Part 13

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.