Chapter XI: A Visit to Montfermeil

Auguste, who had no secrets from the faithful Bertrand, told him of the meeting in Romainville forest.

"Well, lieutenant," said Bertrand, "was Madame Schtrack mistaken when she told me about the little man that slunk upstairs as soon as you left?"

"I thought that Léonie adored me."

"I'm surprised at that, lieutenant; you deceive the ladies so often yourself, that you ought to be a little more suspicious of their oaths."

"On the contrary, my dear Bertrand, I assure you that those who are most cunning in seduction allow themselves to be deceived with astounding ease."

"Then it's no use to be cunning."

"Because you're very fond of a person, that doesn't prove that you know that person thoroughly."

"It is certain that if you knew her thoroughly, you might not be so fond of her; for instance, I love wine, I confess; I always know when it's good, but I can't always tell what province it comes from."

"And I love women, I appreciate their charms, I admire their beauties; but their hearts--Ah! if they exhibited them to the naked eye, the prettiest ones wouldn't always be preferred."

"For all that, lieutenant, if I were you, I'd be a little shy of those affected airs, and those voices always pitched in a falsetto key, which never come from the chest; it seems to me that a person can't be talking honestly when she always acts as if she was singing. I would be on my guard too against fainting fits, tears and stifled sighs."

"Why, my dear Bertrand, when the tears are shed by lovely eyes, when the voice comes from a pretty mouth, when the person who pretends to faint displays a charming body, a shapely figure, is it so easy to resist? No, one must surrender--with liberty to repent later."

"That is true. In fact, that's just like me: to find out whether a wine's good, I must taste it; and it's never the bad one that a man does himself harm with. It's a pity that this meeting didn't happen the day before yesterday, before you paid the note for two thousand francs!"

"Let's not think any more about that!"

"No; only let it be a lesson for the future."

"Bertrand, when you meet Madame Saint-Edmond, I desire you to be as polite to her as before!"

"Oh! never fear, monsieur, I'm a Frenchman, and an old soldier knows the respect due to the sex. Parbleu! if one must needs look askance at everybody who hasn't got the countersign, one would have to look cross-eyed too often. At all events, lieutenant, that makes one less, and we shall be able to straighten out our cash-box a little, and----"

"Oh, yes! I am fully determined to settle down. Destival has spoken to me about another excellent investment. I will go to see my notary to-morrow and turn my securities into cash.--Oh! by the way, you will pay a small bill for furniture that will be sent here within a few days."

"Have you been buying furniture, lieutenant?"

"Not for myself, for Virginie."

Bertrand turned away, biting his lips, and struck himself repeated blows on the forehead to keep himself from speaking out and venting his wrath. Auguste, observing his cashier's ill humor, continued with a smile:

"Come, don't get excited, Bertrand! really, you are getting to be so severe!"

"I, monsieur! I haven't said a word!"

"Deuce take it! I am rich; do you expect me to deny myself all pleasure?"

"I don't expect anything at all, monsieur."

"Ought a man in my position to lead the life of a petty tradesman with an income of twelve hundred francs?"

"We spent forty thousand francs last year, and your income only amounts to fifteen thousand; if we go on that way, we're perfectly certain to be left as naked as little St. John."

"No; I shall succeed in keeping a better proportion between my expenses and my income this year. But this bill is a mere trifle. Poor Virginie! she's so amusing!"

"Oh, yes! she's amusing enough! but she'd ruin a platoon of contractors!"

"You certainly can't call her voice falsetto."

"No, parbleu! there's no doubt about it's coming from her chest; and she must have a strong one too, for she uses it devilish hard. Thunder and guns! what a chatter!"

"She hasn't any prim ways or affected manners."

"Oh! as far as that goes, I'll admit that she's outspoken! She don't conceal her game, at all events. But all the same, lieutenant, you can scold me if you choose, but I tell you again that these women ought not to occupy every minute of a man's time; and that it makes me feel bad to see that they don't love you as you deserve to be loved; because, at heart, you're a good man, you have lots of good qualities and fine feeling; and all that ought to make you see that it isn't by running after women all the time that--That's all, lieutenant."

Auguste was silent for some time, and Bertrand, surprised to see him so pensive, feared that he had offended him, and dared not open his mouth.

"I believe that you're right, Bertrand," said Auguste at last.

"Really, lieutenant--you agree with me?"

"Yes, I feel that a genuine passion, a sincere attachment, must make a man happier than all these momentary fancies. But is it my fault that it is so difficult to find a frank and sincere heart in society?"

"No, certainly not; it isn't your fault."

"Or that coquetry and falsity take the place nowadays of love and friendship?"

"Such substitutes shouldn't be allowed!"

"Ah! my dear Bertrand, we should be too fortunate if all women were faithful."

"True, we should be too fortunate."

"And yet the whole business of living would be intolerably monotonous then."

"Ah! do you think it would injure business?"

"You see, Bertrand, we must take the world as it is."

"We have no help for that."

"But when I have found a woman who will love me for myself, who will be incapable of deceiving me, who will try to please nobody but myself alone, why then----"

"Then, lieutenant?"

"Oh, Bertrand! such a pleasant memory! And it's so long since I thought of her!"

"Who, lieutenant?"

"Lovely Denise, the pretty little milkmaid of Montfermeil. Ah! she is virtuous, I'll swear to that."

"That would be taking a big risk; you hardly know her, and you haven't seen her for two months."

"Do you know why I haven't seen her, Bertrand?"

"Because you forgot her."

"No, it isn't that alone. I have had another reason; you'll laugh, but it is that I am afraid of becoming too fond of that girl."

"In that case, it's very delicate on your part."

"Yes, of course it is; for why should I try to seduce that child, who is virtuous and innocent, and who is living a tranquil life in her village?"

"That would be very wrong, monsieur; there's girls enough willing to be seduced in Paris, without going into the suburbs to look for others."

"Saddle my horse, Bertrand, and saddle the cabriolet horse for yourself; make haste."

"Why, where are we going, monsieur?"

"To Montfermeil, to see Denise."

"What! when you just said----"

"I have reflected that there's no danger for her, because she doesn't love me."

"Do you think not, monsieur?"

"She told me so many times. But I want to see Coco, my little protégé, poor child. I really long to hug the little fellow. You will see how pretty he is, Bertrand--and such vile relations!--Put some money in your pocket, Bertrand."

"Oh! as much as you choose, lieutenant, to relieve the unfortunate, to help an orphan; one never regrets such things, and it gives one a hundred times more pleasure than paying for the brunette's hangings and the blonde's shawls."

The horses were saddled; Auguste and Bertrand mounted, and started for Montfermeil about ten o'clock in the morning. At eleven they had passed Raincy; a little later they reached Livry, turned to the right, and soon saw the village of Montfermeil before them.

Bertrand was drenched with perspiration; he was not used to riding hard, as Dalville was; and although it was September, it was still exceedingly warm. Bertrand drew rein, observing to Auguste that their steeds needed a breathing-space; but, thinking that he recognized the path by which Coco had taken him to his cabin, Auguste urged his horse forward, calling to Bertrand:

"Ride on to the village; I'll join you there."

"All right, I'll go on to the village," said Bertrand to himself, letting his horse walk. "Shall I go to the inn? Or shall I inquire for the little milkmaid? No, I don't want milk for my horse, and the girl probably wouldn't be able to feed us both.--A very pretty village, but I don't see any signs of an inn."

Bertrand allowed his horse to go where he chose; he passed several hovels of only one story, not caring to halt at such wretched abodes; but he soon found himself beside a rippling stream bordered by willow trees, with a pretty cottage on the opposite side. Bertrand crossed the brook and stopped in front of the yard. A small boy was playing with a goat; a little farther on a girl was churning butter, and at the rear was an elderly woman arranging fruit in a basket.

From his saddle Bertrand could overlook the whole yard, and he watched that rustic picture. Suddenly the girl raised her eyes, saw the horseman, and rushed toward him, exclaiming:

"I can't be mistaken--it's Monsieur Bertrand."

And as she spoke, the girl's eyes searched the road for another horseman.

Bertrand recognized Denise and bestowed an affable nod upon her, saying:

"By the great Turenne, I couldn't have stopped at a better time. Bébelle has a most amazing scent!"

"Pray come in, Monsieur Bertrand," said Denise, her eyes still fixed on the road.

"You're very kind, mamzelle, but I'm looking for an inn, where my horse and I can get something to eat."

"You'll find all you want here. We won't let you go anywhere else, will we, aunt?--Come in, Monsieur Bertrand."

