Part 8

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

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

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

"Is Père Calleux in the field?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That makes a difference."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who, my girl?"

"Why Gros-Jean and Lucas and Bastien."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Where's Madeleine?" she asked.

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

"And your father?"

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

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

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

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

"He's my dear friend."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Didn't you cry when she died?"

"No, Denise."

"Then you didn't love her?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

VIII

A BACHELOR'S MORNING RECEPTION

"Is Auguste in, Monsieur Bertrand?" inquired a young woman of twenty-four, slender and graceful, with fine brown eyes, very black hair, pale complexion, white, even teeth, and a somewhat fatigued expression; a face, be it said, which was enlivened and made most attractive by a mischievous smile. This young woman was a certain Virginie, of whom mention was made in the cabriolet on the way to Monsieur Destival's; she had just rung the bell at the door of Auguste's apartment, although it was only eight o'clock in the morning.

"Monsieur Dalville has gone out," replied Bertrand, with a very slight nod to Mademoiselle Virginie, which did not deter her from entering the apartment.

"That's impossible, Bertrand; you say that because there's somebody here, I suppose, and those are your orders. We know all about that. But I must see him; I have something very important to say to him. Really, my little Bertrand, I'm not joking."

"I give you my word, mademoiselle, that Monsieur Dalville has gone out; or, rather, that he hasn't come in. He went to a grand ball last night, and it seems to have lasted a long while."

"Great heaven! what actions! Why, it's shocking. That young man is destroying himself. Bertrand, you don't keep a sharp enough lookout over him; it isn't right. You ought to preach at him."

"In the first place, mademoiselle, Monsieur Dalville's the master; in the second place, when I try to talk reason with him, he refuses to listen to me, or sends me to the devil."

"That's very wrong! Ah! if I were only his mother or sister, you'd see how good I'd make him! I'm going to wait for him, Bertrand, for he must come in soon. Still at a ball at eight in the morning! Oh! I don't take any stock in that yarn."

Mademoiselle Virginie, who was perfectly familiar with the apartment, opened a door leading to a small salon in which she installed herself, placing her hat on one chair, her shawl on another, and throwing herself on a couch. Bertrand quietly followed her, and as if accustomed to such performances from her, continued to eat the bread and cheese which he had in his hand when she rang the bell.

"I certainly do not care for Monsieur Auguste any more," said Virginie, after a moment; "I must be a confounded fool to care for a man who has thirty-six mistresses; hasn't he, Bertrand?"

"Oh! mademoiselle, I can't say----"

"Yes, yes, he has thirty-six! I don't say all at once; he would have to be a northern Hercules. And yet--if it could be--It isn't worth while; one man's no better than another. I know them so well! Don't you think I'm right, Bertrand?"

"Oh! as for that, there have been men who--the great Turenne, for instance."

"Bah! what an ass the man is with his great Turenne! Does he take me for a sentry-box? I don't know ancient history, Bertrand; I don't care about anything except my own time, and I tell you Auguste's a rake. In the first place, he played me a shameful trick three weeks ago. Think of it! he made an appointment with me, and we were to pass the day together and go to Feydeau in the evening; and monsieur left me to cool my heels and went off into the country, to his Monsieur Destival, business agent. He's another fox, that fellow! He'd better attend to what goes on in his own house, eh, Bertrand?"

"In his own house, mademoiselle? Do you mean----"

"Yes, you understand well enough! That is, unless he likes it. Bless my soul! there are husbands whom that sort of thing just suits! Did you spend the night at that place?"

"Yes, mademoiselle."

"Mon Dieu! how rural! Did you stay there several days? Come, Bertrand, speak out--you have time enough to eat; you know that I haven't set foot inside this door for an age, and Monsieur Auguste hasn't so much as had the decency to come to inquire for my health. And yet I've been very ill; I nearly died! I am ever so much changed, am I not, Bertrand?"

"Why, no, mademoiselle, I don't see that----"

"Oh, yes! the whites of my eyes are yellow yet. To be sure this dress isn't becoming. It's too high, it cramps me.--Well, Bertrand, what did you do in the country?"

