The season being farther advanced in that beautiful climate, there was
already a wealth of verdure, shrubbery and fragrant groves, which the
Italian regards with the indifference of habit, but which arouse the
admiration of the stranger who sees for the first time that lovely sky,
that delicious landscape, and those flowering orange trees which spread
the sweetest of perfumes all about.
In a pleasant country everything is calculated to inspire pleasure. The
climate of Italy seems to be the fitting climate of love. The aspect of
a wild landscape, of a rugged and sterile country inclines the soul to
melancholy and sadness; that of a verdant grove, of a valley studded
with flowers, makes our hearts beat more gently and gives birth to no
thoughts save of pleasure and of love.
Auguste, who did not need to be in Italy to have his imagination take
fire, was conscious nevertheless of the soothing influence of the
climate; he sighed as he glanced at the lovely women who passed him by;
and as the young Frenchman was a comely youth, his sighs were answered
by some very expressive glances.
Among the attractive young women whom he met in the street, Auguste
noticed one, modestly but respectably attired, who usually had an older
woman on her arm. The young woman's face was fascinating; but her timid
glances, far from challenging the young foreigner's, were modestly
lowered when they met. Auguste followed them, however. Sometimes the
older woman turned her head, and, when she saw the young man, urged her
companion to quicken her pace. When they reached a distant suburb of the
city, the ladies entered a small isolated house. The young woman
afforded Auguste one more glimpse of her lovely features as she
furtively glanced at him; but the old woman closed the door behind them
and the enchanting image vanished.
Auguste stood some time in front of the house which the pretty Italian
had entered; but at last, tired of staring at a door and windows that
did not open, he returned to his hotel, saying to himself:
"She's an angel! she is ideally beautiful, the model of the Venus de
Medici, of Girodet's Galatea, of Psyche, of Dido; and I must make the
acquaintance of such charms."
The next day he went out to walk again, and again he saw the two ladies.
Grown bolder, he approached them and, as a stranger, asked the older one
for information concerning the first thing that his eyes fell upon. She
answered courteously, and the young woman, without joining in the
conversation, turned her beautiful eyes on the Frenchman from time to
time. The old lady, who was very talkative, soon informed the young
Frenchman that her name was Signora Falenza, and that her companion was
her niece Cecilia; that they were far from rich, and for that reason
lived in a retired quarter, and that they let a portion of their
lodgings when they had applications from quiet and orderly people,
because that enabled them to increase their slender income a little.
The old woman had not finished speaking when Auguste asked her to let
the little apartment to him.
"I have come to Italy to study painting," he said, "and I have rather
neglected it; I have nobody with me but an old soldier, and we are as
orderly as young ladies. I flatter myself that you will have no cause to
regret having us for tenants."
Signora Falenza made some objections; but Auguste was so urgent that she
consented to show him the apartment. It consisted of two rooms, rather
shabbily furnished; to be sure, the price asked was very moderate.
Auguste expressed himself as delighted; he was satisfied with
everything, and, after casting a passionate glance at the fair Cecilia,
he hurried away to make his arrangements to return the same evening and
take up his abode beneath the same roof with the two ladies.
"Pack our valises and pay our bill, Bertrand; we are going to move."
"Are we going to leave Turin, monsieur?"
"Oh, no, my friend; I am more pleased with it than ever!"
"In that case, why do we leave this hotel, where we are well
accommodated, and at not too high a price?"
"For economy's sake, Bertrand; I have found much pleasanter lodgings,
which will cost only half as much; I trust that you won't find fault
with me this time."
Bertrand frowned and muttered:
"There's a petticoat under this, I'll wager."
However, he packed the valises, paid the bill, and followed his master,
who led the way to the suburb.
"We don't seem to be moving into the fashionable quarter, monsieur,"
said Bertrand.
"What do we care, so long as the lodgings suit us?"
"True."
"See, there's the house."
"It's a long way from any other. Do you remember that we're in Italy,
monsieur? It looks to me like a cut-throat sort of place."
"Do you mean that you're afraid, Bertrand?"
"Oh, lieutenant!"
"You are growing absurdly suspicious. This is a very pleasant house; the
outlook is on fields and gardens. It's very quiet here, and that is what
I like."
"Ah! you like quiet now, do you?"
"Very much."
