“Water in my milk!” cried Denise, whose eyes filled with tears when she heard her merchandise thus vilified. “You’re the first person that ever said that, madame, I tell you! And I swear——”
“All right, mademoiselle, that’s enough; I don’t want you ever to set foot inside my doors again. I thought that you were a decent, virtuous girl; I don’t like little hussies.”
“Hussies! Mon Dieu! what have I done to madame?”
“We saw it all, mademoiselle. And that purse in your hand is proof enough.”
“That purse, madame,” said Auguste, walking to Denise’s side, “is destined for a charitable purpose, to relieve an unfortunate person. But I see that an evil interpretation is always put upon everything.—Poor Denise! I am responsible for your being made wretched! And when, by chance, I attempt to do a good deed, they think that I am trying to seduce you.—Do you suppose, mesdames, that one wins the love of a milkmaid with money? Remember, please, that this is not Paris.”
While Auguste was speaking, Denise became calm; she wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron, and recovered sufficient assurance to say to Madame Destival:
“I ought not to cry at what you said to me, madame, for I haven’t done anything to be ashamed of.—Adieu, monsieur; I’ll take your money and try to carry out your kind intentions.”
With that, Denise curtsied to the company, and, still choking back her sobs, returned to White Jean and left the business agent’s house.
Madame Destival, conscious of some embarrassment, returned to the garden. Athalie walked up to Auguste and said, with a laugh:
“You must admit, monsieur, that you kissed her at least six times in succession.”