[F] Schtrack is supposed to pronounce the word vendu—sold—like fendu—split or broken;—hence the misunderstanding.
“What’s that? He smashed all his furniture? Had he gone mad, then?”
“I tell you he sold everything, to get money.”
“Oh! sold his furniture! Why don’t you say what you mean—with your Zurich French!”
“You see how badly off he must have been,” said Denise, “to sell everything he had!”
“That don’t prove anything, my dear girl; in the first place, as he was leaving Paris, he didn’t need any furniture; and then there are people who prefer to live in furnished lodgings. For my part, I’ve sold my furniture four or five times, and yet I stay in Paris; you see that every day.—But after all, in which direction has the fellow gone? Didn’t he tell you, monsieur le concierge?”
“Yes; he’s gone round the world.”
“The deuce! that’s a definite address! Think of writing: ‘To Monsieur So-and-So, going round the world!’—And he’s taken Bertrand with him, has he?”
“Yes, I’m fery sorry for it, because Pertrand was just beginning to work fery gut.”
“Bertrand, work? at what, pray?”
“At making preeches, bantaloons; it was me who taught him.”
“My dear man, I think you must be dreaming now. Bertrand, the old soldier, Auguste’s faithful servant, make breeches?”
“Like a horse.”
“You’re crazy!”
“No, no, I ain’t; Pertrand, he did work. He passed every night working, and my wife told me he did it to help his master, who was throwing away all his money.”
Virginie was speechless, but Denise exclaimed:
“I understand only too well. Dear old Bertrand! I knew he was a fine fellow! He worked to help Auguste, who didn’t know anything about it, probably.”
“Oh, no! he was going to sew up my tongue if I said a word.”
“Well, madame, if Monsieur Auguste hadn’t been without means, would Bertrand have worked at tailoring—worked all night?”
“Faith, my dear girl, I don’t understand it at all. The last time I saw Auguste he treated me to punch, and yet he must have moved up to the fifth floor even then. To be sure, he had such a kind heart, he was so generous!—Well, well! there she is crying again! My dear Denise, you’ll make your eyes as red as a rabbit’s; and that won’t bring Auguste back. Poor child! how she loves him! Those ne’er-do-wells must have some kind of magic power, to inspire such passions. Don’t get excited, Denise—he’ll come back, he hasn’t gone away forever. You’ll see him again, I’m sure of it; and when he knows how much you love him, I propose that he shall love you and cherish you; I’ll tell him what grief and torture he has caused you; I’ll tell him how good, how gentle and sweet you are. Come, don’t cry any more. Kiss me, Denise; Auguste will love you, for you well deserve it.”
Virginie was deeply moved; Denise’s suffering had melted her; for the first time in a very long while, genuine tears fell from her eyes as she threw her arms about the village girl.
Nothing pacifies the wretched so quickly as to find that someone else shares their distress. Denise listened to Virginie’s entreaties; she exerted herself to summon her courage; she wiped her eyes, rose, and said with a long-drawn sigh:
“I’ll go back to the village then.”
“Yes, my dear girl, that’s the wisest thing you can do.”
“But suppose he should come back, madame?”
“Well, I’ll let you know, I’ll come and tell you; I promise to do my utmost to learn something about him.”
“Ah! how good you are, madame!”
“Why, no—the trouble is that you’re a slip of a girl who ought to be kept under glass.”
“Monsieur le concierge,” said Denise, “if you hear anything about Monsieur Auguste, don’t forget to ask where he is, and find out where a person can write to him.”
“Ja, mamzelle.”
“Don’t you be afraid, little Denise: I’ll come often and ask Dutchy if he knows anything. He’s a good fellow, though he does smoke all the time, is Monsieur—What’s your name?”
“Schtrack.”
“Schtrack! Oh! what a name! Schtrack! I believe that that means blackguardism in German. Never mind—au revoir, Monsieur Schtrack. Come, my love, I’ll walk to the diligence office with you.”
Denise left Auguste’s late abode, and, with her arm through Virginie’s, returned to the diligence office, carrying the bag of money which she had no choice but to take back to the village. Virginie offered to take the trip with her, but the girl declined her offer with thanks, and, after urging her to try to find out something concerning the man whom she had hoped to find in Paris, she entered the stage and rode sadly back to Montfermeil, saying to herself:
“Alas! I am not lucky in my trips to Paris.”
XXI
THE TRAVELLERS’ FIRST ADVENTURE
Auguste and Bertrand had taken the Lyon diligence. The young man was inside, and his companion on the box,—in order to enjoy the fresh air, so he told Auguste, but in reality as an economical measure.
It was the first time that Auguste had ever found himself in a public conveyance; accustomed as he was to drive in a light cabriolet, drawn by spirited horses, and to follow naught save his own desires and stop whereever he chose, it was not without a feeling of disgust that he found himself compelled to travel with people whom he did not know, to be pushed by this one, elbowed by that one, and forced to listen to conversations which had no interest for him.
At his left was a stout party of some fifty years, with a cotton cap on his head, surmounted by a red handkerchief, and over it all a helmet-shaped cap trimmed with fur, with vizors before and behind. At his right was an old woman, whose face luckily was concealed beneath a shabby black satin bonnet, over which was thrown a green veil that no one was tempted to raise.
The vehicle had barely started when the man on Auguste’s left began to perform like neighbor Mauflard, and the lady on the right followed his example. But in his sleep the stout gentleman dug his elbow into Auguste’s ribs, and the old lady dropped her head on his shoulder. Finding his hands full with repelling the elbow of the one and avoiding the other’s head, he said to himself: “It’s great fun to travel by diligence! Oh! my pretty cabriolet, which Bébelle drew so swiftly through the dust, where art thou? Alas! if I had been more prudent, I should still possess thee; for if I had not begun to anticipate my income, I should not have encroached on my capital; if I had not done that, I should not have dreamed of disturbing my funds, which were safely invested; and I should have found that twenty thousand francs absolutely assured was better than thirty thousand due solely to speculation.—Pray remove your head, madame, if you please.—In that case, I shouldn’t have put my property in the hands of that knave of a Destival, who consequently would not have run away with it; and then I should still be as rich as ever. I should have been able to do good with my money; and I would have gone to Montfermeil again and kept my promise to that pretty boy; I would not have made love to Denise, as she loves some man in the village who is probably married to her before now; but I would have seen her married, and would have reminded her in jest of that fall from her donkey in the woods; perhaps—Oh! for heaven’s sake, monsieur, keep your arms still—you are breaking my ribs!”
Auguste’s opposite neighbors were two gentlemen and a lady. The latter, who sat between the two men, was directly opposite Auguste; but as she wore a very large hood, and as she kept her head lowered, he could not see her face.
“Probably she isn’t pretty,” said our traveller to himself, “or she would have raised her head before this.”
The lady’s dress was very simple—a travelling costume. The two men beside her were travelling salesmen, one in wines, the other in linens; they had begun a conversation which seemed likely not to end before they reached Lyon.
Auguste was dazed by their constant chattering about casks, veltes, jouys, Rouen silks, good years and failures; and, disgusted by the proximity of the sleepers, he was regretting that he was not with Bertrand, and longing for the first halt, when the lady in the hood moved her foot and touched Auguste’s. A “pardon, monsieur” was instantly pronounced in a very pleasant voice. This incident roused Auguste from his despondency, inspiring the wish to see the face of his vis-à-vis; and as his legs were in close proximity to hers, he moved them slightly and said a few words as to the lack of space in diligences;—an excuse for beginning a conversation. The lady replied with a “Yes, monsieur,” but did not raise her head; whereupon our young man’s curiosity became all the keener. She did not seem disposed to talk, but she did move her knees, which touched those of her vis-à-vis. Auguste was conscious of a desire to press one of those knees between his own, but was deterred by this thought: “Suppose she should prove to be ugly! How I should regret having made her acquaintance!”
Notwithstanding, the young man ventured to press one knee gently; she did not withdraw it, but she did not raise her head; and Auguste, secretly enjoying the knee-play, said to himself: “Perhaps it’s as well that I can’t see her features, for I can at all events imagine that she is charming, adorable. With that idea in my mind, the mere rustling of her dress causes me a pleasant sensation, and it helps me to forget the tedium of the journey. Ah! madame, if you are ugly, do not look up, I pray, for you would thereby put an end to a too delicious illusion.”
As they descended a hill, a violent jolt nearly overturned the diligence. The stout man and the old lady woke with a jump. At the same moment the hooded lady uttered a shriek of alarm and raised her head. Auguste saw a pretty face of twenty to twenty-five years, fresh and blooming, regular features, expressive eyes—in short, a charming ensemble which delighted him and caused him to press more tenderly the knee that was between his.
But she had already dropped her head again. The scare was at an end, the commercial travellers resumed their conversation, Auguste’s neighbors closed their eyes once more, and he, enraptured by what he had seen, moved constantly nearer to his vis-à-vis, who allowed him to place his feet on hers.
“She is lovely,” thought Auguste, “but her actions are very strange. If she allows me to press her knees like this, it must be that she likes it, or that she doesn’t dare to take offence. In the first case, she is a woman who is not inclined to avoid adventures; in the second case, she is an innocent young thing, who has never travelled by diligence before. I will satisfy myself that the second conjecture is the true one; we should always look at the best side.”
The diligence stopped at Corbeil. The two salesmen hastily left the vehicle; the stout man extricated himself from his corner with difficulty; the old woman of the green veil dropped into the arms of the man who held the door open, and Auguste, having alighted, offered his hand to the young lady in the hood. But she replied with a faint sigh:
“Thanks, monsieur, I am not going to get out.”
“She isn’t going to get out!” repeated Auguste to himself, as he stood by the door. “Poor thing! she isn’t coming to the inn to dine, which ordinarily indicates obligatory economy.”
“Coming to dinner, lieutenant?” inquired Bertrand, who had climbed down from his seat on the box, and was awaiting Auguste at the inn door.
“Yes, yes, here I am.”
“Have you left anything in the diligence?”
“No, but I would have liked——”
“Do you hear that? they say that the passengers must hurry.”
Bertrand came forward to see what was keeping his master by the diligence; he spied the young lady and muttered:
“Morbleu! another! I might have known that there was a petticoat at the bottom of it! Remember, lieutenant—we left Paris in order to be good, to reform.”
“You are right, my friend,” said Auguste; and he turned regretfully away from the vehicle and followed Bertrand to the inn.
The travellers’ dinner was soon at an end; urged on by the driver, they all returned to their places, the old lady carrying her dessert. Auguste gazed with renewed interest at the young woman, who probably had dined on a modest loaf, and he placed his knees against hers once more with greater respect than before, because the idea of misfortunes puts thoughts of pleasure to silence.
The old woman requested Auguste to break some nuts which she had brought from the table, the stout man offered him snuff, the commercial travellers entered into conversation with him, everyone trying to become better acquainted with his fellow-passengers. The little lady in the hood alone held her peace. But darkness began to fall. Auguste longed for it; his neighbors dozed, the salesmen did likewise, and he moved his knees forward, trying by that means to establish an understanding with his vis-à-vis, and saying to himself:
“If she is unfortunate, I must try to comfort her. Moreover, I squeezed her knees this morning, and should I act as if I thought her less attractive just because she hasn’t the means to dine at inns? That would be worthy of Monsieur de la Thomassinière.”
As he did not wish to give his vis-à-vis such an opinion of him, the young man tenderly pressed the limb which she abandoned to him, and ventured to take a hand, which she did not withdraw. Night does not always bring gloomy thoughts, and Auguste looked forward to obtaining a kiss from the little lady, who seemed of so yielding a humor. But his two neighbors embarrassed him; at the slightest motion on his part toward leaning forward, the old lady and the stout man fell across his back, and he could not return to his place until he had thrust them back into their corners. The two salesmen, too, in their slumber, leaned against the young woman who separated them, and their heads frequently came in contact with her hood.
“Riding in a diligence is not all pleasure,” said Auguste in an undertone.
“Oh, no! it isn’t all pleasure, monsieur,” replied the young woman.
But, in order to enjoy greater pleasure, the young man leaned forward again and bestowed a loving kiss on one of the salesmen, whose face was at that moment in front of the hood. The salesman woke, trying to guess the source of that mark of affection, and Auguste was amazed to find that the young woman’s chin was less soft than her hand.
The salesman could see nobody save his neighbor who was likely to have kissed him while he slept; and although he was unaccustomed to inspire passions, he was convinced that he had kindled a flame in the heart of the young woman by his side. As he did not choose to be behindhand with her, the young man, who had hitherto had no thought for anything but his samples, and the duties imposed on his wares, began to think of something different, and to play with his hands on the young woman’s knees. She made no resistance, while the two men, who seemed to be playing the pied de bœuf, seized each other’s hand and pressed it with a vigor which surprised them both.
The first rays of dawn surprised the travellers in this situation. Auguste laughed heartily, the salesman testily withdrew his hand and the young woman her knee; but she glanced furtively at Auguste, and he promised himself compensation for the blunders of the night.
In the morning they arrived at Auxerre; again the young woman remained in the diligence. Toward evening they halted at Avallon, where they were to dine. The young woman alighted, but she did not enter the inn; having purchased a loaf of bread and some other things, she sat down a short distance from the inn. Auguste, who had followed her with his eyes, allowed Bertrand to go in alone, saying that he was not hungry as yet, and joined his fair fellow-traveller, with whom he entered into conversation.
“Are you leaving Paris, madame?”
“Yes, monsieur”—with a sigh.
“Have you lived there long?”
“I was born there, monsieur.”
“And you are turning your back on your native place?”
“I have no choice, monsieur”—with another sigh.
“Are you going to live in Lyon, madame?”
“I don’t know, monsieur.”
“Ah! you have no settled plan?”
“I am so unfortunate, monsieur!”
“You arouse my profound interest, madame; but we can talk more comfortably elsewhere than on this road. If you will take my arm, madame, we might take a walk about the place until it is time to start.”
“With pleasure, monsieur.”
The lady took Auguste’s arm, and they walked away from the inn, talking.
“If I were not afraid of being too inquisitive, madame, I would ask what makes you leave Paris.”
“Oh! I am very willing to tell you, monsieur. I am the child of respectable tradespeople; they married me when very young to a man whom I did not love; but I felt bound to obey, in order to gratify my parents.”
“That was very good of you, madame.”
“There was a very agreeable gentleman who had courted me before I was married; I didn’t love him either, but I listened to him to gratify him.”
“My husband didn’t make me happy; he was never willing that I should go out, and I stayed at home because that gratified him. But sometimes I had visitors, among others the gentleman who used to court me.”
“And that didn’t gratify your husband?”
“Apparently not, monsieur; for not long ago, happening to find him with me, he turned me out of doors. I undertook to be angry, and he beat me, monsieur; and said he’d do it again whenever he chose.”
“He is a man who has a most brutal way of procuring himself pleasure.”
“As I didn’t care to be beaten again, I left my husband, and started for Lyon, having barely enough to pay for my passage.”
“I suppose then, madame, that you have friends in Lyon?”
“Oh! it was that gentleman who used to come to see me—he said that he was going there. However, I am no more anxious to go to Lyon than anywhere else. I wanted to get away from my husband, who made me so unhappy.”
Meanwhile the fellow-travellers had reached a small restaurant. Auguste, remembering that his companion had not dined, proposed that they should go in and regale themselves, and she assented—to gratify him.
They entered the restaurant. Auguste asked for a private room, because one does not need witnesses to console a young wife whose husband has beaten her. He ordered as toothsome a repast as the place could afford, because he forgot as usual that he was no longer rich, and readily fell into his former habits. The Avallon restaurateur was put to his mettle to provide a dainty refection for the strangers who had honored his establishment. The dinner was served; Auguste urged the young woman to partake, and she, although she said that she complied only to gratify him, ate everything and did not need to be urged to drink freely of a native wine which the host declared to be of the vintage of the year of the comet.
Dining together, they became more and more friendly. At first Auguste seated himself opposite the young lady; but he reflected that they were much nearer than that in the diligence, and that it was, to say the least, unusual for two persons to keep at a respectful distance, tête-à-tête in a private dining-room, when they have pressed each other’s knees before witnesses. So he took his seat beside the young lady, who sighed from time to time, but did not repulse the young man, who seemed most anxious to console her. He tenderly squeezed a very soft hand, expressing great surprise that a husband could be so brutal as to hurt such a charming woman.
“Men are cruel,” said the young woman, who continued to keep her eyes on the floor.
“They are tyrants,” rejoined Auguste, pressing her plump hand to his lips.
“They cause all our misery!” added the young woman, as she allowed her companion to kiss her.
“Ah! they cause something very different!” cried Auguste, throwing his arms about her.
“They do! they do!” whispered the young woman, apparently no longer conscious what they do or what she did; but after several meagre repasts, it was no wonder that the wine of the comet year caused her to lose her head.
On recovering his wits, Auguste said:
“By the way—the diligence?”
“Oh! that’s so—the diligence!” echoed the young woman, heaving a sigh, presumably from habit.
“I am inclined to think, my dear love, that it is high time to return to it.”
“Very well! let us return, my friend.”
As you see, the wine of the comet had established most friendly relations between the travellers. But as a general rule, affairs that are negotiated in diligences are speedily consummated.
Auguste summoned the keeper of the restaurant and paid for the dinner. The young lady replaced her hood, which was no longer on her head, I know not why. Then they left the private room and walked back, arm-in-arm, toward the inn where they had left the diligence.
As they walked Auguste talked with his companion, who seemed to him to have a very sweet disposition, but whose wit did not respond to the idea suggested by her decidedly expressive countenance. There are women whose wit is all in their eyes, and with them one must content oneself with pantomime.
As they approached the inn Auguste espied Bertrand, striding back and forth in front of the establishment, looking to right and left with gestures of impatience, and swearing energetically from time to time. When he caught sight of Auguste, he ran to meet him and made a horrible wry face at the young woman who was hanging on his master’s arm.
“Here you are at last, monsieur! Sacrebleu! I thought that you’d left me here to chase the swallows!”
“Don’t get excited, Bertrand, I am here. I am not lost, you see. Well, when do we start?”
“Start! start for where, monsieur?”
“Why, for Lyon, of course!”
“And is that why you let the diligence go—that you made me wait and call you and look everywhere for you?”
“What’s that? the diligence has gone?”
“Morbleu, yes! more than an hour ago; but the time evidently didn’t seem long to you!”
“The diligence has gone!” repeated Auguste, dropping his companion’s arm; but she, evidently setting great store by its support, instantly took it again, saying:
“That’s very amusing! isn’t it, my dear friend?”
“It no longer seems so amusing to me,” said Auguste; while Bertrand walked away, and muttered with an oath, stamping the ground:
“Her dear friend! Ten thousand bayonets! this is a very pretty mess!”
“But couldn’t they have waited a little while for us, Bertrand?” asked Auguste.
“They waited two minutes, monsieur, and that’s a long time for a diligence.”
“And you didn’t go?”
“Do you suppose that I would go without you? Ain’t I attached to you, and to nobody else? What’s the sense of my being at Lyon if you ain’t there?”
“You did well, Bertrand. And our valises?”
“Oh! they’re here. As I had a shrewd idea that there was something new, I wouldn’t let them go without us.”
“Bless my soul, my friend, we must make the best of this accident. After all, it matters not whether we go to Lyon or somewhere else; and whether we arrive there to-morrow or a week hence.”
“Mon Dieu! my dear friend, it’s a matter of indifference to me too,” said the young woman.
Bertrand frowned and motioned to his master that he wanted to speak to him in private. Auguste succeeded in making the young woman understand that she must let go his arm for a moment, and he joined the ex-corporal, who said to him with a stern expression:
“I beg pardon, lieutenant, but who is this woman who sticks to your arm as if you had glue on your sleeve?”
“She’s a young woman who was with us in the diligence.”
“And why didn’t she stay there?”
“Because I took her to walk with me.”
“Who is the woman?”
“A very entertaining person.”
“She didn’t tell you what she is doing, did she?”
“To be sure: she’s going to Lyon, in order not to stay in Paris.”
“The deuce! if that’s her only motive, I can understand that she doesn’t care whether she goes there or somewhere else. But why is she leaving Paris? A young woman don’t travel alone like this, just for the pleasure of travelling.”
“Oh! she had a very urgent reason—her husband beat her.”
“Perhaps he was justified, monsieur.”
“Oh! Bertrand!”
“Why does she call you her dear friend so soon?”
“Because—because——”
“Oh, yes! because—I understand perfectly. But after all, monsieur, what do you expect to do with this woman?”
“I don’t quite know; but you must see that I can’t desert her here after being the cause of her losing the diligence.”
“I should say rather that she made you lose it by telling you fairy tales, and arousing your pity by adventures that never happened, I’ll wager. Besides, monsieur, a woman who takes up with the first man that comes along can’t be anything but an adventuress. I’ll bet that you don’t even know her name?”
“Faith, no. But what does the name matter? Can’t a person assume any name at pleasure? Whether this young woman has told me the truth or not, I won’t leave her penniless far from the place to which she is going.”
“Oho! she hasn’t any money, eh?”
“Why, she had nothing for dinner but bread.”
“This is a very excellent find that you’ve made! So, monsieur, when you left Paris, in order to be prudent and economize, here you are with a woman on your hands barely sixty leagues from Paris!”
“Bah! what can you expect? Is it my fault? Come, Bertrand, don’t scold; hereafter I’ll reflect a little more; meanwhile let us abandon ourselves to our destiny.”
Auguste returned to the young woman and Bertrand followed him, saying to himself:
“I am very much afraid he’s incorrigible.”
The young woman promptly resumed possession of Auguste’s arm.
“My dear friend,” he said to her, “as the diligence has gone off without us, we need not hurry now.”
“Oh, not at all.”
“We can even pass a day or two here.”
“I should like to if it would gratify you.”
“Then we will consider how we will continue our journey—whether by some chance conveyance, by stage—or even on foot, so that we can admire the country in case it is worthy of admiration.”
“Whatever will gratify you, my friend.”
“You see, Bertrand,” said Auguste in an undertone, “this little woman is good-nature itself, she seeks only to gratify me.”
“She doesn’t gratify me in the very least, monsieur.”
“Because you don’t choose to be gratified.—By the way, as we are to stay here,” continued Auguste, “we will take rooms at this inn. Bertrand, see that rooms are prepared for us.”
“Yes, monsieur;—and for madame, too?”
“That goes without saying.—By the way, as we are under the necessity of economizing, one room will be enough for madame and myself. Isn’t that so, my dear love?”
“Mon Dieu! yes, if that will gratify you.”
“By the way, my dear love, you haven’t yet told me your name.”
“My name is Adèle—or Madame Florimont, as you please.”
“Rather as you please.”
“Call me Adèle—I shall like that.”
“Adèle it is.”
“Madame Florimont!” muttered Bertrand with a shrug; “that’s a stage name—she got that in the wings of some theatre.”
“My name is Auguste, my dear Adèle; for it is right that you should know who I am.”
“Oh! mon Dieu! it’s all one to me!”
“I see that you think more of the person than of the title, and that you judge people by their faces; if that method never deceives you, I congratulate you. But it is still light and the weather is fine; the best thing for us to do before supper, I think, is to take a walk. Will you come with us, Bertrand?”
“No, lieutenant, I have no desire to walk.”
Auguste walked away with the emotional Adèle. They traversed the pretty little town of Avallon in every direction. Auguste commented upon what he saw and the young woman invariably agreed with him; so that he finally decided that a woman who can only assent to everything that is said without making any observations on her own account, is rather monotonous company. But Madame Florimont had very pretty eyes, and it was not long since she had first fixed them upon Auguste; so that, when he had discoursed for some time without obtaining anything but insignificant replies, he played with Adèle with his eyes, whereupon she said in pantomime the sweetest things imaginable.
Only in front of the shops did the young woman make any remarks of her own motion. She stopped to gaze at a shawl and heaved a profound sigh.
“Would you like it?” Auguste asked.
“Oh! it would give me great pleasure.”
“Very well, let’s buy it.”
Giving way to his former habit, the young man bought the shawl for Madame Florimont, who at once threw it over her shoulders, having rolled up the little neckerchief which she wore about her neck, and placed it under her arm. A little farther on she stopped and sighed again as she eyed a pretty cap. At Auguste’s instance she tried it on; and as it was wonderfully becoming under the great hood, the cap was purchased. Next, it was in front of a jeweller’s establishment that the young woman stopped and sighed: she wanted a little ring which would remind her of the day she met Auguste! He considered that desire too flattering not to be satisfied. But after that he took his companion back to the inn, not allowing her to stop anywhere, lest she should sigh again.
The young woman was very pretty in the shawl and cap. But when Bertrand saw her in that guise, he took Auguste aside once more and said:
“Monsieur, she wasn’t dressed like that this afternoon.”
“You will certainly agree, Bertrand, that she looks much better to-night?”
“But, monsieur, what are you thinking about?”
“I am thinking about supper, for I am very hungry;—and you, my dear friend?”
“I too shall be glad to have supper.”
Bertrand said nothing more; but he went into a corner and beat his head against the wall. In due time the supper was brought; Auguste went to the table with Adèle, and urged Bertrand to sit with them, explaining to the young woman that he was his factotum, his cashier, and not his servant.
Bertrand made a wry face at the word cashier; but he decided at last to seat himself respectfully at the other end of the table. To put him in good humor, Auguste ordered several bottles of good wine. The ruse was successful. By dint of drinking, Bertrand recovered his spirits and no longer looked askance at the young woman.
But when, after supper, he saw Auguste retire with Madame Florimont to a room in which there was only one bed, he muttered:
“You will certainly be taken for the lady’s husband, monsieur.”
“Faith, Bertrand, it will look very much like it to-night.”
“But afterward?”
“Oh! the most important thing to my mind at this moment, my friend, is to get to bed. Do the same. Good-night; to-morrow it will be light.”
“Yes,” said Bertrand, filling his glass once more, “to-morrow it will be light, and we shall still have this hussy on our hands! It would have been just as well to stay in Paris and let me make breeches with Schtrack.”
And Bertrand fell asleep finishing the bottle.
A night’s sleep suffices to banish the fumes of wine and to restore calmness to our minds; a night of love often suffices to banish many illusions and to restore calmness to our senses. After the night at the inn with Madame Florimont, both Auguste and Bertrand reflected more coolly concerning their position: the latter had not for a moment failed to realize the fresh embarrassment in which Auguste had involved himself; and Auguste, who perhaps was already weary of playing pantomime with his young fellow-traveller, felt that he had made a fool of himself. But how was he to rid himself courteously of a lady who constantly said to him:
“I will go wherever you please, my friend.”
After breakfast, Auguste asked if they could obtain a conveyance to take them to Lyon. To travel by post would be too expensive for people who wished to be economical, although no one would ever have suspected Auguste of such a wish, as he always insisted upon being entertained en grand seigneur.
A leather dealer, who owned a large two-seated cabriolet, offered to take the travellers with him. To be sure, he would take four days for the trip, because his business compelled him to stop at several places; but they were in no hurry, so they made a bargain with the leather dealer, who packed our three travellers in his vehicle.
Auguste and the emotional Adèle took their places on the back seat, Bertrand beside the tradesman on the front seat, and they started, drawn by a single horse, large enough for two, but with no apparent disposition to take the bit in his teeth.
Bertrand chatted with the driver, a tall fellow of twenty-eight or thirty years, who passed a large part of his life on his wagon, was better acquainted with taverns than with his own house, where he spent less than three months of the year, and declared that not a maid servant within a radius of thirty leagues had been unkind to him.
Auguste looked at the landscape and tried to make Madame Florimont talk.
“What do you think of this view?”
“Why, it’s very ugly.”
“What? That wooded slope, the valley on the left, with the stream flowing through it, and yonder pretty village in the background—you call that ugly?”
“Oh, no! it’s very pretty.”
“Would you like to travel?”
“I don’t know, my friend.”
“Have you never been away from Paris?”
“Oh, yes! I’ve been to Saint-Cloud and Passy.”
“Would you like to go to Italy?”
“If it would gratify you.”
“But what about the gentleman who’s expecting you at Lyon?”
“Oh! I don’t know whether he’s waiting for me!”
“I may be compelled by circumstances to leave you.”
“Oh! but I won’t leave you, my friend.”
“But suppose I should return to Paris?”
“I would go there.”
“But what about your husband, who beat you?”
“Oh! I wouldn’t tell him that I had returned.”
“I see that I shan’t be able to get rid of this woman!” said Auguste to himself. “Infernal diligence! That great hood, those knees against mine, that night on the road—all those things go to one’s head. You imagine that you have made a glorious conquest; you fancy yourself in love, and for twenty-four hours you are! But after that! Mon Dieu! what a mess I have got into!”
Bertrand, who had overheard a part of the conversation between Adèle and Auguste, leaned over to the latter and said in his ear:
“I beg pardon, lieutenant, but this woman seems to me as stupid as a pot.”
“So she seems to me, Bertrand.”
“Are we going round the world with a doll like that?”
“I’m afraid so, my friend. She has determined never to leave me.”
“I promise you that I will make her change her mind.”
Bertrand said no more. They drove for some time in silence. From time to time the leather dealer cast a furtive, lady-killer’s glance at Madame Florimont, and said to Bertrand whenever they passed through a hamlet or village:
“I once knew a pretty woman here. I had an intrigue here. I set people’s tongues to wagging here.”
“It seems that you’re a sad rake.”
“Oh, yes! I’m well known in this region.”
At nightfall they stopped at a small place where they were to pass the night. They alighted at a wretched inn; the leather dealer went out to attend to some business, and after supper Auguste, thinking that the most sensible course to pursue with the emotional Adèle was to go to bed, withdrew with her, leaving Bertrand with his pipe at a table.
The tradesman returned in due time and Bertrand invited him to drink; he was not the man to decline such an invitation. He was almost as accomplished a drinker as Schtrack; after the second bottle they became confidential and Bertrand said to his companion:
“You look to me like a good fellow.”
“You’re very kind!”
“You might do us a great favor, my lieutenant and me.”
“If it won’t cost me anything, I’m your man.”
“It not only won’t cost you anything, but I’ll give you fifty crowns bonus.”
“Say it quick, then!”
“Judging from all that you’ve told me, you’re not a foe of the fair sex?”
“On the contrary, I am their dearest friend.”
“What do you think of that young woman who’s travelling with us?”
“Why——”
“Come, speak frankly.”
“Faith, I think she’s very fine! she’s got a pair of eyes that she knows how to work mighty well!”
“So she takes your eye, does she?”
“To be sure, she would if she was free; but you understand I can’t think of——”
“Well, listen to me; the very greatest service you could do us would be to rob us of that beauty.”
“You’re joking, aren’t you?”
“No; this is how it is: my master is a reckless fellow; he is travelling to learn how to be prudent, and you can understand that the way to do that isn’t to travel with a little woman who, as you say, works her eyes so well that she makes him long for her. But I must have common sense for him: now the best thing that I can see to do is to separate him from this highway heroine, who, I am sure, pretends to be devoted to him only because she thinks he’s rich.”
“So she didn’t come from Paris with you?”
“Oh, no! it was a fine chance encounter we had in the Lyon diligence. It would have done a hundred times better to upset us than to contain that princess! But you, who are always on the road—she won’t be in your way in your wagon; besides, I fancied that I saw you looking her over like a connoisseur.”
“I don’t say no; but how do you expect——”
“You’re a fine man, an attractive-looking fellow!”
“I certainly am not very ill-looking,” said the tradesman, complacently viewing himself in a fragment of looking-glass on the chimney-piece.
“To-morrow, on the road,” said Bertrand, “I will take pains to refer to the fact that we are hard up, while you, on the contrary, must jingle your coins. When we reach the place where we are to sleep, my lieutenant will pretend to be sick and say that he can’t continue his journey. The next morning he will stay in bed; then you must seize the opportunity for a tête-à-tête, make your declaration, and propose to the young woman to take her off before we wake up. She’ll accept—I’d bet my moustaches if I still had ‘em.”
“Agreed, my fine fellow—and the fifty crowns?”
“I’ll pay them to you when I see you ready to start. You can go to Lyon; we won’t go there, so as not to run into you.”
“Shake; I’ll abduct your charmer; and, as you say, she probably won’t resist, because, although your companion’s good-looking enough, he hasn’t this figure, this build—in fact, this fascinating air; ain’t that so?”
“I should say so! you remind me of a drum-major.”
The bargain being made, Bertrand and the tradesman, after drinking a glass to the success of their scheme, went to bed.
The next day they resumed their journey. Auguste seemed more bored than ever by Madame Florimont’s company; he dared not tell Bertrand so; but the ex-corporal observed the young man’s ill-concealed yawns and stifled sighs while the emotional Adèle continued to tell him that it would be her delight to stay with him always. After some time Auguste gave way to the drowsiness that overpowered him. He fell asleep on the back seat of the vehicle, beside the young woman, who said not another word. Bertrand, pretending to think that she too was asleep, said to the driver in an undertone:
“Poor fellow! if only sleep might put an end to his anxieties and pay his debts!”
“Is he in debt, do you say?”
“That is why we left Paris; and I am very much afraid that we shall be pursued by creditors at Lyon.”
“That’s a pity! A business like mine is the thing! it always goes right on. Leather will never go out of fashion—it’s like bread.”
“It is precisely the same thing. So you are well off, are you?”
“Why, I am very comfortable.”
Bertrand noticed that Madame Florimont raised her hood in order to see the tradesman better; whereupon he said nothing more, but looked off into the country so as not to interfere with his neighbor’s ogling of the young woman, which she received with a smile, probably to gratify him.
They reached the place where they were to pass the night. Bertrand had not as yet mentioned his project to Auguste, but chance seemed to favor him. On leaving the wagon, the young man was attacked by a violent sick-headache, and immediately upon entering the inn went to his room to lie down, telling Madame Florimont to order whatever she pleased.
Bertrand made an excuse for leaving the tradesman alone with their travelling companion; he went out to walk and did not return until very late. The tradesman was alone, admiring himself in a mirror.
“Well?” queried Bertrand.
“You can pay me the fifty crowns.”
“Do you mean it?”
“It’s all arranged: at daybreak to-morrow I abduct your charmer; she is to tell your companion that he can lie abed as we don’t start till ten o’clock.”
“Morbleu! a victory wouldn’t give me more pleasure! My poor master! I would like so much to see him become more reasonable! to see him get over his nonsense! I’ll treat to a bottle—two bottles over and above the bargain.”
“I accept.”
“So she didn’t make any very great resistance?”
“I should say not! I had taken her fancy; besides, she told me that her sense of delicacy wouldn’t allow her to travel with a man who is in debt.”
In his delight, Bertrand ordered several more corks drawn; he paid the tradesman his fifty crowns on the spot, and he did not go to bed, so that he might, unseen, witness Madame Florimont’s departure. She rose at daybreak, without waking Auguste, and drove off with the leather dealer.
“A pleasant journey!” exclaimed Bertrand as he looked after the wagon. When it was out of sight he ran to Auguste’s room and woke him, crying:
“Victory, lieutenant! I have driven the enemy from the citadel!”
“What’s the matter?” inquired Auguste, rubbing his eyes.
“The matter is that I have relieved you of your emotional travelling-companion, who went off this morning with our leather man.”
“Is it possible, Bertrand?”
“Why, yes, monsieur; she’s gone, I tell you. You are not inclined to run after her, I trust?”
“God forbid!—So she has ceased to love me?”
“As if that adventuress ever loved you! She goes with the first comer who looks to be rich! And yet that’s the woman, monsieur, that you had on your hands! You fall in love in a diligence, and crac! you scrape acquaintance, and—Look you, lieutenant, I’m no lady-killer myself, but it seems to me that a man ought to say these two things to himself in a public conveyance: ‘If this woman is respectable, she won’t listen to me; if she isn’t, it isn’t worth while to speak to her.’”
“You are right, a hundred times right! But this folly shall be my last.”
“Do you know that counting everything—conveyance, presents and board bills—your intrigue has cost us at least five hundred francs? A pretty beginning for a man who is going to try to make a fortune!”
“Oh! you’ll see, Bertrand, after this, that I’ll be so good——”
“God grant it! But to avoid meeting that lady again, my advice is that we don’t go to Lyon.”
“Agreed; let’s push on to Italy at once. Beneath the beautiful sky that saw the birth of Virgil and Tibullus, in the fatherland of all the arts—there will I, impelled by a noble emulation, turn my talents to account and try to acquire additional ones. Perhaps fortune will smile on my efforts! Music, painting, offer resources which I must not blush to employ! We will spend very little and I will try to earn a great deal; for, in all lands, the higher prices one charges, the more merit is attributed to one. And then, when I have saved a neat little sum, we will return to France to enjoy the fruit of my labors.”
“That’s the talk, lieutenant; and, more fortunate than the great Turenne, who was killed on the battlefield, we will enjoy the blessings of peace after the war.”
The travellers allowed the leather dealer plenty of time, in order not to overtake Madame Florimont. The proprietor of a small carriole offered to drive them whereever they chose to go, representing himself as a public carrier, and assuring them that his vehicle was in condition to take them to Naples, which journey it had made at least fifteen times.
Although the carriole bore no resemblance to the berline of an ordinary carrier, our travellers made the best of it; but before entering, Bertrand satisfied himself that there were no women inside. A dress terrified him; he would not even have left his master alone with a nurse.
The vehicle contained no other passengers save an honest peasant of some fifty years, whom Bertrand scrutinized a long while, to make sure that he was not a woman disguised, while Auguste took his seat, laughing at his companion’s fears.
“Are you going to Italy too, my good man?” Auguste asked the peasant.
“Oh, nenni, monsieur,” was the reply; “I ain’t going so far as that; I’m only just going to my sister’s, who lives a short three leagues out of Lyon; she’s marrying her youngest son Eustache, my nephew.”
“Oho! so you’re going to a wedding? That’s delightful! A wedding’s great fun.”
“Oh, yes, monsieur; for we be all great jokers to our place! and sly dogs!”
“One can see that by looking at you.”
“And the way we drink—it’s a regular benediction!”
“That’s very good,” said Bertrand; “so you have good wines, do you?”
“Oh, famous! My sister’s got her own vineyard; she’s one of the biggest farmers in the place; and see! when a woman marries off her son, why she makes the corks fly, you know. The wedding’ll last at least a week. If you think you’d enjoy it, messieurs, you’d better come with me; you’ll be made welcome, and you’ll see some good fellows. My sister’ll be glad to see you, and so will Cadet, for he likes folks from the city. You’re Parisians, ain’t you, messieurs?”
“As you say, Monsieur——”
“Rondin, at your service. Well! do you accept?”
Auguste looked at Bertrand; the idea of attending a village wedding was decidedly attractive to him, and the ex-corporal, for his part, felt a secret longing to make the acquaintance of Monsieur Cadet Eustache’s wine; but the fear that his master would become too well acquainted with the ladies of the party led him to resist the longing, and he whispered to Auguste:
“Decline, lieutenant; that’s the wisest thing to do, believe me; if we keep stopping on the road, our tour of the world will be simply a short trip to Bourgogne, which is not the land of your Virgils and Tibulluses; and we shall return to Paris without making a fortune.”
“I am very sorry to decline your invitation, Monsieur Rondin,” said Auguste, “but my companion reminds me that our business requires our presence in Italy as soon as possible. In truth, if we keep this conveyance, I don’t think that we shall arrive there for a long time to come; I believe that the knave is driving at a walk; so that his miserable vehicle can make its sixteenth trip to Naples, no doubt.—I say, driver—are you asleep, my friend? Do you think it’s a joke to drive like this?”
The driver turned and coolly informed his passengers that his horses were going at their ordinary pace, which they never varied, but that he would undertake to set them down without mishap at their destination.
“That is very pleasant,” said Bertrand; “it means that we are to go all the way to Italy as if we were following a hearse; if the driver has made the trip fifteen times at this gait, he must have begun very young. And you, Monsieur Rondin, on your way to a wedding—aren’t you in a hurry?”
“Oh! they’ll wait for me. Besides, Cadet must have a chance to rest before he gets married.”
“Has the groom been travelling too?”
“Yes, monsieur, he’s just come from Paris—that’s where he brought his bride from.”
“Aha! so he went to Paris for a wife?”
“I’ll tell you, messieurs: Cadet’s a sly one, who’ll never let anyone play it on him! The girls of his village, they’re a lot of hussies, and so, to be sure of getting something good, he went to Paris to look for a wife.”
“He must be a very clever rascal.”
“Oh! he’s the shrewdest lady-killer within six leagues; his mother she lets him do just as he wants to, so off he goes to Paris, where he had business anyway. After some time he writes home as how he’s found the woman as suits him. Well, well! she must be virtue and innocence itself, you see! for Cadet knows what’s what in the matter of women.”
“And he found this treasure in Paris?”
“Not just in Paris, but in the outskirts. So, as he took his charmer’s fancy, he brought her back with him, and he’s going to marry her. That’s why I’d like to have you come to the wedding, to tell me what you think of my nephew’s choice.”
Auguste would have liked to make the acquaintance of the bride whom Monsieur Cadet Eustache had found in the suburbs of Paris. He thought of Denise, and imagined that Monsieur Rondin’s nephew had found some young village maiden as fresh and pretty and alluring as the little milkmaid. That thought made him sigh.
“Perhaps she too is married!” he said to himself; “for she was in love with someone; she told me as much when she said that she would never love me.”
Auguste had ceased to smile since his memories had taken him back to Montfermeil. The peasant, surprised by his neighbor’s melancholy, dared not suggest again his coming to the wedding, and Bertrand said under his breath:
“It would certainly be good fun to stay at table for a whole week; but there’s always some pretty face at a wedding party, and I musn’t expose my lieutenant to the risk of running off with another woman, for I shan’t always have the good fortune to fall in with a leather merchant.”
Nothing more was said, and the carriole crawled on. In four hours they made but one league. At the end of that time, Père Rondin, who was fond of talking, said to Auguste:
“If you’re going to Italy on business, it’s safe to say you won’t get there in time. Be you an attorney?”
“No, I am a painter and a musician.”
“A painter and a musician! Jarni! that’s just what we want! you could play for our girls to dance, and paint a picture of the bride! That would be a nice surprise for Eustache!”
“Parbleu!” thought Auguste, “it would be funny enough if I should make the first trial of my talents on these good people!—What do you say, Bertrand? I rather like the idea of painting the bride’s portrait.”
“You see, Cadet wrote me as how she’s a fine figure of a girl,” said Père Rondin. “Be you good at catching resemblances?”
“Why, I haven’t tried anything else as yet. However, I’ll paint whatever you wish.—Come, Bertrand, this decides me. We’ll go to the wedding.”
“The wedding it is, monsieur. But for God’s sake, don’t do anything foolish, but remember your resolutions.”
“Never fear, you will be satisfied with me.”
Père Rondin was overjoyed that he had induced the travellers to attend the wedding; he was even on the point of inviting the driver too, when the vehicle, which was moving at a snail’s pace, was overturned into a ditch, the only one by the road at that time, and the travellers rolled over one another. Luckily they got off with a few bruises, and the driver calmly busied himself with getting his horses on their feet, informing his passengers that he was sorry that he had not warned them, but that ever since he had been driving over that road he rarely failed to be upset there, because his horses had fallen into that habit.
That accident put the finishing touch to the travellers’ disgust with the wretched carriole.
“It ain’t only a day’s walk from here to our place,” said Père Rondin; “let’s foot it. We’ll get there a blamed sight quicker if we walk.”
The peasant’s suggestion was accepted. They left the carriole. Bertrand took one valise, Auguste absolutely insisting on taking the other, and they started.
It was a lovely country. They were delighted that they were travelling on foot. Père Rondin was familiar with the roads. They halted only once for refreshment, and the next morning they arrived at Monsieur Cadet Eustache’s farm.
They were not a hundred yards away when a tall youth rushed out and threw himself on Père Rondin’s neck, crying:
“Here’s uncle! come on, uncle! I’m only waiting for you to get married! and I tell you, I just long to be!”
“Good-day, Cadet. See, I’ve brought along a couple of good fellows, my boy; this gentleman who makes pictures and music, and Monsieur Bertrand, who drinks straight, I warn you.”
Monsieur Cadet Eustache bowed low to the two travellers, then said to his uncle:
“Haven’t you brought anybody else?”
“What do you mean by that, my boy?”
“Why, if you’d had some more too, it would have been all the better, because we mean to have some fun, you see! But never mind—they make two more, anyway.”
“Haven’t you got many people at your wedding?”
“Oh! there’s eighty of us already.”
“That’s doing pretty well, seems to me.”
“Oh! but we must have some fun! I want to have some fun! and it takes a lot for that; for my part, I never laugh unless there’s at least a dozen in company.”
“I told you my nephew was a joker,” said Père Rondin to Auguste, who looked at Bertrand and smiled, while the latter muttered:
“This bridegroom impresses me as a big idiot.”
“But take us into the house, Cadet; we’re tired, and we want something to eat and drink.”
“Oh! excuse me, uncle; you see, my wife that is to be is on my brain.—Ah! messieurs, you’ll see, that’s all I’ve got to say; you’ll see such a fresh and blooming young woman! She’s like a poppy! And a figure! oh! I tell you—round and plump everywhere!”
“Ah! you rascal! you seem to have found out about all this while you was bringing her home.”
“Oh, uncle! I should never have thought of such a thing, because she’s innocence itself, you see, and she’d have given me a good crack! and she’s a strong one, my girl is. She’s a good stout sample of virtue. However, she’s my choice, and as you’ve got here, we’ll have the wedding to-morrow.”
During this dialogue they had arrived at the farm-house, which was a substantial one and indicated that its owner was in comfortable circumstances.
“Jérôme,” said Monsieur Cadet to one of his men, “go and let everybody in the neighborhood know that the wedding will be to-morrow, and that we’re getting everything ready for the supper and the ball; and go and tell the musicians I’ve engaged.—I’ll go and get my bride that is to be; she and mother are at one of the neighbors’, but I want you to see her right away, and these gentlemen too.”
“The fellow’s terrible far gone,” said Père Rondin as he escorted the travellers into the house and invited them to be seated.
Madame Eustache soon appeared; she kissed her brother, then proceeded to kiss the new arrivals; for that is the way acquaintances are made in the country.
“But where’s the bride?” queried Père Rondin; “ain’t we going to see her?”
“In just a minute, brother; she’s gone to prink up a bit for the company. Ah! my eye! she’s a fine girl, and Cadet knows what’s what!”
“Has she got any money?”
“She’s got a nice little pile that the gentleman she worked for gave her; and he told my boy he was giving him a real rosière![G] And Cadet’s a shrewd one, you know, and wouldn’t let anybody take him in.”