Auguste knocked. The door was opened by Signora Falenza, at sight of
whom Bertrand said to himself:
"If there's only faces like this one here, we shall certainly be very
quiet."
The old woman escorted the strangers to their rooms, showing them every
courtesy. As they passed through a passageway they met the fair Cecilia,
who bowed pleasantly to the young Frenchman. Whereupon Bertrand heaved a
sigh and thought:
"This is the economy the lieutenant mentioned!"
The travellers being installed in their apartment, Signora Falenza left
them, saying:
"When you gentlemen wish for anything, you need only come to my room; my
niece and I will hasten to offer our services."
"In that case," thought Auguste, "I hope that I shall frequently have
occasion to seek them."
Bertrand inspected the two rooms, and at each object that he examined,
frowned and muttered:
"This is very nice!"
"Isn't it, Bertrand?"
"Yes, indeed! a wretched bed and no pillows!"
"So much the better! we will go and ask for one."
"Two broken chairs!"
"So much the better! I'll go and change them."
"Closets that won't lock!"
"Bah! they're good enough for what we have to put in them."
"A desk that I can't find any key to!"
"I'll go and ask the ladies for it."
"Not a candlestick on the mantel!"
"The ladies will give us one."
"Not even a jar of water."
"Perhaps it isn't the custom in the country."
"Well! it's a very clean custom that don't allow a person to wash his
hands! In fact, monsieur, we lack everything here."
"We shall lack nothing if we ask the ladies for it."
"The ladies! the ladies!"
"And the low rent, Bertrand--don't you take that into account?"
"If there wasn't anybody but the old landlady in the house, you wouldn't
have been tempted to come here to live."
"That may be; but if I can enjoy the company of a pretty woman, and at
the same time reduce my expenses, it seems to me, Bertrand, that you
can't object to that."
Bertrand said no more; he went into a corner and filled his pipe, and as
it was growing dark, Auguste went to his landladies' room to ask for a
light. The old lady was absent, but her niece was there, and our
Frenchman, overjoyed at the opportunity of a tête-à-tête with the fair
Cecilia, sat down beside the young woman, who seemed less shy at home
than on the street, and who replied with a smile to the soft avowals
that he addressed to her. The conversation lasted until very late.
Auguste forgot Bertrand, who was without a light; he was in a fair way
to forget a great many things, but Signora Falenza returned and by her
presence revived his memory. He went up to his own room; Bertrand had
thrown himself on the bed and was asleep. Auguste did not think it best
to wake him, and he too fell asleep, his mind full of the fascinating
Cecilia's image, convinced that he had never been more comfortably
bedded.
Three days passed in the new lodgings. Auguste almost never went out; he
watched for opportunities for a tête-à-tête with Cecilia; but the aunt
was seldom absent and kept a much closer watch upon her niece. However,
Auguste obtained a sweet avowal; he knew that he was beloved; but that
was not enough, and Cecilia's eyes seemed to promise him more.
Bertrand had become accustomed to his new quarters; but he said to his
master every day:
"You came to Italy to study and work, monsieur; instead of doing that,
you pass all your time running after our young landlady."
"Cecilia is teaching me to speak Italian better, Bertrand; and I am
teaching her French."
"I don't see what good this reciprocal teaching will do you."
"Why, the pleasure of it, Bertrand--is that to be counted nothing?"
"Are we travelling for pleasure?"
"Not entirely; but, when it offers itself, why not make the most of it?"
"Remember, monsieur, that your pleasures have always cost you dear."
"You can't say that I am squandering my money here; I have never been so
quiet and orderly. I never go out; these ladies, when I invited them to
go to the theatre, declined."
"I agree that they are stay-at-homes and don't try to make you take them
all over the city. But I don't like that old Falenza with her reverences
and her compliments."
"Really, Bertrand, you are getting to be too particular. When you
travel, my friend, you must accustom yourself to the idea of finding
different customs and different manners."
"True, monsieur; but I'm very much afraid that the foundation is the
same everywhere! Selfish men, coquettish women, schemers who make a
great show of wealth in order to make dupes more easily, rascals who
open their mouths only to lie; and here and there a few honest people,
who nevertheless consider their own interests before everything. I fancy
that that's what we shall find in every country."
"Travelling makes you very eloquent, Bertrand. Write down your
reflections; I'll read them--when we return to France."
"It will be high time, monsieur."
Auguste was no longer listening to his companion; he had overheard
Cecilia's voice, and he went to her. But the young Italian had but a
moment to speak to him, as her aunt would soon return. Yielding to the
young man's urgent entreaties, she gave him an assignation for the next
day. A pretty little wood, about a fourth of a league from the city, was
the spot to which Cecilia was to go secretly. The time was agreed upon,
and they parted, to avoid arousing her aunt's suspicions.
Auguste returned to his room with the inward satisfaction that one
always feels at the approach of a long-desired moment. Never did evening
seem longer to him, and he retired early so that the morrow would come
the sooner.
Day broke at last. Auguste rose, dressed himself with care, and went
out, leaving Bertrand still asleep. The place appointed for the meeting
was a very long way from Signora Falenza's abode; but Auguste supposed
that Cecilia had chosen it from prudential motives. He traversed a large
part of the city, followed the bank of the Po, and at last reached the
little wood, where he hoped soon to see his young landlady.
He waited patiently a long while; hope sustained him; it must be that
some accident had kept Cecilia at home. But several hours passed and the
fair Italian did not come. Auguste, weary of walking back and forth on
the same spot, decided at last to return to the house, cursing the
mischance that had prevented Cecilia from keeping her appointment.
As he approached the suburb where he lived, Auguste saw Bertrand in
front of him, evidently returning home, like himself; he quickened his
pace in order to overtake him. When the ex-corporal caught sight of his
master, he uttered a cry of joy, saying:
"Morbleu! you are not wounded?"
"Why in the devil should I be wounded?" demanded Auguste.
"What would there be so surprising about it, monsieur, when you have
been fighting a duel?"
"A duel--I?"
"At all events that's what our landlady told me this morning; she
declared that a young man called for you at daybreak, and that from the
few words that fell from you she gathered that there was a duel in the
wind."
"Parbleu! this is very strange!"
"She even mentioned several places where she thought you might have gone
to settle your dispute; so that, since early morning, I've been running
in all directions, and have been well laughed at by everybody that I
asked if they'd seen two men fighting."
"I don't understand it at all, Bertrand."
"Do you mean to say that it isn't all true?"
"There isn't a word of truth in it."
"Ah! that old signora shall learn that I'm not to be made a fool of like
this."
"Let's hurry, Bertrand."
"What's the matter, lieutenant? You seem anxious."
"Yes. I'm afraid that the niece has made a fool of me too. Here have I
been waiting for her in vain three hours and more at the other end of
the city."
"Ten thousand bullets! there's something very crooked in this long
excursion they made us both take. Didn't I tell you, lieutenant, that
the old woman made too many reverences?"
"Perhaps we are frightened without cause. But here we are. Knock,
Bertrand."
Bertrand knocked, but no one opened the door. He knocked again until the
window panes rattled, and there was no response.
"What does this mean, lieutenant?" he cried, looking at Auguste.
"Why, it means that there's no one here, that is very certain."
"Still, we must get in."
As he spoke, he broke in the door with a kick, and entered the house,
followed by his master. It was deserted; they had carried off everything
except a few wretched pieces of furniture, and the travellers' apartment
too was dismantled.
"We are robbed, monsieur," said Bertrand.
"It looks to me very much like it, my friend."
"Did you leave our money here?"
"Alas! yes, in the desk. It was all there except these ten gold pieces
that I have in my pocket."
"Ah! the rascals! To the devil with signoras, fine eyes and reverences!
Why did we leave our hotel?"
"It was my fault, Bertrand, I realize it. It is my folly again that has
caused this misfortune. But what's the use of talking? the harm is
done."
"We must enter a complaint, monsieur; we must obtain justice."
"Enter a complaint, my friend, in a country where we are strangers, and
when we have nothing with which to pay for obtaining justice, which is
very dear everywhere?"
"In that case, monsieur, we must allow ourselves to be robbed and say
nothing, must we?"
"That is the wisest course in this case, Bertrand."
"It's very amusing!"
"We must make haste, too, to leave this house, which was undoubtedly let
to those sharpers, and of which we have smashed the door; for we may be
asked by what right we are here, and be punished for breaking in as we
did."
"That would be the last straw! Ah! my poor old Schtrack, it would have
been much better to stay with you!"
"Courage, Bertrand, let us rise superior to disaster. We have nothing
left--very good! that compels me to work. We will travel on foot; in
that way one doesn't run the risk of making evil acquaintances as one
does in a diligence. And then our baggage is lighter than ever, and each
of us can say with the Greek philosopher: _'Omnia mecum porto.'_"
"That must mean that he hadn't a sou, doesn't it, lieutenant?"
"Pretty nearly that, Bertrand."
"In that case we are getting to be mighty philosophical!"
"Let's leave Turin and go elsewhere in search of prudence."
"Ah! where shall we stop, monsieur?"
XXV
WHICH COVERS A PERIOD OF THREE YEARS
Let us leave Auguste and Bertrand to pursue their travels, the one
promising never again to allow himself to be led astray by the sly
glances of the first pretty face he may meet; the other, swearing
because his advice was not heeded, and reviling the sex which led his
master into so many scrapes. You must forgive Bertrand, ladies, and
pardon his ill humor; he really had some reason to distrust beauty. But
if he had been twenty years younger, and some pretty creature had
undertaken to make a conquest of him, who can say that, like his master,
he would not have succumbed? Let us return to the village, to the little
milkmaid, from whom Auguste's follies have kept us away too long; and
may the picture of innocence and of true love give our eyes a little
rest after that of the passions and intrigues of cities, and the
hypocrisy and selfishness of society. It is like turning to a lovely
landscape of Regnier after looking at one of Gudin's tempests; but, if
the representation of the conflict causes us keen emotions, the sight of
a pure sky and fields bright with blossoms brings sweet repose to our
souls and often arouses pleasanter sensations within us.
Denise took back to her aunt the three thousand francs that she had
intended to force upon Auguste; she heaved a profound sigh as she handed
her the bag of money.
"Wouldn't he take it?" asked Mère Fourcy.
"Alas! it was too late, aunt! he had gone away! He's gone round the
world! and God only knows when he will come back!"
"It ain't our fault, child; we got the money together just as quick as
we possibly could; for, you see, three thousand francs ain't like a
cheese. If he's gone travelling, it must be that he wasn't in need of
money; at any rate we've nothing to blame ourselves for, and when he
comes to see us again, he'll see what a pretty cottage we've had built
for Coco."
Denise felt confident that Virginie would keep her promise, that she
would succeed in finding out where Auguste had gone, and that she would
send her news of him; that hope was the sole joy of her life. Hope
always counts for much in the sum total of happiness that we mortals
enjoy on earth; how many people have never known any other happiness
than that which it gives!
Virginie had said to Denise, to console her:
"You will see Auguste again, and when he knows how dearly you love him,
I am sure that he will care for you."
Those words were engraved on the girl's heart, and she said to herself
every day:
"That lady will tell him that I love him, and when he comes here again I
shall blush to meet him! I shan't dare to look him in the face! Perhaps
he won't like it, but it's his own fault; why did he tell me that he
loved me? Ought a man to say such things if he doesn't mean them? I made
believe to laugh when I heard him, but in the bottom of my heart I
realized how happy it made me! Of course he only meant to joke with me;
he talked to me as he does to all the women he thinks pretty. He doesn't
know what misery he has caused me!"
On the site of the hovel occupied by the Calleux family, a pretty
cottage had been built, consisting of a ground floor and attics only.
Behind it was a garden of considerable size, surrounded by a fence. The
cottage was constructed with the three thousand francs left by Dalville;
it belonged to Coco, although he was still too young to live there. But
Denise took pleasure in beautifying the little place for which the child
was indebted to his benefactor; and there she passed a large part of
every day, after performing her morning tasks, dreaming of him whose
return she never ceased to expect. There, alone with the child, she
talked to him about Auguste, taught him to love him, to remember that he
owed everything to him, and never to enter the cottage without giving a
thought to gratitude.
The garden was carefully tended. Denise planted flowers there. She
remembered what she had seen in the lovely bourgeois gardens that she
had visited, and she determined that the garden of the cottage should be
laid out on the same plan. She desired that Auguste should be agreeably
surprised when he visited the cottage, and should compliment her on her
taste.
"He will see these shrubs," she thought, "these beds of verdure; and he
will be surprised that peasants should have done it all as well as
people from Paris."
But in another moment the girl would sigh and say to herself sadly:
"If he has gone to the end of the world, it will be a long time before
he comes to see my garden."
The winter was succeeded by the lovely days of spring, and Denise heard
nothing from Virginie.
"She hasn't found out anything about him," thought the girl; "otherwise
she would have come to tell me about it."
The hope of hearing from Auguste induced Denise to make another trip to
Paris. She easily obtained her aunt's permission, and one morning she
appeared at Auguste's former abode.
As usual, Schtrack was smoking on a bench in front of his lodge. He
recognized the girl, and although it was nearly four months since she
had fainted in his arms, he called out when he saw her:
"Wasn't all the money in the bag?"
"What, monsieur? what bag? Has Monsieur Auguste come back?" inquired
Denise, gazing anxiously at the old German.
"Oh, no! no! The young man is still travelling with Pertrand. But I
thought you haf come about the bag of money that fell in the yard, and
that you didn't find it all. Sacretié! you see, Schtrack don't joke
about questions of honor."
"Oh, monsieur! of course I didn't come about that!--Haven't you heard
from him, monsieur?"
"From who, my child?"
"From Monsieur Auguste."
"How in the devil do you suppose I could hear from him when he's gone
round the world?"
"And that lady--have you seen her?"
"A lady?"
"The one who was here with me the last time I came, and who was kind
enough to help me."
"Oh ja! the demon! the hussy! the little grenadier!"
"Has she been here, monsieur?"
"Oh ja! she's been twice to ask for news of the young man."
"And she told you nothing about Monsieur Auguste?"
"Sacretié! don't I tell you that she came to ask about him? Don't you
understand?"
"Do you know her address, monsieur?"
"The little hussy's?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"No, I don't know it."
Schtrack resumed his smoking, and as Denise could learn nothing from
him, she turned away, regretting that she did not know Virginie's
address. If she had, she would have gone to see her, not because she
supposed her to be any better informed than herself concerning the
whereabouts of the travellers, but because she could, at least, have
talked with her about Auguste; and it is so great a delight to talk of
the person we love, especially with someone who understands us!
Several more months passed without bringing any news of Auguste, nor had
Virginie come to the village. Hope began to fade in Denise's heart, but
love did not die out; that sentiment, when it is genuine, defies
obstacles, time, and absence, and it alone does not pass away when
everything about it passes away.
Denise was seventeen years of age. She had grown no taller, but her
features seemed to have acquired a greater charm, her face more
expression; the secret sentiment that engrossed her thoughts gave to her
features a gentle melancholy which was most becoming to her sweet face.
Village maidens rarely have that look; perhaps that is why the young men
of Montfermeil and the neighborhood found in Denise a something that
fascinated them and turned their heads. But she had very little to say
to them, she no longer laughed and joked with them, she shunned their
dances and their sports; and the other girls sneered at the little
milkmaid, saying:
"How high and mighty she is! She puts on the airs of a great lady! She's
trying to copy city folks. But with her scowling face she won't get any
lovers."
Despite the prophecies of the peasants, Denise, involuntarily and
unconsciously, made conquests every day; and the village maidens, with
all their loud laughter, their merriment and the lusty blows they dealt
out to the beaux of the neighborhood, saw that they all sighed for her
who did nothing to attract them. And as Denise, in addition to her sweet
face, was an excellent match, several young men applied to Mère Fourcy
for her hand.
The excellent aunt had noticed that there had been something wrong with
her niece for a long time; but she was convinced that marriage would rid
her of that something which caused her to sigh night and day. Mère
Fourcy flattered herself that she had had much experience, and
remembered that a great many young women, after taking unto themselves
husbands, recover the fresh color that is beginning to fade. So one fine
morning she went to her niece, who was, as usual, alone in the garden of
Coco's cottage.
"My child," said Mère Fourcy, sitting down beside her, "I have come here
to talk to you about something."
"Whatever you please, aunt," replied the girl, with her eyes fixed on a
marguerite from which she had just plucked the petals, and in which she
had read that the young traveller loved her dearly.
"My child, you were seventeen years old on Saint-Pierre's day. A girl of
seventeen ain't a child any longer--do you understand that, Denise?"
"Oh, yes, aunt!"