Copyright 1904 by G. Barrie & Sons

THE MILKMAID’S WEDDING

Denise, beaming with love and happiness, embellishing by her charms and her grace the modest costume she had selected, was led to the altar by the man she loved.

All the people of the village assembled to see the little milkmaid married.

NOVELS
BY
Paul de Kock
VOLUME XX
THE MILKMAID
OF
MONTFERMEIL

THE JEFFERSON PRESS
BOSTON NEW YORK

Copyrighted, 1903-1904, by G. B. & Sons.

THE MILKMAID OF MONTFERMEIL

CONTENTS

[I]
[II, ] [III, ] [IV, ] [V, ] [VI, ] [VII, ] [VIII, ] [IX, ] [X, ] [XI, ] [XII, ] [XIII, ] [XIV, ] [XV, ] [XVI, ] [XVII, ] [XVIII, ] [XIX, ] [XX, ] [XXII, ] [XXIII, ] [XXIV, ] [XXV, ] [XXVI, ] [XXVII, ] [XXVIII, ] [XXIX.]

I
A CONVERSATION IN A CABRIOLET

“For you can’t go on like this forever, lieutenant—you must agree to that. The great Turenne didn’t fight ten battles at once and didn’t carry on six intrigues on the same day.”

“No, my dear Bertrand, but Cæsar dictated four letters at once in four different languages, and Pico de la Mirandola boasted that he was familiar with and could talk de omni re scibili——”

“I beg pardon, lieutenant, I don’t know Latin.”

“That means that he claimed to know all languages, to have gone to the bottom of all the sciences, to be able to refute all creeds and reconcile theologians of all breeds.”

“As I don’t think that you’re so conceited as that, lieutenant, I won’t compare you with this Monsieur de la Mirandola, who claimed to know everything. As for Cæsar, I’ve heard him spoken of as a very great man, but I’m sure he didn’t have as many mistresses as you.”

“You’re mistaken, Bertrand; the great men of antiquity had a great many female slaves, concubines, and often cast off their wives and took new ones. Love and Pleasure had temples in Greece; and those high and mighty Romans, who are represented to us as so strait-laced, weren’t ashamed to indulge in the wildest debauchery, to crown themselves with myrtle and roses, and sometimes to appear at their banquets in the costumes of our first parents.”

“For God’s sake, lieutenant, let’s drop the Romans, with whom I never exchanged a shot, and go back to what we were talking about.”

“I propose to prove to you, my dear Bertrand, that we are very far from surpassing preceding generations in folly, and are in fact much more virtuous.”

“Is that why you have four mistresses?”

“I love women, I admit; I will say more—I am proud of it; it is a natural inclination. I cannot see an attractive face, a fine pair of eyes, without feeling a pleasant thrill, an agitation, an I don’t know what, in short, that proves my extreme susceptibility. Is it a crime, pray, to be susceptible in an age when selfishness is carried to such lengths; when self-interest is the mainspring of almost all human actions; when we see authors prefer cash to renown, and men in office forgetful of everything except retaining their offices, instead of meditating on the good they might do; when we see artists begging for the patronage of people they despise, and asking alms from stupidity when it is in power; when we see men of letters carefully block a confrère’s path when they detect in him a talent that might outshine theirs; when, in short, every door is closed to obscure merit, and thrown wide open to impudence and conceit when accompanied by wealth? If selfishness had not wormed its way into all classes of society, if love of money had not replaced love of one’s neighbor, would it be thus? And you berate me for my susceptibility! You reproach me for being unable to listen unmoved to the story of a noble deed, or of pathetic misfortune; for giving money to people who deceive me; for allowing myself to be gulled like an ass by the palaver of a child who tells me that he is begging for his mother, or of a poor laboring man who swears that he has no work and nothing to eat! Well, my dear Bertrand, I prefer my susceptibility to their icy selfishness, and I find in my heart sources of enjoyment which their indifferent hearts will never know.”

This conversation took place in a stylish cabriolet, drawn by a prancing horse, which was bowling along the lovely road from Raincy to Montfermeil. A small groom of some twelve or fourteen years was perched behind the carriage, in which Bertrand was seated beside a young man, dressed in the latest fashion, who, as he conversed, touched occasionally with his whip the spirited steed he was driving.

Bertrand had partly turned his face away toward the end of his master’s speech; and to cloak the emotion which was beginning to be too much for him, he blew his nose and took a huge pinch of snuff. Somewhat composed thereby, he said in a voice slightly tremulous with emotion:

“God forbid, lieutenant, that I should blame you for being tender-hearted! I know your kind heart; I know how willing and ready to help you are! And I could mention a thousand things you’ve done that many men would have bragged about; whereas you are very careful to conceal them.”

“People who boast of the good they do are like the ones who offer you a thing in such a way that you can’t accept it: both give regretfully.”

“We needn’t look very far, lieutenant; haven’t you heaped presents on me? didn’t you take me in, and give me board and lodging?”

“You’re an idiot, Bertrand; don’t you act as my steward, factotum, confidential man of business,—yes, and as my friend, which is better than all the rest, and for which one cannot pay?”

At that, Bertrand turned his head altogether, and blew his nose again, because a great tear had dropped from his eyes. He took two pinches of snuff, and having warmly grasped the hand that his master offered him, he said in a quavering voice:

“Yes, monsieur, you are the best of men; you have a thousand good qualities! and no one had better say anything different in my hearing! Morbleu! my sword isn’t rusty yet.”

“Oho! so now you’re going to flatter me, are you? Remember, Bertrand, that you began this conversation for the purpose of scolding me.”

“Scolding you! no, indeed, lieutenant, but simply to point out to you that it would be more reasonable to love one woman at once; with full liberty to change as soon as you see another one that you like better.”

“Look you, Bertrand, I’ll draw a comparison for you, that you’ll see the justice of at once.”

“You won’t put any Greeks or Romans in it, will you, lieutenant?”

“Not one.—You like wine, don’t you, Bertrand?”

“That’s so, lieutenant; I admit that an old bottle—of a good brand—there’s nothing like that to liven you up!”

“Do you like beaune?”

“Very much, lieutenant.”

“And bordeaux?”

“Ah, yes! it smells of violets; it has a delicious bouquet!”

“And volnay?”

“I’ve never been able to resist it.”

“And chambertin?”

“I would go down on my knees to it, lieutenant.”

“If you had a bottle of each of those wines in front of you, would you give up three of them and drink just a single one?”

“I promise you, lieutenant, that I’d take care of all four of them, and I wouldn’t be any worse off for it either.”

“Why then do you expect me, when I am surrounded by four pretty creatures, each of whom has some peculiar charm, to give up three of them and make love to only one?”

“Parbleu! that’s true enough, lieutenant; you can’t do it; you must drink them—I mean you must love them all four; and I see now that I was wrong.”

The discussions between Bertrand and Auguste Dalville almost always ended so. Auguste was twenty-seven and had twenty thousand francs a year; his father died while he was in the cradle, and his mother was taken away from him six years before our story opens. That was the date of the beginning of Auguste’s life of dissipation; he had sought distraction from his perfectly natural grief, and had finally become unable to resist a sex in whose company he had at first sought diversion only.

Meanwhile, the ambition to wear a handsome uniform, and perhaps to earn a pair of epaulets, had led Auguste to enter the army. The country was at peace; but a young man with a good education does not remain a private. Auguste, promoted to sub-lieutenant, delighted to listen to Bertrand, who had served as corporal of voltigeurs, and had been at Austerlitz, Eylau, and Friedland. Bertrand was only forty-four: he put into the description of his battles the same fire and zeal that he had displayed in the battles themselves, and Auguste never tired of listening. The corporal’s stories excited his ardor; he regretted that he was not born a few years earlier, thinking that he might, like Bertrand, have taken part in those triumphant campaigns which will always be the glory of France.

About this time, Auguste was sent with his regiment to Pampeluna, to which the French were laying siege. Bertrand found himself under the command of the young officer, who had been made a lieutenant. But, the war at an end, Auguste quitted the military profession, and returned to Paris, to abandon himself afresh to his taste for pleasure. He proposed to Bertrand to go with him; he readily obtained his discharge and accompanied Dalville, to whom he was sincerely attached, and whom he continued to call lieutenant, partly from habit and partly from choice.

Bertrand had a mother in Paris, very old and infirm. Auguste’s first care was to settle on the poor woman a pension which placed her beyond fear of want, and enabled her to enjoy in her old age a multitude of comforts which she had never known during her life of toil and misfortune.

Thereafter Auguste was not simply a master in Bertrand’s eyes; he regarded him as his benefactor, and his affection and devotion knew no bounds. After his mother’s death, which occurred three years later, Bertrand attached himself to Auguste’s service altogether, and vowed that he would devote his life to proving his gratitude. Bertrand had had no education; he often made blunders in delivering the messages which his master entrusted to him; but Auguste always forgave him, because he was well aware of the ex-corporal’s attachment and his good heart. Bertrand, as we have seen, sometimes ventured to remonstrate with his superior officer, because, being as yet unfamiliar with the manner of life in high society, Auguste’s follies terrified him, and he was in constant dread that his intrigues would lead to serious complications; but Auguste always succeeded in allaying Bertrand’s fright, so that the latter invariably ended the conversation by saying: “I was in the wrong.”

There are many more things that I might tell you concerning the two men who have been talking together. Perhaps I ought to draw their portraits for you, and to tell you to just what type of face Auguste Dalville’s belonged. But what would be the use? Doubtless some one of his numerous conquests will have something to say about him; so that I should run the risk of unnecessary repetition by sketching him at first. We can simply presume that he was comely, as he was fortunate enough to please the ladies. “That is no reason,” you will say; “when a man has twenty thousand francs a year, that takes the place of physical charms, and conceals ugliness.”—Oh! what an idea, my dear readers! Surely no reader of the gentler sex would make such a reply; for I have too good an opinion of the ladies not to feel sure that it would take something more than twenty thousand francs to captivate them.

But the cabriolet is speeding along; we will resume our reflections at some other time.

“Bébelle goes very well. You are warm, lieutenant; don’t you want me to take the reins?”

“No, I like to drive.”

“We shall be at Monsieur Destival’s by eleven o’clock.”

“That is quite early enough; and from that time until five o’clock, when we dine—But I promised a long while ago. At all events, Madame Destival is an excellent musician, and we will try to amuse ourselves while we are waiting for dinner.”

“Why did you bring me, lieutenant? I can’t play or sing, and as I don’t belong in the salon, where am I to do sentry-duty?”

“Never fear; Monsieur Destival expressly requested me to bring you. He has become infatuated with hunting, and he wants you to teach him to handle a gun.”

“Very well, lieutenant, I’ll teach him all I know; that won’t take long.”

“Poor Virginie! What a rage she will be in to-night! I promised to take her to Feydeau——”

“She has often promised you things, and then broken her word.”

“How do you know that, Bertrand?”

“Because I’ve heard, lieutenant, that Mademoiselle Virginie’s a terrible liar.”

“That is true; yes, I have had proofs of it more than once.”

“That’s very bad, after all that you’ve done for her! But you’re so kindhearted, you always allow yourself to be imposed on! Ten thousand carbines! if the hussy had killed herself every time she threatened to perish because she didn’t have enough to pay her rent——”

“Come, come, Monsieur Bertrand, be quiet! You have a wicked tongue.—Go on, Bébelle; I believe you’re asleep.”

“And one evening, when you went out, and she told me her troubles! She said that if she had had a weakness for you, it was because she was too loving, but that she was determined to change her ways, not to see you any more, and to make up with her aunt. For my part, I believed every word of it; in fact, she had such a sincere way of saying it, that I felt all ready to cry. But no sooner did she learn that you were at the masked ball than she shouted: ‘I’m going too, Bertrand! lend me some clothes, I’m going to dress as a man!’—‘What, mademoiselle,’ says I, ‘when you’re talking about being good and not seeing Monsieur Auguste any more!’—At that she began to laugh like a madwoman and called me an old turkey-cock! Faith, lieutenant, I don’t understand a woman like that.”

“I can well believe it, my poor Bertrand; even I myself don’t understand her, and I know her better than you do.”

“I like that little light-haired woman better; you know, lieutenant, the one you got acquainted with by carrying back the little poodle she’d lost, that I found lying at our door at night.”

“You mean Léonie?”

“No, I mean Madame de Saint-Edmond.”

“Léonie and Saint-Edmond are the same person.”

“I didn’t know, lieutenant.”

“But look you, Bertrand, it was your fault that I made her acquaintance.”

“The poodle’s rather, lieutenant.”

“Léonie lived in the same house with me, and I didn’t know her.”

“Parbleu, lieutenant, as if a body knew all his neighbors in Paris! except concierges and cooks, whose business it is.”

“At all events, you found the dog, and I bade you ask the concierge if anyone in the house had lost it.”

“And he told me that there was a young lady on the third floor, who had lain awake all night for grief at losing her dog, and that her maid, after searching from garret to cellar, had gone out to have placards printed offering thirty francs reward to whoever brought the little beast back. I confess that I didn’t have any idea that the little poodle, which did nothing but bite and growl, was worth more than four months’ pay for a private soldier; but I went up to the third floor in a hurry, to have the order for the placards countermanded by giving the little beast back to its mistress. To celebrate his return, he began by scratching a handsome blue satin armchair and putting his paws in madame’s cup of chocolate; but that didn’t prevent her calling him her little jewel, and expressing the greatest gratitude to me. Still, lieutenant, I don’t see anything in all that to force you to fall in love with Madame Léonie Saint-Edmond.”

“You haven’t told everything, Bertrand: you forget that, when you came down from the third floor, you drew a very alluring picture of that lady; you told me that she had a pair of eyes—and a voice—and a certain shape!”

“Bless me, lieutenant, I should say that all women have eyes and a shape and a voice!”

“Yes, to be sure; but still I was curious to know this young neighbor of ours, who showed such keen sensibility.”

“And it would seem, lieutenant, that you dislodged the poodle, for since then Madame Saint-Edmond is forever at your heels; and as for me, madame questions me and tries to make me talk; she sends for me to come up when she’s at breakfast, and as she offers me a little glass of malaga and a biscuit, she asks me where you passed the evening before.”

“And Monsieur Bertrand, melted by the malaga, recounts my actions to my neighbor, I presume?”

“Oh! for shame, lieutenant! What do you take me for? The idea of my betraying my master’s secrets! If there had been half a dozen bottles of malaga in front of me, I wouldn’t have said a word! To be sure, I don’t like malaga.”

“Bless my soul, my dear Bertrand, I am not scolding you! You know well enough that I make no secret of my follies, even to those who might have ground for complaint. It’s a mere matter of an amourette or two, a little fooling.”

“All the same, lieutenant, I am seriously embarrassed, on my word, being forever questioned by this one and that one. One calls me her little Bertrand, another her true friend—and these ladies are all very attractive——”

“Ah! monsieur le caporal has noticed that!”

“Parbleu, lieutenant, I have eyes just like other men, and if my heart don’t take fire as easily as yours, that don’t mean that it’s invulnerable. And when I see one of those ladies put her handkerchief to her eyes, when I hear your neighbor throw herself into an armchair and say that she’s going to faint; and when Mademoiselle Virginie cries that she will perish,—why, I don’t know where I am. I run from one to the other, offer them salts and eau-de-vie, tear my hair, and sometimes I even cry with them. Let me tell you that I’d rather assault a fortress six times than be present at one of those scenes, on my honor!”

“Ha! ha! ha! Poor Bertrand!”

“Of course, you laugh; it don’t make any difference to you how much you are called traitor, perfidious villain, savage, monster, cruel wretch!”

“Those are terms of endearment; in a young woman’s mouth those words mean: ‘You are charming, I love you, I adore you!’”

“Oho! so ‘monster!’ means ‘you are charming,’ does it? That makes a difference, lieutenant; I couldn’t be expected to guess that; now I understand. But these tears that you are responsible for—do they also mean that you are considered charming?”

“Oh! do you suppose, my old friend, that in love-affairs tears are always sincere?”

“In a great flood, lieutenant, there may happen to be one honest one; and it seems to me that a man ought to be sorry for the suffering he causes a pretty girl.”

“I promise to reform, Bertrand, to be more virtuous in the future! Is it possible that you think that I, who adore that charming sex, I, whose whole happiness depends on making myself attractive to the ladies—that I set about causing them pain?”

“No, lieutenant; on the contrary, I am well aware that you would like to give pleasure to all the young beauties you meet; but it is that very pleasure that leads to regret and cares; and you yourself—for, as I was saying just now, the great Turenne——”

Auguste had ceased to listen to Bertrand; he had put his head out of the window and was watching a young peasant who had just come out of the forest and was walking along the same road that our travellers were following, driving before her an ass laden with baskets, in which were a number of the tin cans in which milk is carried to the people of Paris by the village women.

As the ass did not move as fast as Bébelle, Auguste drew in his horse and made him walk, in order to see the girl as long as possible.

“Shall I touch Bébelle up?” asked Bertrand, surprised to find that they continued to go at a walk.

“No, no—she’s going well enough.”

“Yes, lieutenant, you will be very wise to turn virtuous—virtuous for you, I mean; if you don’t, your income won’t be enough to pay all your expenses. You have appointed me your steward, so I can venture to talk figures with you; and, although I’m not a great mathematician, I can see plainly enough that when you’re forever dipping into a cash-box, it is soon empty. This year you don’t seem to be lucky at that infernal game you play so often—you know, lieutenant, the game in which you turn the kings——”

“Fresh complexion—a pretty figure—lovely eyes—it’s extraordinary, I swear!”

“And then the cashmere shawls you send to one, and the milliner’s bill that you pay for another——”

“And all these charms in a milkmaid!”

“What’s that? a milkmaid? Do you mean to say that you pay their bills too, lieutenant?”

“Who in the devil said anything about bills? Just look at that sweet child on the road yonder.”

“Well! she’s a milkmaid—that’s the whole story!”

“You don’t see how pretty she is. And that sly smile, every time her eyes turn in our direction.”

“Perhaps she wants to sell us some cream cheese?”

“Blockhead! to see nothing but cheese! I tell you that sackcloth waist, that double linen neckerchief, so high in the neck, conceal a multitude of treasures.”

“Treasures! treasures! Parbleu! one can guess very nearly what they conceal, although appearances are often deceitful. But such treasures aren’t scarce; is it on account of the little milkmaid that we’re going now like a load of flour?”

“No, no, it’s because I am beginning to get tired of the cabriolet. The weather is so fine; I feel that it will do me good to walk. We’re only a little way from Monsieur Destival’s now. Here, Bertrand, take the reins; I’ll do the rest of the distance on foot.”

“What, lieutenant, you mean to——”

Auguste had already stopped his horse; he jumped lightly to the ground despite Bertrand’s grumbling, and said:

“Go on with Tony.”

“But what shall I tell Monsieur Destival?”

“That I am coming; I shall be there as soon as you.”

“But——”

“Bertrand, I insist.”

Bertrand said no more; but he cast an angry glance at the little milkmaid, and lashed Bébelle, who soon left Auguste far behind.

II
THE FALL

The damsel went her way, with a branch of walnut in her hand, driving her ass before her, apparently oblivious of the fact that the young man had alighted from his cabriolet. She did not look back, but contented herself with calling out from time to time: “Go on there, White Jean;” and White Jean went none the faster.

Auguste soon overtook the milkmaid. He walked behind her a few moments, to examine her; she was well-built, so far as one could judge of her shape beneath the thick wrapper in which she was muffled; her foot was certainly small, although encased in heavy shoes, and her woolen stockings covered a shapely leg, which he could examine at his leisure, for a milkmaid wears very short skirts.

Auguste stepped forward; the girl looked up and seemed surprised to see the young man of the cabriolet walking by her side. But she turned her head away, with another “go on!” to her ass, in which there was no touch of romance.

Our young exquisite gazed closely at the girl, who wore a cap perched on top of her head, which concealed none of her features.

“She is very pretty,” he said to himself; “fine eyes, a pretty mouth, a complexion like the rose; but nothing extraordinary, after all. Her freshness is the freshness of a village girl; she’s a mere country beauty, and I should have done as well to stay in the carriage. However, as I have alighted, I may as well try to gain something by it.”

And the young man continued to stare at the milkmaid, with a smile on his face; but she, apparently annoyed by the fine gentleman’s scrutiny, said to him sharply:

“Shall you soon be through looking at me?”

“Isn’t it within the law to admire you?”

“No, I don’t like to have anyone eye me like that.”

“If you weren’t so pretty, people would look at you less.”

“If this is the way you talk to your ladies in Paris, you must have lots of faces in your head! When you look at a body so close, you’ll know her again; but here among us, we don’t call it decent; and you’d better not come here to play monkey tricks like this!”

“I made a mistake in leaving the cabriolet,” thought Auguste. However, he continued to walk beside the girl, and said to her after a moment:

“Are you a milkmaid?”

“Pardi! anyone can see that. Have you just guessed it?”

“Will you sell me some milk?”

“I haven’t got any.”

“Do you carry it to Paris?”

“I don’t go so far as that.”

“Where do you come from?”

“You’re very inquisitive.”

The girl’s tone was not encouraging, and Auguste looked along the road to see whether he could still see his cabriolet; but it had disappeared, for White Jean stopped very often to eat leaves or grass, despite the blows with the switch which his mistress bestowed on him.

“Do you know,” said Auguste, “you are not very agreeable, my lovely child? You are so pretty that I thought you would be gentler, less savage.”

“That’s just it! monsieur thought he was going to turn my head with his flattery! But I’m used to meeting young men from Paris; it’s always the same old song; they think they can make themselves welcome just by telling me I’m pretty! Oh! you’re a parcel of flatterers! but I don’t listen to you, you see!”

“I should like to hear anyone deny again that virtue has its home in the village!” said Auguste to himself. “It is clear enough to my mind that the country is the place where we find the pure morals of the ancient patriarch, the models of virtue celebrated by the poets, the—That devil of a Bertrand needn’t have driven Bébelle so fast; he must have done it from pure mischief! And when I said that we were almost there I was lying. It’s at least three-quarters of a league farther!”

To complete the young man’s discomfiture, the milkmaid turned aside from the high road into a path that led through the woods. Auguste stood for a moment hesitating at the entrance to the path. Should he follow his cabriolet? or should he follow the girl? The first course was the more sensible, and that was his reason no doubt for deciding in favor of the second.

The time that Auguste had passed in indecision had allowed the milkmaid to get some distance ahead of him; she walked along the path, and, thinking that the young man had followed the highroad, she sang as she drove White Jean in front of her:

“You love me, you say,
Then prove it, I pray;
But dandies like you,
Would hoax us, I know.”

“Very pretty! although the rhyme isn’t first-class,” said Auguste, quickening his pace to overtake the girl. She turned, and seemed surprised to see the young man in the path behind her.

“What! you coming this way?” said the milkmaid, in a somewhat uncertain voice.

“To be sure; this path is lovely.”

“Ain’t you going to overtake your carriage?”

“I couldn’t make up my mind to leave you.”

“Oh! you’re wasting your time, monsieur, and I promise you you’d do better to go after your carriage.”

“But I much prefer to walk by your side, although you treat me so harshly; however, I have an idea that you’re not so unkind as you choose to appear.”

“Well, you’re mistaken; I ain’t kind at all; ask all the young fellows in Montfermeil how I treat them when they try to fool. Oh! Denise Fourcy is well known hereabout, I tell you.”

“Denise Fourcy? Good, now I know your name.”

“Well, what then? How does that put you ahead any?”

“It will help me to find out about you easily, and to find you again when I choose.”

“Pardi! I ain’t lost, and anyone can easily find me.”

“Do you mean to say, Denise, that at your age, pretty as you are, you haven’t a lover?”

“Is that any of your business?”

“Oh! very much!”

“Here in the country we ain’t in such a hurry as your city ladies.”

“Haven’t women hearts in the country as well as elsewhere?”

“Yes; but they don’t take fire the way yours does; it seems to me to be a little heart of tinder.”

“Upon my word, she is really amusing!” said Auguste, laughingly.

“She!” repeated the milkmaid in an irritated tone; “how polite these fine gentlemen are! She! Anyone would think we had known each other a long while.”

“It depends entirely on you whether or not we shall be the best friends in the world in a moment. And to begin with, I must give you a kiss.”

“No—no, monsieur—none of that sort of thing, if you please.—Oh! look out, or I’ll scratch you.”

Auguste, accustomed to defy such prohibitions, seized the little milkmaid by the waist, and tried to put his lips to her fresh, ruddy cheek; but she defended herself more vigorously than the city ladies do; to be sure, a peasant is less embarrassed by her clothes, she isn’t afraid of rumpling them, and her corsets are not so tight that she cannot move her arms; that is the reason no doubt that a kiss is much harder to obtain from a peasant.

The kiss was taken at last; but it cost Auguste dear, for he bore below his left eye the marks of two nails which had drawn blood from the Parisian dandy’s face. Thus each of the combatants was beaten, for each bore a token of defeat. But the war seemed not to be at an end. Denise, twice as red as she was before the battle, arranged her neckerchief, glaring angrily at the young man; while he put his hand to his face, and, finding blood there, wiped it with his handkerchief, looking at the girl with a less sentimental expression; for those two digs with her nails had cooled his ardor to an extraordinary degree.

“I’m glad of it,” said the girl at last; “that will teach you to try to kiss a girl against her will, monsieur.”

“I certainly didn’t expect to be treated so. The idea of disfiguring me—just for a kiss!”

“If all women did the same, you wouldn’t be so forward.”

“Thank God, they don’t all have the same ideas that you have. You hurt me terribly!”

“Oh! what troubles you the most is that it will show; you’re afraid you won’t be so pretty to look at.”

“No, I assure you that that isn’t what I am thinking about. I am sorry that I really made you angry. I realize that I was wrong. Come, Denise, let us make peace.”

“No, monsieur, no, I don’t listen to you any more.”

And the milkmaid, thinking that the young man intended to try to kiss her again, ran to her donkey, and, in order to fly more rapidly, leaped on White Jean’s back, and beat him with redoubled force. But it was the animal’s custom to return placidly to the village, browsing on whatever he found by the roadside, and not to bear his young mistress on his back. Disturbed in his daily routine by this unexpected burden, White Jean broke into a fast trot, and entered the woods despite his mistress’s efforts to make him follow the beaten path. Auguste heard the girl’s cries as she tried in vain to hold her steed, dodging with much difficulty the branches which brushed against her face every instant. Forgetting the marks that Denise had left on his cheek, Dalville followed the milkmaid’s track, in order to lead the ass back into the path; but when he heard running behind him, the infernal beast went faster than ever and rushed heedlessly into the densest part of the wood. Soon a stout branch barred the milkmaid’s path. While her mount ran beneath it, she was swept to the ground; and as she fell another branch caught her skirt; so that poor Denise fell to the ground, face downward, with her skirt over her head and consequently not where it usually was.

Auguste came up at that moment. You can imagine the sight that met his eyes; and what the skirt no longer covered was white and plump and fresh. But we must do the young man justice; instead of amusing himself by contemplating so many attractive things, he ran to Denise. She shrieked and wept and gnashed her teeth. He succeeded in rescuing her head from her petticoats, and quickly covered—what you know.

Denise rose; but she was covered with confusion, she dared not look up at the young man, who, far from taking advantage of her embarrassment, inquired solicitously whether she was hurt.

“Oh, no! it ain’t anything,” said Denise, still blushing. “I should have forgotten all about it before this if that cursed branch—Pardi! I must be mighty unlucky.”

“Why so? because you fell? Why, my dear child, that might happen to anybody.”

“Yes, but it’s possible to fall without showing—without—Never mind, you’re the first one that ever saw it, all the same.”

“Ah! I would like to be the last one, too.—Come, why this offended expression? I promise you that I didn’t see anything; I thought of nothing but helping you. I was so afraid that you had hurt yourself! It would have been my fault; for, if it hadn’t been for my nonsense, you would have gone your way in peace, and this wouldn’t have happened.”

As Denise listened to Auguste, her anger passed away, and she even smiled as she said:

“I ain’t cross with you any more. You’re more decent than I thought; if I’d fallen like that before the village fellows, they’d have laughed to begin with, and then they’d have made a lot of silly talk, and there wouldn’t have been any end to it. Instead of that, you picked me right up, and you looked so scared!—I’m sorry now that I scratched you. Come, kiss me, to prove that you forgive me.”

Auguste made the most of this permission. Denise was so pretty when she smiled! and a woman who defends herself so sturdily makes the favors that she grants seem the more precious.

So peace was made between the milkmaid and the young man. But White Jean was no longer there; overjoyed to be rid of his burden, he had kept on through the woods.

“Oh! I ain’t worried,” said Denise; “I’m sure he’s gone home. Let’s take this path and we shall soon be in the village.”

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.”

“It was your lovely eyes that turned my head.”

“Ah! you’re going to begin again. Go along, quick, or they’ll eat the cream cheese without you.”

“I should be very sorry for that, as it was you who made it.”

“The road up the hill—then turn to the left—then the grass-grown road. Adieu, monsieur.”

“One more kiss, Denise.”

“No, no; that sort of thing shouldn’t be repeated too often; you’d soon get tired of it.”

And Denise hurried down the hill toward the village. Auguste followed her with his eyes for a long while, saying to himself:

“She’s very pretty, and she’s bright too! What a pity that she doesn’t live in Paris!—What am I saying? If she were in Paris, she’d look like all the rest; it’s because she’s a milkmaid that her face and her wit have impressed me.—Well, I will follow the directions she gave me, and arrive as soon as possible. I am sure that they are impatient for me to come; poor Bertrand won’t know what to say, and Madame Destival will pout at me—how she will pout!—And great heaven! these scratches! how in the devil am I to explain them? Faith, I scratched myself picking nuts. It’s a pity that nuts don’t have thorns. But no matter, they may think what they choose.”

So Auguste decided to resume his journey; but he cast another glance at Denise’s village, and murmured as he walked away:

“I shall come again and make Montfermeil’s acquaintance.”

III
THE CHILD AND THE BOWL

Auguste followed the road that Denise had pointed out to him, his thoughts still fixed on the little milkmaid. The most fickle of men remembers the last woman who has succeeded in attracting him, until some new and pleasing object, causing him to feel other desires, effaces from his mind the charms of which he has lately dreamed.

Suddenly the sound of tears and lamentations roused the young man from his reverie. He looked about and spied, some ten yards away, by a large tree, a little boy of six years at most, dressed like a peasant’s child, in a little jacket, trousers torn in several places, no stockings, and heavy wooden shoes; his head was bare, protected only by a forest of fair hair.

Auguste walked toward the little fellow, who wept lustily, and gazed with an air of stupefaction at the fragments of an earthen vessel at his feet, the former contents of which were spilled on the road. The child did not turn to look at the person who spoke to him, all his thoughts being concentrated on the broken vessel; he could do nothing but weep, raising to his head and eyes from time to time a pair of very grimy little hands, which, being wet by his tears, smeared his chubby face with mud.

“Why, what makes you cry so, my boy?” asked Auguste, stooping in order to be nearer the child.

The little fellow raised for an instant a pair of light-blue eyes, about which his little hands had drawn circles of black; then turned them again upon the pieces of broken crockery, muttering:

“I’ve broke the bowl—hi! hi! and papa’s soup was in it—hi! hi! I’ll get a licking, like I did before—hi! hi!”

“The deuce! that would be a misfortune, and no mistake! But stop crying, my boy, perhaps we can fix it all right. You say that you were carrying soup to your father?”

“Yes, and I broke the bowl.”

“So I see. But why do they make you carry such a big bowl? You’re too small as yet. How old are you, my boy?”

