Chapter VII: The Village

Denise started to return to her village; but she did not sing as her custom was, as she walked behind White Jean. Her heart was still heavy because of what had taken place at Madame Destival's; and although she had tried not to seem distressed, she did not forget the word--_hussy_--that had been applied to her. To be called by such a name as that, when she was virtuous, when she had nothing for which to reproach herself, seemed very hard to the little milkmaid. It is said that unmerited insults do not wound; but how can an honest and sincere heart fail to feel outraged on receiving epithets usually reserved for vice? It might much better be said that it is the vicious person who does not blush and who laughs at anything that may be said to her, because she retains no sense of shame. In my opinion the proverb "Only the truth gives offence" is essentially false.

"How unkind those city people are!" thought the girl; "the idea of calling me a hussy! That sounds well from them! What did I do to deserve it? I kissed that gentleman because he's got a kind heart, and because he's going to look out for Coco; it seems to me that was no more than natural, and I ain't ashamed of it. That Madame Destival, who came rushing at me with such a scowl! I thought she was going to hit me.--The idea of telling me that my cheeses are bitter, and that I put water in my milk! Ah! I felt just like crying, but I did well to keep the tears back, she'd have been too pleased to see them. And that other one, who did nothing but laugh and make all sorts of faces and monkey tricks at that young man! Mon Dieu! as if I had done anything to make such a fuss about! Should I have refused that money when it was to help that poor boy? No, indeed! and it would have made the gentleman angry, and I'd much rather make the lady angry. He isn't wicked, he's only a flatterer. Well! that ain't a crime--all one has to do is not to listen, that's all. And he's very nice and polite. I clawed his face and he didn't get mad. By the way, he didn't tell me his name. Why should he? I don't need to know it. Perhaps he told Coco--I must ask him.--Go on, White Jean!--Shall I show my aunt this purse? Yes, I'll tell her the whole thing. But I didn't tell her yesterday about my fall, and what that gentleman saw. When I think of that, it troubles me, and I want to cry again. And that other gentleman, who calls him lieutenant, and who whispered 'Look out for yourself!' when he passed me. His name's Bertrand, I remember that. He looks like a good fellow, that Bertrand; but what in the deuce did he mean with his 'Look out for yourself'?"

Meditating thus, Denise arrived at Montfermeil, a pretty little village where the people are not badly off; where there are several comfortable bourgeois houses, and nothing to indicate want, because the occupant of the humblest cottage works instead of begging.

Denise's cottage was at the end of the village, on the bank of a little stream that followed a winding course between rows of willows. It was of two stories; the walls were sound, and the roof was covered with tiles, which gave the cottage a certain air of elegance. There was a yard in front, separated from the street by a low wooden fence; the stable was at the right, and hens, chickens and ducks wandered about the yard, which they seemed to look upon as their property, giving vent to all sorts of cries when any other person than Denise or her aunt ventured to enter. The garden was behind the house; it was about two acres in extent, but there was no semblance of order; fruit and vegetables grew in confusion, according to the custom of the peasant, who thinks first of the useful. There were not many flowers, but as Denise was fond of them, there were a few rose-bushes among the potatoes, and now and then a syringa, its branches enlacing the trunk of a plum or an almond tree.

It will be evident from these details that the cottage did not belong to poor people. Everything about it indicated the possession of a competence; and in fact Mère Fourcy, Denise's aunt, was one of the richest peasants in the neighborhood; she owned two pieces of land, one of which was on the other side of the stream that flowed by her house; and Denise, who was her sole heir, was able by her activity and her little trade in milk and cheese, to add to the income of her aunt, who, although she was a worthy woman, was a little inclined to be miserly. That is said to be a failing of the rich; indeed, how can you expect those who have nothing to exhibit such a failing?

White Jean entered the yard without guidance, and headed for his stable. Denise was a little distance behind, having been stopped by some of her neighbors, who, as the custom is in villages, talked with every passer-by, because everybody knew everybody else. But the little milkmaid, who was in no mood for talking, hastened after White Jean, and relieved him of the baskets containing the milk and cheese that she brought back.

"What will my aunt say when she sees that I've brought these things back?" Denise asked herself; and she could not restrain a sigh. But Denise did not fear her aunt, for Mère Fourcy, knowing her niece's virtue, and considering that she knew more than all the other people in the village, always approved what she said and did, except when it was a matter of lending money. That is why Denise, despite her fondness for Coco, had been able to do very little for him.

"His father's a drunkard," Mère Fourcy would say; "to give the child money is just giving that good-for-nothing Calleux the means of drinking."

Mère Fourcy was a stout woman of fifty-five, who, despite her corpulence, was active and alert; she heard her niece come in, and came downstairs to help her unload her ass.

"What have you got there, my child?" she asked.

"The cheeses I made for Madame Destival."

"Why didn't she take 'em?"

"Because--because she didn't want 'em."

"Oh! that's different.--What! all this milk too?"

"Oh, dear! yes, aunt."

"And I wouldn't let Monsieur Brichard have any this morning!"

"Oh! we'll use it up, aunt."

"Has Madame Destival taken her trade away from you?"

"Yes, aunt."

"That's what makes you look so cut up then. Where does she expect to get better milk?"

"Oh! it ain't on account of the milk, aunt."

"On account of something else, is it?"

"Yes, aunt."

"That makes a difference. Tell me about this other thing, my child."

Denise thought a moment, then replied:

"You know, aunt, I told you yesterday that I met a fine gentleman who asked me the way to Monsieur Destival's?"

"Yes, my dear."

"And that it was the same man who gave a lot of money to Coco's grandmother, because Coco broke the soup-bowl?"

"Yes, yes, I know. That sot of a Calleux will drink it all up."

"Well, aunt, I saw that young man again this morning, at Monsieur Destival's."

"So he's a young man, is he? You said a gentleman yesterday."

"Bless me! so he is, a gentleman who is young."

"Oh! that makes a difference."

"He was very pleasant and friendly with me, and when he learned from me that Père Calleux spent all the money, he gave me this purse and told me to see that poor Coco has everything he needs. I took it, aunt; did I do wrong?"

"Of course not, my dear; as if you didn't always do right, dear Denise. Well! you're a good girl too, and you don't let the men talk nonsense to you."

"No, indeed, aunt; but I let that gentleman kiss me."

"Oh! that makes a difference. What did he want to kiss you for?"

"To thank me for agreeing to look after Coco, for he's very fond of him."

"Well, I don't see any harm in all that, my child."

"But Madame Destival did, for she came up to me in a rage and called me----"

"She called you----?"

"Oh! I don't want to repeat the horrid word.--Well! she called me a--a--hussy."

"God in heaven! my niece, my Denise, a hussy! the virtuousest girl within ten leagues! And you didn't jump at her face?"

"No, aunt; I just said that it was horrible to believe--to think--then I came home with my milk and my cheese."

"You did right, my child, you did right; those folks don't deserve to eat such good things."

Denise did not tell her aunt what Madame Destival had said about her milk and cheese, because Mère Fourcy would be just the woman to go to the business agent and demand satisfaction for such an insult. The girl did not like quarrelling and she wished never to hear Madame Destival's name again. Mère Fourcy went to the village to try to find customers for the milk and cheese. When she was alone, Denise took out the purse and counted its contents in her apron. There were twelve twenty-franc pieces, and six of five francs.

"Two hundred and seventy francs!" exclaimed Denise, throwing up her hands in amazement; "why, that's quite a lot of money. That gentleman must be very rich to give away so much all at once. Perhaps I ought not to have taken it all. But still, as it's for Coco--there's enough to send him to school, to have him learn to read. Yes, but his father don't want him to learn to read. That's a pity, I should like so much to make Coco a gentlemanly, well-taught boy; it would please that gentleman when he comes back--for he'll come to see his little boy; at least, he said he would. Never mind, I'll be very careful of the money; and while I have the time, I think I'll go to the cottage and see if they've done what that gentleman intended they should."

By taking crossroads, one could go in a quarter of an hour from Montfermeil to the home of the Calleux family. Denise walked rapidly along the paths, which were well known to her. She entered the wretched hovel. Coco was seated at a table with old Madeleine. They were dining without Père Calleux, who, finding himself in funds, preferred the wine-shop to his house.

At sight of Denise, the child gave a joyful cry and ran to her. Denise was so good to him! she always brought him something nice; she often prevented his being beaten; in short, she showed great affection for him; and children love those who love them; it is not always so with men.

"Good-day, little Denise!" said Coco, opening his arms to the girl.

"Take care, good-for-nothing!" said old Madeleine; "you almost upset the table and spilt my soup! I'd have given you a good licking, if you had!"

Denise glanced about the hovel, and saw that the only change that Dalville's money had wrought was the presence of a large new bowl, which was in front of the fire. The child's bed was no softer than before.

"See how fine I am, Denise!" cried the child, exhibiting the trousers and the little brown jacket which replaced the ragged garments that covered him on the preceding day.

"Yes, I see," said Denise, scrutinizing the garments, "but none of these things are new."

"Pardi!" cried old Madeleine, "do you s'pose we was going to have 'em made to order for him? The things are good enough for a brat as plays all the time like him. You'll see in a day or two! they'll soon be full of holes! Ah! he'd wear out clothes made of iron."

"But why didn't you buy him a mattress, Mère Madeleine? I thought that gentleman told you to when he gave you the money."

"Because his father wouldn't have it; he says a boy hadn't ought to be coddled so, because it keeps 'em from getting strong."

"Still, when the money was given for Coco----"

"For Coco? yes, and for us too, my girl; hadn't the parents ought to come before the children?"

"Is Père Calleux in the field?"

"In the fields! oh, yes! in the fields indeed! He's at Claude's wine-shop. He took all there was left of the money that gentleman give me, and told me he was going to put it into some great undertakin'. Oh, yes! I know all about that; he'll undertake to drink it all up in a day, if it's possible."

"Would you like to have me take Coco away with me till night, Mère Madeleine?"

"No, my girl, no; I'm an old woman, and I don't want to be left alone. Coco's got to stay with me."

Denise kissed the child, who ran off to play and roll on the ground with his goat; then she returned to the village, asking herself:

"How shall I go to work to do what that gentleman wants done?"

The next day was Sunday. No work in the village. The women paid more attention to their toilet, they donned their prettiest gowns, and in the evening the whole population assembled on a beautiful greensward shaded by oaks and walnuts. There a wretched violin and a huge tambourine played for the young men and women to dance; they considered the orchestra divine, because it gave the signal for their enjoyment. Denise was the favorite among the young men, and aroused some jealous pangs in the hearts of her companions. The passions insinuate themselves everywhere; there are envious and evil-speaking folk in the village as well as in the city; but they are less skilled in disguising their sentiments.

Denise was the prettiest girl in the village and in the country roundabout; that was what all the men said; but all the women did not agree. Denise was no coquette, but she was a woman; and what woman is there who is not conscious of a secret pleasure in the certainty that she is attractive, that she can prevail over her companions? But Denise did not play the coquette with the young men; she did not bestow a smile upon this one, a glance upon that one, a word of hope upon the other; but she laughed and joked and was pleasant to one and all alike; for she was very fond of dancing, and she liked to have everyone invite her to dance.

On the Sunday in question, however, Denise, who had gone to the green with her aunt, as usual, did not seem to enjoy herself so much as she ordinarily did; she laughed less with the young men and seemed not to take any pleasure in dancing. And finally, a thing that had never been seen before, Denise, after four contradances, declared that she was tired and would like to rest a while.

"Is it because you're sick, my child?" Mère Fourcy asked her niece, when she came and seated herself by her side.

"No, aunt, I ain't sick, but I'm tired."

"Tired! you! the greatest dancer in the whole country!"

"Well! I guess one gets tired of everything, aunt. I don't feel in the mood to-day."

"That makes a difference."

"Come on, Mamzelle Denise, come and have a dance," several young men said to the little milkmaid. And one of them pulled her arm until he almost dislocated it, another struck his palm against hers with all his might, and a third, while saluting her, trod on her feet. With such delicate attentions it is customary to pay court to a village belle, who sometimes retorts by a ringing slap on the gallant's face, thereby indicating that he is in her good graces.

But Denise distributed no slaps among the youths who surrounded her; she simply sent them away, saying:

"Let me alone, when I tell you that I don't want to dance."

"Oh, yes, you do! oh, yes! She'll dance--you'll dance--she's joking when she says that."

But Denise held her ground, and when the dancers had taken their leave, she said to her aunt:

"Bless my soul! how stupid they all are!"

"Who, my girl?"

"Why Gros-Jean and Lucas and Bastien."

"They're the sharpest fellows in the village! What are you thinking about, to say that? Gros-Jean, who's so funny when he dances and always mixes up the figures on purpose! Lucas, who's taken the prize at _goose_ three years running! And Bastien, who's been to Paris twice and learned to play at quarter-staff! And you call those boys stupid!"

"Bless me! aunt, it seemed to me that they didn't say anything to me but things that didn't amuse me."

"But you used to laugh so loud with 'em! I tell you you're sick, my child; when we go home, I'm going to make you eat a good dish of peas and pork before you go to bed; that'll do you good."

Denise did not feel sick; she did not herself know why she was not enjoying herself. At last the hour for retiring arrived, and the girl was secretly well pleased to return to the cottage and leave her companions, who glanced sneeringly at her and said to one another:

"Something's the matter with Denise, that's sure! At all events, if she's always the way she is to-day, the fellows will soon give up liking her and making love to her."

In spite of, or perhaps because of, the dish of peas and pork, Denise slept little. She thought, not precisely of the fine gentleman who had flattered her and kissed her and picked her up after her fall, but of the one who proposed to take care of poor Coco; of the money of which she was the depositary, and of the means of making the child happier.

At daybreak she left her bed. After completing her morning chores, she made her escape and hurried to the Calleux cabin. She saw the child playing in front of the door and was delighted to speak to him without witnesses.

