“That is just what monsieur is doing,” said Madame Destival spitefully.

“And you, Monin, pass your glass.”

“Oh! I was just going to say that I must go; my wife’s afraid of thunder.”

“Why, your wife’s making pickles, you know; she’s busy.”

“But when it thunders she drops everything and crawls under a woolen quilt, and if I shouldn’t go to see how she is—Oh! what a crash! it came very soon after the lightning, so the storm can’t be far away.”

“Suppose we have a little music?” said Monsieur Destival, helping himself to a third glass of champagne, in order to recover his courage; “it seems to me that that wouldn’t be a bad idea. What do you say, Dalville?”

Auguste had stooped to pick up his knife, which he had dropped under the table for the second time.

“Monsieur is awkward to-day,” said Madame Destival, rising from the table with a gesture of impatience; “I believe that we shall do well to go up to the salon.”

At that moment the clouds broke, the rain fell in torrents, and the fields assumed a novel aspect. Everybody rose; the petite-maîtresse leaned heavily on Auguste’s arm, because the storm had taken away all her strength. Monsieur de la Thomassinière, desirous to play the scholar, because he thought that his companions were no more learned than he, went to one of the windows and declared that the storm would not be consequential because the atmosphere was very beautiful at sunset.

“It’s coming down hard, and I haven’t any umbrella, and they’ve made a hole in the top of my cap! so what am I going to do?”

Having taken snuff two or three times, our friend decided to address Julie, who had just passed through the room. He followed her, calling after her:

“I beg pardon, mademoiselle, but couldn’t you——”

As Julie did not reply, Monin followed her to the kitchen, where Bertrand was drinking with Baptiste and Monsieur de la Thomassinière’s three tall footmen, who did not agree with their master that the beaune was too new.

“Could you lend me an umbrella?” asked Monin.

“We haven’t any here,” Julie replied curtly.

“Nonsense! an umbrella!” said Bertrand, in whom the beaune had already aroused a tendency to talk. “As if a man should use such a thing! Is that what I taught you this morning—to handle an umbrella?”

The guests began to laugh, and Julie elbowed Monin gradually toward the door, saying:

“I don’t like to have so many people in my kitchen, monsieur; they get in my way. Besides, you don’t belong here.”

“I have the honor to wish you good-evening,” said Monin, noiselessly entering the salon.

“Why, haven’t you gone, neighbor? I supposed that you were at home before this.”

“No, I’ll tell you—the rain——”

“In that case, you must take a hand. Come, bet on me and you will win.”

“Can I bet now?”

“Yes, it isn’t too late.”

“All right; then I’ll bet two sous.”

“What sort of bet is that—two sous!” exclaimed La Thomassinière contemptuously; “do you suppose that I play for copper? It’s vulgar enough to play for a crown. Take that away, monsieur, it’s covered with verdigris.”

“It’s my two sous, monsieur; I bet them.”

“No one wants them, monsieur.”

“What! have I won already?”

“Here, I’ll fix that,” said Destival, taking a ten-sou piece from his pocket; “I’ll add eight sous to make up Monin’s bet. So I stake three francs forty, and you, my dear fellow, three francs ten. My neighbor is prudent, you see, and yet he is very rich, in very comfortable circumstances. His nest is well feathered, the rascal!”

“Then how can he propose to bet two sous?” said La Thomassinière; “it’s beyond belief.—Ace, ace, and ace. You are robbed.”

“What! does he admit that he has robbed us?” Monin asked his neighbor in an undertone.

“That means that we have lost.—Well, now for our revenge.—Aren’t you betting, Madame Destival?”

“Betting won’t prevent you, madame; I don’t lose a note while I am playing.”

“Nor I,” said La Thomassinière. “I am like Cato, I can easily do four things at once!”

“Haven’t you any duets of Rossini’s here, my dear?” inquired Athalie, running her fingers over the keys.

“Why, I don’t know, but I think not.”

“I think, madame, that I have had the pleasure of singing some of them with you here,” said Dalville.

“Ah! you remember, do you, monsieur?”

“Here’s a duet from La Gazza,” said Athalie, after upsetting all the music on the piano; “let’s try it, monsieur.”

“Ace, and passe carreau!” cried Monsieur de la Thomassinière triumphantly, taking up the money that was on the table.

“What does passe carreau mean?” Monin asked Destival in a whisper.

“It means that we have lost, as you see.”

“I don’t know the terms of the game. That makes four sous that I’ve lost already.”

“Make your bet.”

“Allow me to see what the weather is, first. Oh! it’s still raining very hard. I am in the game.”

“Monsieur is lucky!”

“And then, too, I am pretty good at this game!” said La Thomassinière, leaning back in his chair.

“I believe that I play it rather well too,” rejoined Destival, biting his lips angrily.

“Be quiet, messieurs! we can’t hear each other sing!” said the sprightly Athalie, while Auguste sang: “Il certo il mio periglio.”

“Very pretty! exceedingly pretty! bravo! bravo! bravissimo!”

Whereupon Monin stooped and whispered to Destival:

“Does that mean that we have lost, too?”