Bertrand could not resist the girl's courteous insistence. He was surprised to hear her call him by name, having no idea that Dalville could have amused himself by mentioning him to Denise. While he dismounted, the girl ran to her aunt, and, to induce her to treat the newcomer cordially, she made haste to tell her that Bertrand was the companion of the gentleman who had been so kind to Coco. Mère Fourcy rose and made a low reverence to Bertrand, who could not conceive the cause of so much politeness.

Bébelle was taken to the stable, the child left his goat, to go and look at her, and Denise ushered Bertrand into the house and made haste to offer him wine. Meanwhile Mère Fourcy made an omelet, Bertrand having admitted that he would be glad to eat a morsel.

Denise was burning to learn something about the young man who had commended Coco to her care; but she waited for her aunt to leave the room before mentioning him. She did not know how to question Bertrand, whom she supposed to have been sent by the handsome young man to make inquiries about the child; and she waited for Bertrand to speak first; but as he did nothing but eat and drink, Denise decided to question him.

"He sent you to find out whether Coco had everything he wants, and whether I'd made a good use of the money he left with me, didn't he, monsieur?"

Bertrand emptied his glass at a draught and replaced it on the table with a bang, saying:

"For a village wine, that ain't bad at all."

"Didn't you hear what I said, monsieur?" asked Denise timidly.

"I beg pardon, but you will be very good to act as if I hadn't heard, for I didn't understand."

"I asked you if that gentleman, that young man I saw with you, first in a cabriolet, and afterward at Madame Destival's----"

"You mean Monsieur Auguste Dalville?"

"Ah! is his name Auguste Dalville?"

"How is it that you don't know his name and do know mine?"

"Because he called you by name twice before me, in the courtyard, and I haven't forgotten your name."

"You are very kind, mademoiselle."

"So Monsieur Auguste Dalville didn't come with you to-day?"

"I beg pardon, but he's close by! he'll be here very soon."

"He is here, he is coming!" cried Denise, jumping for joy. But she added, to conceal her emotion: "You see, when you came alone, I thought that you wasn't with him any more."

"Do you suppose I'll ever leave my master, my benefactor, a man who has done everything for me, and who still calls me his friend? Ten thousand bayonets! No, my dear child, that can never be; I'm attached to Monsieur Auguste, just as my sword hilt is to the blade; nothing can ever separate me from him, except himself. But I don't worry about that; although I do make bold to scold him a little, he knows old Bertrand's heart."

Denise wiped away the tears of emotion which the old soldier's devotion brought to her eyes; then she cried, taking Bertrand's hand and pressing it in hers:

"Ah! what a fine thing for you to say, Monsieur Bertrand! How nice it is to love a person like that!"

"Does it surprise you? did you think that Monsieur Auguste didn't deserve to be loved so well?"

"I don't say that, monsieur; far from it. Another glass, Monsieur Bertrand?"

"With pleasure, mamzelle."

Denise was delighted to hear him talk of Auguste; and as the wine made him very communicative, he went on; for when he was talking about his benefactor, it was the same as with his campaigns--there was no way of stopping him.

"Yes, my pretty child, Monsieur Auguste's a fine fellow--a rake, a lady-killer, fickle and dissipated, it's true; but those things don't touch the real man."

"What, monsieur! he's all that? Why, it's very wicked to be a rake and fickle. And you said such fine things about him just now!"

"Have I said any ill of him, my girl? Don't you know that young men must sow their wild oats? But I trust that with my advice--Corbleu! if Schtrack knew of this wine--And when it's so hot, it makes you thirsty as the devil."

"I believe, monsieur, that while Monsieur Auguste was talking to me in Madame Destival's courtyard, you whispered in my ear: 'Look out for yourself!'"

"It's possible, my child, quite possible.--Look you, Mamzelle Denise, you're a pretty girl----"

"Very polite of you, Monsieur Bertrand."

"Oh, no! I say that in all honesty. You look to be a good girl, too, and it would be a pity to let you get caught. My master's a fine fellow, but as soon as he sees a pretty face, he flashes up like powder! it's too much for him. He'll swear that it will last forever; but at the first village where he sees another pretty girl, he'll take fire and swear the same to her."

"Oh! that's very wicked!"

"No, it's a disease of youth, and it will pass away!--You see, in Paris I can't always be at his heels to warn the pretty girls he makes love to; besides, in the big cities, the girls know enough about such things not to need any warning. But when I happen to see my lieutenant talking to a child who looks to me to be virtuous and respectable, like you, then I just whisper in her ear: 'Look out for yourself!' and if that don't save her, it ain't my fault, at all events."

Denise made no reply, for she was reflecting upon what Bertrand had just said; he wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, drank, and replied:

"However, the proof that Monsieur Auguste's a fine young man is that, when he reflects, he don't make a fool of himself. For instance, he found you to his taste; well, he didn't come again to see you; he told me that it was for fear of getting to be too fond of you."

"Too fond of me!" cried Denise. "What! did he really say that, monsieur? Then he loves me."

"Not at all, my pretty child; that is to say, not any more than the others. But he would have tried to seduce you as a matter of habit, and you might perhaps have listened to him; for he's a good-looking fellow, and he has such a way of telling of his love that he'd make a woman of sixty believe in it."

"And that's why he hasn't been here?" Denise inquired, with a sigh.

"Yes; but to-day he remembered your saying that you didn't love him; so then he came."

"I didn't say that, Monsieur Bertrand."

"No? then he did wrong to come."

"I don't say that I do love him either."

"So much the better for you, Mamzelle Denise; for that would be laying up trouble for yourself."

"Whoever heard of a village girl loving a fine gentleman from the city?"

"I don't know whether it's possible, but I know that it sometimes happens."

"Don't worry, Monsieur Bertrand, I shall never have any feeling but friendship for Monsieur Auguste; and if it's the dread of my loving him that keeps him from coming to the village, why, tell him he can come as often as he likes. Denise knows only too well that she isn't capable of winning the heart of a city gentleman; she won't ever forget it."

"Bravo! that's what I call talking, my dear child. I drink to your virtue,--and, as you see, I leave no heel-taps.--But what's the matter, pray? are you crying?"

"No, Monsieur Bertrand, no; you see, I should be very sorry to--But it's all over now. Monsieur Auguste won't be afraid any more to come to see his little protégé. He won't let two months go by again, without coming."

"Oh! that depends. At Paris, you know, Mamzelle Denise, my master don't have a minute to himself; he's always at some party or some entertainment! People fight to see who shall have him! He gets ten invitations a day."

"Oh, yes! he don't have time to think of the village. Is he so very rich then, your Monsieur Auguste?"

"Rich? Yes, to be sure, he is as yet; but if he keeps on at this rate, he won't be rich long!--Your health, Mamzelle Denise."

"What do you mean by that, Monsieur Bertrand?"

"Oh! nothing, nothing!--At any rate, I ought not to presume to criticise. Monsieur Dalville's money's his own; let him give it to women who deceive him, to grisettes who ruin him; let him pay for furniture and rugs and calico dresses--it's none of my business; I must just obey and pay; but it makes me feel bad because--damnation!--what with women on one side and écarté on the other----"

"What's écarté, Monsieur Bertrand?"

"Oh! that's a little game at which people ruin themselves while they imagine they're enjoying themselves. They say it's a delightful game, because it's played so fast. For my part, I think it's played much too fast; but Monsieur Auguste gambles so as to do like the others. That's his business. Besides, if he chooses to ruin himself, why, you understand, subordination before everything.--Your health, Mamzelle Denise."

Denise was greatly surprised by what she had heard; she was wondering whether she ought to believe Bertrand, who continued to drink and talk, when Coco came bounding into the room.

"Who is that child?" queried Bertrand.

"The little boy to whom Monsieur Auguste gave so many tokens of his generosity."

"He's a pretty little fellow.--Come here, my boy; get up on my knee--so. Haven't you got any father or mother, little white head?"

"Yes, monsieur, I've got Papa Calleux," Coco replied, looking up at Bertrand.

"What does Papa Calleux do?"

"He works in the fields."

"He's a drunkard," Denise whispered to Bertrand.

"The devil! that's a villainous fault," the latter replied, putting his glass to his lips. "A man must drink--it's a necessity--but he should be able to govern his thirst, and above all things, never lose his wits.--But, by the way, seeing this little fellow reminds me that he's the one my master's gone to see; when he left me, he said: 'I'm going to the child's cabin.'"

"Oh dear! he won't find anybody there," said Denise. "And you never told us! We must go to meet him. I supposed he was at Madame Destival's.--Come, Coco, come; we are going to find your kind friend--the one you love so much."

"The one you talk to me about every day, Denise?" asked the child.

"Yes, your benefactor.--Are you coming with us, Monsieur Bertrand?"

"Faith, Mamzelle Denise, I'm very comfortable here; and if you don't need me----"

"No, no; my aunt will keep you company.--Come, Coco, let's make haste to look for your kind friend."

The child asked nothing better than to go with Denise. They left Bertrand in the act of making a military salute to Mère Fourcy, who had just entered the room, and they started for the cabin.

But Denise was moved by conflicting emotions, of whose source she had no very definite idea: she was happy, and yet she trembled, and her breathing was labored; and as one cannot run far under such circumstances, Denise slackened her pace. But Coco ran on ahead, because at seven years of age such emotions are unknown.

Denise was so engrossed by what Bertrand had said to her, that she did not at first notice that the child had left her; but Coco was well acquainted with the roads, so that the girl was not anxious about him, and she paused a moment under a great tree, glad of an opportunity to prepare for her meeting with the young man. A thousand thoughts passed through her mind; but the one that recurred most frequently was that Auguste had come to the village again solely because he thought that she did not love him.

"Is it quite certain that he thinks that?" said Denise to herself; "perhaps Monsieur Bertrand heard wrong. Is it quite true that Monsieur Auguste is such a deceiver as he says? An old soldier can't know much about all those things. But after all, what difference does it make to me, as I don't care for the young man? As Monsieur Bertrand says, what good would it do me to love him? He'd just laugh at me afterward. Oh! there's no danger of my marrying a young man from Paris.--A rake, a seducer, fickle----"

Having reflected thus, the maiden arranged her neckerchief, adjusted her cap, retied her apron, and looked down at herself, murmuring:

"Oh dear! how tumbled I am! If I had known this morning--if I could have guessed. That gentleman won't think me pretty again--Bah! it's all one to me; but a body don't like to look as if she was careless and hadn't any taste."

At last, having completed her scrutiny of her toilet, Denise was about to leave the tree, when she heard a voice. It was Auguste's. The girl recognized it, and she had to stop again to recover her breath.

But Auguste was not alone; he was talking and laughing with a pretty, rosy-cheeked peasant girl, by whose side he was walking, leading his horse by the rein. Denise being hidden by the great tree, Dalville did not see her.

The peasant halted a hundred yards from the tree which concealed Denise.

"Adieu, monsieur; I'm going this way; and if you're going to Montfermeil, that's your road straight ahead."

"We shall not part like this, my beauty," said Auguste, dropping his horse's rein to put his arm about the girl's waist; "we must at least bid each other adieu----"

"Let me go, monsieur, let me go, I say! You squeeze too hard."

"Not so hard as I would like to."

"I say, did it take you like this, all of a sudden, when you got off your horse?"

"It always takes me this way."

"It's worse than a clap of thunder.--Look here! are you going to let me go?"

"When I have kissed you."

"No, none of that.--Look out; while you're getting excited, your nag's going off."

"I can find him again."

"Look, he's already trampling down Nicolas's beans."

"Let him trample."

"Monsieur, I tell you I'll yell if----"

The sound of a kiss interrupted the peasant, and echoed in Denise's heart. She had heard it all, and she did not stir. This first victory would perhaps have been followed by a second, had not Coco's voice made itself heard; he ran toward Auguste, whom he had just caught sight of, shouting at the top of his lungs:

"Here's my kind friend! Good-day, my kind friend! Have you come to play with me?"

When he heard the child's voice, Auguste left the peasant and went to meet him, while she walked away, saying to herself:

"It's mighty lucky the little fellow came, all the same; for it wa'n't no use for me to fight--he kept right on! Jarni! what a scamp he is!"

Auguste took the child in his arms, kissed him, and received his caresses with keen enjoyment.

"You weren't at the house, Coco," he said; "I found nobody there. Don't you live there now?"

"No, I'm with my little Denise all the time now; since Grandma Madeleine died, I've lived with Denise. I'm awful happy now, 'cos she loves me ever so much; she loves me as much as Jacqueleine."

Wiping her eyes, to which the tears had risen, the girl left the great tree and walked toward Auguste, trying to assume a laughing expression.

"Look, there's Denise," said the child, as he spied the little milkmaid coming toward them.

Auguste instantly ran to meet her.

"So here you are, my dear Denise! How glad I am to see you again! It has been so long!--On my word, you are prettier than ever."

Denise curtsied coldly to him, and replied in a constrained tone:

"You are very kind, monsieur."

"Had it not been for business that has kept me in Paris, I should have come to see you long ago. I have wanted to do so more than once, for I have often thought of the little milkmaid of Montfermeil. And you--have you thought of me sometimes?"

"Oh! not often, monsieur," replied Denise, twisting the corner of her apron.

"That is what I call plain speaking," said Auguste testily; but he soon recovered his usual good humor and continued: "After all, Denise, you would have been very foolish to bother about me. Do I deserve to arouse the interest of so pure and sincere a heart as yours? No, I do myself justice. I assure you, Denise, I am very glad for you that you have no affection for me; but I hope to have your friendship, and I will be worthy of it despite my vagaries. What do you say, Denise? You will be my friend, won't you? and when some of the fashionable city ladies have been guilty of fresh perfidy toward me, I will come to you to forget them. The sight of you will reconcile me to your sex; you will make me believe once more in virtue and fidelity, in all the qualities that we seek in women, and--But I haven't kissed you yet, Denise, and a friend has that privilege."

Denise blushingly offered her cheek, and Auguste imprinted upon it a single kiss, because the little milkmaid's cold and constrained manner led him to think that it was only from good-nature that she granted that favor.

"It seems that there have been some important happenings here," continued Auguste. "Coco tells me that he lives with you, that his old grandmother is dead----"

"Yes, monsieur; I asked Père Calleux to let us keep his son, and he consented. I thought Coco would be happier at our house. Did I do wrong, monsieur?"

"As if you could do wrong!"

"And then my little Denise takes good care of Jacqueleine," said Coco; "and she lets me play all I want to,--if I'll pray to the good Lord for my kind friend every morning and every night."

Denise blushed and looked at the ground.

"Isn't it natural to pray for one's benefactor?" she stammered.

Auguste was touched; he gazed at the girl and the child for some moments, profoundly amazed that a little money, given for the purpose of doing good, should afford him greater happiness than the money he spent by the handful to pay for his pleasures. Then, as if he were ashamed of his emotion, he exclaimed:

"Thanks for a mere trifle!--But, now that my little fellow is with you for good and all, I don't propose that he shall be a burden to you. You can hardly have anything left of the paltry sum I gave you, and to-day I will make up for my neglect. I want Coco to do something, to learn----"

"Oh! Denise is teaching me my letters now," said the child.

"What! do you know how to read, Denise?" asked Auguste.

"Yes, monsieur, and to write too," the girl replied, with an air of importance.

"Upon my word, that is very fine for a milkmaid," said Auguste with a smile, "and I am sure that you know more than any of your companions. In that case I will leave Coco's education in your hands for a few years. Later, we will see--I will have him come to Paris----"

"And Jacqueleine, too, can't she, my kind friend?" said the boy, taking Auguste's hand.

"Yes, my boy.--But I am forgetting poor Bertrand, who is waiting for me in some village wine-shop."

"He's at our house, monsieur; I left him with my aunt."

"Let us go and join him then, for I will confess, my dear Denise, that I am dying of hunger and thirst."

"Mon Dieu! monsieur, and I never thought of asking you. Come along; we shall soon be there."

They set out for the village. Auguste offered the maid his arm, which she accepted with a blush, hardly daring to lean upon her escort, lest the slightest pressure of her arm should lead him to guess what she would have liked to hide from herself; and even holding her breath, because she was afraid that anything might betray her. Blessed age! blessed age of innocence, when love retains all its modesty, when she whom love assails, while striving to conceal it, allows it to appear in her eyes, in her voice, in her slightest acts! It would unquestionably have been very easy to read the girl's heart at that moment; but is it possible for a man accustomed to the manoeuvres of city coquettes to recognize true love?

They reached the cottage and found Mère Fourcy sitting beside Bertrand and listening with eyes as big as saucers to the tales of battle which the ex-corporal watered with the native wine. Denise's aunt curtsied again and again to the gentleman from Paris; Denise ran hither and thither, turning everything topsy-turvy in order to give Auguste a dainty luncheon at once; and while she was making it ready, Coco led his kind friend to see Jacqueleine, and Mère Fourcy followed, to call the visitor's attention to the beauty of her roosters, the size of her eggs, and the gentleness of her cows. After inspecting the cottage, Auguste went into the garden, still under the guidance of Mère Fourcy and Coco; they gave him grapes and other fruit to eat, and presented him with the finest flowers. Auguste expressed great admiration for everything, and each of his encomiums procured for him an additional reverence.

At last the repast was served. It was one o'clock, the universal dinner hour in the village. Denise had worked to such purpose that she was able to offer Auguste a full meal. There were chickens, ducks and rabbits. When he saw the bountifully-laden table, Auguste insisted that his hosts should sit down with him. The villagers made some demur, but the young man declared that he would accept nothing unless they bore him company. They submitted, with renewed curtsies; Auguste took his seat between Denise and his little protégé, with Mère Fourcy opposite; and at his lieutenant's invitation, Bertrand seated himself beside the aunt.

The meal, enlivened by Auguste's sallies, Bertrand's bumpers, and the child's artless joy, aroused an unfamiliar sentiment in each of those who partook of it. Mère Fourcy, bursting with pride at the idea of dining with such a fine gentleman, sat a foot away from the table, and did not lift her glass without saluting the company. Bertrand was deeply gratified to sit at table with his lieutenant; and, desirous to prove that he was ever mindful of the respect he owed him, he maintained while eating the attitude with which he would present arms; he did not lift his eyes from his plate, even to fill his neighbor's glass, the result being that he sometimes missed it. The child laughed and chattered, played with Auguste, and fed his goat. Denise spoke very little; she was embarrassed and did not eat, and yet she was conscious of being very happy, seated beside the hare-brained youth who kissed every girl he saw, and who had the secret of winning the love even of those to whom he did not make love.

Auguste had never been in such high spirits as at that meal: he caressed the child, he joked with Mère Fourcy, he forced Bertrand to drink with him; it seemed to him that the fresh, pure air of the fields set him free from all the trammels of society, and that he breathed more freely, happy to be rid for a moment of etiquette and gallantry.

"Bertrand," said the young man, filling his glass; "I really believe that I am happier here than at a sumptuously-laden table, surrounded by pretty women covered with jewels, and served by an army of footmen."

"Here, monsieur, you see nobody but people who care for you, and who will not ruin you by compliments and courtesies."

"Well, Bertrand, when the others have ruined me, this is where I will come to seek consolation for the ingratitude of men and the perfidy of women. But you say nothing, Denise; does that mean that you don't approve of my plan?"

"No, monsieur," the girl replied under her breath; and her aunt exclaimed:

"Come, speak up, my child; you don't eat and you don't talk! Something's the matter, sure."

"It's a fact," said Auguste, "that you don't seem to share our merriment. What is the matter, Denise?"

"The matter, monsieur? Why, nothing, I give you my word."

"And I give you my word that something is the matter!" cried Mère Fourcy. "Pardi! for some time she's been all turned round; she don't like dancing, she don't like games, she don't know what she does like. But I know all about it, I tell you; when a girl gets to be like that, it means that she's thinking about something.--Well, you needn't blush for that, my child; you're a good girl, as everyone knows; but that don't keep you from thinking about getting married, and I hope monsieur'll do us the honor to come to the wedding."

"Yes, most assuredly," said Auguste, with a slight grimace; "yes, Denise, I shall be delighted to be a witness of your happiness; and as you love someone--You didn't tell me that you had made your choice."

Denise made no reply; she kept her eyes on her plate, and tried to conceal her confusion by caressing Coco's faithful companion.

Auguste rose abruptly from the table, and, without a word to the others, left the room in evident ill humor, and went out to walk in the garden. He did not choose to admit to himself the nature of his feelings; but what Mère Fourcy said had caused him a pang. Even while he told himself again and again that he cared nothing for Denise, he felt in his heart that the young peasant's face aroused in him a sweeter emotion than those of all the coquettes in Paris.

He walked about at random through the winding paths, and did his utmost to recover his merry humor.