"I taught Monsieur Destival the manual, mademoiselle."

"Oho! is he going to enlist in the voltigeurs? How about his wife--does she do the manual too? She ought to learn to drum so that she can march in front of her husband when he goes out to fire his gun."

"I don't know what madame was doing, mademoiselle."

"Of course not; it was your business to keep the husband busy, while Monsieur Auguste dallied with madame in the thick shrubbery! I can see that man firing at crows while his wife hunts strawberries! Ha! ha!"

Mademoiselle Virginie laughed so heartily that it was several minutes before she could speak again. Meanwhile Bertrand paced the salon floor, continuing his breakfast.

"Oh dear! it hurts to laugh like that.--Tell me, Bertrand, when did you come back?"

"The next day, mademoiselle."

"And Auguste hasn't been there again since?"

"No, mademoiselle; he's often wanted to go, but he hasn't had time."

"Oh! of course not; he has so much to do! And he hasn't been to see me once in the last fortnight! He leaves me sick, almost dying! And I am not well yet. Oh, no! I am still suffering terribly.--What's that you're eating, Bertrand?"

"Just plain Roquefort cheese, mademoiselle."

"It's queer to watch another person eat; it makes me want to eat too; you see, I always have to do what I see others do. You may as well give me some breakfast, my little Bertrand, because, you see, if I should whine and cry till to-morrow, it's all nonsense, and my calf wouldn't be any bigger for that; would it, Bertrand?"

"Mademoiselle, if you----"

"He's a good fellow, this Bertrand; I love him a lot, I do; yes, I'm very fond of him, although he's a bit of a traitor, like his master."

"Oh! as for that, mademoiselle, when you talk about being honest, I flatter myself----"

"All right, Bertrand; I only said that for fun. But I'm not going to breakfast on honesty. What are you going to give me?"

"If mademoiselle would like coffee, I'll go down and have some sent up."

"Coffee! oh! that makes a hole in my stomach, it's no good. Haven't you got anything to eat here?"

"We have the remains of a pie, a bit of fowl, and some Lyon sausage."

"Ah! I like those better than coffee; bring 'em all, my little Bertrand; just to pass the time till Auguste comes back."

Bertrand moved a small tea-table to the couch, and lost no time in laying it for Mademoiselle Virginie's breakfast, who assisted him by going to the sideboard herself for whatever she needed, saying:

"I am sorry to put you to so much trouble, Bertrand."

"You are joking, mademoiselle."

"Where's little Tony?"

"He's with monsieur; he has to have somebody on account of the cabriolet."

"That boy's a sly little rascal; he'll never tell me anything, whereas you, Bertrand, you do at least talk; to be sure, I know that you don't tell me everything. After all, you're right; there are some things I ought not to know, they'd make me too unhappy. Meanwhile, I'll have my breakfast."

Mademoiselle Virginie took her place before the breakfast, and, while repeating from time to time that she was still sick, speedily caused the cold fowl to disappear, and made a vigorous assault on the pie and the sausage, washing them down with claret, in which she did not deem it necessary to put water.

But, while she was eating, Virginie glanced at a clock in front of her and cried:

"The rascal! Why doesn't he come home? You must admit, Bertrand, that people don't stay at a ball till nine o'clock in the morning. I know myself that bourgeois balls always end by five; my aunt used to give one sometimes. Poor aunt! I shall have to make up with her now!--I say, this pie isn't half bad.--You see, Bertrand, my aunt's a woman of your sort."

"I understand--a tall woman, five feet six inches, like me, eh?"

"No, no! what a donkey you are with your six inches! Still, it would be rather nice[C] if my aunt had six of 'em. When I say of your sort, I mean a fine woman, a respectable woman. Oh! she preaches to me, I tell you, she does! She used to say such touching things to me that I wept like a Magdalen while I was listening; but once outside--prrr!--I forgot all about it.--A body could eat a two pound loaf with this devilish sausage!--That wretched Auguste! Ah! he shall pay me for this. In the first place, I don't propose to go till he comes back, if I have to stay here till to-morrow. It don't make any difference to me, I'm my own mistress."

[C] The joke consists in the fact that the same word--_pouce_--means "inch" and "thumb."

At that moment the bell rang softly.

"Ah! there he is!" cried Virginie; "don't tell him I'm here, Bertrand, do you hear? I want to surprise him. Shut the door of the salon."

"Very well, mademoiselle; but I have an idea that it isn't monsieur; I didn't recognize his ring."

Having closed the door of the salon, Bertrand opened the one leading to the hall; whereupon, instead of Auguste, he saw the pretty neighbor of the third floor to whom he had restored the poodle.

The pretty neighbor was a blonde, with blue eyes and a pink complexion; her voice was low and sweet, her manners and her bearing savored of affectation; but she was pretty, and her natural charms won forgiveness for those which she tried to impart to herself.

"Isn't my little Lozor in your rooms, Monsieur Bertrand?" asked the young blonde in an undertone, with a furtive glance about the apartment.

"I have not had the honor to see him, madame," replied Bertrand, still holding the door only partly open; which fact did not prevent the neighbor from stepping farther into the room.

"That is strange; he went out this morning; my maid is at market, and I hoped to find him here."

"If the deserter appears, madame, I shall have the pleasure of bringing him back to you at once."

"Poor Lozor! I am really anxious about him."

And the neighbor, advancing step by step, found herself in the centre of the reception room, while Bertrand still held the door ajar, hoping thus to induce her to go away.

"Monsieur Dalville went out last night in full dress, didn't he, Monsieur Bertrand?"

"Yes, madame."

"I happened to be at my window and I saw him. I would have liked to say a word to him, to ask him for a book that he promised to let me have to-day. But he went away so fast! If it wasn't so early, I would ask him to be kind enough to give it to me now. But that would disturb him perhaps?"

The neighbor seemed to await a reply, but Bertrand kept silent and contented himself with swinging the door back and forth.

"Is Monsieur Dalville still in bed?" inquired the pretty blonde at last, bestowing upon the ex-corporal a glance as tender as her voice was sweet. He was about to reply when the door of the small salon was abruptly thrown open, and disclosed Virginie, who came forward with an air of deliberation, saying:

"Well! is it coming off to-day, Bertrand? Are we playing hide-and-seek?"

When Virginie appeared, Bertrand closed the hall door and sat down, muttering between his teeth:

"Fight it out; it's none of my business."

At sight of Mademoiselle Virginie, the neighbor turned a little pinker than she was, and her eyes lost their usual soft expression. Virginie, for her part, scrutinized the neighbor from top to toe, contracting her dark eyebrows, and allowing a scornful smile to play about her lips. Bertrand alone seemed unmoved; and while the two ladies eyed each other from head to foot, he calmly swallowed a glass of wine, to wash down his Roquefort.

"You didn't tell me, Monsieur Bertrand, that Monsieur Dalville had company," said the neighbor at last, in a voice which she strove to make as soft as usual, but in which one could detect a note of something resembling anger. "If I had known, I certainly would not have ventured to disturb him."

"Does madame want to see Auguste, Bertrand?" inquired Virginie carelessly, smiling with a sly expression.

The familiar manner in which the pretty brunette referred to her neighbor seemed to confound Madame Saint-Edmond, who did what she could to conceal her agitation, saying:

"Yes, madame, I wish to see Monsieur Dalville."

"If it is anything that someone else can say to Auguste, I will undertake to do so, madame."

"You are too kind, madame, but I wish to speak to Monsieur Dalville in person."

"Ah! I understand. Auguste is already acquainted with madame, I presume?"

"Yes, madame, I have the honor of Monsieur Dalville's acquaintance."

"As Auguste tells me all his business, I might be able to answer madame, if she cared to explain the purpose of her call."

"Am I to understand that madame is now commissioned to receive the persons who may call on Monsieur Dalville?"

"That may be, madame."