"It seems to me, madame, that no intelligence was required to see what I saw."

"Why, what did you see, monsieur? May not a woman dine with a man at a restaurant without having the slightest preference for him? And you yourself, monsieur--what were you doing with that creature who had the impertinence to hold a mustard pot under my nose?"

"Oh! I am more honest than you, madame: I admit that I deceived you."

"Ah! what an unhappy creature I am!"

And Leonie had recourse to her usual expedient--she fainted; but she was careful to fall toward Auguste, who found himself with his neighbor in his arms. At that moment little Tony came upstairs and said that it was impossible to understand what Schtrack said, as he was drunk. Auguste gently laid Leonie on the stairs and told Tony to look after her; then he went down to interview his concierge, who was half asleep and could hardly speak.

"Has Bertrand come in?" demanded Auguste, shaking the old German's arm; whereupon he raised his head and sent a puff of wine-laden breath into the young man's face as he hiccoughed:

"Pertrand! sacretie! Pertrand!"

"Come, Schtrack, speak out; you were with him, weren't you?"

"Ya."

"Where is he?"

"Haf you not found him?"

"If I had found him, should I be questioning you? Where is he? where did you leave him? why didn't he come home with you?"

"Sacretie! I vas not strong enough to carry Pertrand; he could not valk no more; but ve haf ein pig lot trunken."

"So I see; but where shall I find Bertrand?"

"Ach! you vill see him quite vell; dere is no tanger! He is in a safe blace--up the street. Go up und up--near the Parriere Montmartre."

"Is he in a wine-shop?"

"No; don't I tell you that you vill see him quite vell?"

Unable to extract any further information from Schtrack, Auguste decided to go in search of Bertrand; he succeeded in getting the door opened, and went out in the middle of the night to try to find his faithful comrade, with no other guide than the very vague information given him by Schtrack. From Rue Saint-Georges where he lived, he went by way of Rue Saint-Lazare to Rue des Martyrs, knowing that Montmartre was Bertrand's usual promenade.

Desiring to avail himself of the permission Auguste had given him, Bertrand had invited Schtrack to go for a walk with him. The old German did not think of refusing; and, leaving his wife in his place, he polished his boots, took his cane and accompanied friend Bertrand, who had no sooner pa.s.sed the porte cochere than he began on the battle of Wagram, which was certain to take them a very long way. In fact, the battle of Wagram was still in progress when they arrived at the b.u.t.tes de Montmartre, without once stopping for a drink. Schtrack, who had thus far ventured upon nothing beyond a _sacretie!_ proposed that they should go into a wine-shop, which proposition was instantly acted upon. They found the wine very poor because they were accustomed to Dalville's cellar, and they left that wine-shop to look for a better one. They went into another, drank another bottle, decided again that it was poor stuff and went in search of a third. After four hours of prospecting they had visited six wine-shops and drunk six bottles. When they reached the seventh, they began to think that the wine was better, or rather they were no longer in condition to pa.s.s judgment on it. Bertrand began again on his campaigns; Schtrack smoked four cigars, and it was nearly midnight when our friends were informed that it was closing time.

Bertrand paid without looking at the bill, and they left the shop; but the fresh air put the finishing touch to their intoxication. Bertrand especially, who was not accustomed to poor wine, soon felt his legs begin to wobble, and at the corner of Rue des Martyrs and Rue du Faubourg-Montmartre, he fell, reviling himself as a coward and sluggard and a wretched drinker.

Schtrack, who had kept his head better because he was used to wine-shop wine, emitted a _sacretie!_ when he saw Bertrand fall, and tried to raise him. He could not succeed. After several minutes, during which Schtrack exclaimed from time to time: "Come, come, comrade Pertrand, off we go!" the old German discovered that his companion was already snoring as if he were in his bed.

"So, so! he's asleep!" thought Schtrack; "I must not vake him; he pe vell comfort there to sleep. Put, suppose some carriage might pa.s.s und not see mein comrade!"

