accident she had caused; she ran to Virginie, exclaiming:
"Ruined! Monsieur Auguste ruined! Oh! mon Dieu! madame, how did it
happen, pray?"
"I'll tell you directly, my dear love."
Virginie, first of all, seated herself at the table; Cézarine did the
same and forgot the accidents that had happened to her dress as she
helped herself to double portions. Mère Fourcy stood respectfully before
the young women, and poor Denise, with her eyes fixed on Virginie's,
waited impatiently until she should choose to tell her what had happened
to Auguste.
"Pray be seated, venerable aunt," said Virginie to Mère Fourcy, who
believed that she was entertaining ladies from the court.
"Indeed, madame, I shall not think of it!"
"I thall refuthe to eat if you continue to thtand," said Cézarine, as
she ate her third egg.
"I know too well what I owe you, madame."
"You don't owe us anything at all, Mère Fourcy; on the contrary, we
ought to be waiting on you."
"Oh, madame! the idea!"
"Respect the wrinkled--that's my motto. Sit down, I say!"
"How well madame would play the mother of Coriolanuth!"
"Let's drop Coriolanus, cousin, and give Madame Fourcy a chair."
As she spoke, Virginie rose from the table, seized Mère Fourcy's arms
and led her to a chair. As the peasant woman continued to resist,
Virginie pushed her backward and ended by taking her by the shoulders
and forcing her to the floor beside the chair. The good woman fell
almost under the table, while Virginie, thinking that she was seated,
resumed her own place. But when she found that she could not see her,
she said:
"I am afraid that I have given you rather a low chair, but, at all
events, you'll be more comfortable than if you were standing."
"That'th a very nithe theat you've got!" said Cézarine, as she assisted
Mère Fourcy to rise. "Why, did you fall? Thee what cometh of holding
back! Did you hurt yourself?"
"You're very kind, madame--just a little bit, on the hip."
"That can't help doing you good; it thtirth up the blood. Take a theat,
pray."
Mère Fourcy did not wait to be urged any more; and when tranquillity was
restored, Denise said once more:
"And Monsieur Auguste, madame?"
"Oh, yes! to be sure! I haven't told you how he came to be ruined. The
first reason why I haven't is that I don't know anything about it; but
still, it's easy enough to guess: the fellow acted like a goose,
gambling, spending a lot, and paying his mistresses. I've said to him
twenty times: 'Auguste, you're driving too hard!' Yes, I've told him so
very often, but I always used the familiar thou, because I knew him when
he was such a little fellow!"
"I should have said the young gentleman was about your age," said Mère
Fourcy.
"So he is, very near; but we were brought up together--we had the same
nurse--so that I'm deeply attached to him; and although he lives on the
fifth floor now, that won't prevent my going to breakfast with him, as I
told Bertrand yesterday, when he told me that the funds were low."
"But Monsieur Auguste must be very unhappy, it must make him very sad to
be ruined," sighed Denise.
"He, my dear girl! not a bit of it! Oh! you don't know him; he's just as
wild and heedless as ever. Bertrand said so yesterday. Poor Bertrand! I
saw a tear in his eye while he was telling me about his master's
follies! He's a faithful servant, that fellow, a real friend! Give me
something to drink, Semiramis, for, I notice that, while I am talking,
you do nothing but fill your own glass. Semiramis is the name of an
estate belonging to my cousin; she has estates in all the suburbs of
Paris."
"I say, Denise," cried Mère Fourcy, "if that gentleman's lost his money,
hadn't we ought to give back what he left for Coco? What a pity the
cottage is all built!"
"What's given is given, Madame Fourcy," said Virginie; "that's a
principle I've never departed from. It's a mistake to act on the theory
of returning what you've received."
"Ah! if I had all I've given to Théodore!"
"He's a husband of my cousin. She's given him the measles twice, and you
can understand that she wouldn't be overjoyed to have them returned.
Give me something to drink, Semiramis."
Denise took no further part in the conversation; she was pensive and
entirely engrossed by what she had learned on the subject of the young
gentleman from Paris. The two grisettes, finding themselves very
comfortable at the table, jabbered to their hearts' content. Mère Fourcy
opened her eyes and ears, not always able to understand the pretty
stories that those ladies told her; but as they did not give her a
chance to put in a word, there was nothing for her to do but to stare in
amazement.
They had been at table a long time, Mère Fourcy seated between them,
doing nothing but turn her head from side to side. Denise had left the
room, unobserved; the poor child's heart was heavy; thinking that
Auguste was in distress, she longed to let her tears flow and wished to
conceal them from the Parisians. Coco, who was playing in the yard, saw
her pass. The boy saw that she was unhappy, so he dropped his toys, ran
to her and said:
"What's the matter, my little Denise?"
"You don't know, Coco, that your kind friend, who has given you so many
things, is poor now, and unhappy perhaps."
"We must carry him some more eggs and cake, my little Denise; he'll like
to have them, if he's poor. When I lived in the old hut with grandma, I
used to be so happy when you brought me some white bread! I didn't use
to have it very often then."
Denise kissed Coco; what the child said had given rise to a secret hope
in her heart. She wiped her eyes and returned to the living-room, where
the party had been increased by the arrival of a villager, formerly the
school-teacher, who had come to pay Mère Fourcy a visit, and at sight of
the two young ladies from Paris, had come near knocking over a wardrobe,
in order to make a more graceful bow; while Virginie winked at Cézarine,
who hid her face in her napkin to avoid laughing in the face of the
newcomer, whose features were an exact reproduction of the absurd masks
sold in Carnival time.
"Good-day, neighbor Mauflard," said Mère Fourcy to the
ex-school-teacher.
"Good-day, neighbor Fourcy."
"How goes it, neighbor Mauflard?"
"Very well, neighbor Fourcy. Faith, I didn't have anything to do, so I
says to myself: 'I'll just go and see neighbor Fourcy.'"
"That's right good of you, neighbor."
"But if you've got company, I don't want to be in the way."
"Do stay, Monsieur Mauflard," said Virginie; "we should be terribly
distressed to frighten you away."
"I don't believe that monthieur ith afraid of the fair thex."
The neighbor replied with a second bow, so low that he could have picked
a coin from the floor with his teeth; then he took a chair and seated
himself.
"You'll take a drink, neighbor Mauflard, won't you?"
"With pleasure, Mère Fourcy."
A glass was filled for neighbor Mauflard, and this he emptied after
bowing to the whole company; then he settled back in his chair,
murmuring:
"That's good, very good--always the same."
"Who is neighbor Mauflard?" Virginie asked Aunt Fourcy in a whisper.
"Oh! he's a very fine man. He used to keep a school in the village; but
not long ago he retired, as he didn't have but two scholars."
"I'm thorry for that; I'd have thent Hecuba to him."
"What does she mean by Hecuba?"
"That's my cousin's daughter--a charming child; she isn't three yet, and
she bites at everything."
"Oh! that'th tho; the'd bite at marble!"
"Neighbor Mauflard is one of the most knowing men hereabout."
"Anyone can see that by looking at him. But he don't say anything. Have
another glass, Monsieur Mauflard?"
The neighbor's only reply was a prolonged snore; according to his
custom, he had already fallen asleep.
"Why, he's asleep!" said Virginie.
"Oh, yes, that's his way; as soon as he comes in, he sits down and shuts
his eyes."
"That certainly makes him a very pleasant companion!"
"He'th like that villain of a Théodore, who alwayth uthed to go to
thleep ath thoon ath he had thaid thome blackguardly thing to me."
"She means her husband, who must always have his siesta. He brought that
habit from Spain, with chocolate."
"I say, Denise," cried Mère Fourcy; "I know why neighbor Mauflard came
here to-day; didn't we say at Claudine's last night that we'd have the
party here to-night?"
"Oh! dear, yes!" Denise replied dejectedly; "that was a very unfortunate
idea of yours."
"A village party!" said Cézarine, leaving the table; "oh! what fun that
will be! I've often heard of them, but I never thaw one."
"Nor I," said Virginie; "and yet I've seen a great many things. I say!
if we should pass the night here, we could attend the party. What do you
say, cousin?"
"I thay that cabs won't cotht any more to-morrow morning than to-night."
"It isn't a question of cabs. I know that we didn't bring our own
carriage, so as not to tire our horses; but we must find out whether it
will inconvenience our venerable aunt to put us up to-night."
"Oh! we've got room, madame."
"It will be very kind of you to stay," said Denise, hoping to have more
talk of Auguste with Virginie.
"But the ladies will have to be satisfied with rather a hard bed."
"We shall be very comfortable."
"I'm not hard to pleathe; I've thlept on thraw more than onth."
Virginie nudged Cézarine and added hastily:
"Oh, yes! in the country--as a joke--just for sport."
"Yeth, and I rather like it; it ith great fun--it prickth."
"Oh! I don't propose that you shall be pricked," said Mère Fourcy; "I'll
fix up a bed for you in the little back chamber."
