"
"And you lothe yourthelf in your thentences and can't find your way out
of them!"
"No matter--long sentences are what you want with peasants; they don't
understand 'em, but they think they're fine."
"Well, I'll thay Théodore ith my huthband and that he'th in the army."
As they talked, the ladies reached the farmyard, where the geese, ducks,
dog and goat greeted them with a little impromptu concert.
"Oh! how I love the country!" cried Virginie, running forward to kiss
Coco, while Cézarine did her utmost to keep her shawl out of the dog's
mouth. Meanwhile, Mère Fourcy came out to receive the travellers whom
her niece had announced as fashionable ladies from Paris, of Monsieur
Auguste's acquaintance, and to whom the good woman conceived that she
owed the greatest respect.
"This is my aunt, madame," said Denise to Virginie; and the latter
saluted the old woman with the patronizing air of a woman of fashion,
saying:
"I am very glad to make the acquaintance of your venerable aunt. Dieu!
what an antique cast of countenance! I am very fond of elderly people.
Let me embrace you, madame."
Having embraced Mère Fourcy, Virginie called Cézarine:
"Cousin, come here and let me present you to our excellent aunt."
"One moment, pleathe," said Cézarine, "until I get rid of thith
mitherable dog of herth, that hath grabbed my cathmere. Oh! I know what
the matter ith--day before yethterday I wrapped up a leg of mutton in
it----"
Virginie coughed to drown Cézarine's words, and the latter at last
escaped from the dog and bestowed a regal salutation on Mère Fourcy.
"This is my cousin," said Virginie, presenting her friend to Denise's
aunt. "I told her about your lovely niece, and she could not resist the
desire to make her acquaintance and yours, venerable aunt; we left our
hotels and climbed into the wretched chamber vessel called a stage,
where we had no other company than a couple of old clowns who smelt of
rancid butter. But when we are going to see people we like and esteem,
we take a standing jump over all such little annoyances, don't we,
cousin?"
"Yeth, my dear," Cézarine replied, walking like Semiramis.
"It's very kind of you, madame," said Mère Fourcy, "and we appreciate
your courtesy. But you must have something to eat."
"We have already dined _à la fourchette_, but we don't like to decline."
"For my part, I could eat all day long in the country," said Cézarine.
The ladies entered the house, and while the table was being laid,
Cézarine petted Coco.
"What a hanthome boy! what a fine profile!" she exclaimed. "He'll look
like Théodore. Ith he yourth, my beauty?"
This question was addressed to Denise, who blushed as she replied:
"What did you say, madame?"
"You're infernally stupid!" cried Virginie; "the idea of asking this
child such a question, as if she was old enough to--Why, she hasn't
begun to think of such things."
"Look you, my dear, I don't know her ekthact age. Bethideth, I've got a
thithter who wath a mother at thirteen."
"Is she a Creole, then?"
"Yeth, a Creole from the Pont-aux-Choux."
Luckily Mère Fourcy was in the cellar at that moment, so that she did
not hear the colloquy between the two ladies. Denise longed to learn
something about Auguste, but she dared not take the liberty to ask
Virginie; she was afraid that that young woman would divine her profound
interest in him, and the poor child would have been terribly abashed to
have those fine ladies of Paris, both of whom she believed to be friends
of Auguste, know her heart's secret. To that sweet child love was all in
all; she was very far from suspecting that to her two visitors it was a
very small matter.
While Denise was preparing the repast, Virginie insisted upon helping
Mère Fourcy to set the table, which the old woman would not allow; and
during the contest between the peasant and the Parisian, a bottle
slipped from under the arm of the former and fell at Cézarine's feet,
where it broke and spattered her dress.
"O Dieu! my merino is all thpotted!" she cried; "what am I going to do?
I haven't got another."
"You can wear your velvet," said Virginie, motioning to her to be
careful what she said. Cézarine, engrossed by her dress, paid no heed
but continued to complain.
"It'th jutht the dreth that ith motht becoming to me; I wore it when I
captivated Théodore."
"That's her husband, who's in the army--he's a general.--Come, cousin,
you have made enough fuss over your dress. You have plenty of others, I
should say."
"I thertainly did have all thothe I put up the thpout----"
"Up the spout, Mère Fourcy, means cutting them up into towels. You see,
we are all so changeable in Paris--we have to have a new dress every
week; we throw our money out of the window! A wicked place that Paris
is! Happy the people who live in villages! Ah! the country! trees and
animals and rye bread--that's what I call happiness! I hope to end by
buying a little château or a cottage--it's all one to me, so long as
it's in the country. As for Denise, whom I love as if I was her mother,
if there's one thing I'd advise her to do, it's to stay here and not go
to Paris again. However, I fancy she don't care much about it; and the
way Monsieur Dalville received her the last time--why, it made me
frantic! And to think that the poor child had brought him fresh eggs and
such a fine cake!"
Denise, returning with a huge soup-kettle full to the brim, overheard
Virginie's last words and halted behind Cézarine, motioning to Virginie
to say nothing to her aunt. Virginie, being accustomed to dissemble,
understood the girl's signs and continued, trying to repair her blunder:
"After all, the young man is very excusable, for you see, Madame Fourcy,
there are people in Paris who don't like cake; it isn't as it is in the
village, where it takes the place of salad. And then, Auguste is a
little thoughtless; but his heart's in the right place! yes, he has a
very kind heart! I know him better than anybody. Besides, at this time
above all others, I shouldn't think of speaking ill of him; and although
he's ruined----"
"Ruined!" cried Denise; and in her emotion the girl dropped the kettle,
whose contents completed the disfigurement of Cézarine's gown.
"Great God! but I'm unlucky to-day!" she cried, as she gazed at her
garment; "how do you expect me to go back to Parith, and play
_Andromaque_ on Monday, in thith dreth?"