“Look, there’s Denise,” said the child, as he spied the little milkmaid coming toward them.
Auguste instantly ran to meet her.
“So here you are, my dear Denise! How glad I am to see you again! It has been so long!—On my word, you are prettier than ever.”
Denise curtsied coldly to him, and replied in a constrained tone:
“You are very kind, monsieur.”
“Had it not been for business that has kept me in Paris, I should have come to see you long ago. I have wanted to do so more than once, for I have often thought of the little milkmaid of Montfermeil. And you—have you thought of me sometimes?”
“Oh! not often, monsieur,” replied Denise, twisting the corner of her apron.
“That is what I call plain speaking,” said Auguste testily; but he soon recovered his usual good humor and continued: “After all, Denise, you would have been very foolish to bother about me. Do I deserve to arouse the interest of so pure and sincere a heart as yours? No, I do myself justice. I assure you, Denise, I am very glad for you that you have no affection for me; but I hope to have your friendship, and I will be worthy of it despite my vagaries. What do you say, Denise? You will be my friend, won’t you? and when some of the fashionable city ladies have been guilty of fresh perfidy toward me, I will come to you to forget them. The sight of you will reconcile me to your sex; you will make me believe once more in virtue and fidelity, in all the qualities that we seek in women, and—But I haven’t kissed you yet, Denise, and a friend has that privilege.”
Denise blushingly offered her cheek, and Auguste imprinted upon it a single kiss, because the little milkmaid’s cold and constrained manner led him to think that it was only from good-nature that she granted that favor.
“It seems that there have been some important happenings here,” continued Auguste. “Coco tells me that he lives with you, that his old grandmother is dead——”