“Now, there is no tanger, he can sleep in beace.”
Auguste spied the lamp, but for which he would have passed Bertrand without seeing him. The young man could not help smiling at Schtrack’s ingenious device. He shook the ex-corporal, who opened his eyes, half rose, pushed the guardian lamp away with his elbow, and could not imagine why he was in the street. Auguste explained matters to him. Bertrand, whom his nap had sobered, was distressed that he had forgotten himself to the point of falling drunk in the street, and insisted on throwing himself into the river, to punish himself for drinking so much wine. Auguste succeeded in pacifying him, and they returned home, the young man thinking of Léonie’s treachery, Athalie’s coquetry, Denise’s dissembling, and promising himself to be more prudent in future; Bertrand recalling the wretched wine at the wine-shops, and swearing that he would drink no more.
XIII
DENISE AND COCO IN PARIS
Not more than ten days had passed after Dalville’s visit to Montfermeil, when, on returning from the wine-shop one evening, Père Calleux, who probably saw double, or else did not see at all, fell into a ditch newly dug beside the road; in that ditch was a pile of stones intended for repairing the road, and the peasant broke his head upon them. The next day little Coco was an orphan.
But he still had Denise, who loved him dearly, Mère Fourcy, who had become attached to him, and lastly, the friendly interest of Auguste. Among friends who give us proofs of affection, we cease to feel quite alone on earth. How many unhappy creatures there are, who might well believe themselves to be orphans although their parents are not dead!
Denise paid a few small debts which Père Calleux had left, amounting to less than a hundred francs; for a poor man can get but little credit. The cabin remained—the child’s only patrimony; but it was in such a tumbledown condition that it was dangerous to live in it. The thatched roof was half gone, the cracked walls threatened to fall, and the materials of which it was built were so poor that no use could be made of them. So that there was really nothing but the land; but with Dalville’s contribution it would be possible to build a little cottage, surround it with a garden and cultivate it. That is what Denise said to her aunt, who replied:
“Don’t be in a hurry, my child. You’d better wait till the gentleman comes again, and ask him what he thinks.”
But at sixteen one does not like to wait; Denise reflected that it might be a very long time before the handsome gentleman came to the village again, and one morning, as she looked at the address which Auguste had left with her, and to which her eyes very often turned, she exclaimed:
“Suppose we write to that gentleman, aunt! He gave us his address, you know, so that we could send word to him if we needed him.”
“You’re right, my child,” said Mère Fourcy; “your ideas are always good. You know how to write, so you must write to him, my girl.”