“It’s worse than a clap of thunder.—Look here! are you going to let me go?”

“When I have kissed you.”

“No, none of that.—Look out; while you’re getting excited, your nag’s going off.”

“I can find him again.”

“Look, he’s already trampling down Nicolas’s beans.”

“Let him trample.”

“Monsieur, I tell you I’ll yell if——”

The sound of a kiss interrupted the peasant, and echoed in Denise’s heart. She had heard it all, and she did not stir. This first victory would perhaps have been followed by a second, had not Coco’s voice made itself heard; he ran toward Auguste, whom he had just caught sight of, shouting at the top of his lungs:

“Here’s my kind friend! Good-day, my kind friend! Have you come to play with me?”

When he heard the child’s voice, Auguste left the peasant and went to meet him, while she walked away, saying to herself:

“It’s mighty lucky the little fellow came, all the same; for it wa’n’t no use for me to fight—he kept right on! Jarni! what a scamp he is!”

Auguste took the child in his arms, kissed him, and received his caresses with keen enjoyment.

“You weren’t at the house, Coco,” he said; “I found nobody there. Don’t you live there now?”

“No, I’m with my little Denise all the time now; since Grandma Madeleine died, I’ve lived with Denise. I’m awful happy now, ‘cos she loves me ever so much; she loves me as much as Jacqueleine.”

“Look, there’s Denise,” said the child, as he spied the little milkmaid coming toward them.

Auguste instantly ran to meet her.

“So here you are, my dear Denise! How glad I am to see you again! It has been so long!—On my word, you are prettier than ever.”

Denise curtsied coldly to him, and replied in a constrained tone:

“You are very kind, monsieur.”

“Had it not been for business that has kept me in Paris, I should have come to see you long ago. I have wanted to do so more than once, for I have often thought of the little milkmaid of Montfermeil. And you—have you thought of me sometimes?”

“Oh! not often, monsieur,” replied Denise, twisting the corner of her apron.

“That is what I call plain speaking,” said Auguste testily; but he soon recovered his usual good humor and continued: “After all, Denise, you would have been very foolish to bother about me. Do I deserve to arouse the interest of so pure and sincere a heart as yours? No, I do myself justice. I assure you, Denise, I am very glad for you that you have no affection for me; but I hope to have your friendship, and I will be worthy of it despite my vagaries. What do you say, Denise? You will be my friend, won’t you? and when some of the fashionable city ladies have been guilty of fresh perfidy toward me, I will come to you to forget them. The sight of you will reconcile me to your sex; you will make me believe once more in virtue and fidelity, in all the qualities that we seek in women, and—But I haven’t kissed you yet, Denise, and a friend has that privilege.”

“It seems that there have been some important happenings here,” continued Auguste. “Coco tells me that he lives with you, that his old grandmother is dead——”

“Yes, monsieur; I asked Père Calleux to let us keep his son, and he consented. I thought Coco would be happier at our house. Did I do wrong, monsieur?”

“As if you could do wrong!”

“And then my little Denise takes good care of Jacqueleine,” said Coco; “and she lets me play all I want to,—if I’ll pray to the good Lord for my kind friend every morning and every night.”

Denise blushed and looked at the ground.

“Isn’t it natural to pray for one’s benefactor?” she stammered.

Auguste was touched; he gazed at the girl and the child for some moments, profoundly amazed that a little money, given for the purpose of doing good, should afford him greater happiness than the money he spent by the handful to pay for his pleasures. Then, as if he were ashamed of his emotion, he exclaimed:

“Thanks for a mere trifle!—But, now that my little fellow is with you for good and all, I don’t propose that he shall be a burden to you. You can hardly have anything left of the paltry sum I gave you, and to-day I will make up for my neglect. I want Coco to do something, to learn——”

“Oh! Denise is teaching me my letters now,” said the child.

“What! do you know how to read, Denise?” asked Auguste.

“Upon my word, that is very fine for a milkmaid,” said Auguste with a smile, “and I am sure that you know more than any of your companions. In that case I will leave Coco’s education in your hands for a few years. Later, we will see—I will have him come to Paris——”

“And Jacqueleine, too, can’t she, my kind friend?” said the boy, taking Auguste’s hand.

“Yes, my boy.—But I am forgetting poor Bertrand, who is waiting for me in some village wine-shop.”

“He’s at our house, monsieur; I left him with my aunt.”

“Let us go and join him then, for I will confess, my dear Denise, that I am dying of hunger and thirst.”

“Mon Dieu! monsieur, and I never thought of asking you. Come along; we shall soon be there.”

They set out for the village. Auguste offered the maid his arm, which she accepted with a blush, hardly daring to lean upon her escort, lest the slightest pressure of her arm should lead him to guess what she would have liked to hide from herself; and even holding her breath, because she was afraid that anything might betray her. Blessed age! blessed age of innocence, when love retains all its modesty, when she whom love assails, while striving to conceal it, allows it to appear in her eyes, in her voice, in her slightest acts! It would unquestionably have been very easy to read the girl’s heart at that moment; but is it possible for a man accustomed to the manœuvres of city coquettes to recognize true love?

At last the repast was served. It was one o’clock, the universal dinner hour in the village. Denise had worked to such purpose that she was able to offer Auguste a full meal. There were chickens, ducks and rabbits. When he saw the bountifully-laden table, Auguste insisted that his hosts should sit down with him. The villagers made some demur, but the young man declared that he would accept nothing unless they bore him company. They submitted, with renewed curtsies; Auguste took his seat between Denise and his little protégé, with Mère Fourcy opposite; and at his lieutenant’s invitation, Bertrand seated himself beside the aunt.

Auguste had never been in such high spirits as at that meal: he caressed the child, he joked with Mère Fourcy, he forced Bertrand to drink with him; it seemed to him that the fresh, pure air of the fields set him free from all the trammels of society, and that he breathed more freely, happy to be rid for a moment of etiquette and gallantry.

“Bertrand,” said the young man, filling his glass; “I really believe that I am happier here than at a sumptuously-laden table, surrounded by pretty women covered with jewels, and served by an army of footmen.”

“Here, monsieur, you see nobody but people who care for you, and who will not ruin you by compliments and courtesies.”

“Well, Bertrand, when the others have ruined me, this is where I will come to seek consolation for the ingratitude of men and the perfidy of women. But you say nothing, Denise; does that mean that you don’t approve of my plan?”

“No, monsieur,” the girl replied under her breath; and her aunt exclaimed:

“Come, speak up, my child; you don’t eat and you don’t talk! Something’s the matter, sure.”

“It’s a fact,” said Auguste, “that you don’t seem to share our merriment. What is the matter, Denise?”

“And I give you my word that something is the matter!” cried Mère Fourcy. “Pardi! for some time she’s been all turned round; she don’t like dancing, she don’t like games, she don’t know what she does like. But I know all about it, I tell you; when a girl gets to be like that, it means that she’s thinking about something.—Well, you needn’t blush for that, my child; you’re a good girl, as everyone knows; but that don’t keep you from thinking about getting married, and I hope monsieur’ll do us the honor to come to the wedding.”

“Yes, most assuredly,” said Auguste, with a slight grimace; “yes, Denise, I shall be delighted to be a witness of your happiness; and as you love someone—You didn’t tell me that you had made your choice.”

Denise made no reply; she kept her eyes on her plate, and tried to conceal her confusion by caressing Coco’s faithful companion.

Auguste rose abruptly from the table, and, without a word to the others, left the room in evident ill humor, and went out to walk in the garden. He did not choose to admit to himself the nature of his feelings; but what Mère Fourcy said had caused him a pang. Even while he told himself again and again that he cared nothing for Denise, he felt in his heart that the young peasant’s face aroused in him a sweeter emotion than those of all the coquettes in Paris.

He walked about at random through the winding paths, and did his utmost to recover his merry humor.

Auguste stopped short, for, happening to turn his head, he saw Denise within a few yards. He fixed his eyes on the girl, who seemed afraid to go forward and stood beside a tree. Her confusion, her flushed face, the furtive glances that she cast at the young man, gave to her whole person a grace and charm which art could not imitate; and Auguste said under his breath: “No, there’s not a woman in Paris to be compared with her.”

Surprised to see their guest leave the table so abruptly, Denise had followed him at a distance. She remembered what Bertrand had told her, and as she desired nothing so much as that Auguste should come often to the village, she determined carefully to conceal her secret sentiments.

Auguste walked toward her; for some time they stood face to face, without speaking; at last the young man said, trying to assume an indifferent manner:

“So you love someone, Denise?”

“Yes, monsieur,” the girl replied, blushing and keeping her eyes on the ground.

“If I remember rightly, when I first met you, in the little path in the woods, you told me that you had no lover.”

“That was true, monsieur.”

“Then you have given your heart away since that time?”

Denise sighed and held her peace.

“Oh, no! I don’t love you, monsieur—not with love. I must tell you that, as you wouldn’t come to the village any more if it wasn’t so. But I do hope you’ll come, monsieur; oh, yes! you must come to see the child you’ve adopted! I shan’t forget that I’m only a peasant and you’re a gentleman from the city; and I assure you that I shall never love you.”

As she finished, the girl turned away so that Auguste could not see the tears that fell from her eyes. But he was already far away, striding toward the house. He entered the living-room and said:

“Come, Bertrand, we must return to Paris.”

“Return to Paris it is, lieutenant; I’m all ready to do four leagues an hour. Adieu, mamma; your wine’s very nice. Some day when Schtrack has the time, I’ll bring him down here to reconnoitre.”

The girl entered the room and tried to read Auguste’s eyes; but he said to her without looking at her:

“Adieu, Denise, we’re off.”

“Already!” cried Denise; “you seemed to be so comfortable here!”

“Yes, I am very comfortable here; that is true; but business calls me back. I will see you again, Denise; I will come again to see you.”

“You won’t let so long a time go by without coming to see Coco?”

“No, I promise you that. Take this—it’s for him. I have no need to commend him to you, you are so kind!”

“Oh! as to that, monsieur, she loves the child as if he was her brother.”

“His house is falling to pieces; you must have it repaired; then have the little garden behind it enclosed, and buy the whole place for my little boy.”

“But, monsieur, this is three thousand francs that you’ve given me, and it won’t take so much money for that.”

“Take it, I insist; and if it isn’t enough,—here is my address in Paris. Write me, Denise, and you shall hear from me at once.”

Auguste tossed his card on the table, and kissed the child.

“Good-bye, my kind friend!” said the little fellow, throwing his arms about Auguste’s neck. Mère Fourcy made the young man a curtsy, which lasted as long as it took to count the three thousand francs. Denise glanced at him with an embarrassed air, expecting that he would kiss her; but he did nothing of the sort. After bidding the child adieu, he bowed to the others, sprang lightly to his saddle, and rode away with Bertrand, leaving the girl greatly depressed by the cold manner in which he had left her.

“What does it mean?” she said to herself; “he stayed away because he was afraid he’d fall in love with me, and now he acts as if he didn’t like it because he knows I’m not in love with him. What should I do, so that I can see him often?”

As he trotted along beside his lieutenant, Bertrand, as his custom was, ventured to indulge in a few observations.

“I probably shall not come to the village again for a long while,” said Auguste pensively.

“Oh! that makes a difference, and I am wrong.”

On his return to Paris, Auguste found Monsieur Destival waiting for him at his rooms. The business agent shook hands effusively with his dear friend.

“Dear Dalville, where in the deuce have you been?” said Destival, casting a glance out of the window, into the street, from time to time.

“You have been waiting for me—I am very sorry.”

“Oh! there’s no harm done. To be sure, I have a thousand and one places to go to; but my new horse is splendid. By George! he’s an invaluable beast! Did you notice him at the door?”

“No, I didn’t pay any attention.”

“No, I didn’t notice.”

“He’s a well-built fellow, of magnificent color. I prefer a single negro to a lot of long-legged varlets who ruin a carriage.—By the way, my wife has a bone to pick with you, my friend; she says that you are neglecting her.”

“But I assure you——”

“Oh! you never come to the house now! That is not kind! No more music, no more singing, no more theatre parties; you have deserted us, Dalville, and yet you must know that we are your true friends. But let’s talk business a little. I have had your interests in mind; for although I don’t see you, I think of you none the less.”

“You are too kind!”

“You are a heedless fellow, and you don’t think about making money. But I am not, like La Thomassinière, one of those selfish men who think of nobody but themselves. I find an opportunity to get a handsome return for my funds, but I say to myself: ‘Why shouldn’t I take my dear friend Dalville into this affair? Why enrich myself alone? A friend’s happiness doubles our own.’ And then I am not ambitious, I have no desire to throw dust in people’s eyes and put on airs, like certain acquaintances of ours. I want to make myself comfortable, that’s all. In a word, the matter that I spoke to you about some time ago can be carried through; I will guarantee a certain profit; but I must have funds.”

“I can raise two hundred and fifty thousand francs.”

“I trust to your prudence; I understand very little about business, but I should not want to risk my fortune.”

“Oh! never fear, my friend; when it comes to prudence, I am a regular serpent! Besides, what about myself? do you suppose that I mean to risk my own money?—When will you be able to obtain the cash?”

“To-morrow.”

“Bring it when you come to dinner.”

“Certainly.”

“That’s settled; the receipt will be all ready, for everything must be done in due form.—My dear fellow, you are growing fat; you look delightfully well.”

“Do you think so? The fact is that I feel a little tired to-day.”

“Faith, it doesn’t show. You’re a hearty buck! How old are you? Not more than twenty-two, surely?”

“Almost twenty-seven.”

“That is most extraordinary!—But I must leave you; I have so much business on hand. I must go to see Monin; I have sold his drug shop for him. I am going to ask him to dinner, and his wife too. They are not very brilliant, especially poor Monin himself, who allows his wife to lead him about like a baby; but he’s honest, yes, he’s probity itself; and I demand that, yes, I demand that above all things.—Until to-morrow then, my dear fellow, and don’t forget the money.”

“That is understood.”

Destival left Auguste after shaking hands with him again, as if he had a convulsion. In the reception room the business agent met Bertrand. New salutations to the ex-corporal, with whom he also shook hands, saying:

And without giving Bertrand time to say a word in reply, Monsieur Destival rushed through the door and down the stairs; and shouted at the top of his voice before he reached the foot of the last flight:

“Domingo! Holà, Domingo! my negro! open the door for me!”

A short, thick-set negro, wearing a red jacket, and a little jockey cap with a ten-inch visor, came forward, walking with difficulty in a pair of doeskin trousers which Monsieur Destival had worn ten years, and which he had thought it best to resign to his groom, for whom they were much too small; assuring him that they would be as much too large before he had been two years in his service.

When his negro appeared, Destival looked to the right hand and to the left, to see if he were observed; but as no one stopped to look at Domingo, the business agent concluded to enter his cabriolet; and having assured himself by looking through the little window, that the negro was behind, Monsieur Destival lashed his horse, and shouted “look out!” even when nobody was in danger.

“You won’t have any further occasion to scold me, my dear Bertrand,” said Auguste to the ex-corporal, after Monsieur Destival had gone.

“Why not, lieutenant?”

“You are going to turn over your money to that gentleman, who is so polite?”

“Yes, my friend.”

“All of it?”

“Why, almost all; I am going to give him two hundred and fifty thousand francs; that will leave me about twenty thousand francs to live on and enjoy myself, until I settle with him, which I don’t expect to do for some time.”

“That is all very well, monsieur, but have you got any security? For two hundred and fifty thousand francs is quite a little sum, you know! and when it’s all you have——”

“Don’t be alarmed; I shall have all possible security. Besides, Destival is a shrewd, prudent man. I have more confidence in him than in La Thomassinière, who is much richer, however; and then, when I want my money, I shall only have to give him three months’ notice.”

“But suppose he meant to keep it, would he give you notice, lieutenant?”

“For shame! must we look upon everybody as a knave and sharper, Bertrand?”

“God forbid, lieutenant, for in that case we should have to keep up a continual fire on everybody we met.”

“In truth, I have no reason to complain of my lot: I enjoy life, I deny myself nothing, and my fortune will soon be increased. If a coquette does deceive me now and then, I pay her back in her own coin. But I am angry with that little Denise; I feel that I should have loved her so dearly! The idea of her giving her heart away without telling me!”

“Did she require your permission, lieutenant?”

“That clodhopper, that peasant, will offer her his hand, monsieur, and make her his wife; he will love in her the mother of his children, and will never leave her. Don’t you suppose that those things weigh more in the scales than the glances and sighs and pretty speeches of the young man from Paris?”

“You are right, Bertrand; sometimes I have no common sense. Let us say no more about Denise. I will go to see her when she’s married; but until then I don’t propose to go to Montfermeil again; the girl is too enticing.”

“Bravo! that is acting like an honorable man, lieutenant.”

Auguste started for his notary’s; as he went downstairs he met Madame Saint-Edmond for the first time since the adventure at the Tournebride.

At sight of Auguste, Léonie stopped, leaned against the wall, turned her head away, drew her handkerchief, and omitted nothing calculated to give the impression that she was about to faint; but Auguste, paying no heed to his neighbor’s expressive pantomime, contented himself with a low bow, and passed without stopping.

The business agent had taken larger apartments than those he formerly occupied. He had mounted his household with more splendor, and although he could not as yet rival Monsieur de la Thomassinière in magnificence, it was plain that he was doing all that he could to approach him. As a general rule, however, the pains that one takes to deceive the eyes do not have the hoped-for result, and serve only to arouse mockery. One rarely succeeds in art by departing from one’s specialty; and in the world he who tries to make himself out what he is not, is a laughing-stock. In vain does the grisette, beneath her big bonnet, strive to copy the simpers of a lady in society; in vain does the tailor’s apprentice, newly-clad from head to foot, believe that, because he is dressed in the latest fashion, he has the air and aspect of a stockbroker. The natural characteristics always show through; one may impose on the multitude, and amid the multitude pass for what one is not; but at the slightest examination,

At Monsieur Destival’s the beds were not taken down because they had a salon large enough to hold a numerous company; the lamps burned well, because they were frequently used; and the punch was good, because Madame Destival knew nothing of that false economy by virtue of which nothing is ever done well. But Domingo, stationed in the reception room to announce the guests, and Baptiste, who ran constantly from one room to another to execute his masters’s orders, and who commented aloud on everything that he was told to do, produced an irresistibly comical effect, largely because Destival was incessantly calling one or the other of them by the epithets of “knave” and “rascal.”

Before Auguste had looked at the other guests, Monsieur Destival entered the salon, and at sight of Dalville uttered a joyful cry as if he had thought him dead; then he ran to him and grasped his hands, saying:

“Here is our dear friend; it is really he! he has not failed us! How kind of him! You see, it is a great favor to have him here! He has so many acquaintances, so many invitations! he can hardly keep track of them all.—Have you thought about our little investment?” he added in an undertone.

“I have the money with me,” said Auguste.

“In that case, let us step into my study and fix it up before dinner, so that we need think of nothing but enjoying ourselves.”

“Very well.”

“A million pardons, mesdames, for taking our dear Dalville away from you; I promise to restore him to you in five minutes; otherwise I imagine that you would hate me mortally.”

As he spoke, Destival led Auguste into his study, where the younger man produced his wallet. Having counted the notes, the business agent locked them up in his desk and gave Auguste a receipt for the amount, which Auguste put in his pocket.

Then the gentlemen returned to the salon, Dalville eager to make the acquaintance of two or three attractive women of whom he had caught a glimpse, and Destival as radiant as if he had just discovered a diamond mine.

The company was increased by several persons among whom Auguste noticed three sisters, young and pretty, whose manners and speech and smiles, however, were never free from affectation; a very merry and talkative young woman, ready to joke with everybody, but especially with the gentlemen; a silly little creature of sixteen, very shy and awkward, who dared not leave her mamma’s chair or look at the persons to whom she spoke. A tall man with spectacles, who ran his nose against the paintings, engravings, screens and decanters, persisted in handling and examining everything, shaking his head and emitting an occasional hum! hum! doubtless fraught with meaning; while a short man, embarrassed by his huge paunch, his short arms, and his small head, not knowing what to do with himself, stood first on one leg, then on the other, played with his watch chain, stuck out his tongue when anybody looked at him, and scratched his nose when nobody was looking.

Generally speaking, the female portion of the company seemed more select than the male portion; but a business agent has to do with all classes, and it frequently happens that it is not the most fashionably dressed men through whom the most money is to be made.

The clock struck six, and Domingo came writhing into the room, and said in a jargon composed of all known languages:

“Master, soup served.”

And Monin, who had not noticed the negro in the reception room, and who supposed that he was a trader from the coast of Guinea, who was invited to dinner, was about to leave his wife’s chair to ask him how his health was, when Bichette, divining her husband’s purpose, caught him by his coat, saying:

“Where on earth are you going, Monsieur Monin? Stay where you are! Don’t you see that that’s Monsieur Destival’s negro?”

“What! is that a negro, Bichette?”

“Do you mean to say that you can’t see it for yourself?”

“Yes, of course; but I’ll tell you—I thought he was talking German. ‘Soup served,’ he said.”

“Well, monsieur, is that German, I’d like to know? Still, when a person makes so much talk about having a negro, he ought to teach him to walk. Do you suppose I’d have a groom that acted as if he had lead in his breeches? A sweet creature, their Domingo! He’s some wretched savage who’s been soaked in licorice juice to make a negro of him.”

“Dinner is served, and Monsieur and Madame de la Thomassinière have not come!” said Madame Destival, snappishly.

“We are only waiting for them. They are terrible people—never on time! It’s after six.”

“Six ten,” said the tall man in spectacles. “I am always with the sun; hum! hum!”

“Six seven,” said Monin, consulting his watch.

“My husband sets his watch every day by the cannon at the Palais-Royal,” said Madame Monin, with a disdainful glance at the spectacled man; while the little man with short arms stood thrice on his right leg and twice on his left, in his struggles to draw his watch from his fob; and, having finally succeeded in producing a silver time-piece, to which a gold chain was attached, he gazed a long time at the dial and said:

“Yes, it must be about that.”

“Faith,” said Destival, “if La Thomassinière weren’t going to bring his wife, we wouldn’t wait any longer, for it’s ridiculous to keep a whole large party waiting like this; but a pretty woman always has some additional touch to give her costume, and we must always forgive the Graces.—Domingo, see that the entrées are kept warm. Baptiste, have the chafing dishes red hot. Come, you knaves, move a little more quickly when I give an order!”

Domingo did not move any more quickly, because the doeskin breeches made it impossible. Baptiste, always in ill humor, pushed the negro roughly, muttering:

“Well, you darkie! A pretty sort of assistant to give me! He can’t do anything but break dishes and steal liquor! I wish he’d drink so much that he’d smash the whole crockery closet! That would teach ‘em to give a brand new red jacket to that miserable black fellow, when they’ve made me wear the same shabby coat for three years.”

The half hour struck and the guests’ faces lengthened. Auguste talked with one of his neighbors, who said:

Auguste agreed that his neighbor was right. Madame Destival lost patience; monsieur kept running to the dining-room and back, crying:

“Everything will be cold! The little pâtés won’t be eatable! It’s exceedingly unpleasant!”

“Yes,” said the man with the spectacles, “warmed-over pastry is good for nothing, hum! hum! because it’s good only when it’s just out of the oven, hum!”

Monin seemed profoundly affected by what was said about the little pâtés, and the uneasy gentleman scratched his nose with a piteous expression. At last, about seven o’clock, there was a violent ring and Monsieur and Madame de la Thomassinière soon entered the salon.

Athalie was resplendent; her costume was magnificent; her neck and arms were covered with diamonds and their dazzling reflection was in perfect harmony with the piquant expression of her features. At sight of her, the men uttered involuntary murmurs of admiration; the women said nothing, but scrutinized her costume, even to the tiniest details, and their eyes were unable to dissemble a gleam of jealousy, because everything was unexceptionable and there was nothing to criticise. Now criticism is a source of the greatest pleasure in society, where people do not spare even their friends! Fancy what they say of others!

“How’s the state of your health?”

“How cruel of you to keep us waiting, my dear La Thomassinière!” said Monsieur Destival, offering his hand to the parvenu, who patronizingly gave him two fingers to shake, saying:

“Yes, that is true. But what can I do, when I haven’t a moment to myself? We nearly missed coming. My friend the marquis wanted to take us into the country; but I thought that it would incommode you if we didn’t come, so I said: ‘Let’s go.’ But it was a close shave, on my word!”

During this conversation, Monin had remained behind La Thomassinière. Obtaining no reply, he decided to return to his wife; but Bichette, who saw everything that took place in every corner of the salon, had noticed that La Thomassinière did not acknowledge her husband’s salutation, and she glared fiercely at the parvenu, as she said to Monin:

“Why did you go to speak to that uncivil fellow?”

“Bichette, I——”

“Why do you need to inquire for everybody’s health?”

“Because, Bichette——”

“Are you a friend of those people?”

“You know perfectly well that we met them at Monsieur Destival’s. Will you have a pinch, Bichette?”

“Perhaps he didn’t see me, Bichette.”

“Not see you! You were right under his nose! You’re a chicken-hearted creature, Monsieur Monin! Those Thomassinières shall pay me for this. Meanwhile, let me see you speaking to that man or his wife, and I’ll take away your snuff-box for a week.”

Monin, terrified by that threat, retreated behind the chair and took three pinches in rapid succession. But Domingo announced again that dinner was served, and they all repaired to the dining-room. Dalville offered his hand to the hostess, a provincial dandy escorted the gorgeous Athalie, the spectacled gentleman went to the three sisters, saying that he would take charge of the Graces, La Thomassinière went out alone, considering doubtless that his own presence was honor enough, Monin walked at a snail’s pace with an old dowager, and Madame Monin alone was left in the salon with Monsieur Bisbis—the little man who shifted from one leg to the other;—he skipped forward to the stout lady in the turban, offered her his right hand, then the left, then the right again, until Madame Monin, out of patience, seized her escort about the waist, as if she were going to dance a waltz, and pulled him into the dining-room.

Dalville occupied one of the places of honor beside the hostess, and on his other side was the young lady who talked so easily. Athalie was between the provincial beau and the gentleman with spectacles; her husband was between an old lady and one of the three sisters. Madame Monin had her escort for her neighbor, and Monsieur Monin found himself seated beside the silly school-girl, who dared not raise her eyes, and to whom he had twice offered snuff when the soup was served.

During the second course Baptiste dropped a dish of macaroni on Madame Monin, and Domingo broke a pile of plates because he tried to run. Madame Monin shrieked because her dress of Naples silk was spotted, and Madame Destival tried to pacify her. Monsieur Destival scolded his servants, and Monin dared not fill his glass again because Bichette was in a rage.

Although he drank freely of all the wines, La Thomassinière kept repeating that he had much better ones in his cellar. Destival made wry faces at his wife, who was bright enough to pretend to pay no attention to the parvenu’s absurd talk. Athalie seemed to be bored by the insipid remarks of her neighbors; Madame Monin was apparently attempting the conquest of Monsieur Bisbis, who fidgeted on his chair, uncertain how to eat the charlotte russe, which he finally decided to attack with his fork. Monin longingly eyed the Roman punch, which he feared would never reach him, and he said twice to Baptiste:

“I say—er—servant, give me some of that dish they’re passing over there.”

But Baptiste, still in ill humor, walked away, muttering between his teeth:

Monin, his appeal being disregarded by Baptiste, decided to apply to Domingo, to whom he gave his plate, saying:

“Negro, just ask for a little of that shiny stuff for—for a person.”

Domingo presented the plate to Monsieur Destival, who was serving the Roman punch.

“A little shiny stuff,” he said, “for little man with big nose.”

Everybody laughed, Madame Monin alone taking it very ill that the negro should presume so to designate her husband; and she vented her wrath on a third dish of cream, saying to Monsieur Bisbis:

“I’d rather be served by four chimney-sweeps than a negro.”

After the coffee and the liqueurs, they left the table in about as hilarious a mood as when they sat down; that is to say, everyone was bored, as is usually the case at a formal dinner. But the people invited for the evening were already coming in crowds; and Destival was enchanted, because there was hardly room to move, and everyone exclaimed:

“Mon Dieu! what a crowd! how hot it is here!”

The card tables were set out, and Monsieur de la Thomassinière took his seat at an écarté table, tossing his purse on the table, saying: “I play for nothing but gold.”

The suggestion was accepted, and they seated themselves in a circle. Madame Monin eagerly joined them and wanted to begin with “In my hole, in the common hole, and in my neighbor’s hole!” which she described to the others by pointing her forefinger, with much dexterity, to the right and left and centre of the assemblage; but, despite the neat way in which Madame Monin put her finger in her neighbor’s hole, the game was voted down, in favor of crambo, which requires the imposing of forfeits; although Madame Monin declared that it was too easy, and that her head was full of rhymes. But she ran short on the second round, because the others had said everything that she knew; so she looked at Monsieur Bisbis, and said:

“Give me one.”

“I’m trying to think of one for myself,” whispered Monsieur Bisbis.

They soon tired of crambo, and a young lady having proposed blind-man’s-buff seated, the gentlemen voted unanimously in favor of that game. The little school-girl began; she recognized the third person in whose lap she sat—her young cousin, who had come after dinner. After him came the turn of the tall man with spectacles, who seated himself cautiously on the ladies’ laps, saying:

“Hum! hum! I’ll bet I can guess. Hum! hum! I know who it is. Parbleu! if I could use my hands it would be too easy.”

However, he sat down upon the whole party without guessing; luckily Madame Monin remained and she was readily recognizable. Enchanted to have been caught, Madame Monin allowed herself to be bandaged, and hurled herself recklessly at the circle. At the first onslaught her weight crushed a young dandy, who cried:

“One moment, monsieur; you’re in a terrible hurry,” said Madame Monin, trying to find something by which to recognize him.

“Get off me, madame, I can’t stand it any longer!” cried the young man, turning purple.

“It seems to me, monsieur, that you’re not so much to be pitied, having me on your knees.”

“I am suffocating, madame.”

The buxom dame persisted; but as everybody dreaded to receive her on his knees, it was proposed to draw forfeits at once, despite the remonstrances of Madame Monin, who was determined to sit on Monsieur Bisbis’s lap, although he swore that he had nothing to identify him.

One of the three sisters had the forfeits wrapped in the skirt of her dress. A young officer put in his hand to draw, and spent a very long time mixing them up, so that there should be no cheating. Athalie directed operations. She told the young officer to draw; but he evidently had some difficulty in getting hold, for he was a long time deciding to remove his hand from its hiding-place in the folds of the young lady’s dress. At last the forfeit was brought forth; it belonged to the school-girl, and she was told to tell somebody something in confidence. She hesitated, uncertain to whom she should turn, or rather because she was afraid to select her little cousin, at whom she glanced furtively, with a blush. But her mamma was there, so she chose Monsieur Monin for her confidant.

Monin, who had slipped behind his wife’s chair, was amazed when the girl said to him:

“Will you come with me, monsieur?”

The ex-druggist did not know what to do, so he leaned over his better half and whispered:

“Greatly to be pitied, aren’t you, for being chosen to receive a young lady’s confidence!” rejoined Madame Monin, smiling at Monsieur Bisbis.

Whereupon Monin allowed the girl to take his hand and lead him to a corner of the salon, where she whispered in his ear:

“It’s been a very fine day, monsieur.”

Monin stared at the young lady with a dazed expression.

“What must I answer?” said he.

“Nothing,” was the reply.

And the girl returned to her place, while Monin found his way back to his wife, saying to the people about him:

“It’s a pretty game! I didn’t know that I knew how to play it.”

The next forfeit was Athalie’s. She was condemned to sulk, and all the men sulked with her; and while sulking, Dalville obtained an assignation. A very pretty thing, these innocent games! Well-brought-up young ladies are forbidden to waltz, but they are permitted to give or receive confidences, to hide with a young man, or to wait in a little dark closet until the concierge of the convent is relieved; and there are always kisses to be given and received in corners, secretly, behind curtains. If I ever have a daughter, I shall allow her to waltz in my presence, but forbid her to play innocent games.

The spectacled man was condemned to pay a compliment without using the letter a. After scratching his forehead, he stepped into the middle of the circle and said with a satisfied air: “La femme est le chef-d’œuvre du monde.”

“Come and travel with me.”

The stout man submitted to be led into a small study, the door of which Madame Monin closed behind them, and Monsieur Monin, observing the manœuvre, said to one of his neighbors:

“What are they going to do in there?”

“They’re in Cythera.”

“Oh, yes! I see what it is—another confidence; she’s going to tell him that it’s a fine day to-day. I know the game now.”

After remaining some time, Bichette and her companion returned from Cythera; and some ladies noticed that the turban was somewhat out of place, and that Monsieur Bisbis did not know which leg to stand on—all of which did not prevent Monin from going to meet his wife and asking:

“Is it nice, Bichette?”

“What, monsieur?”

“At Cythera.”

“Very nice, monsieur.”

This reply was accompanied by a wanton glance at Monsieur Bisbis, who scratched his nose longer than usual, while Monin approached him with his snuff-box, saying:

“Do you take it too?”

“One minute, negro!” he said, putting out his hand toward the salver. Domingo halted, muttering:

“You want drink again?”

“What’s that? again!” cried Monin; “my word! he’s a good one, he is! I haven’t had a taste, and I’m very fond of punch.”

As he spoke Monin glanced at the salver: all the glasses were empty. The poor man was thunderstruck.

“Me come again right away.—More punch, all hot,” said Domingo, as he left the room; and Monin, for consolation, drew his snuff-box, and returned to the games, saying to himself:

“I must try to catch him sooner than I did this time.”

Madame Monin, whom the trip to Cythera had made extremely warm, said to her husband when he returned to her side:

“Go get me another glass of punch, Monsieur Monin; the one I had wasn’t half full; I am sure that it’s done on purpose so that they can pass it round oftener without making any more.”

“The negro has no more, Bichette; but he told me he’d come right back with some hot punch. So I——”

“All right, that will do. Go away now; I believe this gentleman is coming to ask me to make the pont d’amour.”

A fresh supply of punch diverted attention from the private conversations, and from the games, which were beginning to flag. Domingo was surrounded again and Monin started on the negro’s trail; but the young men who laughingly besieged the salver constantly put aside the ex-druggist, who did not reach Domingo’s side until the glasses were once more empty.

Sorely vexed, Monin returned to his wife, who had just finished her third glass and handed it to her husband to take away.

“It’s rather good, isn’t it, monsieur?” she said.

“I don’t know whether it’s good or not,” growled Monin angrily; “I haven’t succeeded yet in getting a taste of it.”

“Because you’re not clever and don’t know how to go about it. You should have seen Monsieur Bisbis, how he pounced on the salver! I thought for a minute that he was going to take all the glasses. But you’re so slow!”

“Go away from here, monsieur. They’re going to play la mer agitée and I must be in it.”

“What is agitée, Bichette?”

Seeing that his wife was paying no attention to him, it occurred to Monsieur Monin to lie in ambush at the door of the salon; in that way he hoped to be the first to seize the negro as he passed, and so make sure of some punch. Highly pleased with his scheme, Monin took his stand like a sentinel at the entrance to the salon, stuffing his nose with snuff in order to be more patient. But he waited more than half an hour and Domingo did not appear. Monin ventured to glance into the dining-room. He smelt the punch; that sweet-smelling vapor indicated that the mixture was not all consumed. He crept into the reception room, and, guided by the odor, reached a small door, which stood ajar, and discovered Domingo drinking punch, not from a small glass, but from a large porcelain pitcher. Monin was standing, speechless with surprise, in his corner, when Baptiste appeared from the servants’ quarters with a plate full of biscuits. He pushed the negro aside, tossed off several glasses in quick succession, then dipped his biscuits in the punch and ate them hurriedly, while Domingo, by way of compensation, stuffed macaroons and nutcakes into his jacket pockets.

Monin was wondering whether he should go away, or should ask the servants’ leave to take something, when Monsieur Destival, who had been calling vainly for Domingo and Baptiste in the salon, appeared on the scene and surprised them.

“Don’t yell so loud for a little punch! Don’t make such a row! I was very glad to have a drop of it myself; I’ve worked hard enough to-day.”

“What does this mean, villain? You presume to argue! You wretch! eating my biscuit too! rascal! thief!”

“Thief!” retorted Baptiste, glaring at Monsieur Destival with a furious expression; “don’t you dare to insult me—that wouldn’t be good for you! I must be mighty good-natured to stay in your old shanty, where the servants don’t get anything to eat or drink! And what about my wages for two years, that I can’t get hold of a sou of! to say nothing of the money I’ve advanced.”

“All right, Baptiste, hush!” said Monsieur Destival in a lower tone; “that’s enough, I won’t say any more.”

“But I tell you that I’m tired of it,” rejoined Baptiste, shouting louder than ever. “Oh, yes! you hire a black man and you don’t pay me any more’n you do the baker and butcher and fruit woman and grocer, whose abuse I have to listen to every morning! Well! I want my money, and if you don’t like it, I don’t care a hang; with all the airs you put on, I know what’s what.”

“Hush, for heaven’s sake, Baptiste! What’s the meaning of all this foolish talk? Come, my boy, eat another biscuit, and then go to bed.”

Baptiste’s shouting had attracted several persons from the salon.

“What is it? what’s the matter?” they asked one another; and Destival made haste to reply:

“It’s nothing; my valet is drunk and doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

Destival hastily closed the door on Baptiste’s heels and locked it.

“The poor fellow,” he said, “talks like a fool when he’s drunk; but I overlook it, because he’s very much attached to me.”

The people who had come thither pretended to believe what Monsieur Destival said, because it would have been discourteous to do otherwise; but they exchanged stealthy glances, laughed and whispered together, and made comments under their breath, while Baptiste, unable to return to the room, beat a devil’s tattoo on the door, shouting in a hoarse voice:

“My wages! pay me and discharge me; that’s just what I’d like! I get tired of hearing the row your creditors make every day.”

Luckily the closed door muffled Baptiste’s voice to some extent; and, in order that he might be heard even less distinctly, the business agent shouted louder than he:

“All right, Baptiste, all right! You’ll be sorry for this, but I forgive you; I know that you’re faithful, and that’s enough for me.”

Meanwhile Monin had seen his last hope fade away; for it was not to be presumed that the servants would bring more punch to the salon; so he returned to his wife. The guests were discussing the scene in the reception-room, even in the midst of their innocent games; and Madame Monin exclaimed:

“Mon Dieu! if I hadn’t been presenting my little box of amourettes at that moment, I shouldn’t have lost a word of what that Baptiste said. But you were there, Monsieur Monin, and heard everything. What happened?”

“Who’s he?”

“The black.”

“Who’s the black?”

“The servant in a red jacket.”

“Well?”

“Well, then he took macaroons—No, I believe it was the other one who ate biscuits first—I am not perfectly sure.”

“Oh! you tell a story wretchedly, Monsieur Monin! Instead of listening to what was said, you were engrossed by biscuit and macaroons. For shame! you are such a glutton! You go into company only to drink and eat.”

“But, Bichette, when I tell you that I didn’t——”

“Bah! hold your tongue and find my shawl; everyone’s going, you see.”

In truth, the time for departure had arrived, and the mammas had already donned their bonnets and shawls. The younger women took more time to find their wraps, and some obliging young man was always at hand to offer to help a pretty girl to find what she wanted. They still had something to say to one another before separating, and they chose to take advantage of the confusion that prevailed in the salon at that moment.

Soon the salon was nearly empty. The ladies took their leave and Auguste did likewise, well pleased that he had passed the evening without playing écarté, and to have discovered that one can enjoy oneself without losing money. When he reached home he went upstairs and rang, but no one opened the door. As Bertrand usually sat up for his master, little Tony seldom carried a key. Having rung again with no better success, Auguste reflected that Bertrand, whom he had told to go out and enjoy himself, might very well not have returned; so he sent Tony to inquire of the concierge and he remained on the landing, thinking that a few days earlier he would readily have found a place to pass the night without leaving the house.

His neighbor, who had probably heard him come upstairs and ring, donned a peignoir and left her room, candle in hand. She went down one flight and saw her neighbor calmly pacing the floor of the landing. She descended a few more stairs, coughed slightly, and decided at last to go down to him. A pretty woman is very seductive in a peignoir, with her hair loosely secured by a silk handkerchief, from beneath which a few stray locks escape and fall upon a white breast, which the peignoir never conceals altogether, because there are always one or two ill-placed pins, which betray the secrets of beauty, or, perhaps, act as its confederates.

“Can’t you get in, Monsieur Dalville?” asked Madame Saint-Edmond, in the soft voice which she could assume so readily when she was not left behind with a bill to pay.

Auguste bowed low to his neighbor and replied coldly:

“As you see, madame.”

“I trust not.”

“That would be a great pity! such a fine fellow, and so fond of you!”

Léonie heaved a profound sigh and said nothing more. Auguste leaned over the rail to see if Tony were coming up. Léonie, finding that Auguste said nothing more, decided to reopen the conversation.

“Perhaps you would like to sit in my room, monsieur, until you can get in? I should think that you would be more comfortable than on this landing.”

“I thank you, madame, but I do not wish to disturb you or to interfere with your sleep.”

“It won’t disturb me, monsieur. As for my sleep, for several days I haven’t slept at all.”

“Is it because you have lost your poodle again, madame?”

“How unkind! How you make fun of my grief!”

Léonie heaved a more profound sigh than before, and as she had no handkerchief, she lifted a corner of her peignoir and put it to her eyes. That movement discovered some very seductive things; but when one is weeping, one cannot think of everything, and when one’s eyes are covered, one cannot see what one has disclosed.

Auguste, distrusting his weakness, continued to lean over the rail, and did not take his eyes from the concierge’s door.

“Well, Tony, are you coming back to-night?” he cried.

Léonie walked to where he stood and said in a touching voice:

“Mon Dieu! what on earth have I done to you, monsieur?”

“Oh! monsieur, how can an intelligent man trust appearances?”

“It seems to me, madame, that no intelligence was required to see what I saw.”

“Why, what did you see, monsieur? May not a woman dine with a man at a restaurant without having the slightest preference for him? And you yourself, monsieur—what were you doing with that creature who had the impertinence to hold a mustard pot under my nose?”

“Oh! I am more honest than you, madame: I admit that I deceived you.”

“Ah! what an unhappy creature I am!”

And Léonie had recourse to her usual expedient—she fainted; but she was careful to fall toward Auguste, who found himself with his neighbor in his arms. At that moment little Tony came upstairs and said that it was impossible to understand what Schtrack said, as he was drunk. Auguste gently laid Léonie on the stairs and told Tony to look after her; then he went down to interview his concierge, who was half asleep and could hardly speak.