"Don't put yourself out in the least, dear aunt, I beg; the pleasure of
staying with you, of seeing the spectacle of a village party, is all we
want," said Virginie. But the old woman turned a deaf ear and went to
prepare a chamber for her guests, while Denise lighted a great lamp to
illuminate the living-room; for it was growing dark, and the party would
soon begin.
During these preparations Virginie whispered to her friend:
"These good people take us for princesses."
"Well, it theemth to me that I cut a pretty good figure."
"Yes, but don't make stupid remarks at the party. For my part, I like it
here very much; I would willingly spend a fortnight here."
"It thertainly wouldn't cotht much to live here."
"But if all the men are as agreeable as neighbor Mauflard, they must be
a lively set of fellows."
Night came, and the regular party-goers, who had arranged to meet at
Mère Fourcy's on that evening, began to arrive. One old woman brought
her spinning-wheel, another her knitting; many brought nothing, because
they were to tell stories, which are of no small importance at a village
party. The men brought bottles and pitchers, and every one was provided
with his own supper.
Virginie and Cézarine, seated in a corner of the main room, where it was
not very light, despite the lamp, scrutinized the villagers and made
comments which luckily they did not hear.
"Oh! what funny creatures!" said Virginie. "Don't they look countrified!
I'd like to show them stars on the ceiling!"
"Oh! thethe village folkth are more knowing than they look."
"I'll bet that I play a trick on 'em and fool 'em all."
"Virginie, you mutht behave yourthelf, you know."
"That's all right, Semiramis, I know how to behave."
"Look at that tall young fellow over there--he'th a handthome man. He
hath Théodore'th legth."
"He looks like a terrible fool!"
"I don't care for that--he ithn't a bit bad-looking."
When they first entered the room, the villagers did not notice the two
Parisian ladies; but when they did see them, they gathered in groups and
began to whisper together. Cézarine walked toward them and said with an
amiable air:
"We don't wish to embarrath you, worthy villagerth; we have come to take
part in your games."
"We're very fond of country life," said Virginie; "and before buying a
farm, we want to know what people do on farms."
Mère Fourcy's arrival gave the villagers all the information they
desired.
"They're great ladies from Paris," she told them. "They have a beautiful
house, but they ain't a bit proud; they decided to pass the night here,
so's to be at the party. You'll see how polite they are."
The peasants bowed low to the great ladies; some young gallants of the
village, in order to win favor with the strangers at once, began to push
one another and exchange fisticuffs, and yelled with delight when one of
them fell to the floor.
"Our youngsters are beginning their fooling," said the old men; and
Virginie remarked to her friend:
"If they begin like this, I wonder where they'll end!"
Amid the uproar, Monsieur Mauflard continued to snore in his chair; and
one of the village wits exclaimed:
"Look--Père Mauflard's asleep. I say! we must put up a game on Père
Mauflard. What do you say?"
"Count me in on that," said Cézarine, seating herself beside the tall,
gawky youth whom she considered handsome, and who lowered his eyes and
flushed to the ears when the lady from Paris looked at him.
"What shall we do to Père Mauflard?" asked a peasant.
"Take his hat."
"Oh! that ain't funny enough."
"Steal his handkerchief."
"Or his snuff-box."
"Oh! he'll guess right off that it was us who took that. That ain't a
good trick."
"Do you want a good trick?" asked Cézarine; "if you do, jutht quietly
take off his breecheth."
All the villagers gazed at one another in amazement, for the trick
proposed by the lovely Parisian seemed rather strong to them; and
Virginie trod on her friend's foot and whispered:
"Will you keep quiet? What are you thinking about? As if anyone ever did
such things as that here!--My friends," Virginie continued, addressing
the villagers, "my cousin said that because she assumed that Père
Mauflard wears drawers."
"Oh, yes! but he don't!" said a stout woman, laughingly. Whereupon all
the peasants cried:
"Oho! Fanchon knows all about it! How do you know that, eh, Fanchon?
Well, on my word! it seems that Fanchon--So you know that, do you,
Fanchon?"
Fanchon laughed on, and the noise finally woke Père Mauflard, who rubbed
his eyes and asked what the matter was.
But Denise's aunt restored order by arranging the whole party in a
circle. The seats of honor by the fireplace were offered to the two
ladies. Cézarine, who had seated herself beside the tall lout, said that
she was very comfortable and that the heat made her ill. Virginie sat
between two old men. Denise took Coco in her lap; she alone had no share
in the pleasures of the occasion, and her heart as well as her thoughts
bore her far from the village.
An old woman began a tale of robbers; another told a ghost story; and as
neither of them interested Cézarine, while the simple folk tremblingly
huddled together, she played games with the tall youth, and chucked him
under the chin, saying:
"How much he looks like Théodore!"
An old peasant took the floor and announced that he proposed to sing the
lament composed on the extraordinary death of Etienne de Garlande,
formerly lord of Livry, who espoused the cause of Amaury de Montfort
against Louis le Gros; the lament had only seventy-two stanzas.
As each stanza, sung to a most doleful tune in the measure of
_Malbrouck_, lasted nearly five minutes, Virginie rose at the second,
took a candle, whispered to Mère Fourcy that she was going to bed, and
vanished without diverting the peasants' attention from the dirge.
But Cézarine, who was not at all anxious to listen to the seventy-two
stanzas, interrupted the peasant in the middle of the fourth, saying:
"My dear friend, your thory ith very pretty, but it will end by putting
everybody to thleep like neighbor Mauflard, who hath been thnoring for
an hour. If you thay tho, I'll give you a then from a tragedy. Do you
know what tragedy ith, my friendth?"
"No, madame," said the villagers.
"And comedy--have you ever been to one?"
"No, madame."
"Oh! I know what it is," said one of the young blades; "I've been in
Paris. It's a place where you see men and women behind a curtain that
goes up; and then there's lamps, and they say silly things and wave
their arms about, and you can't understand nothing at all; but it's
almighty fine."
"That'th the very thing, my dear boy; you know all about it. Tho you'll
be able to explain to the company what they can't grathp right away. I'm
going to give you a thene from _Andromaque_. Come with me, my fine
fellow, you're going to be Pyrrhuth."
Cézarine took the tall youth by the arm, placed a wooden bench at the
rear of the room, unfolded her shawl and draped it round her body, and
removed one of her garters, which she knotted about the young peasant's
brow; he allowed himself to be thus decorated, not daring to stir. The
peasants, their eyes fixed on Cézarine, waited impatiently to see what
she was going to do. After removing her hat and arranging her hair on
top of her head, Cézarine ordered the tall youth to stand on one end of
the bench and took her own place on the other end, saying:
"Now we're going to begin. But firtht I think I ought to tell you a
little about the thubject of the play. Lithen: Andromaque ith a queen
whothe huthband hath been killed; Pyrrhuth here wanth to marry her, and
the won't. That'th the whole of it--now you underthtand; don't you?"
"Yes, yes," said the peasants; "anyway Jean-François'll explain the
rest."
"All right. I'll begin; and you, Pyrrhuth, do me the favor not to keep
your eyeth on your big toe all the time, for Pyrrhuth ought not to look
like a zany."
The gawky youth, in order to obey the lovely lady, at whom he dared not
glance, raised his eyes and thereafter did not take them from the
ceiling.
Cézarine assumed a noble pose and began:
"And what more wouldtht thou I thould thay to him?
Author of all my i11th, thinktht thou he knowth them not?
My lord, thee to what low ethtate thou dotht reduth me.
I have theen my father dead, and our abode on fire;
I have theen the liveth of my whole family in peril,
And my blood-thtained huthband dragged amid the dutht."
"Poor soul! think of her seeing all that!" said the peasant women. "Is
that all true, Jean-François?"
"Yes, yes! of course it's true! Don't she tell you she saw it?"
"My children," said Cézarine, "if you interrupt me, I than't be
inthpired any more; a little thilence, if you pleathe."
"I breathe again, I therve;
I have done more, thometimeth I have ta'en comfort
Becauthe my fate hath exiled me here and not elthwhere;
Becauthe, happy in my mithery, the thon of tho many kingth,
Thinthe he mutht therve, hath fallen beneath your thway;
I have thought that hith prithon would become hith refuge;
Of yore the conquered Priam wath by Achilleth thpared;
I from hith thon e'en greater kindneth did antithipate.
Forgive me, Hector dear----"
"Friend Pyrrhuth, pray attend to bithneth. Are you looking for thpiderth
on the theiling?"
The tall youth looked toward the door, and Cézarine resumed:
"Forgive me, Hector dear----"
"Thilenth, my children," she said, pausing again; "I beg the perthon who
ith thnoring tho loud to do me the favor to go."
Cézarine was about to continue her declamation when there came another
prolonged groan. All the villagers looked at one another, saying:
"Who on earth is making such a noise as that?"
"It ain't me."
"Nor me."
"Nor it ain't Père Mauflard neither."
Another groan woke the echoes of the living-room. Terror was depicted on
every face, and the peasants crowded closer together.
"Great God! what can that be?" they exclaimed.
"You are frightened at nothing at all," said Cézarine; "it'th thome
brute prowling round the yard."
"Oh! that ain't no brute's voice, I tell you! it's more like some dead
man's soul."
"I say! perhaps it's Jacques Ledru, as died a week ago!"
"Ain't it more like to be the ghost of Mère Lucas, who was so ugly when
she was living? Perhaps she's bent on tormenting us still."
To set their minds at rest, Cézarine was on the point of resuming her
tirade, when the gawky youth, whose eyes were fixed on the door, uttered
a horrible yell and fell from the bench, thereby causing Andromaque to
fall upon him.
"What is it? what's the matter?" cried the terrified peasants in chorus.
The tall youth, who had not the strength to speak, pointed to the door;
then hid his face in his hands. All the villagers looked at the place at
which he pointed: the door was thrown open, disclosing in the doorway a
white phantom of extraordinary size, whose eyes flashed fire.
At that horrible sight, all the women uttered heart-rending shrieks and
tumbled over one another in their haste to get away from the door. Most
of the men did the same, shouting: "Let's get out of this!" But, as they
could not escape by the door, where the phantom stood on guard, they
pushed one another toward the end of the room; and in the hurly-burly,
chairs and benches were overturned, as well as the table that held the
lamp, which fell to the floor and was extinguished. The sudden darkness
added to the general alarm; those who had not seen the lamp fall thought
that the phantom had caused that terrifying obscurity by his mere
presence; the shrieks redoubled; it was impossible to see, they fell
over one another, and everyone thought that it was the devil falling
upon him. To add still more to their terror the phantom uttered
blood-curdling grunts and piteous groans.
The confusion lasted several minutes, the peasants shrieking in terror
and offering up prayers. Mademoiselle Cézarine alone was not heard to
bewail her fate, although she too had fallen, with the tall youth. The
latter had the courage to look toward the door, where he saw the
gleaming-eyed phantom.
"It's still there!" he said under his breath; "it don't go away!"
Whereupon Mademoiselle Cézarine was heard to say in a stifled voice:
"Don't thtir, my children, and above all thingth, don't light any
candleth, or the devil will come and carry uth off!"
Suddenly the barking of a dog was heard in the yard; it was soon
followed by yells from the phantom, who was struggling with the beast
and calling the peasants to its assistance.
"Mère Fourcy, call off your dog, for heaven's sake! What an ugly beast!
he's biting my legs! Come and drive him away, Cézarine!"
That voice, which was recognized as belonging to Virginie, put an end to
the terror of the peasants, who began to suspect that they had been
fooled by the young ladies from Paris; to put them entirely at ease, the
dog pulled off the sheet in which Virginie had enveloped herself, and
took in his jaws a lantern which she had placed on her head, wrapping
the sheet about it and allowing the light to shine through two small
holes.
The dog raced about the room with the lantern, and the light disclosed a
ridiculous tableau. The men and women were inextricably commingled, and,
even without mischievous intention, the proprieties had not been
altogether respected, because, when one is frightened, one conceals
oneself as best one can. The position of Cézarine and the tall youth was
the most equivocal; but the light of the lantern lighted the room but
dimly, and there were many things which there was no time to see. They
began by setting free Père Mauflard, who had a table, two benches and
three nurses upon him; then the lamp was relighted and they could
recognize one another. Amid the tumult Denise had remained quietly in a
corner with Coco; but, on hearing Virginie's shrieks, she flew to her
assistance and helped her to rid herself of the sheet in which she was
entangled.
"Why! was it you playing ghost?" inquired the young girl.
"Yes, my dear, I thought I'd act a scene from a fairy pantomime for you;
and if it hadn't been for your infernal dog, who jumped at--at the base
of my back, while I was giving a groan, I'd have frightened you a great
deal worse!"
"Oh! what a pity!" said Cézarine, with a languishing glance at the gawky
youth, "it was so nithe! I'm very fond of fairy thenes."
"Your fairy scene is to blame for my being all bruised up," said Père
Mauflard.
The peasants, offended because they had been made game of, refused to
prolong the festivity, and left Mère Fourcy's house, saying:
"What do fine ladies like them amount to anyway! one wants to see Père
Mauflard's drawers, and the other dresses up as a ghost; they act as if
they was pretty gay girls!"