"Nor to me."

"But we must decide. Shall it be the Champs-Elysees?"

"Oh! there are too many people there."

"Vincennes?"

"Too far."

"Vaugirard?"

"A pretty kind of country, with not a tree anywhere about!"

"Sceaux?"

"Too fashionable! I am not dressed."

"Montmartre?"

"To look at quarries and donkeys?"

"Saint-Denis?"

"There's nothing nice there but cheese-cakes, and I prefer the ones in the Pa.s.sage des Panoramas."

"Belleville?"

"That's a little vulgar, but it's amusing; besides, I have a decided penchant for Pres Saint-Gervais and Romainville wood."

"Belleville it is, then. Off we go, driver!"

The cabman lashed his horse. Virginie was in a merry mood; with her the annoyances of yesterday, the cares of to-morrow vanished before the enjoyment of the moment. For his part, Auguste was not sorry to have his mind diverted from the thoughts that disturbed him concerning Madame Saint-Edmond, whom he had told that he expected to pa.s.s the evening at Monsieur de la Thoma.s.siniere's.

They reached the Belleville barrier; it took the cabman half an hour to drive his nags up the hill, and when they reached the Ile d'Amour, they refused to go any farther. But Virginie was very glad to walk in the fields, so they alighted, dismissed the cab, and took a narrow road to the left, which led to Pres Saint-Gervais.

The sight of the green gra.s.s and trees made Virginie sentimental; she sighed as they strolled along the avenues of lilacs, where several cottages had recently been built.

"How ridiculous," she cried, "to build houses everywhere, even in the fields! you might as well go to walk in your bedroom. It used to be so pretty here! We lunched on fresh eggs over there once--do you remember?

We drank beer under that arbor. And that restaurant, in the woods, just beyond the keeper's, where we went several times--the one where they have private rooms."

"Oh, yes! the Tournebride."

"The Tournebride, that's it. Ungrateful wretch! doesn't that name recall any memories?"

"Yes, it reminds me of a certain fowl that we could not succeed in carving."

"Indeed! it reminds you of nothing but a fowl! You are not at all romantic to-day."

"Do you want to dine there?"

"I not only want to, but I insist upon it. It's rather far away, but the walk will give us an appet.i.te."

"Besides, we can rest on the way."

"Oh! since people have built everywhere, there are no nice places to rest."

They ran along, throwing leaves and gra.s.s at each other and plucking an occasional wild flower. At last they reached the sandy soil of the woods, and Virginie sighed again when she saw that the trees had been felled on large tracts, and that building was in progress there also.

"These people seem to have determined on the destruction of Romainville forest!" she said.

"It will grow again, my dear."

"Oh, yes! but meanwhile we shan't grow again. How indifferent men are!

they don't get attached to anything. Think of the love ciphers that we carved with a knife on the bark of an oak tree; I looked forward to seeing them again. There was an A and a V intertwined in a heart."

"They probably served to warm some old annuitant's feet, or to boil the kettle for some respectable family."

"That's it--make soup with my heart; that's very pleasant to think of! I shan't cut any more letters on trees.--Ah! here's the Tournebride luckily; I was afraid they'd cut that down too."

The Tournebride was the most famous restaurant in Romainville forest; but for all that, it would not have been safe to order a charlotte russe there, or a _karik a l'Indienne_, because the landlord would have thought that you were talking Tartar, or making fun of him, and would tell you to go to Noisy-le-Sec for your dinner. But if you confined your ambition to a bill-of-fare dainty enough for the worthy bourgeois of Rue Saint-Denis, and very popular among the young work-girls who came to Romainville with their sweethearts, you might be certain of being satisfied at the Tournebride, which is only three gun-shots from the keeper's lodge, on the road leading to Romainville village.

Auguste and Virginie entered the inn, and, as is usual in country restaurants, they went through the kitchen to reach the salons and the private rooms. They enjoyed the sight of veal-stews, cutlets, and beef _pique_; and as such restaurants had no printed bill-of-fare, the kitchen took the place of one. When you walked through, you saw all the saucepans, and you inhaled the combined odors of five or six ragouts, which might stand you instead of soup, but which was less agreeable after you had dined.

The host welcomed his guests with a smiling face, his cotton cap over his ear; as he answered questions he ran from one saucepan to another, and spitted a pigeon as he extolled his beefsteak.

"Let's make up our minds at once what we'll have," said Virginie, who was accustomed to country restaurants. "Is the beefsteak tender?"

"Oh! delicious, madame."

"With kidneys, eh, my friend?"

"Yes, they are essential.--Have you any kidneys, monsieur l'hote?"

"Here, monsieur, just smell this," said the landlord, holding a saucepan under Auguste's nose. "I won't tell you, as my confreres in Paris do, that they're stewed in champagne, but I'll swear it's white wine, and delicious."

"Very good."

"And a pigeon pie, if you please, delicious also."

"Some asparagus and lettuce."

"If monsieur would like a fine omelette soufflee?"

"Ah, yes! I remember very well that you make very good ones."

"Yes, monsieur; they puff up like a cotton nightcap."

"Let us have an omelette soufflee then. Give us a private room, please."