“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.”