They walked on; the milkmaid beside Auguste, who once more considered her a charming creature, since she had smiled upon him and had allowed him to kiss her. In truth, Denise’s face was no longer the same; an angry expression is not becoming to a pretty face, and features that are made to inspire love should never express wrath. But they soon emerged from the woods and descended a hill, at the foot of which lay Montfermeil.
“There’s my village,” said Denise; “and look, do you see my ass trotting along down there? Oh! I knew he’d go right home.—Have you got business in the neighborhood?”
“No, not exactly. I am going to Monsieur Destival’s country place. Do you know it?”
“To be sure; I carry milk to them, when Madame Destival stays there in summer. She always tells me to be careful about her little cheeses. You see, I make nice ones. I carried them a bigger one this morning, because Mamzelle Julie, madame’s maid, told me they expected company from Paris.”
“That being so, I probably shall have the pleasure of tasting your cheeses.”
“But if you’re going to Monsieur Destival’s, you mustn’t go to the village. I’ll show you what road you must take.”
“It will be much kinder of you to go with me and show me the way; as you are not anxious about your ass, there is nothing to hurry you.”
“Oh, no! monsieur! I see that you’re all right, but you’re too fond of kissing the girls. Besides, my aunt is waiting for me. It’s after noon, and our dinner-time.—Look, monsieur, take that road that goes up the hill yonder, then the first turn to the left, then the grass-grown road, and you’ll find yourself at the place where you’re going.”
“I shall never remember all that. You will be responsible for my losing my way.”
“You shouldn’t have left your carriage.”