Part 28

"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.

XXVI

THE RETURN

One lovely spring evening Denise sat under the shrubbery in the garden, reading, while Coco played in front of the cottage, beside the old peasant woman, who had fallen asleep on a bench.

Happening to look out on the road, Coco saw a man standing there, apparently gazing at the house, and so engrossed by his thoughts that he did not notice the child playing near by.

The man was not dressed like a peasant; a gray woolen jacket, trousers with gaiters, and a bundle slung over his shoulder, seemed to indicate a traveller. He wore a shabby round cap, and in his hand he carried a stick which he evidently needed to lean upon; for his face was pale and worn, and his long beard and the expression of his eyes denoted poverty and suffering.

Coco stole toward him, staring at the stranger with childish curiosity and was surprised to see tears falling from his eyes as he gazed at the cottage.

The child had learned from Denise to be compassionate to the sufferings of the unfortunate. He stood in front of the stranger and said in an artless and kindly tone:

"Are you unhappy, monsieur? If you'd like to rest in our house, come in and we'll give you some supper."

The child's voice startled the stranger, he started in surprise and scrutinized Coco closely; then he took his hand and squeezed it tenderly, saying in a voice choked by emotion:

"What! is it you, my friend?"

The boy, surprised to be addressed in that way, answered with a smile:

"Do you know me, monsieur?"

The wayfarer sighed, and replied after a moment:

"Yes, I saw you once, long ago, here, on this spot; but at that time, instead of this pretty cottage, there was only an old ruined hovel here! What a transformation has taken place!"

"Oh! it was my good friend who gave me the money for all this; for that's my house, monsieur, that is; but when he comes back, I'll thank him ever so much!"

The stranger pressed the child's hand again, as he continued:

"Won't you come in? Come, I'll tell Denise that you're going to have supper with us."

"Denise! what, is Denise here?" exclaimed the stranger, detaining the child.

"Yes, monsieur, we've lived together ever since her dear aunt died."

"And is Denise married?"

"No, monsieur.--Well, are you coming?"

After a moment's hesitation, the stranger decided to follow the child, who took his hand and led him into the house.

"Denise! Denise!" cried Coco, "here's some company! here's a gentleman, who's hungry!--You are hungry, ain't you?--Denise, come, I say!"

But Denise was at the end of the garden and did not hear the child's voice; so he ran to the thicket of shrubbery to fetch her, and the stranger slowly followed him.

"Dear Denise," said Coco, "I just saw a man on the road who looked very unhappy, and I asked him to come into the house; we'll give him some supper, won't we?"

"Yes, my dear."

"I did well to bring him in, for he looks as if he was poor; and yet he didn't beg."

"Yes, you did well; let's go to him."

"Look, he has followed me--there he is."

The stranger had stopped at a little distance and was looking at Denise; the last rays of daylight rested on his face, and the girl examined him with interest as she walked toward him. But she had not taken four steps when she gave a little cry and ran, flew toward the stranger.

"Auguste!--Monsieur--is it you?"

That was all she could say; and Auguste, for he it was, received her in his arms.

"Denise! dear Denise!" said Auguste, pressing to his heart the girl whom surprise and joy had almost deprived of consciousness.

At last she recovered the power of speech.

"Coco, it is your kind friend," she cried, "your benefactor has come back! Come and kiss him."

The child stared at Auguste in open-mouthed amazement; he had difficulty in reconciling himself to the idea that that shabbily dressed man with the long beard was his benefactor; but if his eyes did not recognize his kind friend, his heart was not silent: something drew him to the stranger, so that he ran joyfully to Auguste and kissed him, and the latter abandoned himself for some moments to the pleasure of holding the child and the girl in his arms.

"So you knew me, did you, Denise?" he said at last.

"Oh! always! I shall always recognize you! Even if your face were not the same, my heart would tell me that it was you."

"Dear Denise!"

"Well, I didn't know you, my kind friend," said Coco, "because you've got a beard; and then, you were crying."

"Alas! you did not expect to see me in this pitiable costume, did you?"

"Oh! we expected you, dressed no matter how! In our eyes, aren't you always well dressed? But when I see you like this, I fear that you have been unfortunate; and that is what grieves me."

"Yes, Denise, yes, I have been unfortunate, but I have earned it! It's my own folly that has reduced me to this condition! But as I still have your friendship and this little fellow's, I feel that I have not lost all."

"Oh! monsieur, is it possible that you could doubt our hearts?"

"What would you have? misfortune often makes men unjust. I was wrong, I see. I will tell you everything that has happened to me, Denise; I will tell you frankly what I have done; you are the last one from whom I would conceal my shortcomings, for I am sure beforehand that you will forgive me."

"Oh! I am so glad to see you again, monsieur! But come in and sit down in the house, and rest; you must want something to eat and drink."

"It is true that I have had nothing since yesterday."

"Since yesterday!" cried Denise; and a deathly pallor overspread her cheeks, her eyes filled with tears, and she could not speak; she laid her head on Auguste's shoulder and gave free vent to the tears that were choking her.

"Denise, dear Denise, pray be calm! I am with you; I have already forgotten part of my misfortunes--don't be alarmed about me! Besides, I am not entirely without resources. The reason why I have eaten nothing since yesterday is that sad thoughts took away my appetite. I still have a little money, but I am saving it to procure lodgings in Paris; for nothing is so conducive to economy as misfortune. Oh! the loss of my wealth is not what grieves me most, as you know; blest with a happy disposition, hope and cheerfulness continued to travel with me even when my purse was light; but the ingratitude of men, the desertion of him whom I loved like a brother--that is what cut me the deepest! that is what took away my courage! I know that a man may bear the blows of destiny philosophically; but I could find no philosophy to enable me to bear the loss of a friend, the pains of the heart."

"O mon Dieu!" said Denise; "is it possible! But, it is true, you are alone--What has become of Bertrand?"

"He has deserted me! He got tired of my follies, and he left the man who, in his prosperous days, treated him as a friend, not as a servant."

"Bertrand deserted you--left you when you were unfortunate and a long way from home! Oh, no! no! that is impossible, monsieur! He loved and honored you! Bertrand is an old soldier, he has not forgotten all that he owes you; I will answer for his heart as surely as for my own."

"Nevertheless, Denise, I have told you the truth. But let us go into the house; later I will tell you the story of my travels."

"Oh! forgive me, monsieur; to think of my forgetting! Let's go in quickly; come and rest."

Denise led Auguste into the house. Coco followed them, jumping and crying aloud for joy.

"Here's my kind friend come back! Denise won't be sad any more!"

The girl ran to wake her old servant, and turned everything topsy-turvy in her haste to set before the wayfarer the best that she had; and as she went to and fro by Auguste, she stopped constantly to look at him, as if to make sure that he was not a delusion, then exclaimed:

"He is here! he has come back at last! he hadn't forgotten us!"

And she wiped away a tear born of her emotion, which was instantly succeeded by a smile. Auguste was deeply moved by the pleasure that his arrival caused in the cottage. He did not tire of gazing at Denise, he noticed the change that had taken place in her language and manners and dress; and as he turned his eyes upon himself, he sighed and said:

"The three years that have passed have wrought vast changes: instead of the milkmaid, a rather awkward village girl, I find in you a young woman full of charm. And I, whom you used to see so dandified and elegant--here am I arrayed like any poor devil who travels on foot without the means to pay for a lodging!"

"What difference does that make? Are you Coco's benefactor any the less? or he who made love so ardently to the little milkmaid?"

"You will agree, Denise, that in this costume I don't look very much like a benefactor or a seducer."

"For my part, if you don't like me this way, I will very soon go back to the woolen waist and the little cap."

"You will always be lovely. However, I have no right--I must not forget----"

Auguste paused and Denise looked at him anxiously; but he seemed to make an effort to banish a painful memory and took his place at the table, saying:

"Let us not think of anything but the pleasure it affords me to be here! Denise, Coco, come beside me; one evening of happiness will help me to forget several months of suffering."

They sat down at the table. Auguste was the object of the most zealous attentions on the part of the occupants of the cottage; the presence of a sovereign would not have made them so happy as that of the poor wayfarer.

When Auguste had recovered from the fatigue of his journeying, he took Coco on his knee, seated himself in front of Denise, and began his story:

"I determined to travel, hoping that travelling would ripen my wits; moreover, it was necessary that I should make an effort to put my talents to some use. I know how to paint, I am a good musician, but it was very hard for me to look for pupils in Paris, the scene of my days of splendor, where I could not take a step without meeting old acquaintances, who turned their heads to avoid bowing to me when they learned that I was ruined! So I started with Bertrand----"

"Yes, and without coming to bid me good-bye!" interjected Denise with a profound sigh.

"I was afraid to see you again. I supposed that you were married. I have not forgotten what you told me in your garden when I came to call on you."

Denise blushed, and Auguste continued:

"So I started. We had six thousand francs left; with economy, that was enough to carry us a long way. But it is so hard for me not to do foolish things!"

"And to be good!" said Denise under her breath.

Auguste smiled and continued:

"At Turin we were robbed by adventuresses of our whole fortune except a few gold pieces, with which we travelled to Rome. There I worked and earned a little money with my violin, and Bertrand gave fencing lessons. We went to Naples, where I met by mere chance a lady whom I had known in Paris; she interested herself in my behalf and procured me some rich pupils. We had lived there very comfortably for a year when I received two or three stiletto thrusts on account of an Italian damsel's lovely eyes."

"Mon Dieu!" cried Denise; "why did you need to love an Italian too?"

"I was driven to seek distraction. That adventure disgusted me with Italy, where, in truth, I saw no prospect of making a handsome fortune. I determined to go to England, where moderate talent often commands a very high price. Bertrand was still ready to go with me; we left Italy and reached London without mishap. There, after a very short time, having acquired the friendship of a man who frequented the first society, he made me the fashion, and I had more pupils than I could give lessons to. I charged very high rates, and I was overjoyed to find that I should be able some day to return to my native land with a good round sum of money. But, alas! I had the ill luck to become acquainted with a young English-woman."

"Well! still another woman!" exclaimed Denise testily.

"She lived with some relations, who, so she said, made her very unhappy. She proposed to me to carry her off, and I dared not refuse. Despite Bertrand's advice I indulged in that escapade. But the abduction created an uproar, and I was proceeded against; I was obliged either to marry the young woman, or to pay a large sum; for in England one must always give compensation. I did not choose to marry, so I paid."

"Ah! that was much better than--than to marry by force," said Denise.

"But that adventure caused me to lose my pupils and the fruit of my labors. Distressed by this catastrophe, for which I could accuse no one but myself, I proposed to Bertrand that we take a trip to Scotland before returning to our own country. One of my pupils had presented me with a horse, I bought one for Bertrand, and we left London in the saddle. We stopped at a lovely village called, I believe, Newington. After breakfasting at an inn, I sat alone, waiting for my companion, whom I had sent to pay our bill. Surprised at his failure to return, I went downstairs and made inquiries. 'Your companion has gone,' they told me; 'he just mounted his horse and rode off at a gallop.' Utterly unable to understand his absence, I remained at the inn all day, waiting for him. I could not imagine that Bertrand had left me; but the next day again I waited in vain. I questioned the people at the inn; they could tell me nothing except that, after paying our bill, he had crossed the courtyard, and a moment later they had seen him riding away at full speed. I was driven at last to a realization of the fact that Bertrand had voluntarily turned his back on me. Ah! Denise, I can't tell you how I suffered because of his desertion! Accustomed to living with my old friend, I had often paid little heed to his advice, but I set great store by his friendship. No doubt he was tired of my foolish performances; he probably lost patience, and despairing of making me less reckless, did not choose to share my evil fortune any longer. However, he had often sworn never to leave me while he lived, and I trusted his oath, for a friend's is more sacred than a mistress's."

"Bertrand--leave you! I can't understand it!" said Denise.

"I changed my plans, and, having no further desire to go to Scotland, determined to return to France. Oh! how I longed to stand on my native soil! I felt a most intense craving to see you and to embrace this little fellow! I sold my horse to pay my passage. When I arrived at Calais, I reckoned up my resources and determined to travel on foot. But, I confess, my strength frequently betrayed my courage. Accustomed as I am to wealth, to the comforts of life, my health is still that of a dandy, while my modest costume stamps me a humble wayfarer; and more than once I had to stop on the way. At last I reached this village; before going on to Paris, I longed to see this spot once more, to learn what you were doing, Denise. And here I am by your side! Unhappiness, fatigue, everything is forgotten; and to-morrow, with a razor, clean linen, and a few changes in my costume, you will see once more, not the resplendent Dalville, but at least poor Auguste, for whom your friendship is not dead."

Auguste kissed the child. Denise, who had taken the deepest interest in his story, said to him:

"I trust that now you will not go travelling over the world any more?"

"You must stay with us, my kind friend," said Coco.

"Yes, I see that I must abandon the hope of making my fortune with such talents as I have. I have ceased to think of travelling. As to what I shall do--I haven't any clear idea as yet; but still, among my dear friends in Paris, who no longer deign to look at me, there are many whom I have obliged, and who are still my debtors. There is something like twelve thousand francs owing to me, and I propose to try to collect at least half of it; then----"

"You will come and settle down near us, won't you, monsieur?"

"At all events, Denise, I will come to see you often."

"But you won't go to Paris right away; you won't leave us for a long while----"

"No, I promise."

"Remember that you are in your own house here; we built this cottage with what you gave Coco, so you see that it belongs to you."

"No, Denise, this house is the boy's fortune; I am too happy to have been able to contribute to his welfare, and I only regret that I didn't use in this way all the money I have wasted on my pleasures!--Nothing is left to me from my follies; but something always remains of the good that one does!"

"Then you have reformed? You won't fall in love any more--with every woman you see, will you?"

"Faith, Denise, I wouldn't swear not to as yet. I received a bitter lesson on my fifth floor--and in my travels I turned it to no advantage whatever. Ah! if I had won the love of a sincere, true-hearted, virtuous woman--like you, Denise--perhaps I should have reformed before this!"

"What, monsieur!" said Denise, blushing; "do you mean that I don't love you?"

"No--you love me like a brother, I know, and your touchingly warm welcome of me, the delight that my return has caused you, show plainly enough your deep affection for me; but, my dear Denise, there is a sweeter, tenderer sentiment which I hoped to inspire in you before you told me that you could never love me. Don't lower your eyes, Denise; I am not reproaching you; we cannot control our hearts, and I admit that I did not deserve yours. I tried to accustom myself to look upon you as a sister; that is what I have been trying to do ever since our interview in your aunt's garden. It will be hard, but with time I shall succeed--perhaps. Let us leave that subject; I am so happy to be with you now!--Well! haven't you anything to say to me, Denise?"

"Yes, monsieur, yes! But you must feel the need of rest."

"It is true that my journey has tired me; and my story has kept you up late."

"Come, monsieur; I'll take you to the little summer-house that I have had built in the garden; it makes the prettiest room in the house. I wish I could give you even better quarters----"

"You forget, Denise, that I am no longer the dandy of the Chaussée-d'Antin! Just cast your eye at my costume."

"Oh, to me you are always the same, monsieur!"

She took Auguste to the summer-house and left him there with a loving: "Until to-morrow;" then she returned to the house and her own room, saying to herself: