"But you can't think of such a thing as loving Monsieur Dalville, my dear!"

"Alas! it isn't my fault--I can't help it."

"How did this love come to you, my child?"

"When I fell from my donkey, aunt."

"Is it possible?"

"Mon Dieu! yes. I met Monsieur Auguste on the road; he was in his cabriolet and I was walking behind Jean le Blanc."

"You told me that, my child."

"He kept looking at me, and I pretended not to notice it. He got out of his carriage and followed me along the narrow path through the wood; he told me I was pretty and I laughed at his compliments."

"You told me that, too."

"He tried to kiss me, and in defending myself I scratched his face."

"You didn't tell me that, my dear."

"Oh! I was very angry then! I hated the man! I got on Jean le Blanc so as to get away from him faster, but Jean began to gallop and threw me off. I fell--I don't know how."

"Mon Dieu! my child! And then what?"

"The gentleman ran up to me; but he lifted me up so respectfully--he seemed so sorry for my fall--he was paler and trembled more than I did.

Then, I don't know how it happened, but all of a sudden my anger went away, and--and I believe that I loved him already."

"And then?"

"Bless me! you know, aunt, that we found what he'd given Coco and his grandmother, and I felt that that made me love him still more. I saw him again at Madame Destival's, and he told me to take care of Coco; and since then, you know, aunt, he hasn't been to see us but once."

"Have you told him that you loved him?"

"No; on the contrary, as Monsieur Bertrand told me that would keep him from coming to see us, I told him that I should never love him."

"You did well, my child."

"Oh, no, aunt! I think that I did wrong rather, for he hasn't been here since then, and he went away without bidding us good-bye."

"Well, well, now she's crying again! But, my child, what good does this love do you?"

"None at all, aunt."

"Monsieur Auguste wouldn't have married a poor village girl. Now he's gone away, and we shan't ever see him again probably."

"Do you mean to say that he may not come back? Won't he want to see--Coco again? He will come back, aunt; ah! I am still hopeful."

"Even if he should, remember that he's a gentleman, and used to fine ladies; while you--Well! what are you looking at that flower so for?"

"It told me that Auguste loved me dearly."

"Who told you so?"

"This marguerite, aunt."

"Pluck another one to-morrow, my dear, and it will tell you just the opposite."

"Oh! I pluck them every morning, aunt."

"And does the flower always tell you he loves you?"

"When there's one that doesn't I question another, and I keep on till I find one that gives me the answer I want."

"That's the way girls tell their own fortunes. But look you, my child, it would be much more sensible to forget a man who don't give you a thought."

"I can't do it, aunt."

"If you should take a husband instead of plucking marguerites, your love would soon pa.s.s away, I promise you."

"No, aunt, I don't want to marry. Leave me at liberty to think of him and to consult the flowers, and I promise you that I won't cry any more."

"As you please, my dear Denise; and if that's your taste, stay unmarried. But you're so pretty, and such a figure. Ah! it would be a great pity if you should pa.s.s your youth consulting flowers."

The worthy aunt said no more to Denise on the subject of marriage, and the suitors were dismissed. The villagers indulged in various conjectures concerning the girl's conduct. The young women laughed at the gallants who had been rejected; the gallants hoped that in time Denise would be less cruel. But time pa.s.sed and Denise's determination did not waver.

Mere Fourcy became infirm and her niece waited upon her with the most loving solicitude. Coco, who as he grew up had learned to love his benefactresses as dearly as his goat, strove to make himself useful, and often diverted Denise from her melancholy by his childish prattle. She loved to watch and to fondle the child whom Auguste had loved; she had him taught all that could be taught him in the village; she guided his heart into the paths of virtue, for she wished him to do credit to his benefactor.

Two years had pa.s.sed since Auguste and Bertrand started on their travels. During that period Denise had been to Paris six times in quest of news of the travellers; but Schtrack had never been able to give her any, and she heard nothing from Virginie. At the end of two years Mere Fourcy fell sick, and, despite her niece's care, soon died in her arms.

The loss of her aunt caused Denise the keenest sorrow; we can but regret profoundly those who throughout their lives have sought only to make us happy, without ever reminding us of what they have done for us--the latter being a method of conferring favors which freezes grat.i.tude; for there are many people who do good, but there are very few good people.

Denise was left alone on earth but for Coco, who was not yet eight. She let her house, which was now too large for her, and went to live in Coco's cottage, to which she added a small wing. There Denise was happier: it seemed to her that she was nearer Auguste. She was no longer obliged to be a milkmaid, and she hired an old peasant woman who undertook the house work. Denise busied herself about her garden and sought additional knowledge in books. In her aunt's lifetime she was rarely able to gratify her taste for reading, because Mere Fourcy considered that she already knew too much for a peasant. But nothing now prevented her from following her inclination and trying to train her mind.

One by one Denise laid aside the coa.r.s.e woolen skirt, the ap.r.o.n, the sackcloth waist; she wore clothes which, while they were most simple and unpretending, approximated the costume of Parisian ladies. Thereupon the villagers said to one another:

"Denise Fourcy is trying to play the fine lady, that's sure. Don't you see that since her aunt died she don't dress like us any more, but puts on style and uses big words when she talks?"

Denise cared little what the people of the village thought; her only desire was to please him whom she still expected; and she would say to herself as she looked in her mirror:

"Perhaps he'll like me better like this. He won't find me so awkward and embarra.s.sed as I was; but it will be all the same to him, for he doesn't love me, and he thinks that I don't love him either. Mon Dieu! why did I tell him that? It was Monsieur Bertrand that made me do it; he deceived me by telling me that Auguste wouldn't come to the village if I loved him. Yes, I am sure that he deceived me; for it was after that that Auguste received me so unkindly in Paris; and he didn't come here again.

But when I see him, ah! then I'll tell him the truth; it is always wrong to lie. And I will beg him not to lie to me either."

Another year pa.s.sed; Denise was twenty and Coco nine. The child was happy; mirth and health shone on his pretty face. Denise was still melancholy; she tried in vain to banish from her mind the memory of Auguste whom she was beginning to lose hope of seeing again.

"Perhaps he has settled in some foreign land!" she would say to herself; "perhaps he is married--and will never come back!"

Then her eyes would fill with tears, and the child's caresses served only to intensify her grief, for he was forever asking her: