Part 7

"I didn't order any cheeses of you; in fact, yours are bitter, and I don't want any more of them. As for your milk, you put water in it, and I propose to take mine of somebody else."

"Water in my milk!" cried Denise, whose eyes filled with tears when she heard her merchandise thus vilified. "You're the first person that ever said that, madame, I tell you! And I swear----"

"All right, mademoiselle, that's enough; I don't want you ever to set foot inside my doors again. I thought that you were a decent, virtuous girl; I don't like little hussies."

"Hussies! Mon Dieu! what have I done to madame?"

"We saw it all, mademoiselle. And that purse in your hand is proof enough."

"That purse, madame," said Auguste, walking to Denise's side, "is destined for a charitable purpose, to relieve an unfortunate person. But I see that an evil interpretation is always put upon everything.--Poor Denise! I am responsible for your being made wretched! And when, by chance, I attempt to do a good deed, they think that I am trying to seduce you.--Do you suppose, mesdames, that one wins the love of a milkmaid with money? Remember, please, that this is not Paris."

While Auguste was speaking, Denise became calm; she wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron, and recovered sufficient assurance to say to Madame Destival:

"I ought not to cry at what you said to me, madame, for I haven't done anything to be ashamed of.--Adieu, monsieur; I'll take your money and try to carry out your kind intentions."

With that, Denise curtsied to the company, and, still choking back her sobs, returned to White Jean and left the business agent's house.

Madame Destival, conscious of some embarrassment, returned to the garden. Athalie walked up to Auguste and said, with a laugh:

"You must admit, monsieur, that you kissed her at least six times in succession."

"I didn't count, madame."

"You seemed to like it."

"Very much, madame."

"Monsieur is frank, at all events."

"That is, perhaps, my one good quality."

"But why did you kiss her?"

"Is she not very pretty, madame?"

"Pretty! perhaps; as coarse, rustic beauties go."

"No, no! on the contrary, her features are extremely delicate."

"But she's a milkmaid!"

"What difference do you see between a pretty country girl and a pretty city girl?"

"Why, an enormous difference, monsieur. What about education, good manners, and refinement--do you count all those as nothing? Would you go out in Paris, or even in the country, with a milkmaid on your arm?"

"No, madame, I admit that I should not be enough of a philosopher for that. But just put on Denise----"

"Who is Denise, pray?"

"This little milkmaid, madame."

"Oho! so monsieur knows her name?"

"Yes, madame."

"Well, monsieur, what do you propose to put on Mademoiselle Denise?"

"A pretty hat, a stylish dress, a handsome shawl----"

"Ah! she would cut a strange figure in all those things!"

"Mon Dieu, madame, habit is everything. You yourself, despite all your charms, might be awkward in a milkmaid's cap. Those things that can be acquired, madame, are of little worth; but the things that are innate are beauty, grace, intellect, a sweet voice and glance and smile--in a word, the charm which takes us captive and which you possess in such abundant measure, madame."

"Ah! you did well to end in that way; if you had not I should have been angry. Madame Destival is right; you are a ne'er-do-well, a dangerous man. By the way, I hope to have the pleasure of seeing you in Paris, monsieur; I often give balls, and I have a reception every Thursday in winter."

"Madame is too kind; but your husband has said nothing to me."

"Mon Dieu! has he any time to think to invite people? He is so distraught, so engrossed by his speculations, that I alone attend to the invitations. Will you come?"

"Is it not absolutely necessary for me to see you again? If I should yield to my inclinations, I would never leave you."

"Bless my soul! I believe that we are dropping into sentiment. Are you going to make me a declaration?"

"Is it possible to see you without loving you?"

"Look out! you are becoming serious, and I like none but merry people. That melancholy air doesn't suit you."

"Have you no pity, then, for the pain you cause?"

"Oh! not the least! Sighs do not move me an inch; to please me, it is necessary to keep me laughing constantly."

While they talked, Auguste and his companion had strayed into the shaded portion of the garden. He had taken the young woman's arm and was pressing it tenderly. Athalie was still laughing, but was making no effort to avoid Dalville's gentle caresses, when Bertrand appeared before them at a bend in the path.

"They are waiting for you and madame at breakfast, lieutenant," said the corporal, putting the back of his hand to his forehead.

Auguste stamped on the ground impatiently; but the vivacious Athalie had already dropped his arm and was frisking away.

"Parbleu! you are exceedingly awkward, Bertrand!" said Auguste, glaring at the corporal, who still stood before him.

"What have I done, lieutenant?"

"You seem to have made it your business to disturb me when I am engaged in an interesting conversation with a pretty woman."

"Excuse me, lieutenant, but I can't tell what you're saying."

"A shrewd man can guess it at a glance. Once for all, when I am alone with a woman, I forbid you to interrupt me."

"That settles it, lieutenant; if the house should burn down, I wouldn't disturb you."

The whole party had assembled in the dining-room; even La Thomassinière, having waked with a tremendous appetite, had not devised any previous business which would have vexed his stomach, and he bestowed a most affable nod upon Dalville, which meant that his wife had informed him that she proposed to receive the young man at their house. Madame Destival too seemed desirous to be reconciled to Auguste, who had treated her coldly since the scene in the courtyard.

"I must be in Paris before noon," said La Thomassinière, shuffling a mass of papers that he took from his wallet; "I have ten appointments for to-day. I am sure that at least twenty people have called at my house before this. A little more coffee, if you please. It isn't Mocha----"

"I beg your pardon," said Destival, as he poured out some for him.

"Oh, no! I assure you that isn't; I know what I am talking about. I laid in lately a _consequential_ supply; it's very different from this."

"I must be in Paris this morning," said Destival, puffing himself out; "I have numerous matters on the carpet, some of great importance! Monin wants to buy a house, and I have just what he wants."

"Who's he? that little man who bet two sous at écarté?"

"The very same."

"What! that fellow buy houses! I shouldn't have suspected it; his coat was very threadbare--and patched on the elbows."

"Oh! that means nothing in the country."

"Never mind! you must admit that a man in a threadbare coat doesn't promise great things--it doesn't give you a very exalted idea of his wit. Oh! I have a keen glance, I have; and then, being used to seeing only rich and well-dressed people,--I say, footman, just tell my people to harness up, to put my horses to my calèche."

"I expect my milliner this morning," said Athalie; "she is to bring me the sweetest bonnet. We must go at full speed, monsieur, for I am very anxious to try on that bonnet."

"You are aware, madame, that my steeds do not travel like cab-horses. I feed them rather well, and they cost me so much that I can afford to make them gallop."

"Baptiste," Monsieur Destival called to his servant, who was leaving the room, "you will hitch up too, do you understand?"

"That's the way," muttered Baptiste, "no sooner out of the kitchen than I must go to the stable!"

"I say, Baptiste, while you're about it, tell my little Tony to put the horse to my cabriolet," said Dalville, smiling at the pompous air of La Thomassinière, who said, rubbing his hands:

"On my word, it's very pleasant for each to have his own carriage; it's very genteel; one is certain at all events that one is with _comme il faut_ people. To be sure, you have only cabriolets, but everybody can't have a calèche, a coupé and a landau, like me."

"What, are you going too, Monsieur Dalville?" asked Madame Destival, with a most expressive glance at the young man; "this is polite, everybody abandons me!"

"It is a fact, my dear fellow," said Destival, "that my wife relied on you to keep her company, and----"

"I never said that I relied on monsieur; most assuredly I should not have dreamed of saying such a thing!" said Emilie, interrupting her husband; "but as everybody else is going to Paris, I don't see why I should stay here. Besides, you are to give a dinner this week, aren't you, monsieur?"

"Yes, madame, a large dinner. I shall have some influential people,--government officials and distinguished artists. I count upon Monsieur and Madame de la Thomassinière, and upon friend Dalville too."

Dalville bowed simply, but La Thomassinière replied:

"We will see. I can't promise beforehand, because I may be invited to other dinners by people high up on the ladder, and you must see----"

"So we are all going to Paris," said Madame Destival. "My husband will take Baptiste and Julie with him. Will Monsieur Dalville be kind enough to give me a seat in his cabriolet?"

"Why can't you come in our calèche?" hastily inquired the petite-maîtresse.

"Oh! I am afraid that I should keep you waiting. I have several matters to attend to, and you are in a hurry to see your milliner. Monsieur Dalville will not object, I trust, to give me another half hour."

Auguste realized that it would be discourteous to refuse; moreover, although that arrangement upset his plans, although the fascinating Athalie made an enticing little pout at him, and although Madame Destival had said many unkind things about him, still, Emilie was a good-looking woman none the less, and one forgives a good-looking woman many things, even when one is no longer in love with her.

They left the table. The carriages were ready. Madame de la Thomassinière entered her calèche, with a malevolent glance at Auguste and Madame Destival. The speculator called his two servants, who assisted him to climb in; then he threw himself back on the seat, crying:

"To my house in the Chaussée-d'Antin, and go at full speed; drive _furiously_, do you hear, Lafleur? But look out and not run into anything."

The calèche flew away like an arrow. Madame Destival had hurried her domestics to such purpose that Julie and Baptiste were soon ready to start with their master. But madame still had divers matters to attend to, for which she did not need Julie. Monsieur Destival shook hands cordially with his friend and urged him not to drive his wife too fast, because it was bad for the nerves; then he took his seat in the cabriolet beside Julie, ordering Baptiste to mount behind, which he did, muttering because they made him do all sorts of things.

Bertrand and Tony stood by Dalville's cabriolet, awaiting the latter and Madame Destival. But the little matters which the mistress of the house had to arrange took nearly two hours. Bertrand fretted and fumed at having to stand beside the cabriolet; but his master had ordered him to await him there, and he did not leave his post.

"Perhaps monsieur thinks we've gone," suggested little Tony.

"No, no, he knows we're here."

"But perhaps he don't mean to go back to Paris to-day."

"Then he'll come and tell us so."

"And suppose he don't think of it?"

"We will stay here until somebody comes to relieve us from duty. I've got my orders, that's enough for me."

At last, about noon, Auguste appeared with Madame Destival on his arm. She leaned tenderly upon him and her face expressed nothing save satisfaction and the most amiable unconstraint.

"It's strange!" thought Bertrand, "here's a lady that changes her face three or four times a day. However, I ought to be used to it. I've seen so many women like that. Everyone that comes to see monsieur as angry as you please, rolling her eyes, and talking loud, is as mild and gentle as a lamb when she leaves him; she hasn't the same face, nor the same eyes, nor the same voice."

"Come, Bertrand, get in," said Auguste, who was already in the cabriolet with Madame Destival.--"You will be a little crowded, madame; but my faithful Bertrand isn't built to ride behind."

"Oh! I shall be very comfortable," said Emilie, bestowing a soft glance on Auguste, and on Bertrand an affable smile; for nobody can be so amiable as our fair friends when things are going to suit them! But when you thwart them----

They drove away. When they passed the little path leading to Montfermeil, Auguste put out his head and looked, saying to himself:

"I shall not always have a lady to drive to Paris."

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."