sewing's like a charm, and you make cheeses that a body could eat all
day long without hurting 'em; and then you know all the ins and outs of
a house. You're active and a good worker; you have three times more wit
than you need to guide a man who might try to go wrong; and morguenne!
the man who gets you won't ever regret it!"
Denise looked at Mère Fourcy in surprise, and faltered:
"I don't understand, aunt."
"That makes a difference, my dear; I'll cut it short. You're old enough
to get married, and there's several chances offered. First of all, big
Fanfan Jolivet, and then neighbor Mauflard's nephew, and tall
Claude-Jean-Pierre-Nicolas Lathuille, who's just inherited his father's
estate; there's lots more too that would like you, but those three are
the best fixed. They're good boys and hard workers. It's your business
to choose which one you want for a husband."
Denise had turned pale and shown great embarrassment during her aunt's
speech; but she glanced again at the remains of her marguerite and
replied in a very low tone:
"I don't want any one of them, aunt."
"What do you say, my child?"
"I say that--that I don't want to marry."
"You don't want to marry? Nonsense! You're joking when you say that! As
if girls mustn't marry! I tell you, on the contrary, marriage will do
you good. For a long time now you haven't been yourself, you don't laugh
or sing any more. A husband, my child, makes you sing, brings back your
spirits, and--Great heaven! you're crying, my poor Denise! Do you think
I mean to make you feel bad? No, no! I'll send all your suitors to the
devil first. My poor child crying! I don't want you to do that. Come,
tell me right away what makes you cry."
"To have to refuse you, aunt."
"The idea of crying for that! Do you think I'll ever drive you to do
what you don't want to do?"
"Oh, no! you're so kind to me, aunt!"
"But if you cry, I'll scold you. You don't want any of these husbands,
so we won't say any more about it, my child. But, jarni! something's the
matter with you, all the same. A girl don't sigh all day thinking about
flies."
"Oh, aunt!"
"Tell me what the trouble is, my child."
"I don't dare to."
"I want you to dare to. You've got a pain in your heart, that's sure."
"Oh! I am very silly! I know that."
"You, silly! you, the cleverest, the smartest, the shrewdest girl in the
world! Anyway, my dear, a body don't cry because she's silly. It can't
be you're in love with anybody, are you?"
Denise heaved a profound sigh, and replied at last, lowering her eyes:
"Yes, aunt."
"Well, my dear, there's no law against it! and if it ain't one of the
fellows that's offered himself, why, never mind, so long as he's an
honest man and will make you happy; for he loves you dearly too, no
doubt?"
"No, aunt, he doesn't love me at all; he doesn't give me a thought."
"Jarni! I'll go and tear his eyes out! Do you mean to say he's forgotten
you, or deceived you? The idea of my Denise loving him, and him not
being too happy to marry her!"
"But he has never spoken of marrying me, aunt."
"Then he's a deceiver, is he, a rake?"
"No, aunt; but he's--it's that gentleman from Paris."
"Monsieur Dalville?"
"Yes, aunt."
"O mon Dieu! what on earth are you thinking about, Denise? You're in
love with a fine gentleman from Paris, a man in the best society, a man
who would never look at a peasant girl!"
"Oh, yes! he did look at me a great deal, I assure you."
"But you can't think of such a thing as loving Monsieur Dalville, my
dear!"
"Alas! it isn't my fault--I can't help it."
"How did this love come to you, my child?"
"When I fell from my donkey, aunt."
"Is it possible?"
"Mon Dieu! yes. I met Monsieur Auguste on the road; he was in his
cabriolet and I was walking behind Jean le Blanc."
"You told me that, my child."
"He kept looking at me, and I pretended not to notice it. He got out of
his carriage and followed me along the narrow path through the wood; he
told me I was pretty and I laughed at his compliments."
"You told me that, too."
"He tried to kiss me, and in defending myself I scratched his face."
"You didn't tell me that, my dear."
"Oh! I was very angry then! I hated the man! I got on Jean le Blanc so
as to get away from him faster, but Jean began to gallop and threw me
off. I fell--I don't know how."
"Mon Dieu! my child! And then what?"
"The gentleman ran up to me; but he lifted me up so respectfully--he
seemed so sorry for my fall--he was paler and trembled more than I did.
