"How so?"

"Adieu, monsieur, it's very late; get some rest now; you need it, and I trust that it will be of the sweetest."

"What! you are going to leave us already? Oh! please let me tell my daughter how much I owe you. Allow her too to thank our benefactor. Ah!

you don't know my Anna--as lovely as she is good. The sight of her will bring home to you all that you have done for me by giving me the means to make the dear child happy!"

The old man walked toward the dressing-room, but Auguste stopped him, saying in an undertone:

"Don't wake her, I beg you. I will see her another time; don't disturb her sleep."

"As you insist, monsieur, I obey you; but tell me your name, I pray; let me know to whom I am indebted."

"I will tell you to-morrow."

"My name is Dorfeuil, monsieur; I am most anxious that you should know to whom you have restored life and honor."

Auguste escaped from the old man's thanks and finally left that abode whither he had carried joy and repose. He went down the five flights in high spirits, and better pleased with himself than he had ever been.

"There are two people whom I have rescued from despair," he said to himself; "and all I have to do is to imagine that Destival carried off another three thousand francs."

Returning to his fifth floor apartment, Auguste went to bed and did not wake until the morning had far advanced.

"It seems to me, lieutenant, that you slept rather well in your new lodgings?" said Bertrand as he entered Auguste's room.

"I really believe that I never slept so well on the first floor."

But the ex-corporal was amazed to see that his master did not once go to the window, and at the end of the day he expressed his surprise.

"Don't you like our view any more, lieutenant?"

"No, my friend, I have reflected, and I think that it's a risky thing to look into other people's rooms."

"But I should say that you saw some very pretty little things, didn't you, lieutenant?"

"I saw some very sad things, too. All things considered, I think that it's better not to pay any attention to what goes on in our neighbors'

houses."

Auguste had another reason for not going to his window; he did not want to be seen by the old man, who would have recognized him, and whom he did not propose to visit again. He knew that poor Dorfeuil's daughter was lovely; he distrusted his own weakness and preferred not to run the risk of spoiling his kindly action.

XVIII

THE GRISETTES AT THE VILLAGE.--THE EVENING PARTY AND THE GHOST

"We won't go to see Monsieur Auguste again," Denise declared on her return to the village; and when her aunt asked her if the fine gentleman in Paris had given them a warm welcome, the girl could not keep back the tears as she murmured:

"We waited at his house more than three hours, and he only spoke to us for a minute!"

"What! he didn't thank you for your chickens, my dear child, or say anything about my cake?"

"Oh! yes, aunt."

"What more do you want, my child? In Paris, you see, people are always in such a hurry that they don't have time to talk; it ain't as it is with us."

Denise did not tell her aunt that Monsieur Dalville did not so much as thank her for her present, for that would have made Mere Fourcy angry, and the girl still hoped that the young man would come to see them; he was so pleasant when he came to the village that she would soon forget his coolness in the city.

"And what about that money?" asked Mere Fourcy; "what did he say about that, my child?"

"Nothing, aunt--that is to say, we are to do what we please with it."

"Then we must have the house rebuilt and the garden sowed; that will be Coco's own property."

"Yes, aunt."

Denise allowed her aunt to have her way; she no longer had any heart for anything, her melancholy seemed to increase every day, and the child's endearments were powerless to divert her. She sought relief from her sorrows in toil; but in the midst of her rustic duties, which were formerly her delight, Denise would pause, heave a sigh, and stand sometimes for many minutes, lost in thought.

When Mere Fourcy surprised her in one of these fits of melancholy, she would run to her and ask:

"What on earth is the matter with you, girl?"

"Nothing, aunt," Denise would reply, trying hard to smile.

"But you was standing there without moving, and you didn't say a word."

"Because I was thinking, aunt."

"What about, my child?"

"I don't remember."

"You're sick, that's what's the matter with you!"

"I'm sure I don't know, aunt."

"Pardi! I can see it plain enough. You're growing thin, and you're pale as a ghost, and you don't eat anything. You must get married, my dear."

"Oh, no! I don't want to, aunt!"

"Then you must take medicine, for, I tell you, you need to take something."

Mere Fourcy could think of nothing save a husband or medicine capable of restoring Denise's bloom; but the girl declared that it would return with the warm weather, because she hoped that the return of the spring would bring Auguste back to the village.

The winter days were very long, especially to the village girl, who no longer took any pleasure in the evening reunions, who listened without interest to the jokes of the young men, and who had no one for whom she cared to beautify herself. Although one may find enjoyment in musing beneath an oak tree's shade, although the sight of green gra.s.s and verdant shrubbery may allay the pangs of love, the interior of a farm-house, and the quacking of geese and ducks must be intolerable to a heart that craves silence and solitude. Denise, obliged to conceal her unhappiness from her aunt, remained in her room and watched the Paris road.

One day when a sharp frost had hardened the ground, although the sun still made the gnarled and leafless trees attractive to the eye, Denise, who was at her chamber window, heard talking and laughing on the path leading to their house. The voices were evidently not those of villagers, and, in fact, two ladies dressed like Parisians appeared on the tree-lined path, looking about them, evidently with no very clear idea where they were going, and stopping every minute to laugh, and to rest by the hedge.