Chapter 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!"

"Besides, you've known all about housekeeping for a long time, and your 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.