Then, I don't know how it happened, but all of a sudden my anger went
away, and--and I believe that I loved him already."
"And then?"
"Bless me! you know, aunt, that we found what he'd given Coco and his
grandmother, and I felt that that made me love him still more. I saw him
again at Madame Destival's, and he told me to take care of Coco; and
since then, you know, aunt, he hasn't been to see us but once."
"Have you told him that you loved him?"
"No; on the contrary, as Monsieur Bertrand told me that would keep him
from coming to see us, I told him that I should never love him."
"You did well, my child."
"Oh, no, aunt! I think that I did wrong rather, for he hasn't been here
since then, and he went away without bidding us good-bye."
"Well, well, now she's crying again! But, my child, what good does this
love do you?"
"None at all, aunt."
"Monsieur Auguste wouldn't have married a poor village girl. Now he's
gone away, and we shan't ever see him again probably."
"Do you mean to say that he may not come back? Won't he want to
see--Coco again? He will come back, aunt; ah! I am still hopeful."
"Even if he should, remember that he's a gentleman, and used to fine
ladies; while you--Well! what are you looking at that flower so for?"
"It told me that Auguste loved me dearly."
"Who told you so?"
"This marguerite, aunt."
"Pluck another one to-morrow, my dear, and it will tell you just the
opposite."
"Oh! I pluck them every morning, aunt."
"And does the flower always tell you he loves you?"
"When there's one that doesn't I question another, and I keep on till I
find one that gives me the answer I want."
"That's the way girls tell their own fortunes. But look you, my child,
it would be much more sensible to forget a man who don't give you a
thought."
"I can't do it, aunt."
"If you should take a husband instead of plucking marguerites, your love
would soon pass away, I promise you."
"No, aunt, I don't want to marry. Leave me at liberty to think of him
and to consult the flowers, and I promise you that I won't cry any
more."
"As you please, my dear Denise; and if that's your taste, stay
unmarried. But you're so pretty, and such a figure. Ah! it would be a
great pity if you should pass your youth consulting flowers."
The worthy aunt said no more to Denise on the subject of marriage, and
the suitors were dismissed. The villagers indulged in various
conjectures concerning the girl's conduct. The young women laughed at
the gallants who had been rejected; the gallants hoped that in time
Denise would be less cruel. But time passed and Denise's determination
did not waver.
Mère Fourcy became infirm and her niece waited upon her with the most
loving solicitude. Coco, who as he grew up had learned to love his
benefactresses as dearly as his goat, strove to make himself useful, and
often diverted Denise from her melancholy by his childish prattle. She
loved to watch and to fondle the child whom Auguste had loved; she had
him taught all that could be taught him in the village; she guided his
heart into the paths of virtue, for she wished him to do credit to his
benefactor.
Two years had passed since Auguste and Bertrand started on their
travels. During that period Denise had been to Paris six times in quest
of news of the travellers; but Schtrack had never been able to give her
any, and she heard nothing from Virginie. At the end of two years Mère
Fourcy fell sick, and, despite her niece's care, soon died in her arms.
The loss of her aunt caused Denise the keenest sorrow; we can but regret
profoundly those who throughout their lives have sought only to make us
happy, without ever reminding us of what they have done for us--the
latter being a method of conferring favors which freezes gratitude; for
there are many people who do good, but there are very few good people.
Denise was left alone on earth but for Coco, who was not yet eight. She
let her house, which was now too large for her, and went to live in
Coco's cottage, to which she added a small wing. There Denise was
happier: it seemed to her that she was nearer Auguste. She was no longer
obliged to be a milkmaid, and she hired an old peasant woman who
undertook the house work. Denise busied herself about her garden and
sought additional knowledge in books. In her aunt's lifetime she was
rarely able to gratify her taste for reading, because Mère Fourcy
considered that she already knew too much for a peasant. But nothing now
prevented her from following her inclination and trying to train her
mind.
One by one Denise laid aside the coarse woolen skirt, the apron, the
sackcloth waist; she wore clothes which, while they were most simple and
unpretending, approximated the costume of Parisian ladies. Thereupon the
villagers said to one another:
"Denise Fourcy is trying to play the fine lady, that's sure. Don't you
see that since her aunt died she don't dress like us any more, but puts
on style and uses big words when she talks?"
Denise cared little what the people of the village thought; her only
desire was to please him whom she still expected; and she would say to
herself as she looked in her mirror:
"Perhaps he'll like me better like this. He won't find me so awkward and
embarrassed as I was; but it will be all the same to him, for he doesn't
love me, and he thinks that I don't love him either. Mon Dieu! why did I
tell him that? It was Monsieur Bertrand that made me do it; he deceived
me by telling me that Auguste wouldn't come to the village if I loved
him. Yes, I am sure that he deceived me; for it was after that that
Auguste received me so unkindly in Paris; and he didn't come here again.
But when I see him, ah! then I'll tell him the truth; it is always wrong
to lie. And I will beg him not to lie to me either."
Another year passed; Denise was twenty and Coco nine. The child was
happy; mirth and health shone on his pretty face. Denise was still
melancholy; she tried in vain to banish from her mind the memory of
Auguste whom she was beginning to lose hope of seeing again.
"Perhaps he has settled in some foreign land!" she would say to herself;
"perhaps he is married--and will never come back!"
Then her eyes would fill with tears, and the child's caresses served
only to intensify her grief, for he was forever asking her:
"Shall I see my kind friend soon?"
Denise often determined to be sensible, to drive her insane passion from
her heart, and to think no more of Auguste. Then she would go out to
seek distraction in the fields; but, whether by chance or from
preference, she always found herself on the narrow path in the wood,
where she fell from her donkey.
XXVI
THE RETURN
One lovely spring evening Denise sat under the shrubbery in the garden,
reading, while Coco played in front of the cottage, beside the old
peasant woman, who had fallen asleep on a bench.
Happening to look out on the road, Coco saw a man standing there,
apparently gazing at the house, and so engrossed by his thoughts that he
did not notice the child playing near by.
The man was not dressed like a peasant; a gray woolen jacket, trousers
with gaiters, and a bundle slung over his shoulder, seemed to indicate a
traveller. He wore a shabby round cap, and in his hand he carried a
stick which he evidently needed to lean upon; for his face was pale and
worn, and his long beard and the expression of his eyes denoted poverty
and suffering.
Coco stole toward him, staring at the stranger with childish curiosity
and was surprised to see tears falling from his eyes as he gazed at the
cottage.
The child had learned from Denise to be compassionate to the sufferings
of the unfortunate. He stood in front of the stranger and said in an
artless and kindly tone:
"Are you unhappy, monsieur? If you'd like to rest in our house, come in
and we'll give you some supper."
The child's voice startled the stranger, he started in surprise and
scrutinized Coco closely; then he took his hand and squeezed it
tenderly, saying in a voice choked by emotion:
"What! is it you, my friend?"
The boy, surprised to be addressed in that way, answered with a smile:
"Do you know me, monsieur?"
The wayfarer sighed, and replied after a moment:
"Yes, I saw you once, long ago, here, on this spot; but at that time,
instead of this pretty cottage, there was only an old ruined hovel here!
What a transformation has taken place!"
"Oh! it was my good friend who gave me the money for all this; for
that's my house, monsieur, that is; but when he comes back, I'll thank
him ever so much!"
The stranger pressed the child's hand again, as he continued:
"Won't you come in? Come, I'll tell Denise that you're going to have
supper with us."
"Denise! what, is Denise here?" exclaimed the stranger, detaining the
child.
"Yes, monsieur, we've lived together ever since her dear aunt died."
"And is Denise married?"
"No, monsieur.--Well, are you coming?"
After a moment's hesitation, the stranger decided to follow the child,
who took his hand and led him into the house.
"Denise! Denise!" cried Coco, "here's some company! here's a gentleman,
who's hungry!--You are hungry, ain't you?--Denise, come, I say!"
But Denise was at the end of the garden and did not hear the child's
voice; so he ran to the thicket of shrubbery to fetch her, and the
stranger slowly followed him.
"Dear Denise," said Coco, "I just saw a man on the road who looked very
unhappy, and I asked him to come into the house; we'll give him some
supper, won't we?"
"Yes, my dear."
"I did well to bring him in, for he looks as if he was poor; and yet he
didn't beg."
"Yes, you did well; let's go to him."
"Look, he has followed me--there he is."
The stranger had stopped at a little distance and was looking at Denise;
the last rays of daylight rested on his face, and the girl examined him
with interest as she walked toward him. But she had not taken four steps
when she gave a little cry and ran, flew toward the stranger.
"Auguste!--Monsieur--is it you?"
That was all she could say; and Auguste, for he it was, received her in
his arms.
"Denise! dear Denise!" said Auguste, pressing to his heart the girl whom
surprise and joy had almost deprived of consciousness.
At last she recovered the power of speech.
"Coco, it is your kind friend," she cried, "your benefactor has come
back! Come and kiss him."
The child stared at Auguste in open-mouthed amazement; he had difficulty
in reconciling himself to the idea that that shabbily dressed man with
the long beard was his benefactor; but if his eyes did not recognize his
kind friend, his heart was not silent: something drew him to the
stranger, so that he ran joyfully to Auguste and kissed him, and the
latter abandoned himself for some moments to the pleasure of holding
the child and the girl in his arms.
"So you knew me, did you, Denise?" he said at last.
"Oh! always! I shall always recognize you! Even if your face were not
the same, my heart would tell me that it was you."
"Dear Denise!"
"Well, I didn't know you, my kind friend," said Coco, "because you've
got a beard; and then, you were crying."
"Alas! you did not expect to see me in this pitiable costume, did you?"
"Oh! we expected you, dressed no matter how! In our eyes, aren't you
always well dressed? But when I see you like this, I fear that you have
been unfortunate; and that is what grieves me."
"Yes, Denise, yes, I have been unfortunate, but I have earned it! It's
my own folly that has reduced me to this condition! But as I still have
your friendship and this little fellow's, I feel that I have not lost
all."
"Oh! monsieur, is it possible that you could doubt our hearts?"
"What would you have? misfortune often makes men unjust. I was wrong, I
see. I will tell you everything that has happened to me, Denise; I will
tell you frankly what I have done; you are the last one from whom I
would conceal my shortcomings, for I am sure beforehand that you will
forgive me."
"Oh! I am so glad to see you again, monsieur! But come in and sit down
in the house, and rest; you must want something to eat and drink."
"It is true that I have had nothing since yesterday."
"Since yesterday!" cried Denise; and a deathly pallor overspread her
cheeks, her eyes filled with tears, and she could not speak; she laid
her head on Auguste's shoulder and gave free vent to the tears that were
choking her.
"Denise, dear Denise, pray be calm! I am with you; I have already
forgotten part of my misfortunes--don't be alarmed about me! Besides, I
am not entirely without resources. The reason why I have eaten nothing
since yesterday is that sad thoughts took away my appetite. I still have
a little money, but I am saving it to procure lodgings in Paris; for
nothing is so conducive to economy as misfortune. Oh! the loss of my
wealth is not what grieves me most, as you know; blest with a happy
disposition, hope and cheerfulness continued to travel with me even when
my purse was light; but the ingratitude of men, the desertion of him
whom I loved like a brother--that is what cut me the deepest! that is
what took away my courage! I know that a man may bear the blows of
destiny philosophically; but I could find no philosophy to enable me to
bear the loss of a friend, the pains of the heart."
"O mon Dieu!" said Denise; "is it possible! But, it is true, you are
alone--What has become of Bertrand?"
"He has deserted me! He got tired of my follies, and he left the man
who, in his prosperous days, treated him as a friend, not as a servant."
"Bertrand deserted you--left you when you were unfortunate and a long
way from home! Oh, no! no! that is impossible, monsieur! He loved and
honored you! Bertrand is an old soldier, he has not forgotten all that
he owes you; I will answer for his heart as surely as for my own."
"Nevertheless, Denise, I have told you the truth. But let us go into the
house; later I will tell you the story of my travels."
"Oh! forgive me, monsieur; to think of my forgetting! Let's go in
quickly; come and rest."
Denise led Auguste into the house. Coco followed them, jumping and
crying aloud for joy.
"Here's my kind friend come back! Denise won't be sad any more!"
The girl ran to wake her old servant, and turned everything topsy-turvy
in her haste to set before the wayfarer the best that she had; and as
she went to and fro by Auguste, she stopped constantly to look at him,
as if to make sure that he was not a delusion, then exclaimed:
"He is here! he has come back at last! he hadn't forgotten us!"
And she wiped away a tear born of her emotion, which was instantly
succeeded by a smile. Auguste was deeply moved by the pleasure that his
arrival caused in the cottage. He did not tire of gazing at Denise, he
noticed the change that had taken place in her language and manners and
dress; and as he turned his eyes upon himself, he sighed and said:
"The three years that have passed have wrought vast changes: instead of
the milkmaid, a rather awkward village girl, I find in you a young woman
full of charm. And I, whom you used to see so dandified and
elegant--here am I arrayed like any poor devil who travels on foot
without the means to pay for a lodging!"
"What difference does that make? Are you Coco's benefactor any the less?
or he who made love so ardently to the little milkmaid?"
"You will agree, Denise, that in this costume I don't look very much
like a benefactor or a seducer."
"For my part, if you don't like me this way, I will very soon go back to
the woolen waist and the little cap."
"You will always be lovely. However, I have no right--I must not
forget----"
Auguste paused and Denise looked at him anxiously; but he seemed to make
an effort to banish a painful memory and took his place at the table,
saying:
"Let us not think of anything but the pleasure it affords me to be here!
Denise, Coco, come beside me; one evening of happiness will help me to
forget several months of suffering."
They sat down at the table. Auguste was the object of the most zealous
attentions on the part of the occupants of the cottage; the presence of
a sovereign would not have made them so happy as that of the poor
wayfarer.
When Auguste had recovered from the fatigue of his journeying, he took
Coco on his knee, seated himself in front of Denise, and began his
story:
"I determined to travel, hoping that travelling would ripen my wits;
moreover, it was necessary that I should make an effort to put my
talents to some use. I know how to paint, I am a good musician, but it
was very hard for me to look for pupils in Paris, the scene of my days
of splendor, where I could not take a step without meeting old
acquaintances, who turned their heads to avoid bowing to me when they
learned that I was ruined! So I started with Bertrand----"
"Yes, and without coming to bid me good-bye!" interjected Denise with a
profound sigh.
"I was afraid to see you again. I supposed that you were married. I have
not forgotten what you told me in your garden when I came to call on
you."
Denise blushed, and Auguste continued:
"So I started. We had six thousand francs left; with economy, that was
enough to carry us a long way. But it is so hard for me not to do
foolish things!"
"And to be good!" said Denise under her breath.
Auguste smiled and continued:
"At Turin we were robbed by adventuresses of our whole fortune except a
few gold pieces, with which we travelled to Rome. There I worked and
earned a little money with my violin, and Bertrand gave fencing lessons.
We went to Naples, where I met by mere chance a lady whom I had known in
Paris; she interested herself in my behalf and procured me some rich
pupils. We had lived there very comfortably for a year when I received
two or three stiletto thrusts on account of an Italian damsel's lovely
eyes."
"Mon Dieu!" cried Denise; "why did you need to love an Italian too?"
"I was driven to seek distraction. That adventure disgusted me with
Italy, where, in truth, I saw no prospect of making a handsome fortune.
I determined to go to England, where moderate talent often commands a
very high price. Bertrand was still ready to go with me; we left Italy
and reached London without mishap. There, after a very short time,
having acquired the friendship of a man who frequented the first
society, he made me the fashion, and I had more pupils than I could give
lessons to. I charged very high rates, and I was overjoyed to find that
I should be able some day to return to my native land with a good round
sum of money. But, alas! I had the ill luck to become acquainted with a
young English-woman."
"Well! still another woman!" exclaimed Denise testily.
"She lived with some relations, who, so she said, made her very unhappy.
She proposed to me to carry her off, and I dared not refuse. Despite
Bertrand's advice I indulged in that escapade. But the abduction created
an uproar, and I was proceeded against; I was obliged either to marry
the young woman, or to pay a large sum; for in England one must always
give compensation. I did not choose to marry, so I paid."
"Ah! that was much better than--than to marry by force," said Denise.