Bertrand and Tony stood by Dalville's cabriolet, awaiting the latter and Madame Destival. But the little matters which the mistress of the house had to arrange took nearly two hours. Bertrand fretted and fumed at having to stand beside the cabriolet; but his master had ordered him to await him there, and he did not leave his post.

"Perhaps monsieur thinks we've gone," suggested little Tony.

"No, no, he knows we're here."

"But perhaps he don't mean to go back to Paris to-day."

"Then he'll come and tell us so."

"And suppose he don't think of it?"

"We will stay here until somebody comes to relieve us from duty. I've got my orders, that's enough for me."

At last, about noon, Auguste appeared with Madame Destival on his arm.

She leaned tenderly upon him and her face expressed nothing save satisfaction and the most amiable unconstraint.

"It's strange!" thought Bertrand, "here's a lady that changes her face three or four times a day. However, I ought to be used to it. I've seen so many women like that. Everyone that comes to see monsieur as angry as you please, rolling her eyes, and talking loud, is as mild and gentle as a lamb when she leaves him; she hasn't the same face, nor the same eyes, nor the same voice."

"Come, Bertrand, get in," said Auguste, who was already in the cabriolet with Madame Destival.--"You will be a little crowded, madame; but my faithful Bertrand isn't built to ride behind."

"Oh! I shall be very comfortable," said Emilie, bestowing a soft glance on Auguste, and on Bertrand an affable smile; for n.o.body can be so amiable as our fair friends when things are going to suit them! But when you thwart them----

They drove away. When they pa.s.sed the little path leading to Montfermeil, Auguste put out his head and looked, saying to himself:

"I shall not always have a lady to drive to Paris."

VII

THE VILLAGE

Denise started to return to her village; but she did not sing as her custom was, as she walked behind White Jean. Her heart was still heavy because of what had taken place at Madame Destival's; and although she had tried not to seem distressed, she did not forget the word--_hussy_--that had been applied to her. To be called by such a name as that, when she was virtuous, when she had nothing for which to reproach herself, seemed very hard to the little milkmaid. It is said that unmerited insults do not wound; but how can an honest and sincere heart fail to feel outraged on receiving epithets usually reserved for vice? It might much better be said that it is the vicious person who does not blush and who laughs at anything that may be said to her, because she retains no sense of shame. In my opinion the proverb "Only the truth gives offence" is essentially false.

"How unkind those city people are!" thought the girl; "the idea of calling me a hussy! That sounds well from them! What did I do to deserve it? I kissed that gentleman because he's got a kind heart, and because he's going to look out for Coco; it seems to me that was no more than natural, and I ain't ashamed of it. That Madame Destival, who came rushing at me with such a scowl! I thought she was going to hit me.--The idea of telling me that my cheeses are bitter, and that I put water in my milk! Ah! I felt just like crying, but I did well to keep the tears back, she'd have been too pleased to see them. And that other one, who did nothing but laugh and make all sorts of faces and monkey tricks at that young man! Mon Dieu! as if I had done anything to make such a fuss about! Should I have refused that money when it was to help that poor boy? No, indeed! and it would have made the gentleman angry, and I'd much rather make the lady angry. He isn't wicked, he's only a flatterer.

Well! that ain't a crime--all one has to do is not to listen, that's all. And he's very nice and polite. I clawed his face and he didn't get mad. By the way, he didn't tell me his name. Why should he? I don't need to know it. Perhaps he told Coco--I must ask him.--Go on, White Jean!--Shall I show my aunt this purse? Yes, I'll tell her the whole thing. But I didn't tell her yesterday about my fall, and what that gentleman saw. When I think of that, it troubles me, and I want to cry again. And that other gentleman, who calls him lieutenant, and who whispered 'Look out for yourself!' when he pa.s.sed me. His name's Bertrand, I remember that. He looks like a good fellow, that Bertrand; but what in the deuce did he mean with his 'Look out for yourself'?"

Meditating thus, Denise arrived at Montfermeil, a pretty little village where the people are not badly off; where there are several comfortable bourgeois houses, and nothing to indicate want, because the occupant of the humblest cottage works instead of begging.

Denise's cottage was at the end of the village, on the bank of a little stream that followed a winding course between rows of willows. It was of two stories; the walls were sound, and the roof was covered with tiles, which gave the cottage a certain air of elegance. There was a yard in front, separated from the street by a low wooden fence; the stable was at the right, and hens, chickens and ducks wandered about the yard, which they seemed to look upon as their property, giving vent to all sorts of cries when any other person than Denise or her aunt ventured to enter. The garden was behind the house; it was about two acres in extent, but there was no semblance of order; fruit and vegetables grew in confusion, according to the custom of the peasant, who thinks first of the useful. There were not many flowers, but as Denise was fond of them, there were a few rose-bushes among the potatoes, and now and then a syringa, its branches enlacing the trunk of a plum or an almond tree.

It will be evident from these details that the cottage did not belong to poor people. Everything about it indicated the possession of a competence; and in fact Mere Fourcy, Denise's aunt, was one of the richest peasants in the neighborhood; she owned two pieces of land, one of which was on the other side of the stream that flowed by her house; and Denise, who was her sole heir, was able by her activity and her little trade in milk and cheese, to add to the income of her aunt, who, although she was a worthy woman, was a little inclined to be miserly.

That is said to be a failing of the rich; indeed, how can you expect those who have nothing to exhibit such a failing?

White Jean entered the yard without guidance, and headed for his stable.

Denise was a little distance behind, having been stopped by some of her neighbors, who, as the custom is in villages, talked with every pa.s.ser-by, because everybody knew everybody else. But the little milkmaid, who was in no mood for talking, hastened after White Jean, and relieved him of the baskets containing the milk and cheese that she brought back.

"What will my aunt say when she sees that I've brought these things back?" Denise asked herself; and she could not restrain a sigh. But Denise did not fear her aunt, for Mere Fourcy, knowing her niece's virtue, and considering that she knew more than all the other people in the village, always approved what she said and did, except when it was a matter of lending money. That is why Denise, despite her fondness for Coco, had been able to do very little for him.

"His father's a drunkard," Mere Fourcy would say; "to give the child money is just giving that good-for-nothing Calleux the means of drinking."

Mere Fourcy was a stout woman of fifty-five, who, despite her corpulence, was active and alert; she heard her niece come in, and came downstairs to help her unload her a.s.s.

"What have you got there, my child?" she asked.

"The cheeses I made for Madame Destival."

"Why didn't she take 'em?"

"Because--because she didn't want 'em."

"Oh! that's different.--What! all this milk too?"

"Oh, dear! yes, aunt."

"And I wouldn't let Monsieur Brichard have any this morning!"

"Oh! we'll use it up, aunt."

"Has Madame Destival taken her trade away from you?"

"Yes, aunt."

"That's what makes you look so cut up then. Where does she expect to get better milk?"

"Oh! it ain't on account of the milk, aunt."

"On account of something else, is it?"

"Yes, aunt."

"That makes a difference. Tell me about this other thing, my child."

Denise thought a moment, then replied:

"You know, aunt, I told you yesterday that I met a fine gentleman who asked me the way to Monsieur Destival's?"

"Yes, my dear."

"And that it was the same man who gave a lot of money to Coco's grandmother, because Coco broke the soup-bowl?"

"Yes, yes, I know. That sot of a Calleux will drink it all up."

"Well, aunt, I saw that young man again this morning, at Monsieur Destival's."

"So he's a young man, is he? You said a gentleman yesterday."