"Where's Madeleine?" she asked.

"She's asleep, my little Denise," the child replied, throwing his arms about the girl's neck.

"And your father?"

"Papa Calleux, he didn't come home last night. Grandma says he slept at the wine-shop."

"Coco, do you love that gentleman who came here and left money for you, and kept you from being beaten for breaking the bowl?"

"Oh, yes! I do love him, just. He's got a pretty vest and a pretty ribbon hanging on it. He's coming to play with me again, ain't he?"

"Yes, he said he'd come again. Do you know his name?"

"He's my dear friend."

"But his name--did he tell you that?"

"No, but he knows my name's Coco, and Papa Calleux----"

"You must love that gentleman dearly, for he means to do ever so much for you. Would you like to learn to read and write?"

"Oh, yes! so's to read pretty stories in the books with pictures in 'em, like you've got. But papa won't let me go to school."

"I'll speak to him and try to make him consent----"

At that moment old Madeleine's shrill voice was heard, calling the child. He kissed Denise and went into the cabin, while the girl walked rapidly back to the village.

Père Calleux, after passing three days at the wine-shop, resumed his spade and watering-pot; but he would not consent to let Coco go to school, although Denise told him that it would cost him nothing; and old Madeleine would not allow the child to go any farther than the field where his father worked. Denise went to the hovel every morning; she always carried something secretly to the child, but she did not touch Dalville's money.

"He won't come back," said Denise to herself; "here's a week gone already! Psha! he's forgotten all about--Coco; still another reason for saving that money. Some day the little fellow will be very glad to have it. And yet that gentleman seemed to want to come again. Of course he's been to Madame Destival's, and he didn't go through our village! What liars they are, those young men from Paris! Still that one has some good qualities. But why did that Monsieur Bertrand tell me to look out for myself?"

The dancing days came around in due course, but Denise's good spirits did not return, although she did her utmost to appear as of old, and often danced when she felt no desire to do so, and tried to joke with the young men. Her greatest pleasure now was to sit alone under a great oak in her garden, or to go to the cabin and embrace Coco, to whom she talked constantly of the handsome gentleman, who meant to do so much for him.

A month had passed since Auguste's meeting with Denise, when one morning, as she was about to start for the cabin, a peasant informed her that old Madeleine had died during the night. The little milkmaid ran to the child at full speed. The old woman's remains had not been removed; and as Calleux was poor and was not liked in the neighborhood, the child was watching alone by the body, while his father made the necessary arrangements for the burial.

Denise halted in front of the solitary hovel, the aspect of which seemed to her more wretched than ever, because Death casts a dark pall over everything wherever he passes. The girl was surprised to find nobody about; she drew nearer and bursts of laughter fell upon her ears. She concluded that the person was mistaken who had told her of the grandmother's death, and she put her head in at the door. She saw the death bed, beside which a lamp cast a dim light; and close by she saw the child playing with his goat on the straw, and greeting with shouts of laughter Jacqueleine's antics and caresses.

That picture caused Denise a peculiar sensation. She entered the cabin and walked toward the child, saying:

"What's this, my dear? playing beside your dead grandmother?"

"Will that make her mad?" queried the child, with an artless glance at Denise.

"No, for she can't hear you; but you ought to be sorry for her death."

"Someone told me she wouldn't whip me again."

"Didn't you cry when she died?"

"No, Denise."

"Then you didn't love her?"

"Oh! I was awful 'fraid of her!"

"My dear, it isn't nice not to have any feeling."

"Oh! if my goat died, Denise, I'd cry hard enough; Jacqueleine's so good and she loves me so!"

Denise could think of no answer to make to the child; she sent him outside with his goat. On Père Calleux's return, she obtained his permission to take Coco with her for a few days, and Coco took with him his darling goat, from which he refused to part.

Denise was anxious to keep the child with her; Mère Fourcy was kindhearted, and Denise showed her that as he grew up Coco would be of use to them, and that the money left by the gentleman from Paris would be more than sufficient to educate him. Père Calleux, who realized that his son could not make his soup, consented to leave him with Denise for the present, and the girl was overjoyed.

Behold, then, Coco a member of the little milkmaid's family, and leading a pleasant life. Denise, who knew how to read,--not a rare accomplishment in our villages nowadays,--determined to educate her little protégé, and did not fail to speak to him every day of the handsome gentleman who had paid so generously for his bowl.

But another month passed, and the gentleman from Paris did not come again. Denise, who still loved to muse beneath the great oak, often said to herself:

"It was quite right to think that he didn't mean a word of all those fine things he said to me. But, when he wasn't coming back, it wasn't worth while for that Monsieur Bertrand to say: 'Look out for yourself!'"