Denise recognized one of them as the young woman whom she had met at Auguste's rooms in Paris, and who had walked with her to the stage office, manifesting the deepest interest in her. The sight of a person who knew Dalville, who had come perhaps with a message from him, caused the girl keen pleasure, and she at once left her room, to go out and accost the strangers.

Denise was not mistaken: Virginie, to whose mind the pretty village maiden she had met at Auguste's apartment recurred now and again, had spoken of her to one of her friends. This friend was a tall brunette of some thirty years, with a fine figure, but with a bold expression that would have intimidated a dragoon. A dressmaker by trade, but pa.s.sionately fond of the theatre, she neglected her thread and needle to enact tragic princesses and heroines of melodrama in private theatres.

Despite her determined manner, sentiment was Mademoiselle Cezarine's weakness; she always had a pa.s.sion on the carpet, and would have gone on the stage for good and all, had she been able to overcome an unfortunate lisp. For the rest, Mademoiselle Cezarine was a good-natured soul and incapable of trying to seduce a friend's lover.

A fine winter's day suggested to Virginie the idea of a trip to Montfermeil. At the first mention of the country, Cezarine had exclaimed:

"I'll go with you, my dear; I feel the need of dithtraction to-day.

Theodore hath been playing trickth on me. Let'th go and thee your little peathant; we'll drink milk, and perhapth that will pathify my mind."

"Let's go," Virginie a.s.sented; "I don't know the exact address, but I know it's Montfermeil, and my tongue ain't in my pocket."

"Oh! we'll thoon find the plathe. Do you thuppothe that I, who could find Theodore in any corner in Parith, won't very thoon make a thorough thearch of a village?"

"I'll introduce you as a relative of mine; for we must have some excuse."

"Don't you be alarmed. Haven't I acted Themiramith? Don't I carry mythelf like a queen?"

"I know you've played Semiramis, but there are times when no one would suspect it."

"Let'th be off and take the thage."

"All right. I'm sure that the little girl will be glad to see me. My dear, you are going to see a case of perfect innocence."

"Tho much the better; I don't like anything but innothenthe, now I know that rathcal Theodore is falth to me."

"Great heaven! are you going to talk about your Theodore all the way?

that will be amusing!--By the way, there's one difficulty--I haven't a sou."

"Oh! I've got enough for both. Wait till I count. I've got a hundred and fifteen thouth."

"With that sum we can go to the Mississippi. Put on your Sunday hat and your home-raised cashmere; and off we go."

Mademoiselle Cezarine put on her bird-of-paradise hat, which the sun had faded to a pale yellow, and the shawl, once of amaranthine hue, in which the flowers had become so blended with the background that it was difficult to distinguish them. But when one indulges frequently in grand pa.s.sions, one sometimes makes sacrifices, and Mademoiselle Cezarine preferred one glance from the man of her choice to the diamonds of a Russian prince; therein she differed essentially from Mademoiselle Virginie.

The young women took their seats in the stage; there were no other pa.s.sengers except two old peasants, at whom they made faces all the way, because they detected an unpleasant odor about them. At last they arrived at Montfermeil, and, Virginie having inquired where Denise lived, they were directed to the path where the girl discovered them.

"My dear love," said Cezarine, "I don't thee the ruthtic roof that thelterth your young friend, and I am beginning to be doothid hungry."

"Wait, it must be close by."

"What a lovely morning! If that ungrateful Theodore had only come with uth!"

"Yes, to eat up your hundred and fifteen sous in one meal! Dieu! what a fool you are to go wild like this over a man who ruins you! Let's go on a little farther."

"My dear, it'th too much for me; it'th no uthe for me to thay: 'I mutht forget him!'"

"I'll sing it for you, if you want; perhaps that will have more effect on you."

"Ah! he hath thuch lovely whithkerth. It wath hith whithkerth that fathinated me firtht."

"You ought to have had them made into a cravat."

"You're alwayth joking. How lucky you are, Virginie! you don't know what a violent pathion ith."

"The deuce I don't! I've had more of 'em than you have!--Oh! see that pretty little house, and the farm--That must certainly be the place."

"I don't believe your village girl livth in thuch a nithe houthe."

"Why not, pray? If you had seen the plump chickens she brought Auguste, you wouldn't be surprised."

The appearance of Denise put an end to their uncertainty. The girl ran to meet Virginie, kissed her, and made a respectful curtsy to Cezarine, who cried:

"What! ith thith your young village girl? How pretty she ith! The deuthe! what a pretty fathe! Ah! I'm very glad now that Theodore didn't come!"

Virginie trod on Cezarine's foot, as a hint to her to be quiet, and said to Denise:

"I haven't forgotten you, you see, my dear; I have come to see you without ceremony, and brought my cousin with me. We don't put you out of the way, do we?"

"Oh, no, madame! on the contrary, I am very glad. It's very kind of you to come. My aunt will be delighted to see you--and madame too."

"Will you let me kith you, my child?" said Cezarine.

"Yes, madame, with pleasure. But come--come into the house. You may not have dined yet?"

"Well, hardly, my dear; all I've had ith a little piece of thauthage when I got up."

"Yes," said Virginie, treading on Cezarine's foot again, "my cousin and I have begun to realize that fresh air sharpens the appet.i.te. But we're going to the inn----"

"Oh! I hope that you'll stay with us, madame. It would be very unkind of you to refuse."

"Dieu! how pretty the ith! the hath Theodore's nothe."

"We accept, my dear Denise, so long as it won't put you out. Besides, the merest trifles from people one likes always give more pleasure--than the dainty dishes one mightn't find somewhere else----"

Denise's only reply was to run ahead to tell her aunt, and Virginie said to her friend:

"For heaven's sake, be careful what you say, and remember to behave decently. What with your Theodore, whom you lug into the conversation at every turn----"

"And you lothe yourthelf in your thentences and can't find your way out of them!"

"No matter--long sentences are what you want with peasants; they don't understand 'em, but they think they're fine."

"Well, I'll thay Theodore ith my huthband and that he'th in the army."

As they talked, the ladies reached the farmyard, where the geese, ducks, dog and goat greeted them with a little impromptu concert.

"Oh! how I love the country!" cried Virginie, running forward to kiss Coco, while Cezarine did her utmost to keep her shawl out of the dog's mouth. Meanwhile, Mere Fourcy came out to receive the travellers whom her niece had announced as fashionable ladies from Paris, of Monsieur Auguste's acquaintance, and to whom the good woman conceived that she owed the greatest respect.