Suddenly the door of the salon was thrown open; a stout woman of fifty or thereabouts, wearing a straw hat whose brim barely overpassed her forehead and upon which nodded a wreath of faded roses, entered the room with the air of a person in a towering rage, holding an umbrella in one hand, and in the other a reticule large enough to hold a ten pound loaf of sugar. At sight of her Monin started back, lost his wits, upset his snuff-box, and acted as if he proposed to hide himself under the table.

“Ah! so you’re here, are you, monsieur?” cried Madame Monin, for it was that lady in person who had entered the salon. “I find you gambling. I suspected as much. I wish you good-evening, neighbors. While it’s thundering and a frightful storm is raging, monsieur sits here gambling instead of coming home to comfort me; and yet he knows how afraid I am of thunder storms! Excuse me, neighbor, for venturing to scold him before you, but you must agree that his conduct is unpardonable.”

During this sermon, poor Monin, who had no idea what he was doing, staked a forty-sou piece instead of two sous, and stuffed his fingers into his snuff-box, in which there was nothing at all, stammering the while with a contrite air:

“How’s your health, Bichette?”

“My health! a lot you worry about it, on my word! To leave me alone during the storm! Catherine had to keep me company under the quilt.”

“It was the rain that——”

“As if a man should be afraid of the rain! for shame! You make me blush!”

“Whenever you’re ready, Bichette.”

But Bichette, who was comfortably seated and was already beginning to criticise Madame de la Thomassinière, replied sharply:

“Now that I’ve come, do you think I propose to go right away again? That would be polite, wouldn’t it? that would be worthy of you! I shall have the pleasure of chatting with my neighbor a minute, and listening to the music. I’m very fond of music.”

“You sing, I believe—do you not, Madame Monin?” inquired Madame Destival eagerly.

“Oh! I used to sing; I had rather a good voice, too; but I’ve forgotten almost everything now except the duet from Armide: ‘Aimons-nous! aimons-nous! tout nous y convie!’ That’s so lovely! it will never grow old.”

“I have the score of Armide; you must sing that for us with Monsieur Dalville.”

“Oh! really, neighbor!”

“Do you hear the present that’s to be given you?” whispered Athalie to Auguste.

“I am much obliged,” replied Dalville; “upon my word, I don’t know what I have done to Madame Destival to make her play such a trick on me.”

“Don’t be alarmed; if she forces you to sing the duet, I’ll be your accompanist, and I promise you that three or four chords will be broken before the tenth measure.”

Monin, seeing that his wife had softened somewhat, made bold to say to her:

“You sing very nicely too that song about sheep: ‘Margot filait tranquillement, ne pensant, ne rêvant qu’à son p’tit, p’tit, p’tit.’”

“Hush, monsieur, and attend to your game, as you’re so fond of gambling. Is it piquet they’re playing there?”

“No, Bichette, écarté.”

“What? écarté? And how long have you known écarté, monsieur?”

“I don’t know it, but I was just going to tell you, I’m betting on it.”

“Ah! you’re betting, are you? Well, I trust that you are modest at least, and don’t play for big stakes?”

“Oh, no! never fear, Bichette!”

“You have lost your forty sous, Monsieur Monin!” exclaimed Destival at that moment, heaving a deep sigh.

“Forty sous!” shouted Madame Monin, jumping from her chair with a violence that made all the furniture in the room tremble; “what’s that? Monsieur Monin betting forty sous! Why, that is horrible! For heaven’s sake, neighbor, what did you give him to drink at dinner?—What is the meaning of such extravagance, Monsieur Monin? Have you gone crazy?”

“No, Bichette, it’s a mistake; I assure you that I didn’t bet but two sous.”

“You put forty sous on the table, monsieur,” said La Thomassinière, “and they’re lost.”

“I had won a lot, you see,” whispered Monin to his wife; “that was just my winnings.”

“Seven times, monsieur! have you bet seven times in succession?” cried Madame Monin, glaring at her husband with the expression of a cat about to pounce upon a mouse.

“Why, no, Bichette; you know perfectly well that I am incapable of such a thing!”

“Here’s the duet from Armide,” said Madame Destival; “come, Monsieur Dalville, sing it with madame.”

“I don’t know it,” said Auguste.

“Nonsense! you are enough of a musician to sing it at sight.”

“I’ll prompt you in your passages, monsieur,” said Madame Monin, removing her hat lest it should interfere with her voice.

Madame Monin began. Her voice was almost enough to set one’s teeth on edge. Monin applauded every measure. Suddenly a chord broke. The vivacious Athalie ran her fingers over the keys and seemed excited by the fire with which she was playing. Soon a second chord broke, then a third, and it was impossible to go on. Athalie left her seat, saying:

“What a pity! it was going so well!”

“That’s the disadvantage of your pianos,” said Madame Monin testily, as she put on her shepherdess’s hat; “Monsieur Monin’s little flute’s the thing; there’s no danger of that ever breaking, at all events.”

“Do you want me to go and get it, Bichette?”

“Upon my word, this is a pretty time of night to make such a suggestion! We must go home to bed, monsieur; that will be much better than your little flute.”

Destival left the card-table, red as a turkey-cock.

“Oh! how can anyone risk so much money?” said Madame Monin. “If you should ever lose forty francs, Monsieur Monin, I’d have a separation at once.”

“Here’s a fine to-do over a trifle!” said La Thomassinière, rising from his chair; “I’ll stake it on a single hand to-morrow, at a notary’s, who’s a friend of mine. That’s where they play écarté! The table is covered with gold and bank-notes! Ah! there’s some fun in that! But otherwise écarté’s a very stupid game.—Well! are we going to bed?”

“Go to bed, monsieur, who’s preventing you?” said Athalie; “we don’t need you.”

“Faith, I am terribly sleepy.”

“Baptiste will show you to your room, which is over this.”

“And where is mine, my dear, if you please?” queried the petite-maîtresse, as her husband went up to bed without bidding anyone good-night, because it was bad form.

“Yours, my dear?” rejoined Madame Destival; “why, with your husband; we have only one room to offer you.”

“What! can it be by any chance that you are going to make me sleep with him?”

“Why, of course.”

“Oh! that is absurd! Such a thing never occurred to me. I never sleep with Monsieur de la Thomassinière. I have my own suite, as you know.”

“For once, belle dame,” said Destival, with a sly expression, “our dear husband will not complain.”

“Mon Dieu! how amusing!” exclaimed Athalie, sulkily. Meanwhile, Madame Monin, who had succeeded at last in tucking up her dress and putting on her shawl, said to Madame Destival with a simper:

“You know perfectly well, Bichette, that I have no desire to——”

“All right, Monsieur Monin, I know what I know.—Good-night, neighbors.—Well, monsieur, why don’t you put on your cap? What sort of way is that to act?”

Monin was afraid that his wife would discover the hole in his cap. He finally decided to wear it over his left ear, so that the top would be less visible to the eyes of his better half. And Madame Monin led her spouse away, promising him that she would never again let him dine out without her, because he was not careful of himself at the table, and wine made him plunge into all sorts of extravagance.

When his neighbors had gone, Monsieur Destival admitted that the drilling had fatigued him terribly, and he speedily vanished.

The music had cemented the intimacy between Dalville and the brilliant Athalie. With those who are capable of enjoying the charms of harmony, there is nothing that brings two hearts together so quickly as a sweet or tender ditty, or a passage overladen with passion, which the performers often address to each other. Music is a very potent auxiliary in love; it stirs the emotions, it speaks to the soul. Thank heaven, almost all our ladies know how to play the piano now.

But Athalie rose, and Madame Destival escorted her to her apartment. Before going in, the petite-maîtresse laughingly said to her friend:

“My dear, I must tell you something in confidence: I believe I’ve made a conquest of Monsieur Dalville.”

“Do you think so?”

“I congratulate you!”

“Oh! you understand that I mean to have a little sport with him, that’s all.”

“But I must tell you frankly that the conquest is of little value, for he is a man who falls in love with every woman he sees.—Adieu, my dear, good-night.”

“Until to-morrow, my love! I shall get up early for a walk in the fields.”

“I will go with you, my dear.”

The ladies parted. Madame Destival went down to the salon, but Dalville was no longer there; he too had retired. So madame did the same and summoned Julie to undress her.

The night passed. Did its protecting darkness banish Madame Destival’s irritation and her husband’s fatigue? Did Dalville determine to be virtuous, and Bertrand to be sober? Did the sprightly Athalie become reconciled to the necessity of sharing her husband’s bed, and did Monsieur de la Thomassinière sleep well beside his wife? These are mysteries which I am unable to solve.

All I know is that Madame Destival rose with her friend’s pleasant confidence of the night before still in her mind, and that she said to herself as she dressed:

Monsieur Destival, on laying aside the silk handkerchief that covered his head at night, took his stand in front of his mirror and presented arms with a vessel which he had forgotten to replace in the night-table. Forgetting that he was in his shirt, Destival, who had dreamed of exterminating all the beasts in the district, made the circuit of his chamber at the double-quick, and took aim at his bolster with the tongs. But in that martial posture the remembrance of the forty francs he had lost at écarté the night before presented itself to his mind, and as one cannot attend to business while practising the manual of arms, our friend recurred to more peaceable ideas and proceeded to dress, thinking of nothing but the best means to become as rich as La Thomassinière, so that he might be able to lose a few crowns at play without losing his temper.

Bertrand had risen before dawn, always ready to carry out his master’s orders, even when he did not approve of his conduct. The ex-corporal was well pleased with his repast of the preceding night, because the beaune was not spared, and Baptiste and Tony and the tall lackeys, while drinking with him, listened with respectful attention to his stories of his campaigns. He was walking on the terrace, ready to give Monsieur Destival a lesson in the manual, and perfectly reconciled to the life that people lead in the country.

The petite-maîtresse, whose head was as light as her heart, had risen very early, before her husband was awake. She had slept badly; innumerable thoughts crowded into her mind, but the principal one was as always the desire to attract, to make a sensation; that was the fixed point about which her other sentiments revolved by the force of gravitation, without disturbing the course of the planet whose satellites they were.

Suddenly Auguste heard a voice that was not unknown to him crying:

“Whoa, White Jean! whoa, I say! Have you forgotten that we stop here?”

And at the same instant a milkmaid with her tin cans entered Monsieur Destival’s courtyard. Auguste uttered an exclamation of delight when he recognized Denise, and hurried across the courtyard to meet the pretty milkmaid.

“It is really you, lovely Denise!”

“Yes, monsieur, it’s I. Didn’t I tell you yesterday that I came here every morning to bring milk? I’m very glad to see you again, monsieur.”

“Really, Denise, did you want to see me?”

“Yes, monsieur, I wanted to ever so. Oh! that was such a nice thing you did! it was so generous! and even if you do have a little too much blarney with us girls, no matter—I let it go on account of that.”

“Bless my soul! what on earth have I done, Denise, to bring down all these compliments on my head?”

“What about Coco, and his soup-bowl, and his old grandmother—don’t you remember them?”

“How do you know so much, Denise?”

“I did nothing except what was perfectly natural, Denise, and I am well rewarded at this moment.”

Denise had become more and more animated as she told Auguste what she knew, and the young man’s glances made her blush more than ever. She lowered her eyes and smiled, and stood for some moments before the man who was gazing at her, her arms hanging at her sides. Her awkwardness, her embarrassment and her coarse woolen skirt made the charms of her pretty face even more alluring.

At last she took up her cans, which she had placed on the ground, and said:

“I must take this milk to Mamzelle Julie; she’s generally up by this time.”

“One moment, Denise, I beg you.”

“Have you got anything to say to me, monsieur?”

“Oh, yes! In the first place, you look even prettier this morning than you did yesterday.”

“Oh! if that’s all it is, I may as well go.”

“One instant, Denise, please; I feel that the more I see you, the more I love you!”

“Well, then, you mustn’t see me any more, monsieur.”

“Does it make you angry to have me love you?”

“Oh no! for I’m pretty sure it ain’t dangerous.”

“If you would listen to me——”

“Adieu, monsieur.”

At this juncture Bertrand entered the courtyard; he approached his master, unseen by him, and said:

“Did I hear monsieur call me?”

“Why, no! I didn’t call you,” replied Auguste angrily, dropping Denise’s hand; “you always appear at the wrong time. Is it proper to interrupt people when they are talking together?”

“Pardon, lieutenant, I didn’t hear you say anything; I didn’t know people talked without speaking.”

“Leave us, Bertrand.”

Bertrand made a half wheel to the left and went toward the garden; but as he passed Denise, who, although she said that she was going, did not go, and seemed very busy with her little cheeses, the corporal said to her in an undertone:

“Look out for yourself!”

Auguste once more approached Denise, who had started in surprise at Bertrand’s words.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“Nothing, monsieur, but I must go.”

“Will you do me a favor, Denise?”

“Oh, yes! with pleasure, monsieur, if it’s anything I can do.”

“I have taken a liking to that child I met on the road yesterday. His pretty face, his little honest way, everything speaks in his favor.”

“You mean Coco Calleux?”

“I’m fond of him, too, but the poor little fellow’s had a hard time since he lost his mother. His grandmother’s rough and cross, and his father’s a drunkard, and they want that child, only six years old, to go to work so soon! Can you imagine such a thing? Why, he often has nothing but bread to eat, and he’s lucky when he doesn’t have a beating for his supper. So we in the village don’t like that drunken pig of a Calleux, and if the cottage wasn’t some distance from the village, Coco would be at our house more than he’s at home, I tell you.”

“Well, Denise, be good enough to keep an eye on the child and buy him whatever he needs—in short, take my place with him, will you?”

“Oh! with pleasure, monsieur!”

“Here, take this purse, and use the contents to the best advantage for my little protégé. When that is gone, I’ll give you more. I shall always approve whatever use you may make of it.”

“Ah! you’ve got a kind heart, monsieur! How glad I am! But such a lot of money as this will last a long time.”

“You will do me this favor, won’t you?”

“Will I! Pardi! I should say so! Don’t you think it’s pleasant to be employed to do good? Who could refuse such a commission?—I say, monsieur, I must kiss you for this—do you want me to?”

“Do I want you to, Denise!”

“Oh! this is too much!” cried Madame Destival, walking forward with a wrathful glance at Denise, while Athalie continued to laugh, albeit her laughter seemed slightly forced.

“Delicious!” she said. “What! even with milkmaids? I shall remember this! the picture was truly rural.”

Denise was not disturbed, for she had no thought that she could be blamed; so she looked at the two ladies in amazement, trying to divine the cause of the merriment of the one and the anger that gleamed in the eyes of the other, and still holding in her hand the purse that the young man had given her.

“What are you doing here?” demanded Madame Destival, with a contemptuous glance at the young milkmaid.

“As you see, madame, I have brought cheese and milk as usual.”

“I didn’t order any cheeses of you; in fact, yours are bitter, and I don’t want any more of them. As for your milk, you put water in it, and I propose to take mine of somebody else.”

“Water in my milk!” cried Denise, whose eyes filled with tears when she heard her merchandise thus vilified. “You’re the first person that ever said that, madame, I tell you! And I swear——”

“All right, mademoiselle, that’s enough; I don’t want you ever to set foot inside my doors again. I thought that you were a decent, virtuous girl; I don’t like little hussies.”

“Hussies! Mon Dieu! what have I done to madame?”

“That purse, madame,” said Auguste, walking to Denise’s side, “is destined for a charitable purpose, to relieve an unfortunate person. But I see that an evil interpretation is always put upon everything.—Poor Denise! I am responsible for your being made wretched! And when, by chance, I attempt to do a good deed, they think that I am trying to seduce you.—Do you suppose, mesdames, that one wins the love of a milkmaid with money? Remember, please, that this is not Paris.”

While Auguste was speaking, Denise became calm; she wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron, and recovered sufficient assurance to say to Madame Destival:

“I ought not to cry at what you said to me, madame, for I haven’t done anything to be ashamed of.—Adieu, monsieur; I’ll take your money and try to carry out your kind intentions.”

With that, Denise curtsied to the company, and, still choking back her sobs, returned to White Jean and left the business agent’s house.

Madame Destival, conscious of some embarrassment, returned to the garden. Athalie walked up to Auguste and said, with a laugh:

“You must admit, monsieur, that you kissed her at least six times in succession.”

“I didn’t count, madame.”

“You seemed to like it.”

“Very much, madame.”

“Monsieur is frank, at all events.”

“That is, perhaps, my one good quality.”

“But why did you kiss her?”

“Is she not very pretty, madame?”

“Pretty! perhaps; as coarse, rustic beauties go.”

“But she’s a milkmaid!”

“What difference do you see between a pretty country girl and a pretty city girl?”

“Why, an enormous difference, monsieur. What about education, good manners, and refinement—do you count all those as nothing? Would you go out in Paris, or even in the country, with a milkmaid on your arm?”

“No, madame, I admit that I should not be enough of a philosopher for that. But just put on Denise——”

“Who is Denise, pray?”

“This little milkmaid, madame.”

“Oho! so monsieur knows her name?”

“Yes, madame.”

“Well, monsieur, what do you propose to put on Mademoiselle Denise?”

“A pretty hat, a stylish dress, a handsome shawl——”

“Ah! she would cut a strange figure in all those things!”

“Mon Dieu, madame, habit is everything. You yourself, despite all your charms, might be awkward in a milkmaid’s cap. Those things that can be acquired, madame, are of little worth; but the things that are innate are beauty, grace, intellect, a sweet voice and glance and smile—in a word, the charm which takes us captive and which you possess in such abundant measure, madame.”

“Ah! you did well to end in that way; if you had not I should have been angry. Madame Destival is right; you are a ne’er-do-well, a dangerous man. By the way, I hope to have the pleasure of seeing you in Paris, monsieur; I often give balls, and I have a reception every Thursday in winter.”

“Mon Dieu! has he any time to think to invite people? He is so distraught, so engrossed by his speculations, that I alone attend to the invitations. Will you come?”

“Is it not absolutely necessary for me to see you again? If I should yield to my inclinations, I would never leave you.”

“Bless my soul! I believe that we are dropping into sentiment. Are you going to make me a declaration?”

“Is it possible to see you without loving you?”

“Look out! you are becoming serious, and I like none but merry people. That melancholy air doesn’t suit you.”

“Have you no pity, then, for the pain you cause?”

“Oh! not the least! Sighs do not move me an inch; to please me, it is necessary to keep me laughing constantly.”

While they talked, Auguste and his companion had strayed into the shaded portion of the garden. He had taken the young woman’s arm and was pressing it tenderly. Athalie was still laughing, but was making no effort to avoid Dalville’s gentle caresses, when Bertrand appeared before them at a bend in the path.

“They are waiting for you and madame at breakfast, lieutenant,” said the corporal, putting the back of his hand to his forehead.

Auguste stamped on the ground impatiently; but the vivacious Athalie had already dropped his arm and was frisking away.

“Parbleu! you are exceedingly awkward, Bertrand!” said Auguste, glaring at the corporal, who still stood before him.

“What have I done, lieutenant?”

“Excuse me, lieutenant, but I can’t tell what you’re saying.”

“A shrewd man can guess it at a glance. Once for all, when I am alone with a woman, I forbid you to interrupt me.”

“That settles it, lieutenant; if the house should burn down, I wouldn’t disturb you.”

The whole party had assembled in the dining-room; even La Thomassinière, having waked with a tremendous appetite, had not devised any previous business which would have vexed his stomach, and he bestowed a most affable nod upon Dalville, which meant that his wife had informed him that she proposed to receive the young man at their house. Madame Destival too seemed desirous to be reconciled to Auguste, who had treated her coldly since the scene in the courtyard.

“I must be in Paris before noon,” said La Thomassinière, shuffling a mass of papers that he took from his wallet; “I have ten appointments for to-day. I am sure that at least twenty people have called at my house before this. A little more coffee, if you please. It isn’t Mocha——”

“I beg your pardon,” said Destival, as he poured out some for him.

“Oh, no! I assure you that isn’t; I know what I am talking about. I laid in lately a consequential supply; it’s very different from this.”

“I must be in Paris this morning,” said Destival, puffing himself out; “I have numerous matters on the carpet, some of great importance! Monin wants to buy a house, and I have just what he wants.”

“Who’s he? that little man who bet two sous at écarté?”

“What! that fellow buy houses! I shouldn’t have suspected it; his coat was very threadbare—and patched on the elbows.”

“Oh! that means nothing in the country.”

“Never mind! you must admit that a man in a threadbare coat doesn’t promise great things—it doesn’t give you a very exalted idea of his wit. Oh! I have a keen glance, I have; and then, being used to seeing only rich and well-dressed people,—I say, footman, just tell my people to harness up, to put my horses to my calèche.”

“I expect my milliner this morning,” said Athalie; “she is to bring me the sweetest bonnet. We must go at full speed, monsieur, for I am very anxious to try on that bonnet.”

“You are aware, madame, that my steeds do not travel like cab-horses. I feed them rather well, and they cost me so much that I can afford to make them gallop.”

“Baptiste,” Monsieur Destival called to his servant, who was leaving the room, “you will hitch up too, do you understand?”

“That’s the way,” muttered Baptiste, “no sooner out of the kitchen than I must go to the stable!”

“I say, Baptiste, while you’re about it, tell my little Tony to put the horse to my cabriolet,” said Dalville, smiling at the pompous air of La Thomassinière, who said, rubbing his hands:

“On my word, it’s very pleasant for each to have his own carriage; it’s very genteel; one is certain at all events that one is with comme il faut people. To be sure, you have only cabriolets, but everybody can’t have a calèche, a coupé and a landau, like me.”

“It is a fact, my dear fellow,” said Destival, “that my wife relied on you to keep her company, and——”

“I never said that I relied on monsieur; most assuredly I should not have dreamed of saying such a thing!” said Emilie, interrupting her husband; “but as everybody else is going to Paris, I don’t see why I should stay here. Besides, you are to give a dinner this week, aren’t you, monsieur?”

“Yes, madame, a large dinner. I shall have some influential people,—government officials and distinguished artists. I count upon Monsieur and Madame de la Thomassinière, and upon friend Dalville too.”

Dalville bowed simply, but La Thomassinière replied:

“We will see. I can’t promise beforehand, because I may be invited to other dinners by people high up on the ladder, and you must see——”

“So we are all going to Paris,” said Madame Destival. “My husband will take Baptiste and Julie with him. Will Monsieur Dalville be kind enough to give me a seat in his cabriolet?”

“Why can’t you come in our calèche?” hastily inquired the petite-maîtresse.

“Oh! I am afraid that I should keep you waiting. I have several matters to attend to, and you are in a hurry to see your milliner. Monsieur Dalville will not object, I trust, to give me another half hour.”

They left the table. The carriages were ready. Madame de la Thomassinière entered her calèche, with a malevolent glance at Auguste and Madame Destival. The speculator called his two servants, who assisted him to climb in; then he threw himself back on the seat, crying:

“To my house in the Chaussée-d’Antin, and go at full speed; drive furiously, do you hear, Lafleur? But look out and not run into anything.”

The calèche flew away like an arrow. Madame Destival had hurried her domestics to such purpose that Julie and Baptiste were soon ready to start with their master. But madame still had divers matters to attend to, for which she did not need Julie. Monsieur Destival shook hands cordially with his friend and urged him not to drive his wife too fast, because it was bad for the nerves; then he took his seat in the cabriolet beside Julie, ordering Baptiste to mount behind, which he did, muttering because they made him do all sorts of things.

Bertrand and Tony stood by Dalville’s cabriolet, awaiting the latter and Madame Destival. But the little matters which the mistress of the house had to arrange took nearly two hours. Bertrand fretted and fumed at having to stand beside the cabriolet; but his master had ordered him to await him there, and he did not leave his post.

“Perhaps monsieur thinks we’ve gone,” suggested little Tony.

“No, no, he knows we’re here.”

“But perhaps he don’t mean to go back to Paris to-day.”

“Then he’ll come and tell us so.”

“And suppose he don’t think of it?”

At last, about noon, Auguste appeared with Madame Destival on his arm. She leaned tenderly upon him and her face expressed nothing save satisfaction and the most amiable unconstraint.

“It’s strange!” thought Bertrand, “here’s a lady that changes her face three or four times a day. However, I ought to be used to it. I’ve seen so many women like that. Everyone that comes to see monsieur as angry as you please, rolling her eyes, and talking loud, is as mild and gentle as a lamb when she leaves him; she hasn’t the same face, nor the same eyes, nor the same voice.”

“Come, Bertrand, get in,” said Auguste, who was already in the cabriolet with Madame Destival.—“You will be a little crowded, madame; but my faithful Bertrand isn’t built to ride behind.”

“Oh! I shall be very comfortable,” said Emilie, bestowing a soft glance on Auguste, and on Bertrand an affable smile; for nobody can be so amiable as our fair friends when things are going to suit them! But when you thwart them——

They drove away. When they passed the little path leading to Montfermeil, Auguste put out his head and looked, saying to himself:

Denise started to return to her village; but she did not sing as her custom was, as she walked behind White Jean. Her heart was still heavy because of what had taken place at Madame Destival’s; and although she had tried not to seem distressed, she did not forget the word—hussy—that had been applied to her. To be called by such a name as that, when she was virtuous, when she had nothing for which to reproach herself, seemed very hard to the little milkmaid. It is said that unmerited insults do not wound; but how can an honest and sincere heart fail to feel outraged on receiving epithets usually reserved for vice? It might much better be said that it is the vicious person who does not blush and who laughs at anything that may be said to her, because she retains no sense of shame. In my opinion the proverb “Only the truth gives offence” is essentially false.

Meditating thus, Denise arrived at Montfermeil, a pretty little village where the people are not badly off; where there are several comfortable bourgeois houses, and nothing to indicate want, because the occupant of the humblest cottage works instead of begging.

It will be evident from these details that the cottage did not belong to poor people. Everything about it indicated the possession of a competence; and in fact Mère Fourcy, Denise’s aunt, was one of the richest peasants in the neighborhood; she owned two pieces of land, one of which was on the other side of the stream that flowed by her house; and Denise, who was her sole heir, was able by her activity and her little trade in milk and cheese, to add to the income of her aunt, who, although she was a worthy woman, was a little inclined to be miserly. That is said to be a failing of the rich; indeed, how can you expect those who have nothing to exhibit such a failing?

White Jean entered the yard without guidance, and headed for his stable. Denise was a little distance behind, having been stopped by some of her neighbors, who, as the custom is in villages, talked with every passer-by, because everybody knew everybody else. But the little milkmaid, who was in no mood for talking, hastened after White Jean, and relieved him of the baskets containing the milk and cheese that she brought back.

“His father’s a drunkard,” Mère Fourcy would say; “to give the child money is just giving that good-for-nothing Calleux the means of drinking.”

Mère Fourcy was a stout woman of fifty-five, who, despite her corpulence, was active and alert; she heard her niece come in, and came downstairs to help her unload her ass.

“What have you got there, my child?” she asked.

“The cheeses I made for Madame Destival.”

“Why didn’t she take ‘em?”

“Because—because she didn’t want ‘em.”

“Oh! that’s different.—What! all this milk too?”

“Oh, dear! yes, aunt.”

“And I wouldn’t let Monsieur Brichard have any this morning!”

“Oh! we’ll use it up, aunt.”

“Has Madame Destival taken her trade away from you?”

“Yes, aunt.”

“That’s what makes you look so cut up then. Where does she expect to get better milk?”

“Oh! it ain’t on account of the milk, aunt.”

“On account of something else, is it?”

“Yes, aunt.”

“That makes a difference. Tell me about this other thing, my child.”

“You know, aunt, I told you yesterday that I met a fine gentleman who asked me the way to Monsieur Destival’s?”

“Yes, my dear.”

“And that it was the same man who gave a lot of money to Coco’s grandmother, because Coco broke the soup-bowl?”

“Yes, yes, I know. That sot of a Calleux will drink it all up.”

“Well, aunt, I saw that young man again this morning, at Monsieur Destival’s.”

“So he’s a young man, is he? You said a gentleman yesterday.”

“Bless me! so he is, a gentleman who is young.”

“Oh! that makes a difference.”

“He was very pleasant and friendly with me, and when he learned from me that Père Calleux spent all the money, he gave me this purse and told me to see that poor Coco has everything he needs. I took it, aunt; did I do wrong?”

“Of course not, my dear; as if you didn’t always do right, dear Denise. Well! you’re a good girl too, and you don’t let the men talk nonsense to you.”

“No, indeed, aunt; but I let that gentleman kiss me.”

“Oh! that makes a difference. What did he want to kiss you for?”

“To thank me for agreeing to look after Coco, for he’s very fond of him.”

“Well, I don’t see any harm in all that, my child.”

“But Madame Destival did, for she came up to me in a rage and called me——”

“She called you——?”

“God in heaven! my niece, my Denise, a hussy! the virtuousest girl within ten leagues! And you didn’t jump at her face?”

“No, aunt; I just said that it was horrible to believe—to think—then I came home with my milk and my cheese.”

“You did right, my child, you did right; those folks don’t deserve to eat such good things.”

Denise did not tell her aunt what Madame Destival had said about her milk and cheese, because Mère Fourcy would be just the woman to go to the business agent and demand satisfaction for such an insult. The girl did not like quarrelling and she wished never to hear Madame Destival’s name again. Mère Fourcy went to the village to try to find customers for the milk and cheese. When she was alone, Denise took out the purse and counted its contents in her apron. There were twelve twenty-franc pieces, and six of five francs.

“Two hundred and seventy francs!” exclaimed Denise, throwing up her hands in amazement; “why, that’s quite a lot of money. That gentleman must be very rich to give away so much all at once. Perhaps I ought not to have taken it all. But still, as it’s for Coco—there’s enough to send him to school, to have him learn to read. Yes, but his father don’t want him to learn to read. That’s a pity, I should like so much to make Coco a gentlemanly, well-taught boy; it would please that gentleman when he comes back—for he’ll come to see his little boy; at least, he said he would. Never mind, I’ll be very careful of the money; and while I have the time, I think I’ll go to the cottage and see if they’ve done what that gentleman intended they should.”

At sight of Denise, the child gave a joyful cry and ran to her. Denise was so good to him! she always brought him something nice; she often prevented his being beaten; in short, she showed great affection for him; and children love those who love them; it is not always so with men.

“Good-day, little Denise!” said Coco, opening his arms to the girl.

“Take care, good-for-nothing!” said old Madeleine; “you almost upset the table and spilt my soup! I’d have given you a good licking, if you had!”

Denise glanced about the hovel, and saw that the only change that Dalville’s money had wrought was the presence of a large new bowl, which was in front of the fire. The child’s bed was no softer than before.

“See how fine I am, Denise!” cried the child, exhibiting the trousers and the little brown jacket which replaced the ragged garments that covered him on the preceding day.

“Yes, I see,” said Denise, scrutinizing the garments, “but none of these things are new.”

“Pardi!” cried old Madeleine, “do you s’pose we was going to have ‘em made to order for him? The things are good enough for a brat as plays all the time like him. You’ll see in a day or two! they’ll soon be full of holes! Ah! he’d wear out clothes made of iron.”

“Because his father wouldn’t have it; he says a boy hadn’t ought to be coddled so, because it keeps ‘em from getting strong.”

“Still, when the money was given for Coco——”

“For Coco? yes, and for us too, my girl; hadn’t the parents ought to come before the children?”

“Is Père Calleux in the field?”

“In the fields! oh, yes! in the fields indeed! He’s at Claude’s wine-shop. He took all there was left of the money that gentleman give me, and told me he was going to put it into some great undertakin’. Oh, yes! I know all about that; he’ll undertake to drink it all up in a day, if it’s possible.”

“Would you like to have me take Coco away with me till night, Mère Madeleine?”

“No, my girl, no; I’m an old woman, and I don’t want to be left alone. Coco’s got to stay with me.”

Denise kissed the child, who ran off to play and roll on the ground with his goat; then she returned to the village, asking herself:

“How shall I go to work to do what that gentleman wants done?”

Denise was the prettiest girl in the village and in the country roundabout; that was what all the men said; but all the women did not agree. Denise was no coquette, but she was a woman; and what woman is there who is not conscious of a secret pleasure in the certainty that she is attractive, that she can prevail over her companions? But Denise did not play the coquette with the young men; she did not bestow a smile upon this one, a glance upon that one, a word of hope upon the other; but she laughed and joked and was pleasant to one and all alike; for she was very fond of dancing, and she liked to have everyone invite her to dance.

On the Sunday in question, however, Denise, who had gone to the green with her aunt, as usual, did not seem to enjoy herself so much as she ordinarily did; she laughed less with the young men and seemed not to take any pleasure in dancing. And finally, a thing that had never been seen before, Denise, after four contradances, declared that she was tired and would like to rest a while.

“Is it because you’re sick, my child?” Mère Fourcy asked her niece, when she came and seated herself by her side.

“No, aunt, I ain’t sick, but I’m tired.”

“Tired! you! the greatest dancer in the whole country!”

“Well! I guess one gets tired of everything, aunt. I don’t feel in the mood to-day.”

“That makes a difference.”

But Denise distributed no slaps among the youths who surrounded her; she simply sent them away, saying:

“Let me alone, when I tell you that I don’t want to dance.”

“Oh, yes, you do! oh, yes! She’ll dance—you’ll dance—she’s joking when she says that.”

But Denise held her ground, and when the dancers had taken their leave, she said to her aunt:

“Bless my soul! how stupid they all are!”

“Who, my girl?”

“Why Gros-Jean and Lucas and Bastien.”

“They’re the sharpest fellows in the village! What are you thinking about, to say that? Gros-Jean, who’s so funny when he dances and always mixes up the figures on purpose! Lucas, who’s taken the prize at goose three years running! And Bastien, who’s been to Paris twice and learned to play at quarter-staff! And you call those boys stupid!”

“Bless me! aunt, it seemed to me that they didn’t say anything to me but things that didn’t amuse me.”

“But you used to laugh so loud with ‘em! I tell you you’re sick, my child; when we go home, I’m going to make you eat a good dish of peas and pork before you go to bed; that’ll do you good.”

“Something’s the matter with Denise, that’s sure! At all events, if she’s always the way she is to-day, the fellows will soon give up liking her and making love to her.”

In spite of, or perhaps because of, the dish of peas and pork, Denise slept little. She thought, not precisely of the fine gentleman who had flattered her and kissed her and picked her up after her fall, but of the one who proposed to take care of poor Coco; of the money of which she was the depositary, and of the means of making the child happier.