“Six and a half—and I broke the bowl, and papa’s soup——”

“Yes, yes, it’s on the ground; you mustn’t think any more about it.”

“It was cabbage soup—hi! hi!”

“Oh! I can smell it. But don’t cry any more. I promise you that you shan’t be whipped.”

“Yes, I shall; I broke the bowl, and grandma told me to be very careful.”

“Come, listen to me: what’s your name?”

“Coco—and I’ve broke the bowl.”

“Well, my little Coco, I’ll give you money to buy another bowl, and to have three times as much cabbage soup made. I hope you won’t cry any more now.”

As he spoke, Auguste took a five-franc piece from his pocket and put it in the child’s hand; but Coco stared at the coin with his big blue eyes open wider than ever, and continued none the less to sob bitterly, saying:

“Papa’ll lick me, and so will grandma too.”

“What! when you give them that money?”

“Papa’s waiting for the soup for his dinner; and when he sees me without the bowl—”

“Well,” thought Auguste, “I see that I must take it on myself to arrange this matter. It will make me still later; but this little fellow is so pretty! and they are quite capable of beating him, despite the five-franc piece. I wasted one hour making love to a milkmaid, I can afford to sacrifice a second to save this child a thrashing.—Come, Coco; off we go, my boy! Take me to your father; I’ll tell him that it was I who knocked the bowl out of your hands as I passed, and I’ll promise that you won’t be beaten.”

Coco looked at Auguste, then turned his eyes on the remains of the vessel, from which he was very reluctant to part. But Dalville took his hand, and the child concluded at last to start. On the way Auguste tried to make him talk, to divert him from his terror.

“What does your father do, my boy?”

“He works in the fields.”

“And his name?”

“Papa Calleux.”

“Papa Calleux evidently is not very pleasant, as you’re so afraid of him. And your mother?”

“She’s dead.”

“Then it’s your grandmother who makes the cabbage soup?”

“Yes, and she told me to be very careful and not break the bowl, like I did the other time.”

“Aha! so you’ve broken one before, have you?”

“Yes, and there wasn’t anything in it; but they licked me.”

“You don’t seem to be lucky with bowls. But the idea of whipping such a little fellow! These peasants must be very hardhearted. Poor boy! he is still sobbing; and he isn’t seven years old! So there’s no age at which we haven’t our troubles.”

The boy led Auguste across several fields, through the middle of which ran narrow paths. It took Auguste still farther from Monsieur Destival’s; but he did not choose to leave the child until he saw that he was happy. At last they reached a field of potatoes, and Coco stopped and grasped his companion’s arm with a trembling hand.

“There’s papa,” he said.

Some forty yards away Auguste saw a peasant plying the spade. He dropped the child’s hand and walked toward the peasant, who kept at his work, bent double over the ground.

“Père Calleux, I have come to make amends for a slight accident,” said Auguste, raising his voice.

The peasant raised his head and displayed a face covered with blotches, a huge nose, great eyes level with the face, a half-open mouth, and teeth that recalled those of Little Red Riding Hood’s enemy. That extraordinary countenance expressed profound amazement at hearing a fashionably-dressed gentleman call him by name.

“I imagine that Père Calleux is as fond of wine as of cabbage soup,” said Auguste to himself as he scrutinized the peasant.

“What can I do for you, monsieur?” asked the latter.

“I met your son Coco on the road——”

“Ah! where is he, I’d like to know? He was going to bring me my dinner.—Coco! what are you doing there?”

“Wait until I tell you the whole story; as I was looking at a fine view, I ran into the child, and I knocked the bowl he was carrying out of his hands; it broke, and——”

“You’ll pay for it, that’s all; for you’re to blame for my having no dinner.”

“Oh! that’s but fair; that’s why I came to speak to you. How much do I owe you? Name the price.”

“Well, monsieur, it was a good soup-bowl; it was worth all of thirty sous; and there was twelve sous’ worth of soup in it; for pork’s dear round here——”

“See, here’s five francs; are you satisfied?”

“Oh, yes! monsieur; that’s fair enough; I haven’t got anything to say.”

“Then I hope that you won’t scold your son; and, if you take my advice you won’t make a child of that age carry such heavy loads any more.”

“Oh! monsieur, it gets them used to being strong. We poor folks can’t bring children up on lollipops.—Well, Coco, come here.”

The child approached timidly, and, when he reached his father’s side, began to whimper again, saying:

“I broke the bowl.”

“Yes, yes, I know what happened; monsieur told me all about it. Go back to the house now, and tell Mère Madeleine to get me some dinner, and to be sure to have some wine. But no, I’d rather go to dinner at Claude’s cabaret. Go home, Coco, and don’t wait supper for me; I’ve got business in the town.”

Auguste guessed that Père Calleux’s business consisted in drinking up the five-franc piece to the last sou; but, satisfied to see that his young protégé was in high spirits, he bade the peasant adieu, and followed the child, who retraced the steps they had just taken; but this time he leaped and gambolled about his companion. His great grief was forgotten already! And they say that we are great children: it is true as concerns our foibles, but not as concerns happiness.

Auguste, happy in the little fellow’s joy, took pleasure in watching him. Laughter sits so well upon a little face of six years! A person who is fond of children cannot conceive how anyone can look with indifference on their tears. And yet there are people for whom a dog’s yelping has more charm than the laughter of a child! It speaks well for their depth of feeling!

As they went along, Coco sang and ran and played about Auguste, playing little tricks on him, for they were great friends already; at six years and a half one gives one’s friendship as quickly as at twenty one gives one’s heart. Auguste ran and played with the child; he chased him, caught him, and rolled with him on the grass, heedless of the fact that it stained his clothes, because the boy’s laughter was so frank and true that it was often shared by his elegant companion.

What! you will say, a dandy, a lady-killer, a butterfly of fashion, amuse himself playing in the fields with a little peasant boy? Why not, pray? Happy the man who, as he grows old, retains his taste for the simple pleasures of his youth! Henri IV walked about his room on all fours, carrying his children on his back. When surprised in that position by the ambassador of a foreign power, he asked him, without rising, if he were a father, and, upon his answer in the affirmative, rejoined: “In that case, I’ll just trot round the room.”

When they reached the place where he had first met the child, Auguste would have bade him adieu and have gone his way; but Coco held his hand and refused to release it.

“Come home with me,” he said, “please come; Mamma Madeleine will give you some nice butter. Come and you can see Jacqueleine; she’s awful pretty, I tell you.”

“Who is Jacqueleine, my boy?”

“She’s our goat; she sleeps by me.”

“And is your home far away?”

“No, it’s right over there.”

Auguste submitted to be led away. Coco repeating: “It’s right over there,” gave his companion another half-hour’s walk. At last they came in sight of a wretched hovel, the thatched roof of which had fallen in in several places, standing on a crossroad, and Coco shouted: “Here we are; do you see our house?” Then he pulled his companion’s sleeve, to make him run with him.

An old woman sat in front of the hovel; she was thin and bent, and her complexion reminded one of an Egyptian mummy. But a strong, shrill voice emerged from her fragile body.

“So here you are at last, lazybones!” she said to the child; “what have you been doing so long? Where’s the bowl?”

Coco looked at Auguste, whom he was already accustomed to look upon as his protector; Auguste told Mère Madeleine the same fable that he had told Père Calleux, reinforced once more by the five-franc piece, which was the irresistible argument. At that the old woman tried to soften her voice, and urged Auguste to come in for a drink of goat’s milk and some fresh butter, which were all that she could offer him. The young dandy entered the cabin. His heart sickened at the sight of that wretched habitation. The home of the Calleux family consisted of a single room. It was a large room, but the daylight lighted only a small part of it. The bare earth formed the floor; the walls, half whitewashed, had nothing upon them to conceal their nakedness; the thatched roof threatened disaster. Two cot beds, in the darkest corner, had no curtains to shelter them from the wind which entered on all sides. An old buffet, a chest, a table and a few chairs were the only other furniture.

“Where on earth do you sleep?” Auguste asked the child. He led him to a corner of the room, where it was almost impossible to see anything, and pointed out a small straw bed on the floor, with a dilapidated woolen coverlet thrown over it. Close beside it was a goat, lying in some straw that was spread on the ground.

“There’s my bed,” said Coco. “Oh! I’m all right, you see; Jacqueleine keeps me warm in winter. Jacqueleine loves me, she does!”

And the child threw his arms round the goat’s neck, and patted her, rolling over and over on the straw with her. But he was obliged to leave his faithful companion, for his grandmother called him.

“Come, come, good-for-nothing! You can play by-and-by. Come and put the bread on the table and give me a cup. The little scamp ain’t good for nothing.”

“You treat your grandson very harshly,” said Auguste, taking his place at the table and tasting the rye bread and the milk.

“If I’d let him have his way, monsieur, he’d play all day long.”

“But you must love the child dearly, as he’s the only one your daughter left you.”

“Oh! yes, I love him enough! But when a body’s poor, it’s just as well not to have none at all.”

Auguste looked once more at the old peasant woman, and her extreme ugliness no longer surprised him so much. He took Coco on his knee, gave him milk to drink, and bread and butter to eat, and enjoyed looking at his pretty face and lovely fair hair. The old woman seemed astounded by the endearments which the fine gentleman lavished on the child, and muttered between her teeth:

“Oh! you’ll spoil him! ‘taint no use in doing that!”

“Is he learning to read and write?”

“Oh, of course! where’s the money coming from, I’d like to know? Besides, we don’t want to make a scholar of him. Is that wanted for driving the plough?”

“But you might at least give him a better place to sleep than he has.”

“There ain’t no sheets but for one bed, and it’s no more’n fair for me to have ‘em, old as I am. His father sleeps on a sack of straw same as he does. He don’t sleep no worse for it either, I tell you.”

“Here, Mère Madeleine, take this, and buy a bed for the child, and don’t be so harsh with him.”

As he spoke, Auguste rose, and put six more five-franc pieces in the old woman’s hand. She, having never before seen so much money at one time, made curtsy after curtsy, overwhelming the stranger with thanks, and saying to the child:

“Come, Coco, thank monsieur for giving me all this money for you. Thank him, I say, quick!”

The child looked up at his grandmother in evident embarrassment.

“Let him alone,” said Auguste, as he kissed him; “he doesn’t know the value of money yet. The kiss he gives me is all the more sincere on that account. Adieu, my little Coco.—By the way, which is the road to Livry, please?”

“Follow this path, monsieur, and it’ll take you to the main road. You’ll be there in half an hour. Do you want Coco to show you the way?”

“It isn’t necessary.”

Auguste left the hovel; the child bade him good-bye and called after him:

“Come and play with me again, won’t you?”

“Yes,” said Auguste, “I promise.”

IV
SOME PORTRAITS AFTER NATURE

Since eleven o’clock Dalville had been expected at Monsieur Destival’s. Madame, a brunette of thirty, with a bright eye and a most expressive glance, who was an adept in the art of making the most of a shapely figure and seductive contours by an effective costume,—madame had finished her toilet. In the country it was, of course, very simple; but there are some négligé costumes which require much preparation. However, as madame was pretty and still young, she had spent only a half hour in donning a filmy white dress, confined at the waist by an orange sash; in arranging her curls becomingly and adorning them with a bow of the same color as her sash. Nor had she asked Julie more than six times if the yellow was becoming to her.

Julie replied that madame was fascinating, that yellow was always becoming to brunettes, and, in fact, that madame need not be afraid to wear any color. Madame smiled slightly at Julie, who was only twenty-four, but was extremely ugly, which is almost always considered a valuable quality in a lady’s maid.

Monsieur Destival was ten years older than his wife; he was tall and thin; his face was not handsome, but it had character; unfortunately its expression was not of the sort that denotes an amiable person, whose wit causes one to forget his ugliness; it denoted self-sufficiency, conceit, and a constant tendency to be cunning. His rustic cap, set well forward on his head, seemed to put a seal upon all the rest.

Monsieur Destival was formerly a government employé; with his wife’s dowry he had bought the office of official auctioneer, which he had afterward sold at a profit. Although he never talked of politics for fear of compromising himself, and did not himself know to what party he belonged, he had had the shrewdness to set up an office as a business agent, had obtained a numerous clientage and had succeeded in tripling his capital. To be sure, he gave receptions, balls and small punches, and madame, whose eyes were full of fire and whose manners were charming, did the honors of her salon with infinite grace.

The country house, where they passed much of the time in summer, was large enough to enable them to entertain extensively, and to provide rooms for seven or eight friends. As monsieur never allowed more than one day to pass without going to Paris to look after his business, and as he sometimes passed the night there, madame—who was very timid, although she had the look of a strong-minded woman—liked to keep one of monsieur’s male friends in the house.

A young man with twenty thousand francs a year could not fail to be hospitably received at Monsieur Destival’s; and so, although it was only three months since Auguste had made his acquaintance, he was already on the footing of an intimate friend. Monsieur constantly urged him to call, whether at Paris or in the country, and madame was very fond of singing and playing with him.

But the clock struck twelve, and Monsieur Dalville did not appear. Madame was annoyed. Julie was posted on the lookout at a window on the second floor, and monsieur wandered from one room to another, exclaiming:

“The devil! my friend Dalville is very late, and he promised to come early, to be here for breakfast.”

“Does Monsieur Auguste ever remember his promises?” asked madame snappishly.

“Oh! there you go again, always finding fault with him, attacking him, making fun of him.”

“I, monsieur? What concern of mine are Monsieur Dalville’s tastes or his failings? When did you ever see me attack him?”

“I know that it’s all in joke; but you are a little bit caustic, my dear Emilie, you like to hurl epigrams. It is true, I admit, that I myself should be very biting, if I didn’t hold myself back; in fact, I often am unconsciously. But after all, Dalville’s a charming fellow—well-born—rich—talented.”

“Talented? Oh! very slightly.”

“I thought that he was strong on the violin?”

“No, monsieur, he often plays false—Well, Julie, do you see anyone coming?”

“Mon Dieu! no, madame, it’s no use to look. And all those cheeses that I bought of Denise! How annoying!”

“For heaven’s sake, mademoiselle, don’t bother us with your cheeses. Go up to the cupola—you can see farther.”

“Very well, madame.”

Julie went upstairs and monsieur resumed the conversation.

“You won’t deny, I trust, that Dalville has a pleasant voice.”

“Pleasant! bah! a voice like everybody’s else.”

“Why, I should say that you and he sing duets together perfectly, especially the one from Feydeau’s Muletier; you know, the one with ‘What joy! what joy!’ and that ends with ‘coucou! coucou!’”

“Oh! you tire me, monsieur, with your ‘coucous!’”

“He plays quadrilles on the piano.”

“Who doesn’t play now?”

“Faith, I don’t; to be sure, I have always had so much business on hand that I have had to neglect my taste for music. At all events, Dalville is bright, pleasant, always in good spirits.”

“There are days when he can’t say three words in succession!”

“Let me tell you that I myself, when I’m very much occupied with some important matter, am not as agreeable as usual—that happens to everybody. To return to Dalville—he is rich—and young.—By George! I have an idea! such a delicious idea!”

“What is it then, monsieur?”

“I must find a wife for him.”

“A wife for Monsieur Auguste? Why on earth should you interfere? Is it any of your business?”

“Isn’t it my business to look after other people’s business? This may turn out a profitable affair.”

“Oh! don’t go to making matches, monsieur, I beg! As if you knew anything about such things!”

“I flatter myself that I do, madame.”

“A business agent make marriages—nonsense! that would be absurd!—Have you thought about your gun, monsieur?”

“Yes, madame, I told Baptiste to clean it; and Dalville promised to bring that old soldier of his, Bertrand; he will teach me how to use it; for a wolf has been seen in the neighborhood, you know, madame; and that is very unpleasant because it keeps one uneasy all the time.”

“I don’t suppose that that makes it impossible for you to beat up the wood?”

