the ladies—that I set about causing them pain?”

“No, lieutenant; on the contrary, I am well aware that you would like to give pleasure to all the young beauties you meet; but it is that very pleasure that leads to regret and cares; and you yourself—for, as I was saying just now, the great Turenne——”

Auguste had ceased to listen to Bertrand; he had put his head out of the window and was watching a young peasant who had just come out of the forest and was walking along the same road that our travellers were following, driving before her an ass laden with baskets, in which were a number of the tin cans in which milk is carried to the people of Paris by the village women.

As the ass did not move as fast as Bébelle, Auguste drew in his horse and made him walk, in order to see the girl as long as possible.

“Shall I touch Bébelle up?” asked Bertrand, surprised to find that they continued to go at a walk.

“No, no—she’s going well enough.”

“Yes, lieutenant, you will be very wise to turn virtuous—virtuous for you, I mean; if you don’t, your income won’t be enough to pay all your expenses. You have appointed me your steward, so I can venture to talk figures with you; and, although I’m not a great mathematician, I can see plainly enough that when you’re forever dipping into a cash-box, it is soon empty. This year you don’t seem to be lucky at that infernal game you play so often—you know, lieutenant, the game in which you turn the kings——”

“Fresh complexion—a pretty figure—lovely eyes—it’s extraordinary, I swear!”

“And then the cashmere shawls you send to one, and the milliner’s bill that you pay for another——”

“And all these charms in a milkmaid!”

“What’s that? a milkmaid? Do you mean to say that you pay their bills too, lieutenant?”

“Who in the devil said anything about bills? Just look at that sweet child on the road yonder.”

“Well! she’s a milkmaid—that’s the whole story!”

“You don’t see how pretty she is. And that sly smile, every time her eyes turn in our direction.”

“Perhaps she wants to sell us some cream cheese?”

“Blockhead! to see nothing but cheese! I tell you that sackcloth waist, that double linen neckerchief, so high in the neck, conceal a multitude of treasures.”

“Treasures! treasures! Parbleu! one can guess very nearly what they conceal, although appearances are often deceitful. But such treasures aren’t scarce; is it on account of the little milkmaid that we’re going now like a load of flour?”

“No, no, it’s because I am beginning to get tired of the cabriolet. The weather is so fine; I feel that it will do me good to walk. We’re only a little way from Monsieur Destival’s now. Here, Bertrand, take the reins; I’ll do the rest of the distance on foot.”

“What, lieutenant, you mean to——”

Auguste had already stopped his horse; he jumped lightly to the ground despite Bertrand’s grumbling, and said:

“Go on with Tony.”

“But what shall I tell Monsieur Destival?”

“That I am coming; I shall be there as soon as you.”

“But——”

“Bertrand, I insist.”

Bertrand said no more; but he cast an angry glance at the little milkmaid, and lashed Bébelle, who soon left Auguste far behind.

II

THE FALL

The damsel went her way, with a branch of walnut in her hand, driving her ass before her, apparently oblivious of the fact that the young man had alighted from his cabriolet. She did not look back, but contented herself with calling out from time to time: “Go on there, White Jean;” and White Jean went none the faster.

Auguste soon overtook the milkmaid. He walked behind her a few moments, to examine her; she was well-built, so far as one could judge of her shape beneath the thick wrapper in which she was muffled; her foot was certainly small, although encased in heavy shoes, and her woolen stockings covered a shapely leg, which he could examine at his leisure, for a milkmaid wears very short skirts.

Auguste stepped forward; the girl looked up and seemed surprised to see the young man of the cabriolet walking by her side. But she turned her head away, with another “go on!” to her ass, in which there was no touch of romance.

Our young exquisite gazed closely at the girl, who wore a cap perched on top of her head, which concealed none of her features.

“She is very pretty,” he said to himself; “fine eyes, a pretty mouth, a complexion like the rose; but nothing extraordinary, after all. Her freshness is the freshness of a village girl; she’s a mere country beauty, and I should have done as well to stay in the carriage. However, as I have alighted, I may as well try to gain something by it.”

And the young man continued to stare at the milkmaid, with a smile on his face; but she, apparently annoyed by the fine gentleman’s scrutiny, said to him sharply:

“Shall you soon be through looking at me?”

“Isn’t it within the law to admire you?”

“No, I don’t like to have anyone eye me like that.”

“If you weren’t so pretty, people would look at you less.”

“If this is the way you talk to your ladies in Paris, you must have lots of faces in your head! When you look at a body so close, you’ll know her again; but here among us, we don’t call it decent; and you’d better not come here to play monkey tricks like this!”

“I made a mistake in leaving the cabriolet,” thought Auguste. However, he continued to walk beside the girl, and said to her after a moment:

“Are you a milkmaid?”

“Pardi! anyone can see that. Have you just guessed it?”

“Will you sell me some milk?”

“I haven’t got any.”

“Do you carry it to Paris?”

“I don’t go so far as that.”

“Where do you come from?”

“You’re very inquisitive.”

The girl’s tone was not encouraging, and Auguste looked along the road to see whether he could still see his cabriolet; but it had disappeared, for White Jean stopped very often to eat leaves or grass, despite the blows with the switch which his mistress bestowed on him.

“Do you know,” said Auguste, “you are not very agreeable, my lovely child? You are so pretty that I thought you would be gentler, less savage.”

“That’s just it! monsieur thought he was going to turn my head with his flattery! But I’m used to meeting young men from Paris; it’s always the same old song; they think they can make themselves welcome just by telling me I’m pretty! Oh! you’re a parcel of flatterers! but I don’t listen to you, you see!”

“I should like to hear anyone deny again that virtue has its home in the village!” said Auguste to himself. “It is clear enough to my mind that the country is the place where we find the pure morals of the ancient patriarch, the models of virtue celebrated by the poets, the—That devil of a Bertrand needn’t have driven Bébelle so fast; he must have done it from pure mischief! And when I said that we were almost there I was lying. It’s at least three-quarters of a league farther!”

To complete the young man’s discomfiture, the milkmaid turned aside from the high road into a path that led through the woods. Auguste stood for a moment hesitating at the entrance to the path. Should he follow his cabriolet? or should he follow the girl? The first course was the more sensible, and that was his reason no doubt for deciding in favor of the second.

The time that Auguste had passed in indecision had allowed the milkmaid to get some distance ahead of him; she walked along the path, and, thinking that the young man had followed the highroad, she sang as she drove White Jean in front of her: