The Milkmaid of Montfermeil Part 89

"I--I lied that time, monsieur."

"How so, Denise?"

"You know, that time in my aunt's garden, when I told you that I had a sweetheart, it was because Monsieur Bertrand had told me that you didn't come to the village for fear of falling in love with me; and I longed so to see you that that was why I said I didn't love you."

"Dear Denise! is it possible?" cried Auguste, throwing his arms about her.

"Yes, that's the truth; and since then I've been awfully unhappy because I told you that; for you didn't come again, and you thought I loved somebody else."

Auguste gazed lovingly at the girl; but soon his brow grew dark; he fixed his eyes on the ground and seemed to be meditating deeply. Amazed by his silence and his depression, she drew nearer to him and said timidly:

"Are you angry because I love you?"

"Ah! Denise, it might once have made me perfectly happy--but now----"

"Well--now?"

Auguste made no reply; and after a moment she asked him:

"Will you marry me, monsieur?"

"Marry you, Denise?"

"Yes; formerly I wouldn't have dared to hope for such a thing, for you were very rich, and you couldn't have taken a village girl for your wife. But you have lost the fortune which kept you in fashionable society. You say every day that you no longer care for the fine ladies, the coquettes, who deceived you.--Now, if you want me, I am yours. I haven't a great fortune, but I have enough for us two; and I will never deceive you!"

Auguste was deeply moved by Denise's affecting offer; but he contented himself with pressing her hand and heaving a profound sigh. She impatiently awaited his reply; his silence made her think that her proposal had offended him; she walked away from him, and, unable to restrain her tears, faltered:

"I made you angry by proposing that you should marry me. Forgive me, monsieur; I forgot that I am only a peasant. I thought that you loved me."

"Ah! I love you, Denise, more than I ever loved! my feeling for you is a hundred times sweeter and fonder than the pa.s.sions which have led me into so many follies. You are only a peasant, you say! but your virtues and your good qualities make you the equal of a great lady, even though you had not in addition such lovely features, such charming ways, and a melting voice that goes to one's very heart!"

"You love me! Oh! how happy I am! Then you will take me for your wife?"

Auguste gazed tenderly at her, and said at last:

"You shall have my reply to-morrow, Denise."

"To-morrow! Why not at once? Do you need to reflect about it?"

The girl said no more. During the rest of the evening Auguste seemed more affectionate, more in love than ever; his eyes, which were constantly fixed on Denise, expressed the most genuine pa.s.sion, and when he left her, to return to his summer-house, he pressed her to his heart and seemed unable to tear himself from her arms. He left her at last, and Denise said to herself:

"Oh! he will certainly marry me! but why not say so at once?"

She did not sleep; she was too excited to close her eyes. In default of dreams, her imagination conjured up a thousand delightful pictures: she saw herself the chosen companion of the man she loved; she pa.s.sed the rest of her days with him. So charming a future is surely not inferior to the pleasantest dreams, and we do not try to sleep when we possess the reality of happiness.

Day broke at last. Denise rose and spent a longer time than usual at her toilet. That is a venial offence when a woman knows that she is going into the presence of the man whom she wishes to call her husband. She left her room and went into the garden, where she found Auguste every morning; but he was not there, and the girl was surprised that he was still asleep; for she thought that he must have been unable to sleep, like herself, and that he would be in haste to see her.

She seated herself in the shrubbery where they had talked the night before. She could see the summer-house from there, and she waited impatiently for Auguste to come out. But the door did not open, and at last Coco, whom Denise had not yet seen, came running toward her with a letter in his hand.

"Here, my dear Denise, my kind friend gave me this for you," he said, holding out the letter.

"Your kind friend! Why, have you seen Monsieur Auguste already?"

"Oh, yes! he was up before sunrise."

"Where is he now, then?"

"He kissed me and then he went away; I don't know where he went."

Denise had a presentiment of evil; she opened the letter with a trembling hand and read:

"I love you, my dear Denise; do not doubt my love; but shall I join my poverty to your comfort, after I have lost my money by my own fault? shall I bestow on you the hand of a man who has not even any knowledge of the agricultural labors by which your little property can be made profitable? No, Denise, I am not worthy to be your husband, I cannot make up my mind to live at the expense of a woman who would sacrifice a happy future for me. Doubtless your kind heart led you to offer me your hand; perhaps you even pretended to love me so as to induce me to accept your generous offer; but I must not do it. Adieu, Denise! If I should become rich again, I shall fly to you; but I have no hope of it now. Adieu! I shall come to see you when I have strength enough to look upon you as my sister."

The girl turned deadly pale and dropped the letter, crying:

"He doesn't believe in my love!"

"Well, where's my kind friend? Did he write you where he's gone?"

"Alas! he has abandoned us, he has run away from us, he thinks we don't love him!"

Denise burst into tears; the child ran to her arms and she pressed him to her heart, sobbing:

"Oh! I shall die of grief, and you must tell him that he's the cause of it; then perhaps he'll believe that I loved him!"

XXVIII

VIRGINIE AGAIN

It was very early in the morning when Auguste left the pretty little cottage where he had pa.s.sed a fortnight which he looked upon as the happiest period in his life. It was not without a mighty effort that he tore himself away from Denise; it requires a deal of courage to leave a woman whom one loves, when she has voluntarily offered one her heart.

But we must remember that Auguste had been rich, and that every feeling of pride was not extinct within his breast. His pride could not accustom itself to the idea of offering Denise the hand of a penniless unfortunate; and furthermore he feared that it was from grat.i.tude for what he had done for Coco that the girl offered him her hand. A heart bruised by misfortune is easily frightened; dread of humiliation makes us unjust; a benefaction seems like almsgiving, and consolation is nothing more than condescending pity.

With his little bundle tied to the end of his staff, Auguste started for Paris. When he saw the great city once more, he could not restrain a sigh. But he pulled his hat over his eyes and walked with lowered head, in dread of meeting some former acquaintance. However, it is no crime to be poor; why, then, should the unfortunate seem to avoid men's eyes when so many scoundrels go about with their heads in the air? Why should one be any more ashamed to say: "I haven't a sou," than to say: "I owe a hundred thousand francs"? Because in society we see and seek and care for none but those who have money; because we too often close our eyes to the source of the wealth of a mult.i.tude of schemers who cut a dash at the expense of the scores of families they have ruined, and who from their magnificent equipages look down in derision on those whom they have reduced to dest.i.tution; because we pardon all sorts of vices in the man who is able to cover them with gold, and refuse to pardon a trifling peccadillo in a poor devil; because we lavish attentions on a Messalina arrayed in silk and diamonds, and close our doors to a girl who has given herself for love to a man who cannot support her. All this is very sad, but it is all true.

Auguste was careful not to go near Rue Saint-Georges; he went in the direction of the Marais. It was necessary that he should be most economical in his outlay, and he found in an old house on Rue de Berry, a closet, said to be furnished, on the sixth floor, which he could hire for fifteen francs a month. He paid half of the first month's rent in advance.

The man who formerly pa.s.sed his life in dissipation, who set the fashion in manners and style, who was sought after and feted, for whom women disputed at parties, and whom they were proud to subjugate,--the brilliant Dalville found himself reduced to the necessity of occupying a garret and sleeping on a wretched pallet. When he entered the miserable den he had just hired, he could not control a feeling of regret, and he threw himself on a chair which wavered under him. As he glanced at the walls, only partially covered by a few tattered strips of paper; as he contemplated the furniture of his closet, and the tumbledown roofs near by, Auguste recalled old Dorfeuil's room; he remembered especially the old man's story and he dropped his head on his hands, saying:

"And that did not reform me!"

In a few moments, summoning his courage, he took his portfolio, glanced over a list that he had made of all the people who owed him money, and determined to spend the next day calling upon his debtors. At that moment, the payment of a single debt would be of great service to him; for, despite the economy with which he had travelled, he had but eleven francs left after paying his rent for a fortnight. He had given his name to the landlady as a teacher of music and drawing; but was he likely to find any pupils, and how could he live before he received the price of his lessons? Such reflections were ill adapted to make the aspect of his abode more attractive. If only his former companion had been there to comfort him and revive his courage! Again and again, impelled by the force of habit, Auguste turned and looked about the room for Bertrand; but, just as he was on the point of calling him, he remembered his desertion, and his heart was torn anew.

For a moment Auguste had thought of going to his former lodgings to inquire whether Schtrack had seen Bertrand, and whether the ex-corporal was in Paris; but he abandoned the idea when he reflected that he might meet Bertrand in the old concierge's quarters, and that he ought not to risk encountering a man who, by his ingrat.i.tude, had rendered himself unworthy of being regretted.