“Oh, no! on the contrary, madame, it was I who suggested that measure of safety. I propose to see the wolf, madame.”

“You will do well, monsieur.”

The conversation was interrupted by a noise in the next room.

“Ah! here’s our dear Dalville at last, no doubt,” said Monsieur Destival.

Madame said nothing, but she prepared a little pouting expression which would surely imply what she thought. Meanwhile the person whom they had heard did not enter the room, but continued to rub his feet on the doormat. Monsieur Destival threw the door of the salon open, and found, instead of Auguste, a little man of some fifty-five years, with a light wig, broad-brimmed straw hat, coat cut almost square, short breeches, and fancy stockings, who was rubbing and rerubbing his feet on the mat in the reception room.

“Ah! it’s our neighbor, Monsieur Monin!” said Monsieur Destival, at sight of the little man.

At the name of Monin, Madame Destival made an impatient gesture, muttering:

“What a bore! why need he have come!”

“Hush! be still, madame! He still has a drug store to sell, and he wants to buy a house. I propose that he shall dine with us.”

With that, Monsieur Destival turned back toward the door, where Monsieur Monin was still rubbing his feet on the mat.

“Well, aren’t you coming in, my dear Monsieur Monin? What in the deuce are you doing there all this time? It’s a fine day; you don’t need to wipe your feet.”

“Oh! but I’ll tell you: as I came across the courtyard I looked up at the sky to see if we were going to have a shower, and I stepped into a dung-heap that I didn’t see.”

“That’s Baptiste’s fault; it should have been taken away.”

“There, that will do.”

Monsieur Monin left the mat at last, and looking up at Monsieur Destival with a pair of big eyes level with his face, wherein one would have looked in vain for an idea, smiled a smile which cut his face in halves, although it was still dominated by a nose of enormous dimensions, always stuffed with snuff, like an unlighted pipe.

“How’s your health, neighbor?”

“Very good, my dear sir. Pray come in; my wife is here and will be delighted to see you.”

Monsieur Monin entered the salon and removed his hat, making a low bow to Madame Destival, who acknowledged the salute by a smile which might have passed for a grimace; but Monsieur Monin took it most favorably for himself, and began his inevitable question:

“How’s your health, madame?”

“Passable, monsieur; not very good at this moment; my nerves are unstrung, I have palpitations.”

“It’s the weather, madame; the heat is intense to-day: twenty-six degrees and three-tenths.”

“Twenty-seven, neighbor,” said Monsieur Destival, glancing at his thermometer.

“That’s surprising! it isn’t so high at my house, and yet mine’s in the same position. My wife says that I’ve made it too low lately.”

“Why did not Madame Monin come with you, neighbor?”

“She’s making pickles, and it will take her all day. My! but she takes a lot of pains with ‘em! She won’t go out to-day.”

“I am deeply indebted to the pickles,” whispered Madame Destival, while Monsieur Monin continued, doing his utmost to force another pinch into his nose:

“My wife said to me: ‘I don’t need you, Monin, take a walk.’ So I came to see you.”

“That was very agreeable of you, neighbor. Will you pass the whole day with us?”

“Why, yes, if it don’t put you out, I should like to, because I’ll tell you—when my wife’s making pickles, she don’t like to bother with cooking.”

“Very good, then you will stay. You will meet Monsieur Dalville, a delightful young man, full of fun. His servant, who is an old soldier, is to give me a lesson in drilling, for I am appointed general——”

“What?”

“Why, yes, in the battue we’re going to have.”

“Oh, yes! I was saying——”

“Won’t you take part in it, Monsieur Monin?”

“Why, I’ll tell you: when I had my rifle, it was all right—”

“Madame, madame, a lovely calèche is just driving into the courtyard,” said Julie, rushing into the salon.

“A calèche?”

“With Monsieur and Madame de la Thomassinière.”

“What! have they come? How kind of them!” cried Monsieur Destival, running to the window. Madame Destival did not share her husband’s delight; however, she rose to satisfy herself concerning the arrival of her new guests, and went out to receive them; for persons who have a calèche and a livery deserve the very greatest consideration. Thus, Monsieur Destival flew at his wife’s heels, leaving Monsieur Monin, who was just about to tell him how many times he had hunted, and who, finding himself abandoned in the salon, turned to his ordinary resource, and succeeded, by dint of perseverance, in forcing two dainty pinches of snuff into his nostrils.

Monsieur de la Thomassinière, for whom they ran downstairs so eagerly, was a man of about forty years of age. When he arrived in Paris, at eighteen, his name was Thomas simply, and he did not blush then for his mother, who kept a little wine-shop in her village. But residence in the capital had wrought an entire change in Monsieur Thomas. First a shop clerk, then a government clerk, then a money-lender, then a man of large affairs, Monsieur Thomas had seen Fortune smile constantly upon him. He speculated with his consols and was lucky; after that he forgot his village and adopted the tone and manners of a man in the first society. That a person should start from very low and rise very high—there is no objection to that; on the contrary, the man who wins success by his work, who makes his own fortune, leads us to believe that his merit is greater than his who attains the highest honor without exertion of his own. But the thing for which a parvenu is never forgiven is an affectation of pride and insolence, and the belief that by assuming the airs of a grand seigneur, he can lead people to forget the name and the clothes that he used to wear. Monsieur Thomas was such a one. He began by changing his too vulgar name for that of La Thomassinière. Then, instead of urging his mother to leave her village and enjoy his fortune, he contented himself with sending her a sum of money which would enable her to take down the sign of the Learned Ass, and to stop selling wine. But he forbade her to come to Paris, where, he said, the air was very unhealthy for elderly women. Then Monsieur de la Thomassinière set up an establishment,—carriage, servants, livery—bought a magnificent country estate and a very pretty wife of eighteen, who was turned over to him with a dowry of one hundred thousand francs, and who did not so much as ask whether her husband was handsome or ugly, because, having been perfectly educated, she knew that a husband who owns a carriage is always comely enough, and, besides that, a woman is supposed to look at nobody but her husband.

Monsieur de la Thomassinière, dressed like a dandy and aping the manners of good society, but always affording a glimpse of the days of the Learned Ass, was forever talking about “my estate, my property, my servants, my horses.” His wife was his only possession as to whom he did not use the possessive pronoun. As for madame, a lively, volatile, giddy creature, with no thought for anything save dress and amusements, she never spoke to monsieur except to ask him for money, or to talk about some festivity that she proposed to give.

“Ah! here are our dear friends!” said Monsieur Destival, hastening forward to offer his hand to Madame de la Thomassinière to help her alight, while monsieur gazed admiringly at his horses and gorgeous livery.

“Good-morning, Destival.—Lapierre, be careful of the horses.—Madame, allow me to offer my respects.—Cover my calèche, you fellows, it may rain in.—We have come without ceremony. It doesn’t put you out to have me bring a few of my people, does it?”

“Of course not! I have enough to board and lodge them,” replied Monsieur Destival, biting his lips, because his modest cabriolet was completely eclipsed by the superb calèche, and Baptiste and Julie, who composed his whole staff of domestics, would be hidden by a single one of the tall rascals whom Monsieur de la Thomassinière carried in his train. But these reflections did not prevent the exchange of the usual courtesies, they simply made him ambitious to enlarge his household; and so, as he led the young woman into the house, our business agent said to himself:

“I must find a wife for Dalville, sell Monin’s drug shop, and buy a house for him; then I will have a little groom—a negro—and dress him in red, so that he can be seen a long way off.”

The two ladies embraced.

“Good-morning, my dear girl.”

“Good-morning, dear.”

“How sweet of you to come to see us!”

“We are going to stay until to-morrow.”

“How lovely your hats always are!”

“Do you think so?”

“Fascinating. I like that style of dress ever so much.”

“It’s the latest—not quite low enough in the neck.”

“Why, yes. I must have some of that material; it’s very stylish.”

“Oh! it’s very simple; the dress cost only two hundred francs. But for the country, and for calls on one’s friends—I’ll give you my dressmaker’s address.”

Madame Destival allowed Madame de la Thomassinière to go upstairs first, continuing to lavish compliments upon her, and counterfeiting the most extravagant delight in order to conceal her secret annoyance; for the new arrival was genuinely pretty, her manners were charmingly vivacious, and Monsieur Dalville, whom Madame Destival was still expecting to see, had never met her. Monsieur Dalville, who was so quick to take fire, was very likely to make love to Madame de la Thomassinière, who was no less likely to listen to him. All this caused Madame Destival much secret anger; but she affected the greater amiability on that account; for in society one must know how to make believe, to speak otherwise than one thinks; that is the great secret of social success.

Madame de la Thomassinière entered the salon, where Monsieur Monin had remained; he was on the point of attempting the introduction of another pinch of snuff, but checked himself at sight of the young woman, stepped back, removed his hat, and although he had never seen her before, began his inevitable question:

“How’s your health?”

But the petite-maîtresse did not give the ex-druggist an opportunity to speak; she stifled with her handkerchief the outburst of laughter inspired by Monsieur Monin’s unique countenance, and turned to Madame Destival, saying:

“Who is this?”

“A neighbor of ours, very rich, but as stupid as he is ridiculous.”

“Ah! so much the better; we will have some sport with him. We may as well laugh a bit. Do you expect anybody else?”

“Why, yes, we expect a young man, a great friend of Monsieur Destival—Monsieur Auguste Dalville. Do you know him?”

“No, but I’ve heard a great deal about him; he is noted in society for his bonnes fortunes and his conquests. I shall be very glad to make his acquaintance. As a general rule, these naughty fellows are very agreeable—don’t you think so, my dear?”

“Why, sometimes—not always. However, you shall judge for yourself.”

“They say he’s very good-looking?”

“Oh! so-so; a passable face, that’s all; rather fine eyes, but his mouth is a little too large and his lips are very thick. I don’t like that type of face at all.”

“For my part, I don’t like thin lips. Is he light or dark?”

“I can hardly remember; he is dark, I think.”

“I had an idea that I had heard that Monsieur Dalville came to your house very often?”

“Oh, no! he goes to my husband’s office, on business.”

“Is he musical?”

“A little.”

“I have brought a nocturne that I am crazy over; he must sing it with me.”

“Monsieur Dalville will certainly be delighted to sing with you.—Excuse me, my dear, but I have some orders to give. In the country we don’t stand on ceremony.”

“I should hope not! I will go out and see your garden.”

“Do; I am going to order luncheon, and I will come and call you.”

The petite-maîtresse tripped lightly down the stairs leading to the garden, and Madame Destival went to her bedroom, where she threw herself on a lounge, saying to Julie as she came in:

“Oh! Julie! I am so annoyed! I cannot stand any more, I am choking!”

“I should think as much, madame; I don’t see how you can help it! To wait in vain for those whom you expect, and have to receive a lot of people that you don’t expect!”

“Monsieur Destival is perfectly brutal, with his mania for inviting everybody he sees. If he had a château, he would not do any more!”

“That old Monin, who can’t do anything but eat and drink!”

“And yet, if he were the only one, I shouldn’t mind him, I promise you.”

“Is his wife coming?”

“No, thank God! she is making pickles.”

“That’s very lucky! Madame Monin has a wicked tongue in her head; and inquisitive—why, she always comes into the kitchen to see what’s going on.”

“In spite of that, I should have preferred her to those Thomassinières, who put on so much style and assume the most unendurable airs and pretensions!”

“And then, who ever heard of bringing three servants to be fed! Those big rascals will eat everything in the house.”

“What time is it, Julie?”

“After twelve, madame.”

“He won’t come. I am very glad of it now. Order luncheon. We will not dine until half past six.”

“That’s right; in that way they won’t get any supper, at all events.”

Julie went downstairs. Madame stood in front of her mirror, looked at herself a few moments, arranged a few locks of hair, then left the room, saying to herself:

“I look well enough for these people.”

She went to the garden and joined Madame de la Thomassinière, whose husband, immediately on arriving, had asked Monsieur Destival for a pen and some ink, so that he might at once write an urgent letter on a matter of great importance. Monsieur Destival ensconced the speculator in his study.

“Make yourself perfectly at home,” he said; “I will leave you.”

And Monsieur de la Thomassinière, left to himself at the desk, scratched his head, looked at the pens, and wrote nothing at all, for the reason that he had nothing to write and no letter to send. But a man involved in great speculations should always seem preoccupied, and pretend that he needs a writing desk; that impresses fools and credulous folk, and sometimes people of good sense even; the professional schemers are the only ones who do not allow themselves to be gulled by such petty wiles, because they often use them themselves.

On leaving La Thomassinière, Monsieur Destival returned to Monsieur Monin, who did not take offence because no attention was paid to him, his wife having accustomed him to that.

“Well, neighbor, have you sold that drug shop?” queried the business agent, slapping Monsieur Monin on the shoulder.

“Not yet, neighbor. It vexes me, because, I’ll tell you, those who have taken my place temporarily aren’t used to it as I am, and——”

“I’ll sell it for you. I hope to see you in Paris next winter, Monsieur Monin, and to know you better.”

“Certainly, monsieur.”

“You must come to our house to play cards.”

“Do you play loo?”

“No, but écarté, and boston. I have a very pretty house to sell you.”

“Do you mean it?”

“Yes, it’s a great opportunity; the price is nothing at all.”

“Is it insured?”

“I don’t know; we will talk about all those things later; go out and take a turn in the garden. I am going to find out if they have any idea of giving us some luncheon.”

Monin left the room; as Monsieur Destival turned to do likewise he confronted his wife, who exclaimed:

“What, monsieur! you have asked Monsieur Monin to call on us in Paris?”

“To be sure, madame.”

“It’s well enough in the country, because he’s a neighbor. But in town! A man who can’t say anything or do anything, and who knows no game but loo!”

“He is rich, madame.”

“What if he is? that doesn’t prevent his being as stupid as an owl.”

“He won’t be the first stupid person who has been to my house, madame. When one receives a great deal of company, it can’t be otherwise. And besides, with your men of intellect, your authors and your poets, there’s not a sou to be made.”

“If you’re so fond of money, monsieur, why do you invite so many people to your country house? It is ruinously extravagant, monsieur.”

“Never fear, madame; I invite none but those who may be useful to me. Oh! I am very shrewd, I look a long way ahead. La Thomassinière is a valuable acquaintance, and I am very desirous to become intimate with him. I know that he often makes himself very ridiculous, that he tries to play the great man, and that the rôle isn’t suited to him; that he occasionally makes blunders in speaking that smell horribly of his origin; that he is tiresome beyond words with his carriage, his estates, his property and his servants, whom he is forever throwing in one’s face; but for all that, he’s a man for whom I have a peculiar esteem and regard, because, as I told you just now, madame, I look a long way ahead.—But how about luncheon?”

“Speak to Baptiste, monsieur; I have given my orders to Julie.”

Madame Destival went into the garden, where the petite-maîtresse was strolling about, gathering a bouquet.

“I am picking your flowers, you see,” she said.

“You are doing just right, my dear love; pray take all that you please.”

“Your garden is lovely.”

“Oh! it isn’t very extensive; but there is plenty of shade, and that’s what I like.”

“So do I. I have had a forest planted on our estate at Fleury. It will be delicious, I assure you.”

“But before it grows——”

“Oh! we have set out nothing but large trees. I will send you an invitation for next month. I am waiting for the painting and decorating I am having done to be finished, before going there for a month. But I shall take plenty of guests; for I don’t like the country except with a lot of people about.”

“For my part, I am rather fond of solitude.”

“Mon Dieu! I should die if I were alone a single day!”

“So you don’t like reading?”

“Yes, I do, for a moment or two, in bed; but not long at a time; it tires me.”

“And music?”

“I play and sing only when someone is listening to me.”

“Drawing?”

“Oh! that was all right at boarding-school! I mean to have a little theatre on my estate, and we will have theatricals there; that’s great fun. I used to act often at boarding-school. I was particularly fond of the parts in which I changed dresses.”

“What a child you are!”

“What would you have? one must pass the time somehow. If I had nothing but my husband to amuse me, great heaven! where should we be? A man who thinks of nothing but figures and exchange and heaven knows what. These business men are very disagreeable.”

The ladies, having turned into another path, found themselves in the neighborhood of Monsieur Monin, who had stopped and seemed to be in a sort of trance before a plum tree laden with very large fruit. At sight of the ladies he took off his hat and muttered: “How’s your—” But he did not finish the sentence, because he remembered that he had already paid his respects to them in the salon; so he turned and pointed to the tree, saying: “That tree bears very fine fruit.”

“Why, my dear, you don’t mean that you have fruit trees in your garden?” cried the petite-maîtresse; “why, that’s the worst possible form; you must take them all away and set out in their place ebony-trees, acacias, and sycamores.”

“Oh! our garden makes no pretensions,” rejoined Madame Destival, biting her lips with anger; “it isn’t a park such as you have on your place, and Monsieur Destival is very fond of fruit.”

“He is quite right,” said Monin, who had walked nearer to the plum tree when Madame de la Thomassinière spoke of taking it up. “Fruit is the body’s friend when it’s good and ripe. But I was just going to say——”

“And monsieur’s plums!” continued the younger woman. “Dear, dear! they are very vulgar; they should be left for the servants.”

“Oh! when Monsieur Destival has made a fortune, then we will have a separate orchard; but meanwhile we are simple enough to be content with a small country place. What would you have? We were not born in a palace—in the lap of grandeur.”

Madame Destival uttered these last words with malicious emphasis; but Madame de la Thomassinière seemed to pay no heed to them; as hare-brained as she was inconsequent, she said offensive things unintentionally; and if she talked constantly of her dresses, her diamonds and her estate, it was less from vanity than as a matter of habit, whereas the wish to make a show of his wealth was the motive behind every act of her husband.

“Luncheon is waiting, mesdames,” said Monsieur Destival, hastening forward gallantly to offer his arm to the petite-maîtresse; “come; it is late, and you must be hungry. Faith, if Dalville comes, he will have to eat alone, that’s all there is about it.”

The master of the house walked away with the young woman. Monsieur Monin had taken off his hat and was about to offer Madame Destival his arm; but she, divining his purpose, vanished by another path, and the little man, having lost sight of her, decided to betake himself alone to the dining-room; but first he cast a last tender glance at the plum tree.

They were seated at the table, and Monsieur de la Thomassinière was still in the study.

“Tell him that we are going to have luncheon,” said Monsieur Destival, “and that we’re only waiting for him.”

Baptiste went up to the study and called through the door:

“Luncheon is served, monsieur.”

“Very well, very well, I will come down,” replied La Thomassinière, continuing to roll little balls of paper; “I have only one more note to write.”

The valet withdrew and reported the answer that was made to him.

“What a terrible man he is with his notes!” said Madame Destival; “doesn’t he have a moment to himself, even in the country?”

“My husband?” replied the petite-maîtresse; “why, my dear love, he’s a most insufferable creature with his endless writing! He is never ready at meal-time; and even when we have twenty persons to dinner, which happens quite often, I have to send for him three or four times.”

After making balls of paper for another five minutes, Monsieur de la Thomassinière concluded at last to go down to the dining-room.

“I beg pardon, here I am! It wasn’t my fault,” he said as he took his seat; “you shouldn’t have waited for me. You see, I happened to think about a certain speculation I am interested in.—Give me the wing of a chicken and a glass of claret; that is all I take in the morning.—Well, Athalie, have you devastated madame’s flower garden?”

Athalie, who ate quite heartily for a petite-maîtresse, answered with a laugh:

“I have been doing what I chose, monsieur; you know perfectly well that it doesn’t concern you.”

“That is true, madame, that is perfectly true. I supply the money, I pay the bills. Twelve hundred francs to a milliner seems a trifle expensive. But madame must have the best there is.”

“If you lose your temper, monsieur, the next bill will be twice as large.”

“You know well enough, madame, that when it’s a question of giving you money, I never have to be asked twice. When one is rich, that’s perfectly natural; we must help the tradesmen to make money; isn’t that so, Destival?”

“To be sure,” replied his host, “I have the same feeling.—Well, what do you think of my claret? You don’t say anything about it.”

“It is very fair; but I have some better than this, oh! much better! I will give you some when you come to my house, and you’ll see.”

“And this cream—do you like it, madame?”

“Very much,” replied the petite-maîtresse. But Monsieur de la Thomassinière helped himself to three spoonfuls, saying:

“Let’s taste the cream.” Then he made a slight grimace and added: “Oh! my estate is the place for fine dairy products! This can’t be compared with it; it’s an entirely different thing! And our fowls! ah! they are delicious. To be sure, they are fed with such care! Now you people think that you are eating something good when you eat a chicken like this. Well, let me tell you that if you should see my poultry yard at Fleury, you would look on this as rubbish.”

“It is very fortunate then that we know nothing about it,” retorted Madame Destival, with a meaning glance at her husband. He, to change the subject of that pleasant conversation, turned to Monin, who had not said a word since he had been at the table, being engrossed by the second joint of a chicken, which he seasoned now and then with snuff, glancing occasionally with the eye of a connoisseur at a magnificent pie that stood in front of him, to which he seemed to be saying: “How’s your health?”

“Your appetite seems to be in good condition, neighbor?” said Destival.

“Yes, yes, it’s the weather that does it. Do you take snuff?”

And Monin offered his box to Destival, then to La Thomassinière, who, after taking a tiny pinch, took from his pocket a gold snuff-box at which he gazed for some time with a complacent expression.

“This is Virginia,” he said, “the very best snuff there is; it’s very expensive, but I don’t care for any other kind. Try it, monsieur.”

Monin, who never declined a pinch of snuff, was about to partake of the Virginia, when they heard the wheels of a carriage entering the courtyard, and Julie hurried into the dining-room, saying:

“Here’s Monsieur Dalville; his cabriolet has just come in.”

Madame Destival smiled with satisfaction, and the petite-maîtresse hastily ordered her plate to be changed, so that the débris of her repast might not be seen in front of her. Monsieur Destival ran out to receive his dear friend, and Monsieur de la Thomassinière thought: “This Dalville must be a millionaire, to have his arrival make such a sensation.”

As for Monin, with his pinch of Virginia in one hand and his fork in the other, confused by the bustle caused by Dalville’s arrival, he put a dainty piece of ham to his nose and the superfine snuff in his mouth. He discovered his mistake, however, and put each article in its proper place.

V
THE DRILL, THE SWING, THE STORM, AND THE MUSIC

Destival, having gone out to greet Dalville, looked about for him in vain; he saw nobody near the cabriolet save little Tony and Bertrand, the latter of whom gave him a military salute.

“Well! where is he? which way did he go in?” inquired Destival. Bertrand passed his tongue over his lips and scratched his ear, seeking a suitable reply; at last he said in a firm voice:

“Monsieur Dalville will be here as soon as I am.”

“But you seem to have got here before him; did he leave you on the way?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Does he know anyone in the neighborhood?”

“It would seem so, monsieur.”

“At all events, he is really coming; that’s the main point.”

Destival ran back to inform the ladies that his friend Dalville would soon be there; that he had stopped to see a friend, but that he could not be long.

“Why, I didn’t know that he knew anyone in this vicinity,” said Madame Destival in surprise.

“Mon Dieu! this gentleman keeps us on the anxious seat a long while,” said the vivacious Athalie, leaving the table; while La Thomassinière, annoyed that a thought should be given to anybody but himself, paced the floor a few moments, then stamped violently, and put his hand to his forehead.

“Bless my soul!” he cried, “I had almost forgotten. What time is it? Not one yet? Is there a post office[A] anywhere near?”

[A] French poste; when used alone the meaning is ambiguous and depends on the context. Hence the misunderstanding.

“Do you mean a donkey post?” asked Monin.

“No, for letters, of course!”

“Oh, yes! on the second street. By the way, I believe—I won’t say for sure, but I’ll tell you——”

“I’ll go there at once; I shall be in time.”

And Monsieur de la Thomassinière rushed from the room as if he would overturn everybody, paying no heed to Destival, who shouted after him:

“Stay here; I’ll send it for you. Besides, your own servants are here.”

The speculator darted out across the fields, and having reached a dense thicket, lay down on the grass and went to sleep, saying to himself:

“A man like me must never have a moment to himself.”

The ladies returned to the salon. Monsieur Destival went down to Bertrand, and Monin, seeing that everybody had left the table, concluded to do likewise and followed his host.

As soon as Bertrand had taken some refreshment, Monsieur Destival went to him and begged him to give him a lesson in drilling and giving orders. The ex-corporal was very willing to do anything that recalled glorious memories. He repaired with Monsieur Destival to the terrace in the garden, where the latter had his rifle brought to him, and a foil which he used as a sword, and stood as straight as a ramrod as he carried out Bertrand’s orders. Monin, who had followed them, thought that it was courteous to do as his host did; he took a spade in lieu of a musket, and, standing behind his neighbor, followed him through “right shoulder,” “left shoulder,” “present arms,” etc., pausing only to use his snuff-box.

For more than an hour the gentlemen had been on the terrace with Bertrand, who would gladly have passed the day in such a pleasant occupation. Monsieur Destival, ambitious to outshine the rural constables, began to carry himself like a Prussian grenadier; and Monin, perspiring profusely in his efforts to do as well as his host, did not notice that, while taking aim, presenting arms and grounding arms with his sword, he had pushed back his cap and wig, thereby giving himself a most swaggering appearance.

The drill was interrupted by roars of laughter from the effervescent Athalie, who appeared on the scene with Madame Destival.

Monsieur Monin paused in the act of presenting arms. It was high time; a moment more and the wig would have fallen back and have exhibited the ex-druggist as the Child-Jesus. As for Monsieur Destival, he turned toward the ladies, with a martial air, weapon in hand, and said:

“Well, what do you think of my set-up?”

“Superb! But I prefer monsieur here with his spade; he is more amusing.”

“What, neighbor, are you taking a lesson in the manual?”

“Yes,” replied Monin, wiping his brow and pulling his wig forward; “I followed you at a distance, and I’ll tell you——”

“But what can have become of Monsieur Dalville?” said Madame Destival, paying no attention to Monin; “he left you on the road, he said that he would be here as soon as you, and you have been here two hours. At whose house did you leave him, Bertrand?”

“At whose house, madame? I didn’t say that I left him at anyone’s house.”

“But you must have seen him go into a house, didn’t you? Of course you didn’t leave him on the highroad?”

“Excuse me, madame, but that’s just what I did: I left my lieutenant in the middle of the road, about half a league from here.”

“You do not tell the whole story, Bertrand: Monsieur Auguste wasn’t alone on the road, I fancy.”

“I didn’t see whether anybody was coming, madame.”

“Oh! there must have been some peasant girl there, some rustic beauty, who captivated Monsieur Dalville!”

“What do you mean, my dear? Does he consort with that kind?” inquired the petite-maîtresse disdainfully.

“He consorts with all kinds, my dear. Bless my soul, a scullery maid, if she has a little turned-up nose, a——”

“Oh dear! oh dear! this goes far to destroy the good opinion I had formed of this gentleman.”

“I tell you,” said Madame Destival in a lower tone, drawing nearer to her friend, “he’s a perfect libertine! If it weren’t for my husband, I should never receive him. He’s a man whose acquaintance is likely to endanger a woman’s reputation. But Monsieur Destival is daft over him. He absolutely insists on entertaining him, and is forever inviting him here. I don’t like quarrels, and I let my husband do what he chooses.”

“Well, I am not so obliging; I do only what I like, and I receive only those people who suit me. Ah! if Monsieur de la Thomassinière should try to thwart me, I should instantly become subject to hysterics.”

The ladies were about to return to the garden and Bertrand to continue his lesson in drilling, when they heard loud laughter in the courtyard, and in a moment Dalville made his appearance.

“Ah! good-day, my dear friend,” said Monsieur Destival, going to meet Auguste, rifle in hand; “we had about given you up. Shoulder arms, eh? Isn’t this about right?”

“I see that Bertrand will make something of you.”

“Here is my wife, who has been in a temper because you didn’t come.”

“Mon Dieu! how my husband does irritate me!” said Madame Destival to her neighbor, assuming a frigid air to welcome Auguste, who said to her:

“What, madame! have you been so kind as to be uneasy because of my non-appearance?”

“I have not said a word of that sort, monsieur. I cannot conceive why Monsieur Destival delights in crediting me with statements the thought of which I do not even entertain. I simply considered that when a person promised to arrive in time for luncheon, it was ridiculous to put in an appearance at the end of the day. However, I am not at all surprised, and—But, bless my soul! what on earth has happened to you, monsieur? What a plight you are in! A wound in the face—clothes all disarranged—It would seem that you have had some thrilling adventure.”

“In truth, madame,” said Auguste, bowing to Athalie, who returned his salutation with a simpering air, “I did have an encounter——”

“Perhaps he met the wolf,” suggested Monin, walking up to Destival; “it seems that there is one in the woods. The peasant woman who sold my wife her cucumbers told her that the other day——”

“Can it be that you have been fighting with a wolf, my gallant Dalville?” cried Destival, presenting his bayonet to the company as if he proposed to charge a hollow square.

“Oh, no!” said madame, with a sly smile, “it was no wolf that made that mark on monsieur’s face; it looks like something entirely different; don’t you think so, my dear love?”

“That looks to me exactly like the scratch of a finger-nail,” said Athalie the vivacious, looking very closely at Auguste; “isn’t it that, monsieur?”

“You are not mistaken, madame.”

“So you have been fighting, have you, monsieur?” said Madame Destival.

“No, madame, I simply met a very pretty little boy, who had broken the bowl in which he was carrying soup to his father. I gave him a piece of money to console him; at that, in his joy he embraced me; he patted my cheeks with his little hands, and he—he accidentally scratched me a little. That is a faithful account of my adventure, mesdames.”

Madame Destival bit her lip and glanced at her companion, who smiled. It was evident that they both doubted the truth of Dalville’s story; but he cared very little what they might think. Taking advantage of this brief pause in the conversation, Monin went to Auguste, whom he had met twice at his neighbor’s and said to him in the most amiable manner:

“How’s your health?”

“Very good, Monsieur Monin, except for this scratch, which is not dangerous.”

“You are joking, monsieur! I tell you finger-nail scratches are not to be trifled with.—Do you use snuff?”

“Thanks.”

“I know all about it, and I’ll tell you why: my wife has a——”

Having no curiosity to hear Monin’s story, Dalville followed the ladies, who had returned to the garden. Athalie’s presence aroused in the young man a desire to be agreeable. He had not expected to find any other lady than the mistress of the house, who was well enough, but with whom he no longer took pains to be agreeable. Why? Was it because he was no longer in love with her, or because he was sure of pleasing her, or—On my word, you ask me too much.

Madame de la Thomassinière’s vivacity and unconventionality harmonized perfectly with Auguste’s lively humor and free-and-easy manners; and as greater liberty is authorized in the country, after a very short time he and the petite-maîtresse were laughing and joking together as if they had known each other for years.

Madame Destival did not share their gayety; she was sulky, said little, and contented herself with darting eloquent glances at the young man from time to time; the more intimate her two companions became, the more her ill-humor seemed to increase. Meanwhile they were strolling about the garden; they sat down; then Madame de la Thomassinière went to look at a pretty view, or pluck a flower, or chase a butterfly, and as she sauntered back showed Auguste a double row of lovely teeth, and seemed to say:

“Why don’t you come with me?”

But Madame Destival did not leave her, and although visibly annoyed, she too ran after the butterflies.

“What on earth is the matter with you, my dear love?” said Athalie, good-humoredly; “you don’t seem very hilarious.”

“I beg pardon, I am satisfied; but a severe headache has just come on.”

“Go in the house and lie down for a moment.”

“No, my child, oh, no! I prefer to stay with you.”

“You shouldn’t stand on ceremony in the country. Besides, monsieur will bear me company. We will catch butterflies together.”

“I will catch whatever you please, madame,” said Auguste, with a smile which was instantly succeeded by a wry face, because Madame Destival pinched his arm as she replied:

“No, the air will do me good. But I thought that you intended to have some music?”

“Oh! we shall have time enough this evening, as I am to pass the night here. Is monsieur to remain?”

“If madame will kindly allow me to do so?” said Auguste, glancing at his hostess, who replied angrily:

“As you please, monsieur.”

After walking for some time longer, they stopped beside a swing, and the sprightly Athalie sprang to a seat on the narrow plank, held in place by two cords only, saying to Auguste:

“Oh! do give me a push, please. I am wild over swinging; I have nearly killed myself a dozen times, but it makes no difference, I always come back to it. Not too high, monsieur, do you understand?”

“As high or as low as you choose, madame.”

Auguste stood near the swing and pushed gently, while Madame Destival seated herself at a little distance, with her handkerchief at her eyes. The young man was distraught; he looked at Athalie and Madame Destival in turn; the former’s petulant ways attracted him, the other’s grief seemed to cause him pain.

“Oh! what fun! how lovely it is!” cried the petite-maîtresse. “Keep on, monsieur, harder! Look out, you are jerking me.—Ah! my dear, you can’t imagine how I like this!”

Madame de la Thomassinière gave no sign of being tired of swinging; but Madame Destival, who was not at all amused, resorted to the device of fainting, and fell back in her chair with a hollow groan. Thereupon Auguste left the swing and ran to Emilie, exclaiming:

“What is the matter, madame?”

“Leave me; you are a monster!” replied Madame Destival, her eyes still closed.

“What have I done, pray?”

“Do you think that I have not noticed your conduct?”

“My conduct has been perfectly natural, I should say——”

“Not content with coming here from—from I don’t know where, monsieur presumes, in my presence, to make love to that flirt, who behaves in the most indecent way! I should have hoped that you would at least respect my house, monsieur!”

“Really, madame, I cannot in the least understand your anger. I am courteous, polite—nothing more.”

“Do you think that I have no eyes? It is far too evident. The least that you can do is to show some little self-restraint!”

“But——”

“Hush!”

“Well!” said Athalie, noticing that the swing moved more slowly, “what are you doing, monsieur? You are not pushing, you are letting me stop; and I don’t want that. Are you tired already? Fie! a young man too!”

At that moment appeared Monsieur Monin, who, seeing that his host was determined to practise the manual until dinner, and feeling that he had not the strength to continue, had dropped his spade and bent his steps toward the garden, where, as he wiped his forehead, he sought to freshen up his ideas by resorting to his snuff-box.

“You have come in the nick of time, Monsieur Monin,” said Madame Destival; “madame is sorely in need of somebody to swing her. Do her that service, she will be overjoyed.”

As she said this, Emilie rose, took Auguste’s arm and led him to another part of the garden, leaving Monin agape with amazement at the task assigned him, and Athalie still in the swing. Having her back to the others, she had not noticed their departure and was still ignorant of the fact that she had changed swingers.

“Well! push me, monsieur!” she said, wriggling about in the swing to make herself go.

Monin fortified himself with a pinch of snuff and walked toward the swing; but, having miscalculated the space that it covered in swinging back, the seat came down upon him as he was turning up his sleeves in order to push harder, and the young woman’s plump figure struck him in the face.

Dazed by the blow, Monin fell on the turf a step or two away; while Madame de la Thomassinière gave a little shriek because his nose had almost unseated her.

“How awkward you are!” she cried; “if I hadn’t held on tight, I should have fallen. Come and stop me, and help me to get down.—Well, monsieur, do you propose to leave me here?”

Monin was not quick to rise, and he was looking for his cap, which the swing had knocked off, muttering:

“I am at your service in a minute, madame. You see, if I should go home without my cap, my wife would make a row.”

Really vexed, Athalie turned her head and saw Monin trying to climb a tree to reach his cap, which the swing had sent flying to a high branch. The young woman laughed heartily, then jumped down from the swing and walked away, seeking Auguste and Madame Destival in every thicket.

After scouring the garden to no purpose, she returned to the place where she had left Monin; he was still at the foot of the tree, which he had tried vainly to climb, gazing despairingly at his cap, lodged on a branch, which he could not reach, and seeking in his snuff-box some inspiration as to the means of recovering it.

“Which way did they go, monsieur?” asked Athalie, stopping beside him. He looked stupidly about and said:

“Who, madame?”

“Monsieur Dalville and Madame Destival.”

“I can’t tell you—unless they’ve gone to drill too.”

Athalie went toward the house. Destival was still with Bertrand on the terrace. The young woman entered the salon; it was empty.

“This is very polite,” said Athalie; “a perfect gentleman that! It seems that there is no standing on ceremony here. I would like right well to know if Monsieur Dalville is with Madame Destival. She had a sick-headache; I am curious to know how she gets rid of it.”

The young woman left the salon and passed through several rooms without meeting anybody, for Julie and Baptiste were busy in the kitchen, and Monsieur de la Thomassinière’s three servants had gone to the village to play goose. She went up to the first floor, where Madame Destival’s bedroom was; but the door was closed and locked.

“She is in her room,” thought the petite-maîtresse; and she knocked gently. There was no reply; she knocked louder. At last Madame Destival asked who was there.

“I, my dear,” Athalie replied. “I came up to have a chat with you.”

“Excuse me, I had dropped asleep; my headache is so much worse——”

“I have one too, and I will lie down in your room a moment; it will do me good.”

“Hasn’t Julie shown you your room?”

“No, my love; let me in, pray.”

Madame de la Thomassinière was determined not to go away, and after some little time she was admitted. Madame Destival appeared with her clothes no more disarranged than was natural in a person who had been lying down. As she went in, Athalie glanced about the room, and her eyes longed to pierce the walls of a small closet at the foot of the bed, the mirrored door of which was tightly closed.

“Oh dear! how my head jumps!” said Madame Destival, putting her hand to her forehead.

“Isn’t it any better?” asked Athalie, seating herself on a couch.

“No; quite the contrary.”

“Lie down again, my dear; I will stretch myself out on this couch; I shall not be sorry for a little rest myself. This hot sun affects my nerves.”

Madame Destival seemed disinclined to return to her bed; she walked about the room impatiently, and said:

“Oh, no! I don’t want to go to sleep again, it’s almost dinner-time.”

“How on earth did you ever succeed in sleeping here? Your husband makes such a noise with his ‘present arms,’ and his ‘ready, aim!’”

“It didn’t disturb me at all.”

“What did you do with Monsieur Dalville?”

“What did I do with him? Why, nothing.”

“I thought he was with you.”

“With me?”

“When you left me in the swing, didn’t you take him away with you, and leave in his place the charming Monsieur Monin, whose society is so entertaining?”

“Monsieur Auguste left me immediately; he must have gone for a walk to the village.”

“Do you know, my dear, that I should not have recognized Monsieur Dalville from the picture that you drew of him. In the first place, you said that he wasn’t good-looking, that he had a common look.”

“I did not say common, I swear.”

“That he hadn’t good style, that he was a rake, a ne’er-do-well, a man whose visits might compromise a woman.”

“Oh! you exaggerate, my dear!”

“I beg your pardon, but you said all that, you drew a shocking portrait of him! For my part, I think him very good-looking, and I like his manners very much.”

“That is very fortunate for him, madame.”

“Well! what on earth are you doing? You are putting on your belt inside out.”

“Why, so I am! I have fits of absent-mindedness.”

“Shall I fasten your dress for you, my dear?”

“Thanks; I can dress myself.”

At that moment the sound of something being placed against the window made Emilie jump.

“What is that?” she said.

“It was in that closet, I think; something fell.”

“No, madame, the noise didn’t come from the closet; it was at the window.”

The ladies went to the window and saw Monsieur Destival, who had just placed a ladder against the outer sill.

“What in the world are you doing, monsieur?” exclaimed Madame Destival in alarm; “what is the meaning of this ladder and all this confusion?”

“My dear love, I know now all the evolutions there are; the only thing left for me to learn is to storm a fort; that’s the bouquet, so Bertrand says, and he’s going to show me how. You, mesdames, are inside the fortress, you represent the enemy; you must try to keep us out, but we will enter the citadel in spite of you.”

“What is the meaning of this absurd nonsense, monsieur?”

“It’s the bouquet, madame, I tell you.—Come, Bertrand; one! two! At the double-quick, isn’t it?”

“I am not willing that you should storm my room, monsieur.—Take away that ladder, Bertrand, I beg you.—You are mad, monsieur! Do you have to storm a fort to catch a wolf?”

“Nobody knows what may happen, madame.”

“I know that you won’t happen to reach my room, monsieur.”

As she said this, Madame Destival closed her window with a bang, and led Madame de la Thomassinière from her room, saying:

“Let’s go down, my dear, let’s go down, I beg you, for they’ll turn everything topsy-turvy with their drilling.”

They went out on the terrace, where Monsieur Destival still held his ladder, which Bertrand tried in vain to take away from him. The business agent was determined to raise it somewhere.

“Mon Dieu! monsieur, if you absolutely must lay siege to something,” said Madame Destival, “let it be a tree in the garden, and not my bedroom.”

Bertrand grasped at this idea, and Athalie suggested to them that they should attack the tree in which Monsieur Monin’s cap had lodged. They went toward the swing and found the ex-druggist there, with his short, fat arms around the tree, trying to climb it, but unable to raise himself more than three inches from the ground.

At sight of the ladder, Monin uttered a cry of delight, and outdid himself in thanks when Monsieur Destival ascended it at the double-quick, having no suspicion that the manœuvre had any other purpose than the recovery of his cap. But alas! Monsieur Destival thought it best to capture the trophy with his bayonet, and the point of his weapon pierced the top, which was of thin straw. Bertrand shouted “Bravo!” Monin made a wry face, the ladies laughed, and Auguste arrived in time to witness the tableau.

Auguste bestowed a sweet smile on Madame de la Thomassinière and a rather cold bow on Madame Destival. I do not know whether you can guess the cause, but the ladies had no difficulty.

“Are you just from the village, monsieur?” said the petite-maîtresse, showing her pretty teeth.

“Yes, madame, I have had a most instructive walk; I have acquired some new knowledge, and I hope to make good use of it.”

“Dinner is on the table,” said a thin, yellow little man, with a napkin on his arm. It was Baptiste, the one male servant, who acted as scrubber, cook, footman, errand-boy and butler all at once, pending the time when Monsieur Destival should establish his household on a more extensive scale. So that poor Baptiste was worked to death, and told Julie every day that he did not propose to remain in a place where they made him do the work of a horse.

“Say that dinner is served, Baptiste. That fellow will never be trained!—Come, mesdames, to the table! Ouf! I have well earned it. I have drilled terribly hard to-day.—Here, Monin, here’s your cap. Did you see how I picked it up?”

“You made a hole in it,” said Monin, gazing at the crown with a piteous expression.

“Bah! in the heat of the action; charge, bayonets! one, two! eh, Bertrand?—But the ladies have gone already. Let’s go now and attack the dinner; I expect to make a tremendous breach in it. Go to Julie, Bertrand; she’ll look after you.”

Bertrand betook himself to the servants’ quarters, and Monin, after trying to bring the straws nearer together and conceal the hole in his cap, followed his host to the dining-room.

They were all seated at the table, when Monsieur Destival cried:

“Well! how about Monsieur de la Thomassinière? He’s missing again.”

“That’s so, I had forgotten all about my husband,” said Athalie, smiling at her right-hand neighbor; and that neighbor was Auguste, who was seated between the two ladies. “Oh! you mustn’t wait for him.”

“It’s very annoying! Where can he have gone? Do you suppose he has lost his way in the Forest of Bondy?”

“It’s a very dangerous place,” said Monin, fastening his napkin to his buttonhole; “they say there’s a band of robbers there just now, who——”

“Suppose I tell your three servants to beat up the neighborhood? What do you think, madame?”

“Oh! no, monsieur; don’t worry about my husband, I beg. I assure you that he will turn up. I am not in the least anxious.”

“So long as madame is not disturbed,” said Madame Destival, pursing her lips, “it seems to me that we should do wrong to be. After what she says, we may venture to dine.”

“Very good, let us dine. One, two, at the soup, and by the left flank at the beef.”

“For heaven’s sake, monsieur, are we going to hear nothing now but ‘one, two’?”

“Faith, madame, this day has given me a great liking for the military profession. What a fine thing is a man who holds himself perfectly straight, with his body thrown back!—Pass me the beans.—Your man Bertrand is a terrible fellow; he knows his business root and branch. Deuce take it! what a fellow he is! How he handles a musket! He told me that he was satisfied with me. Three or four lessons more, and I hope——”

“I hoped that you knew quite enough, monsieur.”

“Madame, a man cannot know too much about managing weapons. I wish now that we might be attacked by robbers!”

“Would you set them to drilling, monsieur?”

“No, madame, but I would make the most of my advantages; I can fire four shots in five minutes now.”

“I didn’t know that, monsieur.”

“Oh! there are still more surprising things. Just look at Monin; he did nothing but listen to us a moment, but see how much better he carries himself than he did this morning.”

“It is certain,” said Monin, raising a turnip on his fork and putting it in his mouth as if the latter were a gun barrel, “it is certain that drilling is good for a man; and I’ll tell you what——”

Monin was interrupted by the arrival of La Thomassinière, quite out of breath, for he had taken a long nap under his tree, and, on waking, had reflected that they might dine without him.

“Ah! here you are at last, you terrible man!” said Destival.

“I beg pardon; I am late, I know, but I have written at least ten letters since I left you.”

“Why didn’t you write them here?”

“Faith, I was in such a hurry that I went into the first place I saw.”

“Well, sit down beside Madame Destival.”

“I’ll soon overtake you, for, you see, I don’t eat beef; it’s poor stuff, is beef! it isn’t worth eating.”

Monsieur de la Thomassinière took his seat, gazing at Auguste with some surprise, because he had given him only a slight nod, and continued to eat without apparently paying any attention to the parvenu, which was a sore trial to that gentleman, who always wanted to make a sensation.

But Dalville had seen on the instant what manner of man Monsieur de la Thomassinière was. Fools enjoy the advantage of being accurately judged in a very short time, whereas it often requires a long time to form a just appreciation of men of sense.

The dinner was lively enough, thanks to Auguste and his neighbor on his left, who talked all manner of nonsense and seemed very much inclined to suit their actions to their words. The mistress of the house ate little, and Monin ate a great deal. Monsieur Destival attacked each dish in measured time, and stuck his fork into a radish as if it were a bayonet. As for Monsieur de la Thomassinière, when he found that Dalville was determined not to take any notice of him, he decided to make himself prominent by holding forth concerning the various dishes. He declared the chicken cooked too much, the peas too large, the salad too sour, and the beaune too new. An exceedingly agreeable guest was Monsieur de la Thomassinière; but a very rich man must never seem content with what is put before him. The idea! that would make people think that he had never eaten anything good.

It was dark when they reached the dessert, because it was late when they sat down. The sky was heavily overcast; the heat became more intense, and the flashes that rent the clouds from time to time indicated an impending storm.

Monsieur Monin made haste to eat his cheese, because his wife was afraid of the thunder, and his orders were to go home to her whenever a storm was brewing. La Thomassinière asked if the house was provided with lightning rods. Monsieur Destival ordered all the windows closed at the first clap of thunder, and the sight of the lightning made him forget to present arms with his glass. As for the petite-maîtresse, she declared that she was terribly afraid of a thunder storm, and she hid her face upon Auguste’s shoulder at every flash.

“The deuce! the deuce! the weather is very threatening!” said Monsieur Destival. “Come, messieurs, a glass of champagne; that will scatter the clouds and make us forget.—Baptiste, have you shut everything tight?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Be very careful that there’s no draught.”

“But you are stifling us, monsieur.”

“Windows must be closed when it thunders, madame; that is only prudent.”

“Then why don’t you have a lightning-rod?” said La Thomassinière; “I have three on my country-house, two on the house I live in in Paris, and one on my other fine house on Rue de Buffaut.”

“Yes, I shall have one put on at once.—Come, messieurs, your glasses, there goes the cork.”

“Oh! mon Dieu!” cried Athalie, pressing against her neighbor; “how you frightened me with your cork!”

“The storm seems to frighten you terribly, my dear love,” said Madame Destival, with a sneer.

“Oh, yes! terribly!”

“My wife’s nerves are extremely sensitive.”

“Look out, you’re not pouring into the glass, Destival.”

“That confounded flash dazzled me. Will your charming wife have some?”

“Yes, I’m very fond of champagne. Please make it foam a lot, monsieur.”

“Here you are, belle dame.—Come, Dalville, drink with madame.”

“That is just what monsieur is doing,” said Madame Destival spitefully.

“And you, Monin, pass your glass.”

“Oh! I was just going to say that I must go; my wife’s afraid of thunder.”

“Why, your wife’s making pickles, you know; she’s busy.”

“But when it thunders she drops everything and crawls under a woolen quilt, and if I shouldn’t go to see how she is—Oh! what a crash! it came very soon after the lightning, so the storm can’t be far away.”

“Suppose we have a little music?” said Monsieur Destival, helping himself to a third glass of champagne, in order to recover his courage; “it seems to me that that wouldn’t be a bad idea. What do you say, Dalville?”

Auguste had stooped to pick up his knife, which he had dropped under the table for the second time.

“Monsieur is awkward to-day,” said Madame Destival, rising from the table with a gesture of impatience; “I believe that we shall do well to go up to the salon.”

At that moment the clouds broke, the rain fell in torrents, and the fields assumed a novel aspect. Everybody rose; the petite-maîtresse leaned heavily on Auguste’s arm, because the storm had taken away all her strength. Monsieur de la Thomassinière, desirous to play the scholar, because he thought that his companions were no more learned than he, went to one of the windows and declared that the storm would not be consequential because the atmosphere was very beautiful at sunset.

Auguste could not restrain a slight laugh, which caused the trembling Athalie to press his arm all the harder. Monsieur Destival, who had recovered his spirits in some measure since the rain began, which made the storm much less dangerous, executed a half wheel to the left of the company, and charged up the stairs at the double-quick. Monin was left alone in the dining-room, folding his napkin as a matter of habit, and muttering as he listened to the rain:

“It’s coming down hard, and I haven’t any umbrella, and they’ve made a hole in the top of my cap! so what am I going to do?”

Having taken snuff two or three times, our friend decided to address Julie, who had just passed through the room. He followed her, calling after her:

“I beg pardon, mademoiselle, but couldn’t you——”

As Julie did not reply, Monin followed her to the kitchen, where Bertrand was drinking with Baptiste and Monsieur de la Thomassinière’s three tall footmen, who did not agree with their master that the beaune was too new.

“Could you lend me an umbrella?” asked Monin.

“We haven’t any here,” Julie replied curtly.

“Nonsense! an umbrella!” said Bertrand, in whom the beaune had already aroused a tendency to talk. “As if a man should use such a thing! Is that what I taught you this morning—to handle an umbrella?”

The guests began to laugh, and Julie elbowed Monin gradually toward the door, saying:

“I don’t like to have so many people in my kitchen, monsieur; they get in my way. Besides, you don’t belong here.”

Julie closed the door; and Monin, finding himself expelled from the kitchen, decided to go up to the salon and wait until the storm should have subsided. Dalville and Athalie were at the piano, singing a nocturne. Monsieur Destival was playing écarté with Monsieur de la Thomassinière; and Madame Destival, while pretending to watch the game, lost nothing of what took place at the piano.

“I have the honor to wish you good-evening,” said Monin, noiselessly entering the salon.

“Why, haven’t you gone, neighbor? I supposed that you were at home before this.”

“No, I’ll tell you—the rain——”

“In that case, you must take a hand. Come, bet on me and you will win.”

“Can I bet now?”

“Yes, it isn’t too late.”

“All right; then I’ll bet two sous.”

“What sort of bet is that—two sous!” exclaimed La Thomassinière contemptuously; “do you suppose that I play for copper? It’s vulgar enough to play for a crown. Take that away, monsieur, it’s covered with verdigris.”

“It’s my two sous, monsieur; I bet them.”

“No one wants them, monsieur.”

“What! have I won already?”

“Here, I’ll fix that,” said Destival, taking a ten-sou piece from his pocket; “I’ll add eight sous to make up Monin’s bet. So I stake three francs forty, and you, my dear fellow, three francs ten. My neighbor is prudent, you see, and yet he is very rich, in very comfortable circumstances. His nest is well feathered, the rascal!”

“Then how can he propose to bet two sous?” said La Thomassinière; “it’s beyond belief.—Ace, ace, and ace. You are robbed.”

“What! does he admit that he has robbed us?” Monin asked his neighbor in an undertone.

“That means that we have lost.—Well, now for our revenge.—Aren’t you betting, Madame Destival?”

“No, monsieur, I prefer to listen to the singing.”

“Betting won’t prevent you, madame; I don’t lose a note while I am playing.”

“Nor I,” said La Thomassinière. “I am like Cato, I can easily do four things at once!”

“Haven’t you any duets of Rossini’s here, my dear?” inquired Athalie, running her fingers over the keys.

“Why, I don’t know, but I think not.”

“I think, madame, that I have had the pleasure of singing some of them with you here,” said Dalville.

“Ah! you remember, do you, monsieur?”

“Here’s a duet from La Gazza,” said Athalie, after upsetting all the music on the piano; “let’s try it, monsieur.”

“Ace, and passe carreau!” cried Monsieur de la Thomassinière triumphantly, taking up the money that was on the table.

“What does passe carreau mean?” Monin asked Destival in a whisper.

“It means that we have lost, as you see.”

“I don’t know the terms of the game. That makes four sous that I’ve lost already.”

“Make your bet.”

“Allow me to see what the weather is, first. Oh! it’s still raining very hard. I am in the game.”

“Monsieur is lucky!”

“And then, too, I am pretty good at this game!” said La Thomassinière, leaning back in his chair.

“I believe that I play it rather well too,” rejoined Destival, biting his lips angrily.

“Be quiet, messieurs! we can’t hear each other sing!” said the sprightly Athalie, while Auguste sang: “Il certo il mio periglio.”

La Thomassinière beat time falsely with his foot, murmuring, to make believe that he understood Italian:

“Very pretty! exceedingly pretty! bravo! bravo! bravissimo!”

Whereupon Monin stooped and whispered to Destival:

“Does that mean that we have lost, too?”

“No, no! don’t you hear them singing Italian? It’s a duet by La Pie.”[B]

[B] Pie in French means magpie.

“Oho! it’s by La Pie!” Monin repeated, rolling his eyes about and taking out his snuff-box. “How does it happen, neighbor, that a pie writes a duet?”

“My dear Monin,” said Destival testily, “please don’t talk to me all the time; you see, you make me lose.”

“What! I make you lose, although I am not playing?”

“Yes, yes, it confuses me. Bet again. I certainly am not a poor player, but when a person talks like that——”

“You see we’ve got a pie at home that talks finely, and I wanted to know—That makes eight sous I’ve lost.”

“And I sixteen francs!”

“Bah! what does that amount to, messieurs?” said La Thomassinière; “if you played for handfuls of gold as I do, it would be all very well; that’s what you can call gambling! I am very sorry to waste my luck for such small stakes.—Bravo! bravissimo! Certo pio pio piu! Atoussimo!”

La Thomassinière insisted on mixing Italian into everything that he said, and Destival forced himself to smile, as he felt in his pockets; but his gayety was forced, and his smiles were grimaces. The two singers exchanged melting glances as they executed together roulades and flourishes, which they prolonged inordinately, and during which Madame Destival coughed impatiently in the hope of disturbing the harmony that was rapidly becoming established between them.

Suddenly the door of the salon was thrown open; a stout woman of fifty or thereabouts, wearing a straw hat whose brim barely overpassed her forehead and upon which nodded a wreath of faded roses, entered the room with the air of a person in a towering rage, holding an umbrella in one hand, and in the other a reticule large enough to hold a ten pound loaf of sugar. At sight of her Monin started back, lost his wits, upset his snuff-box, and acted as if he proposed to hide himself under the table.

“Ah! so you’re here, are you, monsieur?” cried Madame Monin, for it was that lady in person who had entered the salon. “I find you gambling. I suspected as much. I wish you good-evening, neighbors. While it’s thundering and a frightful storm is raging, monsieur sits here gambling instead of coming home to comfort me; and yet he knows how afraid I am of thunder storms! Excuse me, neighbor, for venturing to scold him before you, but you must agree that his conduct is unpardonable.”

During this sermon, poor Monin, who had no idea what he was doing, staked a forty-sou piece instead of two sous, and stuffed his fingers into his snuff-box, in which there was nothing at all, stammering the while with a contrite air:

“How’s your health, Bichette?”

“My health! a lot you worry about it, on my word! To leave me alone during the storm! Catherine had to keep me company under the quilt.”

“It was the rain that——”

“As if a man should be afraid of the rain! for shame! You make me blush!”

Madame Destival did not like Madame Monin; but, being overjoyed by her arrival at that moment, she gave her a seat near the piano and overwhelmed her with attentions, to which Madame Monin replied by repeated curtsies, at the same time handing her husband the umbrella. He stepped forward to take it, and, forgetting that he was interested in the game, murmured so low that she could hardly hear him:

“Whenever you’re ready, Bichette.”

But Bichette, who was comfortably seated and was already beginning to criticise Madame de la Thomassinière, replied sharply:

“Now that I’ve come, do you think I propose to go right away again? That would be polite, wouldn’t it? that would be worthy of you! I shall have the pleasure of chatting with my neighbor a minute, and listening to the music. I’m very fond of music.”

“You sing, I believe—do you not, Madame Monin?” inquired Madame Destival eagerly.

“Oh! I used to sing; I had rather a good voice, too; but I’ve forgotten almost everything now except the duet from Armide: ‘Aimons-nous! aimons-nous! tout nous y convie!’ That’s so lovely! it will never grow old.”

“I have the score of Armide; you must sing that for us with Monsieur Dalville.”

“Oh! really, neighbor!”

“Do you hear the present that’s to be given you?” whispered Athalie to Auguste.

“I am much obliged,” replied Dalville; “upon my word, I don’t know what I have done to Madame Destival to make her play such a trick on me.”

“Don’t be alarmed; if she forces you to sing the duet, I’ll be your accompanist, and I promise you that three or four chords will be broken before the tenth measure.”

“How good you are, and how deeply indebted I shall be to you!”

Monin, seeing that his wife had softened somewhat, made bold to say to her:

“You sing very nicely too that song about sheep: ‘Margot filait tranquillement, ne pensant, ne rêvant qu’à son p’tit, p’tit, p’tit.’”

“Hush, monsieur, and attend to your game, as you’re so fond of gambling. Is it piquet they’re playing there?”

“No, Bichette, écarté.”

“What? écarté? And how long have you known écarté, monsieur?”

“I don’t know it, but I was just going to tell you, I’m betting on it.”

“Ah! you’re betting, are you? Well, I trust that you are modest at least, and don’t play for big stakes?”

“Oh, no! never fear, Bichette!”

“You have lost your forty sous, Monsieur Monin!” exclaimed Destival at that moment, heaving a deep sigh.

“Forty sous!” shouted Madame Monin, jumping from her chair with a violence that made all the furniture in the room tremble; “what’s that? Monsieur Monin betting forty sous! Why, that is horrible! For heaven’s sake, neighbor, what did you give him to drink at dinner?—What is the meaning of such extravagance, Monsieur Monin? Have you gone crazy?”

“No, Bichette, it’s a mistake; I assure you that I didn’t bet but two sous.”

“You put forty sous on the table, monsieur,” said La Thomassinière, “and they’re lost.”

“I had won a lot, you see,” whispered Monin to his wife; “that was just my winnings.”

“You must admit that I am playing in hard luck,” said Destival; “that makes seven times that I have been responsible for Monin’s losing.”

“Seven times, monsieur! have you bet seven times in succession?” cried Madame Monin, glaring at her husband with the expression of a cat about to pounce upon a mouse.

“Why, no, Bichette; you know perfectly well that I am incapable of such a thing!”

“Here’s the duet from Armide,” said Madame Destival; “come, Monsieur Dalville, sing it with madame.”

“I don’t know it,” said Auguste.

“Nonsense! you are enough of a musician to sing it at sight.”

“I’ll prompt you in your passages, monsieur,” said Madame Monin, removing her hat lest it should interfere with her voice.

Madame Monin began. Her voice was almost enough to set one’s teeth on edge. Monin applauded every measure. Suddenly a chord broke. The vivacious Athalie ran her fingers over the keys and seemed excited by the fire with which she was playing. Soon a second chord broke, then a third, and it was impossible to go on. Athalie left her seat, saying:

“What a pity! it was going so well!”

“That’s the disadvantage of your pianos,” said Madame Monin testily, as she put on her shepherdess’s hat; “Monsieur Monin’s little flute’s the thing; there’s no danger of that ever breaking, at all events.”

“Do you want me to go and get it, Bichette?”

“Upon my word, this is a pretty time of night to make such a suggestion! We must go home to bed, monsieur; that will be much better than your little flute.”

Destival left the card-table, red as a turkey-cock.

“I can’t stand it any longer!” he cried. “That makes twelve times that he has passed! I’ve lost at least forty francs!”

“Oh! how can anyone risk so much money?” said Madame Monin. “If you should ever lose forty francs, Monsieur Monin, I’d have a separation at once.”

“Here’s a fine to-do over a trifle!” said La Thomassinière, rising from his chair; “I’ll stake it on a single hand to-morrow, at a notary’s, who’s a friend of mine. That’s where they play écarté! The table is covered with gold and bank-notes! Ah! there’s some fun in that! But otherwise écarté’s a very stupid game.—Well! are we going to bed?”

“Go to bed, monsieur, who’s preventing you?” said Athalie; “we don’t need you.”

“Faith, I am terribly sleepy.”

“Baptiste will show you to your room, which is over this.”

“And where is mine, my dear, if you please?” queried the petite-maîtresse, as her husband went up to bed without bidding anyone good-night, because it was bad form.

“Yours, my dear?” rejoined Madame Destival; “why, with your husband; we have only one room to offer you.”

“What! can it be by any chance that you are going to make me sleep with him?”

“Why, of course.”

“Oh! that is absurd! Such a thing never occurred to me. I never sleep with Monsieur de la Thomassinière. I have my own suite, as you know.”

“For once, belle dame,” said Destival, with a sly expression, “our dear husband will not complain.”

“Mon Dieu! how amusing!” exclaimed Athalie, sulkily. Meanwhile, Madame Monin, who had succeeded at last in tucking up her dress and putting on her shawl, said to Madame Destival with a simper:

“For my part, I sleep with my husband, and I should just like to hear him mention a separate room! Ha! ha!”

“You know perfectly well, Bichette, that I have no desire to——”

“All right, Monsieur Monin, I know what I know.—Good-night, neighbors.—Well, monsieur, why don’t you put on your cap? What sort of way is that to act?”

Monin was afraid that his wife would discover the hole in his cap. He finally decided to wear it over his left ear, so that the top would be less visible to the eyes of his better half. And Madame Monin led her spouse away, promising him that she would never again let him dine out without her, because he was not careful of himself at the table, and wine made him plunge into all sorts of extravagance.

When his neighbors had gone, Monsieur Destival admitted that the drilling had fatigued him terribly, and he speedily vanished.

The music had cemented the intimacy between Dalville and the brilliant Athalie. With those who are capable of enjoying the charms of harmony, there is nothing that brings two hearts together so quickly as a sweet or tender ditty, or a passage overladen with passion, which the performers often address to each other. Music is a very potent auxiliary in love; it stirs the emotions, it speaks to the soul. Thank heaven, almost all our ladies know how to play the piano now.

But Athalie rose, and Madame Destival escorted her to her apartment. Before going in, the petite-maîtresse laughingly said to her friend:

“My dear, I must tell you something in confidence: I believe I’ve made a conquest of Monsieur Dalville.”

“Do you think so?”

“I am almost sure of it; he has been talking to me in that veiled way,—you know what I mean; and then he squeezed my hand very tenderly.”

“I congratulate you!”

“Oh! you understand that I mean to have a little sport with him, that’s all.”

“But I must tell you frankly that the conquest is of little value, for he is a man who falls in love with every woman he sees.—Adieu, my dear, good-night.”

“Until to-morrow, my love! I shall get up early for a walk in the fields.”

“I will go with you, my dear.”

The ladies parted. Madame Destival went down to the salon, but Dalville was no longer there; he too had retired. So madame did the same and summoned Julie to undress her.

VI
THE COMPANY RETURNS TO PARIS

The night passed. Did its protecting darkness banish Madame Destival’s irritation and her husband’s fatigue? Did Dalville determine to be virtuous, and Bertrand to be sober? Did the sprightly Athalie become reconciled to the necessity of sharing her husband’s bed, and did Monsieur de la Thomassinière sleep well beside his wife? These are mysteries which I am unable to solve.

All I know is that Madame Destival rose with her friend’s pleasant confidence of the night before still in her mind, and that she said to herself as she dressed:

“The flirt did everything that she could to assure the conquest of Auguste. I saw all her simpering and smiles while they were singing. No doubt she hopes to receive a declaration in due form this morning; but I am sorry for you, madame, for I shall be on the spot, I shall not let you out of my sight, I will not allow such intrigues to be carried on in my house. Oh! women are such coquettes nowadays!—I think I will put this rose in my hair; it’s more becoming than a ribbon. Mon Dieu! how badly my curl-papers work to-day!—And then they complain because men think unfavorably of our sex. Why, don’t they justify them in that opinion by acting as they do? At the very first meeting, to let a man see that one is attracted by him—shocking! And a woman of twenty, married two years at most! Ah! Monsieur Auguste, you don’t deserve any friends.”

Monsieur Destival, on laying aside the silk handkerchief that covered his head at night, took his stand in front of his mirror and presented arms with a vessel which he had forgotten to replace in the night-table. Forgetting that he was in his shirt, Destival, who had dreamed of exterminating all the beasts in the district, made the circuit of his chamber at the double-quick, and took aim at his bolster with the tongs. But in that martial posture the remembrance of the forty francs he had lost at écarté the night before presented itself to his mind, and as one cannot attend to business while practising the manual of arms, our friend recurred to more peaceable ideas and proceeded to dress, thinking of nothing but the best means to become as rich as La Thomassinière, so that he might be able to lose a few crowns at play without losing his temper.

Dalville dreamed a little of the fair Athalie, a little of the young milkmaid, a little of Madame Destival, also of some other persons; like one who has no exclusive sentiment in his heart, but allows himself to be led by all the sensations, all the illusions, all the whims of his imagination. He rose without any well-defined plan of operations, without a determination to be more virtuous or more enterprising, without any intention of beginning a new intrigue. Chance should decide, he would act as circumstances might suggest, he would obey the dictates of his heart, or rather of pleasure. For a heedless fellow, that line of conduct was not devoid of wisdom; if to abandon oneself to the course of events, to lay no plans in advance, but to seize on the wing every opportunity to be happy—if that is heedlessness, it bears a strong resemblance to philosophy; in which there is nothing surprising, since extremes meet.

Bertrand had risen before dawn, always ready to carry out his master’s orders, even when he did not approve of his conduct. The ex-corporal was well pleased with his repast of the preceding night, because the beaune was not spared, and Baptiste and Tony and the tall lackeys, while drinking with him, listened with respectful attention to his stories of his campaigns. He was walking on the terrace, ready to give Monsieur Destival a lesson in the manual, and perfectly reconciled to the life that people lead in the country.

The petite-maîtresse, whose head was as light as her heart, had risen very early, before her husband was awake. She had slept badly; innumerable thoughts crowded into her mind, but the principal one was as always the desire to attract, to make a sensation; that was the fixed point about which her other sentiments revolved by the force of gravitation, without disturbing the course of the planet whose satellites they were.

As for Monsieur de la Thomassinière, he had slept without waking, and in his dreams had imagined himself the seigneur of a department, decorated with three crosses, a broad ribbon and a star, and richer, more conceited and more insolent than ever. Then he had found himself abruptly transported to the wine-shop of the Learned Ass, serving wine to peasants who treated him most cavalierly. That infernal sleep has no respect for anything; it displaces the most powerful men, and effects strange revolutions; it transforms a king into a shepherd, and sometimes raises the plowman to a throne; it confounds the great lord with the humblest plebeian; it makes of a minister of state a poor devil without bread or work or resource, starving in a garret; it transforms the banker into a petty clerk working fourteen hours a day to earn three francs; the poet who sells his pen, into a juggler employed to perform tricks before an audience which pays and despises him. To the kept woman it shows the hospital, to the public harlot, La Salpêtrière, to the young men who frequent roulette tables, the galleys or the nets of Saint-Cloud. It reminds the parvenu of his birth, the public official of the acts of injustice he has committed, the man without sense of honor of the insults he has endured. And all these people do as Monsieur de la Thomassinière did: they awake shrieking that they have a nightmare, and they ascribe those horrid dreams to a bad digestion. They would be very sorry to seek therein a memory of the past and a lesson for the future.

There was no trace of the storm of the preceding evening. The sky was clear, and the country seemed lovelier than ever; the trees glistened with a brilliant green undimmed by dust, the flowers were fresher, the brooks more noisy; everything invited one to enjoy the charms of nature; and that doubtless was the reason that Auguste was already in the garden, standing in the gateway leading into the courtyard, undecided whether he should go for a walk in the fields or remain on the premises. Meanwhile, Athalie had taken a seat under a clump of trees at the end of the garden; she was occupied in arranging some flowers, but her glance constantly wandered to right and left to see if someone was coming to bear her company; while Madame Destival strolled along an adjacent alley ready to join the persons whom she expected to meet in the garden.

Suddenly Auguste heard a voice that was not unknown to him crying:

“Whoa, White Jean! whoa, I say! Have you forgotten that we stop here?”

And at the same instant a milkmaid with her tin cans entered Monsieur Destival’s courtyard. Auguste uttered an exclamation of delight when he recognized Denise, and hurried across the courtyard to meet the pretty milkmaid.

“It is really you, lovely Denise!”

“Yes, monsieur, it’s I. Didn’t I tell you yesterday that I came here every morning to bring milk? I’m very glad to see you again, monsieur.”

“Really, Denise, did you want to see me?”

“Yes, monsieur, I wanted to ever so. Oh! that was such a nice thing you did! it was so generous! and even if you do have a little too much blarney with us girls, no matter—I let it go on account of that.”

“Bless my soul! what on earth have I done, Denise, to bring down all these compliments on my head?”

“What about Coco, and his soup-bowl, and his old grandmother—don’t you remember them?”

“How do you know so much, Denise?”

“Pardi! as if everything wasn’t known in the country! The old grandma’am came to the village to buy some things. Coco came with her, and he told everybody that a fine gentleman had given him money to buy another bowl. The grandmother described you, and I knew you right away. It’s too bad that Père Calleux is such a drunkard; he passed the whole night in the wine-shop drinking up the crown piece you gave him, and he’ll soon get away with the money you left for Coco too. But that ain’t your fault, and you were mighty kind to ‘em.”

“I did nothing except what was perfectly natural, Denise, and I am well rewarded at this moment.”

Denise had become more and more animated as she told Auguste what she knew, and the young man’s glances made her blush more than ever. She lowered her eyes and smiled, and stood for some moments before the man who was gazing at her, her arms hanging at her sides. Her awkwardness, her embarrassment and her coarse woolen skirt made the charms of her pretty face even more alluring.

At last she took up her cans, which she had placed on the ground, and said:

“I must take this milk to Mamzelle Julie; she’s generally up by this time.”

“One moment, Denise, I beg you.”

“Have you got anything to say to me, monsieur?”

“Oh, yes! In the first place, you look even prettier this morning than you did yesterday.”

“Oh! if that’s all it is, I may as well go.”

“One instant, Denise, please; I feel that the more I see you, the more I love you!”

“Well, then, you mustn’t see me any more, monsieur.”

“Does it make you angry to have me love you?”

“Oh no! for I’m pretty sure it ain’t dangerous.”

“If you would listen to me——”

“Adieu, monsieur.”

And Denise started to walk away. But Auguste took her hand and stopped her, gazing tenderly at her,—too tenderly for a fickle youth who gazed so at all pretty women. A seducer’s eyes should express nothing but inconstancy; unluckily, the eyes lend themselves to every sort of scheme. But perhaps Dalville was moved at that moment by genuine feeling, who knows? Who can read the human heart?

At this juncture Bertrand entered the courtyard; he approached his master, unseen by him, and said:

“Did I hear monsieur call me?”

“Why, no! I didn’t call you,” replied Auguste angrily, dropping Denise’s hand; “you always appear at the wrong time. Is it proper to interrupt people when they are talking together?”

“Pardon, lieutenant, I didn’t hear you say anything; I didn’t know people talked without speaking.”

“Leave us, Bertrand.”

Bertrand made a half wheel to the left and went toward the garden; but as he passed Denise, who, although she said that she was going, did not go, and seemed very busy with her little cheeses, the corporal said to her in an undertone:

“Look out for yourself!”

Auguste once more approached Denise, who had started in surprise at Bertrand’s words.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“Nothing, monsieur, but I must go.”

“Will you do me a favor, Denise?”

“Oh, yes! with pleasure, monsieur, if it’s anything I can do.”

“I have taken a liking to that child I met on the road yesterday. His pretty face, his little honest way, everything speaks in his favor.”

“You mean Coco Calleux?”

“Yes.”

“I’m fond of him, too, but the poor little fellow’s had a hard time since he lost his mother. His grandmother’s rough and cross, and his father’s a drunkard, and they want that child, only six years old, to go to work so soon! Can you imagine such a thing? Why, he often has nothing but bread to eat, and he’s lucky when he doesn’t have a beating for his supper. So we in the village don’t like that drunken pig of a Calleux, and if the cottage wasn’t some distance from the village, Coco would be at our house more than he’s at home, I tell you.”

“Well, Denise, be good enough to keep an eye on the child and buy him whatever he needs—in short, take my place with him, will you?”

“Oh! with pleasure, monsieur!”

“Here, take this purse, and use the contents to the best advantage for my little protégé. When that is gone, I’ll give you more. I shall always approve whatever use you may make of it.”

“Ah! you’ve got a kind heart, monsieur! How glad I am! But such a lot of money as this will last a long time.”

“You will do me this favor, won’t you?”

“Will I! Pardi! I should say so! Don’t you think it’s pleasant to be employed to do good? Who could refuse such a commission?—I say, monsieur, I must kiss you for this—do you want me to?”

“Do I want you to, Denise!”

Auguste already had his arms around the girl, and had deposited more than one kiss on the plump cheeks which she offered him with pleasure, when an exclamation and a burst of laughter reached their ears simultaneously. Dalville turned: Madame Destival and Madame de la Thomassinière stood behind him.

“Oh! this is too much!” cried Madame Destival, walking forward with a wrathful glance at Denise, while Athalie continued to laugh, albeit her laughter seemed slightly forced.

“Delicious!” she said. “What! even with milkmaids? I shall remember this! the picture was truly rural.”

Denise was not disturbed, for she had no thought that she could be blamed; so she looked at the two ladies in amazement, trying to divine the cause of the merriment of the one and the anger that gleamed in the eyes of the other, and still holding in her hand the purse that the young man had given her.

“What are you doing here?” demanded Madame Destival, with a contemptuous glance at the young milkmaid.

“As you see, madame, I have brought cheese and milk as usual.”

“I didn’t order any cheeses of you; in fact, yours are bitter, and I don’t want any more of them. As for your milk, you put water in it, and I propose to take mine of somebody else.”

“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.”

“I didn’t count, madame.”

“You seemed to like it.”

“Very much, madame.”

“Monsieur is frank, at all events.”

“That is, perhaps, my one good quality.”

“But why did you kiss her?”

“Is she not very pretty, madame?”

“Pretty! perhaps; as coarse, rustic beauties go.”

“No, no! on the contrary, her features are extremely delicate.”

“But she’s a milkmaid!”

“What difference do you see between a pretty country girl and a pretty city girl?”

“Why, an enormous difference, monsieur. What about education, good manners, and refinement—do you count all those as nothing? Would you go out in Paris, or even in the country, with a milkmaid on your arm?”

“No, madame, I admit that I should not be enough of a philosopher for that. But just put on Denise——”

“Who is Denise, pray?”

“This little milkmaid, madame.”

“Oho! so monsieur knows her name?”

“Yes, madame.”

“Well, monsieur, what do you propose to put on Mademoiselle Denise?”

“A pretty hat, a stylish dress, a handsome shawl——”

“Ah! she would cut a strange figure in all those things!”

“Mon Dieu, madame, habit is everything. You yourself, despite all your charms, might be awkward in a milkmaid’s cap. Those things that can be acquired, madame, are of little worth; but the things that are innate are beauty, grace, intellect, a sweet voice and glance and smile—in a word, the charm which takes us captive and which you possess in such abundant measure, madame.”

“Ah! you did well to end in that way; if you had not I should have been angry. Madame Destival is right; you are a ne’er-do-well, a dangerous man. By the way, I hope to have the pleasure of seeing you in Paris, monsieur; I often give balls, and I have a reception every Thursday in winter.”

“Madame is too kind; but your husband has said nothing to me.”

“Mon Dieu! has he any time to think to invite people? He is so distraught, so engrossed by his speculations, that I alone attend to the invitations. Will you come?”

“Is it not absolutely necessary for me to see you again? If I should yield to my inclinations, I would never leave you.”

“Bless my soul! I believe that we are dropping into sentiment. Are you going to make me a declaration?”

“Is it possible to see you without loving you?”

“Look out! you are becoming serious, and I like none but merry people. That melancholy air doesn’t suit you.”

“Have you no pity, then, for the pain you cause?”

“Oh! not the least! Sighs do not move me an inch; to please me, it is necessary to keep me laughing constantly.”

While they talked, Auguste and his companion had strayed into the shaded portion of the garden. He had taken the young woman’s arm and was pressing it tenderly. Athalie was still laughing, but was making no effort to avoid Dalville’s gentle caresses, when Bertrand appeared before them at a bend in the path.

“They are waiting for you and madame at breakfast, lieutenant,” said the corporal, putting the back of his hand to his forehead.

Auguste stamped on the ground impatiently; but the vivacious Athalie had already dropped his arm and was frisking away.

“Parbleu! you are exceedingly awkward, Bertrand!” said Auguste, glaring at the corporal, who still stood before him.

“What have I done, lieutenant?”

“You seem to have made it your business to disturb me when I am engaged in an interesting conversation with a pretty woman.”

“Excuse me, lieutenant, but I can’t tell what you’re saying.”

“A shrewd man can guess it at a glance. Once for all, when I am alone with a woman, I forbid you to interrupt me.”

“That settles it, lieutenant; if the house should burn down, I wouldn’t disturb you.”

The whole party had assembled in the dining-room; even La Thomassinière, having waked with a tremendous appetite, had not devised any previous business which would have vexed his stomach, and he bestowed a most affable nod upon Dalville, which meant that his wife had informed him that she proposed to receive the young man at their house. Madame Destival too seemed desirous to be reconciled to Auguste, who had treated her coldly since the scene in the courtyard.