“You must love that gentleman dearly, for he means to do ever so much for you. Would you like to learn to read and write?”

“Oh, yes! so’s to read pretty stories in the books with pictures in ‘em, like you’ve got. But papa won’t let me go to school.”

“I’ll speak to him and try to make him consent——”

At that moment old Madeleine’s shrill voice was heard, calling the child. He kissed Denise and went into the cabin, while the girl walked rapidly back to the village.

Père Calleux, after passing three days at the wine-shop, resumed his spade and watering-pot; but he would not consent to let Coco go to school, although Denise told him that it would cost him nothing; and old Madeleine would not allow the child to go any farther than the field where his father worked. Denise went to the hovel every morning; she always carried something secretly to the child, but she did not touch Dalville’s money.

“He won’t come back,” said Denise to herself; “here’s a week gone already! Psha! he’s forgotten all about—Coco; still another reason for saving that money. Some day the little fellow will be very glad to have it. And yet that gentleman seemed to want to come again. Of course he’s been to Madame Destival’s, and he didn’t go through our village! What liars they are, those young men from Paris! Still that one has some good qualities. But why did that Monsieur Bertrand tell me to look out for myself?”

A month had passed since Auguste’s meeting with Denise, when one morning, as she was about to start for the cabin, a peasant informed her that old Madeleine had died during the night. The little milkmaid ran to the child at full speed. The old woman’s remains had not been removed; and as Calleux was poor and was not liked in the neighborhood, the child was watching alone by the body, while his father made the necessary arrangements for the burial.

Denise halted in front of the solitary hovel, the aspect of which seemed to her more wretched than ever, because Death casts a dark pall over everything wherever he passes. The girl was surprised to find nobody about; she drew nearer and bursts of laughter fell upon her ears. She concluded that the person was mistaken who had told her of the grandmother’s death, and she put her head in at the door. She saw the death bed, beside which a lamp cast a dim light; and close by she saw the child playing with his goat on the straw, and greeting with shouts of laughter Jacqueleine’s antics and caresses.

That picture caused Denise a peculiar sensation. She entered the cabin and walked toward the child, saying:

“What’s this, my dear? playing beside your dead grandmother?”

“Will that make her mad?” queried the child, with an artless glance at Denise.

“No, for she can’t hear you; but you ought to be sorry for her death.”

“Someone told me she wouldn’t whip me again.”

“Didn’t you cry when she died?”

“No, Denise.”

“Oh! I was awful ‘fraid of her!”

“My dear, it isn’t nice not to have any feeling.”

“Oh! if my goat died, Denise, I’d cry hard enough; Jacqueleine’s so good and she loves me so!”

Denise could think of no answer to make to the child; she sent him outside with his goat. On Père Calleux’s return, she obtained his permission to take Coco with her for a few days, and Coco took with him his darling goat, from which he refused to part.

Denise was anxious to keep the child with her; Mère Fourcy was kindhearted, and Denise showed her that as he grew up Coco would be of use to them, and that the money left by the gentleman from Paris would be more than sufficient to educate him. Père Calleux, who realized that his son could not make his soup, consented to leave him with Denise for the present, and the girl was overjoyed.

Behold, then, Coco a member of the little milkmaid’s family, and leading a pleasant life. Denise, who knew how to read,—not a rare accomplishment in our villages nowadays,—determined to educate her little protégé, and did not fail to speak to him every day of the handsome gentleman who had paid so generously for his bowl.

But another month passed, and the gentleman from Paris did not come again. Denise, who still loved to muse beneath the great oak, often said to herself:

“Is Auguste in, Monsieur Bertrand?” inquired a young woman of twenty-four, slender and graceful, with fine brown eyes, very black hair, pale complexion, white, even teeth, and a somewhat fatigued expression; a face, be it said, which was enlivened and made most attractive by a mischievous smile. This young woman was a certain Virginie, of whom mention was made in the cabriolet on the way to Monsieur Destival’s; she had just rung the bell at the door of Auguste’s apartment, although it was only eight o’clock in the morning.

“Monsieur Dalville has gone out,” replied Bertrand, with a very slight nod to Mademoiselle Virginie, which did not deter her from entering the apartment.

“That’s impossible, Bertrand; you say that because there’s somebody here, I suppose, and those are your orders. We know all about that. But I must see him; I have something very important to say to him. Really, my little Bertrand, I’m not joking.”

“I give you my word, mademoiselle, that Monsieur Dalville has gone out; or, rather, that he hasn’t come in. He went to a grand ball last night, and it seems to have lasted a long while.”

“In the first place, mademoiselle, Monsieur Dalville’s the master; in the second place, when I try to talk reason with him, he refuses to listen to me, or sends me to the devil.”

“That’s very wrong! Ah! if I were only his mother or sister, you’d see how good I’d make him! I’m going to wait for him, Bertrand, for he must come in soon. Still at a ball at eight in the morning! Oh! I don’t take any stock in that yarn.”

Mademoiselle Virginie, who was perfectly familiar with the apartment, opened a door leading to a small salon in which she installed herself, placing her hat on one chair, her shawl on another, and throwing herself on a couch. Bertrand quietly followed her, and as if accustomed to such performances from her, continued to eat the bread and cheese which he had in his hand when she rang the bell.

“I certainly do not care for Monsieur Auguste any more,” said Virginie, after a moment; “I must be a confounded fool to care for a man who has thirty-six mistresses; hasn’t he, Bertrand?”

“Oh! mademoiselle, I can’t say——”

“Yes, yes, he has thirty-six! I don’t say all at once; he would have to be a northern Hercules. And yet—if it could be—It isn’t worth while; one man’s no better than another. I know them so well! Don’t you think I’m right, Bertrand?”

“Oh! as for that, there have been men who—the great Turenne, for instance.”

“In his own house, mademoiselle? Do you mean——”

“Yes, you understand well enough! That is, unless he likes it. Bless my soul! there are husbands whom that sort of thing just suits! Did you spend the night at that place?”

“Yes, mademoiselle.”

“Mon Dieu! how rural! Did you stay there several days? Come, Bertrand, speak out—you have time enough to eat; you know that I haven’t set foot inside this door for an age, and Monsieur Auguste hasn’t so much as had the decency to come to inquire for my health. And yet I’ve been very ill; I nearly died! I am ever so much changed, am I not, Bertrand?”

“Why, no, mademoiselle, I don’t see that——”

“Oh, yes! the whites of my eyes are yellow yet. To be sure this dress isn’t becoming. It’s too high, it cramps me.—Well, Bertrand, what did you do in the country?”

“I taught Monsieur Destival the manual, mademoiselle.”

“Oho! is he going to enlist in the voltigeurs? How about his wife—does she do the manual too? She ought to learn to drum so that she can march in front of her husband when he goes out to fire his gun.”

“I don’t know what madame was doing, mademoiselle.”

Mademoiselle Virginie laughed so heartily that it was several minutes before she could speak again. Meanwhile Bertrand paced the salon floor, continuing his breakfast.

“Oh dear! it hurts to laugh like that.—Tell me, Bertrand, when did you come back?”

“The next day, mademoiselle.”

“And Auguste hasn’t been there again since?”

“No, mademoiselle; he’s often wanted to go, but he hasn’t had time.”

“Oh! of course not; he has so much to do! And he hasn’t been to see me once in the last fortnight! He leaves me sick, almost dying! And I am not well yet. Oh, no! I am still suffering terribly.—What’s that you’re eating, Bertrand?”

“Just plain Roquefort cheese, mademoiselle.”

“It’s queer to watch another person eat; it makes me want to eat too; you see, I always have to do what I see others do. You may as well give me some breakfast, my little Bertrand, because, you see, if I should whine and cry till to-morrow, it’s all nonsense, and my calf wouldn’t be any bigger for that; would it, Bertrand?”

“Mademoiselle, if you——”

“He’s a good fellow, this Bertrand; I love him a lot, I do; yes, I’m very fond of him, although he’s a bit of a traitor, like his master.”

“Oh! as for that, mademoiselle, when you talk about being honest, I flatter myself——”

“If mademoiselle would like coffee, I’ll go down and have some sent up.”

“Coffee! oh! that makes a hole in my stomach, it’s no good. Haven’t you got anything to eat here?”

“We have the remains of a pie, a bit of fowl, and some Lyon sausage.”

“Ah! I like those better than coffee; bring ‘em all, my little Bertrand; just to pass the time till Auguste comes back.”

Bertrand moved a small tea-table to the couch, and lost no time in laying it for Mademoiselle Virginie’s breakfast, who assisted him by going to the sideboard herself for whatever she needed, saying:

“I am sorry to put you to so much trouble, Bertrand.”

“You are joking, mademoiselle.”

“Where’s little Tony?”

“He’s with monsieur; he has to have somebody on account of the cabriolet.”

“That boy’s a sly little rascal; he’ll never tell me anything, whereas you, Bertrand, you do at least talk; to be sure, I know that you don’t tell me everything. After all, you’re right; there are some things I ought not to know, they’d make me too unhappy. Meanwhile, I’ll have my breakfast.”

Mademoiselle Virginie took her place before the breakfast, and, while repeating from time to time that she was still sick, speedily caused the cold fowl to disappear, and made a vigorous assault on the pie and the sausage, washing them down with claret, in which she did not deem it necessary to put water.

But, while she was eating, Virginie glanced at a clock in front of her and cried:

“I understand—a tall woman, five feet six inches, like me, eh?”

“Isn’t my little Lozor in your rooms, Monsieur Bertrand?” asked the young blonde in an undertone, with a furtive glance about the apartment.

“I have not had the honor to see him, madame,” replied Bertrand, still holding the door only partly open; which fact did not prevent the neighbor from stepping farther into the room.

“That is strange; he went out this morning; my maid is at market, and I hoped to find him here.”

“If the deserter appears, madame, I shall have the pleasure of bringing him back to you at once.”

“Poor Lozor! I am really anxious about him.”

And the neighbor, advancing step by step, found herself in the centre of the reception room, while Bertrand still held the door ajar, hoping thus to induce her to go away.

“Monsieur Dalville went out last night in full dress, didn’t he, Monsieur Bertrand?”

“Yes, madame.”

“I happened to be at my window and I saw him. I would have liked to say a word to him, to ask him for a book that he promised to let me have to-day. But he went away so fast! If it wasn’t so early, I would ask him to be kind enough to give it to me now. But that would disturb him perhaps?”

The neighbor seemed to await a reply, but Bertrand kept silent and contented himself with swinging the door back and forth.

“Well! is it coming off to-day, Bertrand? Are we playing hide-and-seek?”

When Virginie appeared, Bertrand closed the hall door and sat down, muttering between his teeth:

“Fight it out; it’s none of my business.”

At sight of Mademoiselle Virginie, the neighbor turned a little pinker than she was, and her eyes lost their usual soft expression. Virginie, for her part, scrutinized the neighbor from top to toe, contracting her dark eyebrows, and allowing a scornful smile to play about her lips. Bertrand alone seemed unmoved; and while the two ladies eyed each other from head to foot, he calmly swallowed a glass of wine, to wash down his Roquefort.

“You didn’t tell me, Monsieur Bertrand, that Monsieur Dalville had company,” said the neighbor at last, in a voice which she strove to make as soft as usual, but in which one could detect a note of something resembling anger. “If I had known, I certainly would not have ventured to disturb him.”

“Does madame want to see Auguste, Bertrand?” inquired Virginie carelessly, smiling with a sly expression.

The familiar manner in which the pretty brunette referred to her neighbor seemed to confound Madame Saint-Edmond, who did what she could to conceal her agitation, saying:

“Yes, madame, I wish to see Monsieur Dalville.”

“If it is anything that someone else can say to Auguste, I will undertake to do so, madame.”

“You are too kind, madame, but I wish to speak to Monsieur Dalville in person.”

“Yes, madame, I have the honor of Monsieur Dalville’s acquaintance.”

“As Auguste tells me all his business, I might be able to answer madame, if she cared to explain the purpose of her call.”

“Am I to understand that madame is now commissioned to receive the persons who may call on Monsieur Dalville?”

“That may be, madame.”

“Monsieur Bertrand, you ought to have told me—to have spared me—But I absolutely insist on speaking to Monsieur Dalville. Let him know that I have just a word to say to him. Then I will leave him at peace with madame.”

“If I had had a chance to answer sooner, madame, I’d have told you before this that my lieutenant hasn’t come home from the ball yet; that’s why madame was waiting in the small salon.”

“Very well! I am going to wait for him too,” said the neighbor, whose voice was no longer of the most honeyed kind; and as she passed Bertrand on her way to the salon, she whispered to him:

“I don’t know who this woman is, but she’s very bad style!”

Virginie stayed behind in the reception room a moment, to say to Bertrand:

“Who’s that little jackdaw? Don’t lie to me, my little Bertrand, or I’ll make a row.”

“She’s a lady who lives in the house.”

“Aha! lives in the house, does she? That’s very convenient! She looks like a regular slut! Has Auguste known her long?”

“Why, no; about six weeks.”

“How do you expect me to know that? Do you suppose I ask my lieutenant: ‘Do you love So-and-So, or Such-a-One?’”

“All right! you’re a villain. I can only say that Auguste shows poor taste! She’s a homely creature, that woman; she has red rims about her eyes, just like a rabbit’s, and she has an ugly mouth, hasn’t she, Bertrand?”

“Why, I don’t think so.”

“As if you knew anything about it! I tell you that she’s a horror, with her princess’s airs! Ah! if she expects to impose on me, she’s very much mistaken. The sinner, to insist on speaking to Auguste in private! Just to tease her, I’m going to eat some more pie, even if I die of indigestion.”

Virginie returned to the salon, resumed her seat on the couch and attacked the breakfast once more. The neighbor seated herself on a chair at the other end of the room, and while making a pretence of looking out into the street, watched Virginie’s every movement from the corner of her eye. Bertrand meanwhile remained in the outer room, leaving the ladies to adjust matters as they chose. As she ate, Virginie hummed snatches of comic opera airs; Madame Saint-Edmond did not make a sound. This situation lasted for some time. At last Virginie, beginning to lose patience, called Bertrand and said to him:

“Your pie isn’t at all nice; the last time I breakfasted with Auguste, we had a much better one.”

Bertrand simply removed the scanty remains of the pie, saying to himself:

“I’d have sworn that she found it good!”

“She must need it,” said the neighbor to herself, with a sarcastic smile.

“By the way, my little Bertrand, you have some orange flower water, haven’t you? It will allay nervous excitement.”

Virginie laughed when she said this, and was evidently making fun of Madame Saint-Edmond; but that lady seemed to pay no heed to what she said.

“Upon my word, I am very sorry that I disturbed you, Bertrand,” resumed Virginie, preparing some sweetened water for herself; “I might just as well have gone to get it myself, for I know where everything is. I am perfectly at home here. But you are so good-natured!”

“I do my duty, mademoiselle,” said Bertrand, with a military salute.

“I know, Monsieur Bertrand, how attached you are to Auguste,” said Virginie, assuming a sentimental tone. “And so, whenever I mention you to him, I am very glad to speak in terms of praise. That’s no more than justice, that’s sure. Auguste, who has every confidence in me, will follow my advice, I trust, and you’ll find, Monsieur Bertrand, that I am not capable—of—of never doing——”

Virginie always became entangled when she tried to talk sense or to be sentimental. Bertrand confounded himself in reverences, awaiting the end of a speech which he did not comprehend; but luckily for Virginie, the bell rang.

“There’s Auguste!” she cried, while Bertrand went to the door.

But their hopes were blasted once more. It was not Dalville who had rung, but Tony, his diminutive groom, who came to inform Bertrand that after the ball, which was at Madame de la Thomassinière’s, the resplendent Athalie had carried away a part of the company to breakfast at her country estate. Auguste was among the number; his hostess had refused to allow him even a moment to return home and change his clothes. But, as Auguste had emptied his purse at cards during the evening, he sent his little jockey, with the cabriolet, to obtain some money, which he was to deliver to his master at Madame de la Thomassinière’s estate.

As Virginie had held the salon door ajar, both ladies heard what the little groom said to Bertrand.

“You see, mesdames, it is useless for you to wait any longer,” said Bertrand, returning to the salon; “monsieur’s off to the country; he has sent for something and that means that he isn’t likely to return very soon.”

“Yes, he has sent for money,” said Virginie, with a sigh. “God! how the man does throw it away! It’s frightful! If he only gave me a quarter of what he——”

Virginie checked herself; she realized that she had made a mistake. Madame Saint-Edmond cast a contemptuous glance at her and left the room, saying to Bertrand:

“All that I ask you, monsieur, is to be kind enough to let me know when Monsieur Dalville returns.”

“I shall not fail, madame,” replied the corporal, escorting the neighbor to the door. In the reception room she said to him:

When the neighbor had gone, Virginie concluded to resume her hat and shawl.

“Well,” she muttered, “I may as well go, as that good-for-nothing isn’t coming home. It’s a nuisance, though, for I really needed to see him. I wanted to ask him—That idiot of a landlord is always in my rooms! Oh! how he tires me! He’s furious because he tried to make love to me and I wouldn’t listen to him. Think of it—a little seducer of fifty-five! What do you suppose he did, Bertrand, in the hot weather? He came to see me in the morning in his dressing gown; but one day, when the wind blew, I saw that my gentleman was dressed underneath like—like a Scotchman!—‘Come, come,’ said I to myself, ‘this is too free and easy! If he comes here that way for the purpose of seducing me, just a minute!’—He wouldn’t go away, so I called the concierge and had the landlord put out of my room. Since then, he’s as ugly as sin. Well, I’ll come back very soon.—Ah! I know where I’ll go. Yes, that fat Englishman, who was willing to set me up in business, on condition that—Good! I’ll go and tell him that I’ve found a linen-draper’s shop. After all, I am tired of living this way; I mean to have a shop. I wouldn’t look so bad behind a counter, would I, Bertrand?—I say, the neighbor was pretty well stirred up, wasn’t she? She went before I did; in fact, she’d have had to carry me to make me go first, because when I take a thing into my head, I don’t—Adieu, my little Bertrand.”

Mademoiselle Virginie slipped through the door and downstairs, humming.

“Whenever you’re ready, Monsieur Bertrand,” said little Tony, following the ex-corporal into the salon.

“Ah! to be sure, my boy; I forgot all about it. He must have money, always money! Well, come with me, and we’ll go to the strong-box. Sacrebleu! it makes me feel bad to keep taking out and never putting back. When I tell monsieur so, he says: ‘Go to my notary.’—That’s all right; I know that the notary always gives me money; but by giving and giving—However, the lieutenant’s the master, and I must obey.—How much does he want, Tony?”

“Fifty louis, Monsieur Bertrand.”

“Fifty louis! he had that much in his purse yesterday when he started for that ball! What in the devil do they do at these swell parties, to get rid of so much money in one evening? It seems that he’s no luckier at these Thomassinets—Thomassinières’—than he is anywhere else!”

“Oh! it was very fine, Monsieur Bertrand!”

“Ah! so you saw it, did you?”

“Yes, I went up to the servants’ quarters. They gave me ices and punch and cakes.”

“Oh! don’t be afraid, Monsieur Bertrand, the cabriolet’s waiting for me at the door.”

“And don’t drive Bébelle too fast, d’ye hear?”

The little groom had already gone. Bertrand was still standing in front of the strong-box, which was open. He counted the remaining contents, and frowned; he seemed terrified by the rapidity with which Dalville was spending his money. He closed the desk at last, with a shake of the head, saying: “It’s his; he has the right to dispose of it.” And to dispel his melancholy thoughts, Bertrand went down to the cellar and brought up a bottle of old burgundy, because, being entrusted with the duty of watching the wine, he wished to be sure that it did not run away.

Madame Destival was secretly furious to see Dalville amid the throng of Madame de la Thomassinière’s adorers; but that did not prevent her from continuing to call that lady “my love” and “my dear,” because she would have been sorry not to be invited to the gorgeous parties given by the capitalist; and although she went to his house solely to seek subjects for criticism, and although Monsieur Destival could not eat his dinner for wrath at seeing a table much better served than his own, they were very glad to subject themselves to these vexations.

Is it surprising that Dalville, in that whirlpool of dissipation, and constantly in the company of charming women who chose him for their escort—is it surprising that he should have forgotten the milkmaid of Montfermeil? However, the memory of Denise was not altogether effaced from his mind, and on several occasions he had formed the plan of going to the village to see the child and the young woman; but when he was on the point of carrying out his plan, some new invitation, some festivity that he could not miss, detained him in Paris, where the time passes so quickly for happy people.

A word or two that Madame Destival had heard during the night had apprised her of the delightful project for the morning; and as she and her husband were not of the party, they returned home in very ill humor.

“Always some new form of dissipation!” said Madame Destival, with a bitter smile. “That Madame de la Thomassinière is at her wits’ end to invent something that will ruin her husband.”

“If she only would ruin him!” exclaimed Destival; “but no; that man has the greatest luck! Everything succeeds with him. However, he doesn’t shine by his wit, that’s sure enough! But he has just made sixty thousand francs in a transaction that I had in view.”

“Well, monsieur, why didn’t you carry it out?”

“I hadn’t funds enough to buy the debt, madame.”

“You should borrow, find the money. Really, monsieur, you ought to blush for shame when you see the show of magnificence that that Thomassinière makes, and you do not outshine him. Those people have eight servants, and I have just one wretched maid and an ill-tempered footman who does everything!—I want a lady’s maid, monsieur; I insist upon having one!”

“Before long, madame, I hope——”

“They have a calèche and a landau and a coupé, and we have only a very shabby cabriolet! But monsieur must needs learn to drill, instead of giving his attention to making money!”

“Well, come to some conclusion about it, monsieur. I tell you that I can’t live like this any longer; I must have two new cashmeres, a lady’s maid, a calèche, and a country house where I can give parties; not like that old barrack at Livry, which I can’t endure now.”

“Never fear, madame. I must have a clerk, a man cook, and a negro servant. I am going to venture into some new schemes, and you will see that we will soon crush that miserable parvenu, who murders the language with an assurance that suffocates me.”

The calèche, drawn by two spirited horses, bore away Athalie and the four young men of fashion, among whom was Dalville. Each of the four paid court to the petite-maîtresse, who had the art of distributing a word, a smile, a glance, to each in turn, and revelled deliciously in the homage that was laid at her feet. Is there a greater joy for a true coquette than to be surrounded by men who wear her chains? Athalie was vivacious and playful; they knew that, to please her, they must be overflowing with hilarity, and the four gentlemen vied with one another in doing and saying the most extravagant things. Among all the bons mots that were made, there were some very bad ones; for the more one tries to be witty, the less success one has. But Athalie, grateful for the efforts they made to entertain her, greeted them all with bursts of laughter; and the gentlemen zealously followed suit, although they would have been sorely puzzled sometimes to say what they were laughing about. In the midst of this running fire of nonsense, the light vehicle arrived at the country house.

While the mistress of the house gave orders for an out-of-door breakfast, the gentlemen strolled about the gardens and admired their manifold beauties. Auguste walked alone toward a hedge between the garden and the orchard. It was a part of the garden where no one ever walked. Why, then, did Auguste turn his steps in that direction? Because he had caught sight of a short skirt and a little cap beyond the hedge, and an irresistible fascination drew the young man toward whatever suggested anything feminine.

The stout girl was standing on a ladder that rested against the tree, and was plucking the ripest fruit. Auguste walked to the ladder and looked up; I presume that he was looking at the apricots.

“I say! what are you doing there, monsieur?” said the girl, when, upon turning her head, she discovered the young man.

“My dear girl, I am admiring. I am a great lover of the beauties of nature, and I am as well able to appreciate them in sackcloth as in silk.”

The stout girl, who did not understand this language, concluded that the gentleman was fond of apricots, and offered him one, saying:

“Here, monsieur, here’s one that’s good and ripe.”

Auguste took the apricot and walked still nearer the ladder.

“I’m afraid that you’ll fall,” he said to the gardener; “I’ll hold the ladder.”

“Oh! it ain’t worth while, monsieur, thanks; I know how to do it; anyway I can cling to the branches.”

However, Auguste remained at the foot of the ladder, and as the girl was on the fourth rung, the young man’s hand naturally found itself in close proximity to her leg, and, naturally again, that hand caressed a woolen stocking encasing a calf with which a dancer at the Opéra would have been content.

The gardener continued to gather fruit while Auguste patted her calf.

“When I heard someone coming behind me,” said the girl, “I thought at first ’twas monsieur.”

“Monsieur! what monsieur?” inquired Auguste.

“Pardi! monsieur le bourgeois, my master.”

“Ah! Monsieur de la Thomassinière?”

“Why, yes.”

“So he comes into his orchard sometimes, does he?”

“Oh, yes! he comes here.”

“Does he like apricots?”

“Oh, yes! apricots, and something else.”

“Does he take hold of your leg too, my child?”

“Does he! pardi! rather! Catch him holding back!”

The stout girl chuckled, and Auguste said to himself:

“It seems that Monsieur de la Thomassinière, who talks of nothing but the duchesses, countesses and baronesses he courts, dances attendance on and deigns to be tender with his gardener. How many men try to take credit in society for brilliant conquests, when they have triumphed over nobody but their cook! However, there are many baronesses whose calves aren’t as firm as these.”

While he indulged in these reflections, the young man continued to pat the leg, and the stout girl to laugh. Her basket being full, she began to descend the ladder, and, as Auguste did not lower his hand, that member necessarily found itself above the calf, where there was still much to pat, and the stout girl laughed louder than ever.

“Well, I say! well, pardié! Well, well, but you make me laugh!”

At that moment Auguste saw Athalie’s pretty cap over the hedge, as that lady approached the orchard. He ceased instantly to make the stout girl laugh, and asked her hastily:

“Your name?”

“Tapotte.”

“And your room?”

“Over there, at the end, by the shed where they keep the hay.”

“Good; adieu—I’ll see you again.”

With that the young man walked quickly to the entrance to the orchard and passed through at the very moment that Athalie reached the hedge.

“Where have you been hiding, monsieur?” she asked, with a smile.

“Why, madame—I went in here, you see, not knowing that it was the orchard, and, to tell you the truth, I have been eating your fruit.”

“Before breakfast? that is very wrong. I am a wee bit selfish; I don’t like anybody to take any pleasure without me. I supposed that you had found some milkmaid here on my place, some peasant girl, whose—ruddy complexion had taken your fancy.”

“Oh, madame!”

“I do not think, however, that this establishment contains any rustic beauties worthy of your homage; for I assume that you still have some taste, and I agree that the little milkmaid was not bad-looking.”

“True, true, she was very pretty; and you remind me——”

“If you would allow me to find you sometimes, madame, you would not have that trouble.”

“Oh! no sentiment, monsieur, I beg; remember that we came here only to be foolish.”

They reached the shady nook where a dainty repast was spread. A petite-maîtresse puts coquetry into everything, and the open-air breakfast, although it consisted simply of milk, eggs, butter, fruit and excellent wine, seemed far richer when served by a lovely woman, in china decorated with lovely landscapes. Daintiness never spoils anything; it often enhances the value of the simplest things, and a certain wine which has a most delectable flavor in an artistically cut glass, might seem poor stuff in a beer mug.

They had been at table a quarter of an hour, talking, laughing, and eating heartily, because dancing, enjoyment and the fresh air sharpen the appetite, when they heard Monsieur de la Thomassinière’s voice in a path near by.

“There’s my husband,” said Athalie; “I was sure that he’d come; he’s very fond of this place. But he has brought somebody with him.”

“Let us pray that it isn’t some horrible bore,” said one of the young men.

“Oh! what does it matter? If it’s anyone who bores me, I shall pay no attention to him, and you must do as I do, messieurs.”

“Here they are!” said Monsieur de la Thomassinière, when he caught sight of the little party. “My valet did not deceive me, and my concierge’s information was accurate. This way, monsieur le marquis, this way.”

“What’s this? my husband has brought a marquis to see me!” exclaimed Athalie; “come, messieurs, we must make a little room for him. Really, Monsieur de la Thomassinière is as rattle-brained as I am! The idea of not letting me know!”

“This is exquisite, enchanting! It is all in the most perfect taste!” exclaimed the marquis, going into ecstasies over everything he saw. When he caught sight of the little party of five, he made a very low bow to the mistress of the house, who had risen to receive him; while Monsieur de la Thomassinière, who felt two feet taller since he had brought home a marquis, bestowed a patronizing nod on the young men, and said to his wife, taking his companion’s hand:

“Madame, this is Monsieur le Marquis de Cligneval, who has been kind enough to condescend to allow me to bring him to call upon you. He came to see me at my house this morning about a consequential matter. I said to him: ‘We can talk about this just as well at my place in the country.’ That suited him, and gad! I had my dapple-grey horse put in the cabriolet, monsieur le marquis got in with me, I gave the beast a cut with my whip, and zeste! we were off like the wind.—My dapple-grey goes prettily, eh, monsieur le marquis?”

“Like an angel, my dear fellow.—Pray excuse me, madame, for appearing in morning dress.”

“With pleasure, madame.”

“Oh, yes!” said La Thomassinière, shaking Monsieur de Cligneval’s hand; “oh, yes! the marquis will have some breakfast; he promised. I’ll have some, too.”

“Take your seats then, messieurs, and be content with what I have to give you.”

Madame gave the marquis a seat by her side; Monsieur de la Thomassinière would have liked to sit on the marquis’s other side, but he was obliged to be content with a seat opposite him. Monsieur de Cligneval did full justice to the breakfast; he declared everything excellent, delicious, exquisite, although La Thomassinière exhausted his breath saying to him:

“Oh! I usually have much better things to eat. But we didn’t know, madame was not notified. I hope to treat you much better another time. This is an unpretentious repast; but when I choose, I do things very nicely.”

While praising the food, Monsieur de Cligneval found time to bestow compliments on the hostess. The marquis was well bred; he carried a little too far perhaps the determination to make his good breeding apparent; but he was agreeable and witty, and the whole party was soon in high spirits, even Monsieur de la Thomassinière, who never laughed because he thought it bad form, but who laughed very loud now in order to copy monsieur le marquis.

When she passed the fruit, Athalie found several that were not ripe.

“We must have some better ones than these,” cried La Thomassinière. “Tell the gardener to bring some at once—the best she can find.”

The servant obeyed, and Mademoiselle Tapotte soon arrived with a basket filled with superb fruit, which she handed to Athalie, keeping her eyes on the ground as if she dared not look at the guests; whereas, on the contrary, the young men scrutinized the buxom creature, making comments in undertones, and Monsieur de la Thomassinière cast furtive glances at her.

“That is right!” said Athalie, as she took the basket, “these are fine. See, messieurs, they have just been picked; they look much better.—Another time, Tapotte, don’t send me green fruit.”

“No, madame,” said the gardener, with a very awkward curtsy; then she took her leave, much redder than when she came.

“What did you call that stout damsel, madame?” inquired one of the young men.

“Tapotte, monsieur.”

“Indeed! that’s a queer name.”

“It’s amusing,” said the marquis.

“Yes, very amusing,” rejoined La Thomassinière. And Auguste reflected that the name was well deserved.

“She’s not a bad-looking girl,” said one of the young men.

“Oh! what can you see that’s attractive in that creature?” cried Athalie; “she’s heavy and awkward and vulgar.”

“Mon Dieu! she’s a huge mass of flesh that moves, and that’s all,” said the marquis.

“What are you laughing at, Monsieur Dalville?” Athalie asked Auguste; “at Mademoiselle Tapotte? You have said nothing about her.”

“I’ll bet that monsieur agrees with me,” said the marquis, “and that he sees nothing about her that deserves to be looked at a second time.”

“He!” rejoined Athalie; “oh! you don’t know him, monsieur; he detects charms under round caps and calico dresses.”

“I don’t deny it, madame, and I do not think that it is necessary to wear fine clothes in order to be beautiful. As for your gardener, certainly she has neither pretty features nor a pretty figure; but, for all that, her freshness and bloom, her good-natured appearance——”

“Fie, fie, monsieur! fie! hold your tongue! for you are quite capable of perverting these gentlemen. But we have devoted quite enough time to Mademoiselle Tapotte; I hope that monsieur le marquis will do me the honor to come and look at my garden; and if he could be induced to give us this day——”

“Madame, I am too pleasantly situated here to summon courage to refuse, and although I am expected to dine with a Bavarian prince, I cannot resist your charms.”

“I count upon you also, messieurs,” said Athalie, addressing her other guests; “you must pass the whole day here. Oh! no refusals! you must do it, or you and I will have a falling-out. I have rooms to give you to-night, and to-morrow morning I will drive you back to Paris in my calèche.”

The young gentlemen attempted to raise some objections on account of their clothes; but the fascinating Athalie once more announced: “I insist upon it!” at the same time bestowing upon them one of the smiles which it is so hard to resist; and that levelled all obstacles. Auguste made no objection at all, being by no means ill pleased to pass a night at Fleury, and smiling already at certain thoughts that passed through his mind.

They left the table. La Thomassinière seemed determined not to leave the marquis’s side for an instant; but that nobleman offered his arm to Athalie for a stroll about the garden, and La Thomassinière, as he could not take the marquis’s other arm, walked on the other side, keeping close at his elbow, and talking constantly to him, although most of the time the marquis made no reply because he preferred to talk with madame. Auguste took a seat in a grotto made of shells, not daring to return to the orchard during the day. The other young men had taken possession of the billiard room.

But Athalie, having arrangements to make for the entertainment of her guests, and being determined that the dinner should make them amends for the frugality of the breakfast, soon left Monsieur de Cligneval with her husband. La Thomassinière instantly seized the marquis’s arm and walked on with him, saying:

“Now, let us talk business, monsieur le marquis, for that is my strong point,—business,—especially large affairs, speculations, and—What do you think of my labyrinth?”

“Charming!”

“And my pond?”

“The waterfall is mine, I invented it. Formerly the water used to fall straight down. That was too commonplace! I had rocks arranged zigzag—that’s very much prettier.”

“Yes, it does you credit.”

“You are very kind. Now I am going to take you into my woods, thence into my fields, where I have some thoroughbred merino sheep. Another invention of mine. Then we will go into my desert; you shall see my deer—ah! they are superb creatures, my deer! almost like stags.”

“Have you no stags?”

“No; I wanted one, but Madame de la Thomassinière declared that it was unnecessary, that we had enough tame beasts. I will take you to my summer-house too; we have enough fine things to see to take up two or three hours.”

The marquis, who was beginning to be weary of the tête-à-tête, announced that he was fatigued, and as they were then near the grotto where Auguste was seated, they took seats beside him, La Thomassinière having said that he was tired as soon as Monsieur de Cligneval spoke of resting.

“I have an estate of this sort,” said the marquis, reclining on a mossy bank, “in Bourgogne, a very fertile province. I have another in Berry, where my grandfather owned a very handsome château.”

“I have three farms in the department of Seine-et-Oise,” said La Thomassinière quickly, smoothing his chin; “I own two houses in Paris, and I am on the point of buying a third.”

“My credit is unlimited! My paper is eagerly sought after at the Bourse! I am swamped with business. I receive the very best society at my house, and my guests play for infernally high stakes!”

“Pardieu! that reminds me that I lost three thousand francs at écarté the day before yesterday,” said the marquis carelessly.

“I won four thousand two days ago, at the house of a banker, who’s a friend of mine,” replied La Thomassinière instantly.

“Oh! that’s a mere trifle! When I play, I do it for the sake of doing something!” said the marquis.

“To be sure,” said La Thomassinière; “I am not sure that I didn’t forget to take the four thousand francs from the table, I pay so little attention to money!”

“But a month ago,” said the marquis, “I was in a really serious game—the stakes were no less than eighty thousand francs.”

“I staked a house last winter,” rejoined La Thomassinière; “it was not built, to be sure, and unluckily the contractor failed the next day, for the third time.”

Auguste listened in silence to his two neighbors, as they tossed the ball back and forth. But at last La Thomassinière, fearing that he might be unable to think of anything with which to cap the marquis’s next boast, changed the subject.

“What do you think of this view?” he asked.

“Very pretty,” the marquis replied; “but why not have embellished it with some picturesque ruins—fabriques—here and there?”

The marquis glanced at Auguste with a smile, and they left the grotto for the billiard-room, where Monsieur de la Thomassinière missed every shot, and exclaimed after every stroke that he misplayed:

“The trouble is that I’ve got a crooked cue; I can’t see straight to-day; it’s the fault of the table; my head aches; something’s the matter with me; I’m not in the mood for playing; but if I were, you would be nowhere.”

Little Tony had arrived long before and had handed his master the fresh supply of funds. When the marquis saw that Dalville had a cabriolet, he manifested great friendliness for him, and declared that there was sympathy between Auguste’s tastes and his—a sympathy which Auguste had not observed, although that fact did not prevent his responding to Monsieur de Cligneval’s advances.

The dinner-hour arrived, and they went to the table, where Athalie did the honors with much grace. Not to depart from his custom, La Thomassinière did not appear in the dining-room until the soup had been removed; but he was delighted to say before the marquis that he had ten important letters to write.

They left the table as merry as well-bred people can be. Athalie went to see if her harp was in tune. The men went into the garden for a breath of fresh air. It was not dark as yet, but the light was fading.

The marquis had sauntered away, and Auguste was left alone with La Thomassinière, who also claimed to be congenial to him, when, as they strolled along a shaded path which was quite dark, and which skirted the orchard, they heard the report of a hearty kiss. Auguste halted, curious to know what was going on. La Thomassinière followed suit, with an air of amazement.

“Did you hear?” he asked Auguste.

“Yes,” was the reply, “I heard very distinctly.”

“What was it?”

“If you didn’t recognize the sound, it is useless for me to tell you what it was.”

“Why, it seemed to me—but in the dark one may be mistaken.”

“Indeed! do you think that one doesn’t hear as well by night as by day?”

“The fact is that I can’t believe that anybody on my premises would venture——”

The sound of the second kiss interrupted him. The two gentlemen walked toward a clump of shrubbery near by, and saw Mademoiselle Tapotte in the marquis’s arms, defending herself very feebly, as her custom was; while the marquis, with flushed face, gleaming eye and thick voice, said to her:

But the rustling of the foliage caused the marquis to release his hold; Tapotte ran away, and Monsieur de Cligneval returned to the house, while Auguste said laughingly to La Thomassinière:

“It seems that your champagne changes the aspect of things: that mass of flesh has become a rose-bud.”

“Oh! that is court language. The marquis was joking, no doubt. However, I should have been terribly sorry to have him see us! A marquis, you know! I ought not to have seen anything! Monsieur Dalville, I urge you to maintain absolute secrecy about this matter; it is very important.”

“Never fear!”

“I ask you to promise me.”

Having quieted his host’s fears, Auguste returned to the house with him. Athalie took her place at the harp; the gentlemen seated themselves at a card-table, and, while listening to the harmonious strains that the young woman extracted from the instrument, they did their best to win their opponents’ money. Tea was served, then punch. The marquis won from everybody; but he was so courteous, his manners were so amiable, that one was almost tempted to thank him for condescending to take one’s money. Athalie, fatigued by the ball of the preceding night, retired early; and ere long all the guests withdrew to their rooms.

“Monsieur le marquis kissed you, my dear girl.”

“Me, monsieur! oh, nenni! nobody didn’t kiss me.”

“Remember, Tapotte, that I am your master, and that I have a right to know everything.”

“I don’t know what you want to know!”

“Monsieur le marquis kissed you.”

“What’s a marquis?”

“A magnificent man! rather short and fat, almost bald, about fifty years old, and with an eye-glass—lorgnon—on one side.”

“Oh! he’s a marquis, is he? I don’t know whether he had an onion—ognon—on one side, but he smelt pretty strong of liquor—I know that.”

“Don’t think that I mean to scold you, Tapotte; far from it! I simply want to know what he said to you, so as to do it like a marquis, when I have the opportunity.”

“Why, bless me, he went about it the same way they all do. In the first place, he squeezed me.”

“Good.”

“Then he squeezed me again.”

“Good.”

“Oh, yes! good! good!—I yelled.”

“You did wrong, he was a marquis!”

“I don’t care, when he hurt me. And then—well since it amuses you, why, he kissed me.”

“Good.”

“You were wrong! You’re a fool, Tapotte! You shouldn’t have refused monsieur le marquis.”

“Bah! get along with you! He’s old and he’s ugly!”

This conversation suggested an idea to our hare-brained youth; he wrapped his head in his handkerchief, and began to cough and spit, imitating the decidedly nasal notes of the marquis.

“Mon Dieu! there’s some one outside!” cried La Thomassinière.

“Yes, some old fellow coughing,” replied Tapotte.

“Why! it’s he—it’s the marquis. Fool that you are! Why didn’t you admit that you told him where you lived?”

“I swear, monsieur, that I——”

“Hush! hold your tongue! he’s there and he’s getting impatient.”

“Jarni! he’s got the catarrh, that man has!”

“Faith, I cannot hesitate.—Monsieur le marquis! What an honor! I will jump out of this window in the rear.”

“But don’t I tell you, monsieur, that I didn’t say I’d meet him——”

La Thomassinière was no longer listening; he had opened a window and jumped out, and was in the garden. At the same moment, Auguste opened the door, and entered the gardener’s abode. When she saw that it was not the marquis, she uttered a cry of surprise; but Auguste whispered to her to keep quiet, and Mademoiselle Tapotte did whatever the young man wished, much preferring a tête-à-tête with him to one with monsieur le marquis.

“The deuce!” he said to himself; “the marquis seems to have had a long story to tell her. I must try to make my interviews last as long as monsieur le marquis’s.”

The next day the company assembled preparatory to starting for Paris. Athalie was fresher than on the evening before, the marquis less flushed. Auguste seemed fatigued and La Thomassinière’s expression was very sly as he looked at the nobleman. Mademoiselle Tapotte alone was just as usual.

They entered their carriages and left the charming retreat at Fleury. Let us follow their example, and return to Paris.