This reflection disturbed Schtrack, who was quite ready to go to sleep himself; but, looking about, he saw a grocer's shop still open. Thither he went post haste and asked for a lamp. They gave it to him, after lighting it at his request. Beacon in hand, Schtrack returned to Bertrand, who was still sleeping peacefully, stretched out by the wall.

The old concierge took the sleeper's hat, placed it beside his head with the lamp upon it, and went away, saying to himself:

"Now, there is no tanger, he can sleep in beace."

Auguste spied the lamp, but for which he would have pa.s.sed Bertrand without seeing him. The young man could not help smiling at Schtrack's ingenious device. He shook the ex-corporal, who opened his eyes, half rose, pushed the guardian lamp away with his elbow, and could not imagine why he was in the street. Auguste explained matters to him.

Bertrand, whom his nap had sobered, was distressed that he had forgotten himself to the point of falling drunk in the street, and insisted on throwing himself into the river, to punish himself for drinking so much wine. Auguste succeeded in pacifying him, and they returned home, the young man thinking of Leonie's treachery, Athalie's coquetry, Denise's dissembling, and promising himself to be more prudent in future; Bertrand recalling the wretched wine at the wine-shops, and swearing that he would drink no more.

XIII

DENISE AND COCO IN PARIS

Not more than ten days had pa.s.sed after Dalville's visit to Montfermeil, when, on returning from the wine-shop one evening, Pere Calleux, who probably saw double, or else did not see at all, fell into a ditch newly dug beside the road; in that ditch was a pile of stones intended for repairing the road, and the peasant broke his head upon them. The next day little Coco was an orphan.

But he still had Denise, who loved him dearly, Mere Fourcy, who had become attached to him, and lastly, the friendly interest of Auguste.

Among friends who give us proofs of affection, we cease to feel quite alone on earth. How many unhappy creatures there are, who might well believe themselves to be orphans although their parents are not dead!

Denise paid a few small debts which Pere Calleux had left, amounting to less than a hundred francs; for a poor man can get but little credit.

The cabin remained--the child's only patrimony; but it was in such a tumbledown condition that it was dangerous to live in it. The thatched roof was half gone, the cracked walls threatened to fall, and the materials of which it was built were so poor that no use could be made of them. So that there was really nothing but the land; but with Dalville's contribution it would be possible to build a little cottage, surround it with a garden and cultivate it. That is what Denise said to her aunt, who replied:

"Don't be in a hurry, my child. You'd better wait till the gentleman comes again, and ask him what he thinks."

But at sixteen one does not like to wait; Denise reflected that it might be a very long time before the handsome gentleman came to the village again, and one morning, as she looked at the address which Auguste had left with her, and to which her eyes very often turned, she exclaimed:

"Suppose we write to that gentleman, aunt! He gave us his address, you know, so that we could send word to him if we needed him."

"You're right, my child," said Mere Fourcy; "your ideas are always good.

You know how to write, so you must write to him, my girl."

Denise was lost in thought and did not reply.

"Have you forgotten how to write, my child?" continued Mere Fourcy.

"Oh! no, aunt; but I can't write well enough to write to a gentleman from Paris."

"In that case, my dear, get that old man to write to him, who's just come here to live, and who writes all the nurses' letters. He handles his pen fine, I tell you! He'll write a sentence two pages long to tell you your child's had the colic, or needs a new cap. Or else ask neighbor Mauflard to do you the favor; he's an old schoolmaster, and he ought to write like a Bareme's grammar!"

Denise was still silent; but after a moment she said, lowering her eyes:

"Don't you think, aunt, that it would be better to go to Paris and speak to the gentleman? Wouldn't it be more polite than writing?"

"You're right again, my child; and there's a little stage that starts for Paris at eight o'clock every morning and brings you back at four."

"And then, aunt, I've been to Paris twice, you know, and nothing ever happened to me."

"All right, my child, go ahead; nothing ever happens to anybody unless they want it to."

"And I'll take Coco with me, shan't I, aunt?"

"Yes, my dear; that will please the gentleman. It will be polite to him; and if I wasn't so busy here, I'd go with you and ask him to give me some dinner, because I know what's the right thing to do, you see."