"I can't understand myself," he thought; "losing my temper because that girl loves someone, and that someone is not I! I! Why on earth should she love me, whom she has seen but three times, and of whom she knows nothing? I must have a deal of self-love to dream that she could care for me. But no, I feel that it is not vanity that makes me wish that she should.--Well, I must return to Paris and forget this little milkmaid. That will be easy enough; for what is there so extraordinary about her? There are a thousand women in Paris prettier, more alluring, more----"

Auguste stopped short, for, happening to turn his head, he saw Denise within a few yards. He fixed his eyes on the girl, who seemed afraid to go forward and stood beside a tree. Her confusion, her flushed face, the furtive glances that she cast at the young man, gave to her whole person a grace and charm which art could not imitate; and Auguste said under his breath: "No, there's not a woman in Paris to be compared with her."

Surprised to see their guest leave the table so abruptly, Denise had followed him at a distance. She remembered what Bertrand had told her, and as she desired nothing so much as that Auguste should come often to the village, she determined carefully to conceal her secret sentiments.

Auguste walked toward her; for some time they stood face to face, without speaking; at last the young man said, trying to assume an indifferent manner:

"So you love someone, Denise?"

"Yes, monsieur," the girl replied, blushing and keeping her eyes on the ground.

"If I remember rightly, when I first met you, in the little path in the woods, you told me that you had no lover."

"That was true, monsieur."

"Then you have given your heart away since that time?"

Denise sighed and held her peace.

"I have no right to question you," continued Auguste sharply; "but it is the interest you arouse in me, the--Do you know, Denise, I was sadly mistaken, for I thought that you loved me a little."

"Oh, no! I don't love you, monsieur--not with love. I must tell you that, as you wouldn't come to the village any more if it wasn't so. But I do hope you'll come, monsieur; oh, yes! you must come to see the child you've adopted! I shan't forget that I'm only a peasant and you're a gentleman from the city; and I assure you that I shall never love you."

As she finished, the girl turned away so that Auguste could not see the tears that fell from her eyes. But he was already far away, striding toward the house. He entered the living-room and said:

"Come, Bertrand, we must return to Paris."

"Return to Paris it is, lieutenant; I'm all ready to do four leagues an hour. Adieu, mamma; your wine's very nice. Some day when Schtrack has the time, I'll bring him down here to reconnoitre."

The girl entered the room and tried to read Auguste's eyes; but he said to her without looking at her:

"Adieu, Denise, we're off."

"Already!" cried Denise; "you seemed to be so comfortable here!"

"Yes, I am very comfortable here; that is true; but business calls me back. I will see you again, Denise; I will come again to see you."

"You won't let so long a time go by without coming to see Coco?"

"No, I promise you that. Take this--it's for him. I have no need to commend him to you, you are so kind!"

"Oh! as to that, monsieur, she loves the child as if he was her brother."

"But what is the use of leaving me so much money, monsieur?"

"His house is falling to pieces; you must have it repaired; then have the little garden behind it enclosed, and buy the whole place for my little boy."

"But, monsieur, this is three thousand francs that you've given me, and it won't take so much money for that."

"Take it, I insist; and if it isn't enough,--here is my address in Paris. Write me, Denise, and you shall hear from me at once."

Auguste tossed his card on the table, and kissed the child.

"Good-bye, my kind friend!" said the little fellow, throwing his arms about Auguste's neck. Mère Fourcy made the young man a curtsy, which lasted as long as it took to count the three thousand francs. Denise glanced at him with an embarrassed air, expecting that he would kiss her; but he did nothing of the sort. After bidding the child adieu, he bowed to the others, sprang lightly to his saddle, and rode away with Bertrand, leaving the girl greatly depressed by the cold manner in which he had left her.

"What does it mean?" she said to herself; "he stayed away because he was afraid he'd fall in love with me, and now he acts as if he didn't like it because he knows I'm not in love with him. What should I do, so that I can see him often?"

As he trotted along beside his lieutenant, Bertrand, as his custom was, ventured to indulge in a few observations.

"It's a fine thing to be generous, certainly, and we shouldn't regret the money we give to do good. Still, monsieur, it seems to me that three thousand francs is a good deal just at this time when our cash-box isn't very well supplied; you might have embarrassed yourself less by giving it in several instalments, and it would have amounted to the same thing."

"I probably shall not come to the village again for a long while," said Auguste pensively.

"Oh! that makes a difference, and I am wrong."