Part 21

The winter days were very long, especially to the village girl, who no longer took any pleasure in the evening reunions, who listened without interest to the jokes of the young men, and who had no one for whom she cared to beautify herself. Although one may find enjoyment in musing beneath an oak tree's shade, although the sight of green grass and verdant shrubbery may allay the pangs of love, the interior of a farm-house, and the quacking of geese and ducks must be intolerable to a heart that craves silence and solitude. Denise, obliged to conceal her unhappiness from her aunt, remained in her room and watched the Paris road.

One day when a sharp frost had hardened the ground, although the sun still made the gnarled and leafless trees attractive to the eye, Denise, who was at her chamber window, heard talking and laughing on the path leading to their house. The voices were evidently not those of villagers, and, in fact, two ladies dressed like Parisians appeared on the tree-lined path, looking about them, evidently with no very clear idea where they were going, and stopping every minute to laugh, and to rest by the hedge.

Denise recognized one of them as the young woman whom she had met at Auguste's rooms in Paris, and who had walked with her to the stage office, manifesting the deepest interest in her. The sight of a person who knew Dalville, who had come perhaps with a message from him, caused the girl keen pleasure, and she at once left her room, to go out and accost the strangers.

Denise was not mistaken: Virginie, to whose mind the pretty village maiden she had met at Auguste's apartment recurred now and again, had spoken of her to one of her friends. This friend was a tall brunette of some thirty years, with a fine figure, but with a bold expression that would have intimidated a dragoon. A dressmaker by trade, but passionately fond of the theatre, she neglected her thread and needle to enact tragic princesses and heroines of melodrama in private theatres. Despite her determined manner, sentiment was Mademoiselle Cézarine's weakness; she always had a passion on the carpet, and would have gone on the stage for good and all, had she been able to overcome an unfortunate lisp. For the rest, Mademoiselle Cézarine was a good-natured soul and incapable of trying to seduce a friend's lover.

A fine winter's day suggested to Virginie the idea of a trip to Montfermeil. At the first mention of the country, Cézarine had exclaimed:

"I'll go with you, my dear; I feel the need of dithtraction to-day. Théodore hath been playing trickth on me. Let'th go and thee your little peathant; we'll drink milk, and perhapth that will pathify my mind."

"Let's go," Virginie assented; "I don't know the exact address, but I know it's Montfermeil, and my tongue ain't in my pocket."

"Oh! we'll thoon find the plathe. Do you thuppothe that I, who could find Théodore in any corner in Parith, won't very thoon make a thorough thearch of a village?"

"I'll introduce you as a relative of mine; for we must have some excuse."

"Don't you be alarmed. Haven't I acted Themiramith? Don't I carry mythelf like a queen?"

"I know you've played Semiramis, but there are times when no one would suspect it."

"Let'th be off and take the thage."

"All right. I'm sure that the little girl will be glad to see me. My dear, you are going to see a case of perfect innocence."

"Tho much the better; I don't like anything but innothenthe, now I know that rathcal Théodore is falth to me."

"Great heaven! are you going to talk about your Théodore all the way? that will be amusing!--By the way, there's one difficulty--I haven't a sou."

"Oh! I've got enough for both. Wait till I count. I've got a hundred and fifteen thouth."

"With that sum we can go to the Mississippi. Put on your Sunday hat and your home-raised cashmere; and off we go."

Mademoiselle Cézarine put on her bird-of-paradise hat, which the sun had faded to a pale yellow, and the shawl, once of amaranthine hue, in which the flowers had become so blended with the background that it was difficult to distinguish them. But when one indulges frequently in grand passions, one sometimes makes sacrifices, and Mademoiselle Cézarine preferred one glance from the man of her choice to the diamonds of a Russian prince; therein she differed essentially from Mademoiselle Virginie.

The young women took their seats in the stage; there were no other passengers except two old peasants, at whom they made faces all the way, because they detected an unpleasant odor about them. At last they arrived at Montfermeil, and, Virginie having inquired where Denise lived, they were directed to the path where the girl discovered them.

"My dear love," said Cézarine, "I don't thee the ruthtic roof that thelterth your young friend, and I am beginning to be doothid hungry."

"Wait, it must be close by."

"What a lovely morning! If that ungrateful Théodore had only come with uth!"

"Yes, to eat up your hundred and fifteen sous in one meal! Dieu! what a fool you are to go wild like this over a man who ruins you! Let's go on a little farther."

"My dear, it'th too much for me; it'th no uthe for me to thay: 'I mutht forget him!'"

"I'll sing it for you, if you want; perhaps that will have more effect on you."

"Ah! he hath thuch lovely whithkerth. It wath hith whithkerth that fathinated me firtht."

"You ought to have had them made into a cravat."

"You're alwayth joking. How lucky you are, Virginie! you don't know what a violent pathion ith."

"The deuce I don't! I've had more of 'em than you have!--Oh! see that pretty little house, and the farm--That must certainly be the place."

"I don't believe your village girl livth in thuch a nithe houthe."

"Why not, pray? If you had seen the plump chickens she brought Auguste, you wouldn't be surprised."

The appearance of Denise put an end to their uncertainty. The girl ran to meet Virginie, kissed her, and made a respectful curtsy to Cézarine, who cried:

"What! ith thith your young village girl? How pretty she ith! The deuthe! what a pretty fathe! Ah! I'm very glad now that Théodore didn't come!"

Virginie trod on Cézarine's foot, as a hint to her to be quiet, and said to Denise:

"I haven't forgotten you, you see, my dear; I have come to see you without ceremony, and brought my cousin with me. We don't put you out of the way, do we?"

"Oh, no, madame! on the contrary, I am very glad. It's very kind of you to come. My aunt will be delighted to see you--and madame too."

"Will you let me kith you, my child?" said Cézarine.

"Yes, madame, with pleasure. But come--come into the house. You may not have dined yet?"

"Well, hardly, my dear; all I've had ith a little piece of thauthage when I got up."

"Yes," said Virginie, treading on Cézarine's foot again, "my cousin and I have begun to realize that fresh air sharpens the appetite. But we're going to the inn----"

"Oh! I hope that you'll stay with us, madame. It would be very unkind of you to refuse."

"Dieu! how pretty the ith! the hath Théodore's nothe."

"We accept, my dear Denise, so long as it won't put you out. Besides, the merest trifles from people one likes always give more pleasure--than the dainty dishes one mightn't find somewhere else----"

Denise's only reply was to run ahead to tell her aunt, and Virginie said to her friend:

"For heaven's sake, be careful what you say, and remember to behave decently. What with your Théodore, whom you lug into the conversation at every turn----"

"And you lothe yourthelf in your thentences and can't find your way out of them!"

"No matter--long sentences are what you want with peasants; they don't understand 'em, but they think they're fine."

"Well, I'll thay Théodore ith my huthband and that he'th in the army."

As they talked, the ladies reached the farmyard, where the geese, ducks, dog and goat greeted them with a little impromptu concert.

"Oh! how I love the country!" cried Virginie, running forward to kiss Coco, while Cézarine did her utmost to keep her shawl out of the dog's mouth. Meanwhile, Mère Fourcy came out to receive the travellers whom her niece had announced as fashionable ladies from Paris, of Monsieur Auguste's acquaintance, and to whom the good woman conceived that she owed the greatest respect.

"This is my aunt, madame," said Denise to Virginie; and the latter saluted the old woman with the patronizing air of a woman of fashion, saying:

"I am very glad to make the acquaintance of your venerable aunt. Dieu! what an antique cast of countenance! I am very fond of elderly people. Let me embrace you, madame."

Having embraced Mère Fourcy, Virginie called Cézarine:

"Cousin, come here and let me present you to our excellent aunt."

"One moment, pleathe," said Cézarine, "until I get rid of thith mitherable dog of herth, that hath grabbed my cathmere. Oh! I know what the matter ith--day before yethterday I wrapped up a leg of mutton in it----"

Virginie coughed to drown Cézarine's words, and the latter at last escaped from the dog and bestowed a regal salutation on Mère Fourcy.

"This is my cousin," said Virginie, presenting her friend to Denise's aunt. "I told her about your lovely niece, and she could not resist the desire to make her acquaintance and yours, venerable aunt; we left our hotels and climbed into the wretched chamber vessel called a stage, where we had no other company than a couple of old clowns who smelt of rancid butter. But when we are going to see people we like and esteem, we take a standing jump over all such little annoyances, don't we, cousin?"

"Yeth, my dear," Cézarine replied, walking like Semiramis.

"It's very kind of you, madame," said Mère Fourcy, "and we appreciate your courtesy. But you must have something to eat."

"We have already dined _à la fourchette_, but we don't like to decline."

"For my part, I could eat all day long in the country," said Cézarine.

The ladies entered the house, and while the table was being laid, Cézarine petted Coco.

"What a hanthome boy! what a fine profile!" she exclaimed. "He'll look like Théodore. Ith he yourth, my beauty?"

This question was addressed to Denise, who blushed as she replied:

"What did you say, madame?"

"You're infernally stupid!" cried Virginie; "the idea of asking this child such a question, as if she was old enough to--Why, she hasn't begun to think of such things."

"Look you, my dear, I don't know her ekthact age. Bethideth, I've got a thithter who wath a mother at thirteen."

"Is she a Creole, then?"

"Yeth, a Creole from the Pont-aux-Choux."

Luckily Mère Fourcy was in the cellar at that moment, so that she did not hear the colloquy between the two ladies. Denise longed to learn something about Auguste, but she dared not take the liberty to ask Virginie; she was afraid that that young woman would divine her profound interest in him, and the poor child would have been terribly abashed to have those fine ladies of Paris, both of whom she believed to be friends of Auguste, know her heart's secret. To that sweet child love was all in all; she was very far from suspecting that to her two visitors it was a very small matter.

While Denise was preparing the repast, Virginie insisted upon helping Mère Fourcy to set the table, which the old woman would not allow; and during the contest between the peasant and the Parisian, a bottle slipped from under the arm of the former and fell at Cézarine's feet, where it broke and spattered her dress.

"O Dieu! my merino is all thpotted!" she cried; "what am I going to do? I haven't got another."

"You can wear your velvet," said Virginie, motioning to her to be careful what she said. Cézarine, engrossed by her dress, paid no heed but continued to complain.

"It'th jutht the dreth that ith motht becoming to me; I wore it when I captivated Théodore."

"That's her husband, who's in the army--he's a general.--Come, cousin, you have made enough fuss over your dress. You have plenty of others, I should say."

"I thertainly did have all thothe I put up the thpout----"

"Up the spout, Mère Fourcy, means cutting them up into towels. You see, we are all so changeable in Paris--we have to have a new dress every week; we throw our money out of the window! A wicked place that Paris is! Happy the people who live in villages! Ah! the country! trees and animals and rye bread--that's what I call happiness! I hope to end by buying a little château or a cottage--it's all one to me, so long as it's in the country. As for Denise, whom I love as if I was her mother, if there's one thing I'd advise her to do, it's to stay here and not go to Paris again. However, I fancy she don't care much about it; and the way Monsieur Dalville received her the last time--why, it made me frantic! And to think that the poor child had brought him fresh eggs and such a fine cake!"

Denise, returning with a huge soup-kettle full to the brim, overheard Virginie's last words and halted behind Cézarine, motioning to Virginie to say nothing to her aunt. Virginie, being accustomed to dissemble, understood the girl's signs and continued, trying to repair her blunder:

"After all, the young man is very excusable, for you see, Madame Fourcy, there are people in Paris who don't like cake; it isn't as it is in the village, where it takes the place of salad. And then, Auguste is a little thoughtless; but his heart's in the right place! yes, he has a very kind heart! I know him better than anybody. Besides, at this time above all others, I shouldn't think of speaking ill of him; and although he's ruined----"

"Ruined!" cried Denise; and in her emotion the girl dropped the kettle, whose contents completed the disfigurement of Cézarine's gown.

"Great God! but I'm unlucky to-day!" she cried, as she gazed at her garment; "how do you expect me to go back to Parith, and play _Andromaque_ on Monday, in thith dreth?"

Mère Fourcy lost herself in apologies; but Denise paid no heed to the accident she had caused; she ran to Virginie, exclaiming:

"Ruined! Monsieur Auguste ruined! Oh! mon Dieu! madame, how did it happen, pray?"

"I'll tell you directly, my dear love."

Virginie, first of all, seated herself at the table; Cézarine did the same and forgot the accidents that had happened to her dress as she helped herself to double portions. Mère Fourcy stood respectfully before the young women, and poor Denise, with her eyes fixed on Virginie's, waited impatiently until she should choose to tell her what had happened to Auguste.

"Pray be seated, venerable aunt," said Virginie to Mère Fourcy, who believed that she was entertaining ladies from the court.

"Indeed, madame, I shall not think of it!"

"I thall refuthe to eat if you continue to thtand," said Cézarine, as she ate her third egg.

"I know too well what I owe you, madame."

"You don't owe us anything at all, Mère Fourcy; on the contrary, we ought to be waiting on you."

"Oh, madame! the idea!"

"Respect the wrinkled--that's my motto. Sit down, I say!"

"How well madame would play the mother of Coriolanuth!"

"Let's drop Coriolanus, cousin, and give Madame Fourcy a chair."

As she spoke, Virginie rose from the table, seized Mère Fourcy's arms and led her to a chair. As the peasant woman continued to resist, Virginie pushed her backward and ended by taking her by the shoulders and forcing her to the floor beside the chair. The good woman fell almost under the table, while Virginie, thinking that she was seated, resumed her own place. But when she found that she could not see her, she said:

"I am afraid that I have given you rather a low chair, but, at all events, you'll be more comfortable than if you were standing."

"That'th a very nithe theat you've got!" said Cézarine, as she assisted Mère Fourcy to rise. "Why, did you fall? Thee what cometh of holding back! Did you hurt yourself?"

"You're very kind, madame--just a little bit, on the hip."

"That can't help doing you good; it thtirth up the blood. Take a theat, pray."

Mère Fourcy did not wait to be urged any more; and when tranquillity was restored, Denise said once more:

"And Monsieur Auguste, madame?"

"Oh, yes! to be sure! I haven't told you how he came to be ruined. The first reason why I haven't is that I don't know anything about it; but still, it's easy enough to guess: the fellow acted like a goose, gambling, spending a lot, and paying his mistresses. I've said to him twenty times: 'Auguste, you're driving too hard!' Yes, I've told him so very often, but I always used the familiar thou, because I knew him when he was such a little fellow!"

"I should have said the young gentleman was about your age," said Mère Fourcy.

"So he is, very near; but we were brought up together--we had the same nurse--so that I'm deeply attached to him; and although he lives on the fifth floor now, that won't prevent my going to breakfast with him, as I told Bertrand yesterday, when he told me that the funds were low."

"But Monsieur Auguste must be very unhappy, it must make him very sad to be ruined," sighed Denise.

"He, my dear girl! not a bit of it! Oh! you don't know him; he's just as wild and heedless as ever. Bertrand said so yesterday. Poor Bertrand! I saw a tear in his eye while he was telling me about his master's follies! He's a faithful servant, that fellow, a real friend! Give me something to drink, Semiramis, for, I notice that, while I am talking, you do nothing but fill your own glass. Semiramis is the name of an estate belonging to my cousin; she has estates in all the suburbs of Paris."

"I say, Denise," cried Mère Fourcy, "if that gentleman's lost his money, hadn't we ought to give back what he left for Coco? What a pity the cottage is all built!"

"What's given is given, Madame Fourcy," said Virginie; "that's a principle I've never departed from. It's a mistake to act on the theory of returning what you've received."

"Ah! if I had all I've given to Théodore!"

"He's a husband of my cousin. She's given him the measles twice, and you can understand that she wouldn't be overjoyed to have them returned. Give me something to drink, Semiramis."

Denise took no further part in the conversation; she was pensive and entirely engrossed by what she had learned on the subject of the young gentleman from Paris. The two grisettes, finding themselves very comfortable at the table, jabbered to their hearts' content. Mère Fourcy opened her eyes and ears, not always able to understand the pretty stories that those ladies told her; but as they did not give her a chance to put in a word, there was nothing for her to do but to stare in amazement.

They had been at table a long time, Mère Fourcy seated between them, doing nothing but turn her head from side to side. Denise had left the room, unobserved; the poor child's heart was heavy; thinking that Auguste was in distress, she longed to let her tears flow and wished to conceal them from the Parisians. Coco, who was playing in the yard, saw her pass. The boy saw that she was unhappy, so he dropped his toys, ran to her and said:

"What's the matter, my little Denise?"

"You don't know, Coco, that your kind friend, who has given you so many things, is poor now, and unhappy perhaps."

"We must carry him some more eggs and cake, my little Denise; he'll like to have them, if he's poor. When I lived in the old hut with grandma, I used to be so happy when you brought me some white bread! I didn't use to have it very often then."

Denise kissed Coco; what the child said had given rise to a secret hope in her heart. She wiped her eyes and returned to the living-room, where the party had been increased by the arrival of a villager, formerly the school-teacher, who had come to pay Mère Fourcy a visit, and at sight of the two young ladies from Paris, had come near knocking over a wardrobe, in order to make a more graceful bow; while Virginie winked at Cézarine, who hid her face in her napkin to avoid laughing in the face of the newcomer, whose features were an exact reproduction of the absurd masks sold in Carnival time.

"Good-day, neighbor Mauflard," said Mère Fourcy to the ex-school-teacher.

"Good-day, neighbor Fourcy."

"How goes it, neighbor Mauflard?"

"Very well, neighbor Fourcy. Faith, I didn't have anything to do, so I says to myself: 'I'll just go and see neighbor Fourcy.'"

"That's right good of you, neighbor."

"But if you've got company, I don't want to be in the way."

"Do stay, Monsieur Mauflard," said Virginie; "we should be terribly distressed to frighten you away."

"I don't believe that monthieur ith afraid of the fair thex."

The neighbor replied with a second bow, so low that he could have picked a coin from the floor with his teeth; then he took a chair and seated himself.

"You'll take a drink, neighbor Mauflard, won't you?"

"With pleasure, Mère Fourcy."

A glass was filled for neighbor Mauflard, and this he emptied after bowing to the whole company; then he settled back in his chair, murmuring:

"That's good, very good--always the same."

"Who is neighbor Mauflard?" Virginie asked Aunt Fourcy in a whisper.

"Oh! he's a very fine man. He used to keep a school in the village; but not long ago he retired, as he didn't have but two scholars."

"I'm thorry for that; I'd have thent Hecuba to him."

"What does she mean by Hecuba?"

"That's my cousin's daughter--a charming child; she isn't three yet, and she bites at everything."

"Oh! that'th tho; the'd bite at marble!"

"Neighbor Mauflard is one of the most knowing men hereabout."

"Anyone can see that by looking at him. But he don't say anything. Have another glass, Monsieur Mauflard?"

The neighbor's only reply was a prolonged snore; according to his custom, he had already fallen asleep.

"Why, he's asleep!" said Virginie.

"Oh, yes, that's his way; as soon as he comes in, he sits down and shuts his eyes."

"That certainly makes him a very pleasant companion!"

"He'th like that villain of a Théodore, who alwayth uthed to go to thleep ath thoon ath he had thaid thome blackguardly thing to me."

"She means her husband, who must always have his siesta. He brought that habit from Spain, with chocolate."

"I say, Denise," cried Mère Fourcy; "I know why neighbor Mauflard came here to-day; didn't we say at Claudine's last night that we'd have the party here to-night?"

"Oh! dear, yes!" Denise replied dejectedly; "that was a very unfortunate idea of yours."

"A village party!" said Cézarine, leaving the table; "oh! what fun that will be! I've often heard of them, but I never thaw one."

"Nor I," said Virginie; "and yet I've seen a great many things. I say! if we should pass the night here, we could attend the party. What do you say, cousin?"

"I thay that cabs won't cotht any more to-morrow morning than to-night."

"It isn't a question of cabs. I know that we didn't bring our own carriage, so as not to tire our horses; but we must find out whether it will inconvenience our venerable aunt to put us up to-night."

"Oh! we've got room, madame."

"It will be very kind of you to stay," said Denise, hoping to have more talk of Auguste with Virginie.

"But the ladies will have to be satisfied with rather a hard bed."

"We shall be very comfortable."

"I'm not hard to pleathe; I've thlept on thraw more than onth."

Virginie nudged Cézarine and added hastily:

"Oh, yes! in the country--as a joke--just for sport."

"Yeth, and I rather like it; it ith great fun--it prickth."

"Oh! I don't propose that you shall be pricked," said Mère Fourcy; "I'll fix up a bed for you in the little back chamber."

"Don't put yourself out in the least, dear aunt, I beg; the pleasure of staying with you, of seeing the spectacle of a village party, is all we want," said Virginie. But the old woman turned a deaf ear and went to prepare a chamber for her guests, while Denise lighted a great lamp to illuminate the living-room; for it was growing dark, and the party would soon begin.

During these preparations Virginie whispered to her friend: