Denise’s face was no longer the same; an angry expression is not becoming to a pretty face, and features that are made to inspire love should never express wrath. But they soon emerged from the woods and descended a hill, at the foot of which lay Montfermeil.

“There’s my village,” said Denise; “and look, do you see my ass trotting along down there? Oh! I knew he’d go right home.—Have you got business in the neighborhood?”

“No, not exactly. I am going to Monsieur Destival’s country place. Do you know it?”

“To be sure; I carry milk to them, when Madame Destival stays there in summer. She always tells me to be careful about her little cheeses. You see, I make nice ones. I carried them a bigger one this morning, because Mamzelle Julie, madame’s maid, told me they expected company from Paris.”

“That being so, I probably shall have the pleasure of tasting your cheeses.”

“But if you’re going to Monsieur Destival’s, you mustn’t go to the village. I’ll show you what road you must take.”

“It will be much kinder of you to go with me and show me the way; as you are not anxious about your ass, there is nothing to hurry you.”

“Oh, no! monsieur! I see that you’re all right, but you’re too fond of kissing the girls. Besides, my aunt is waiting for me. It’s after noon, and our dinner-time.—Look, monsieur, take that road that goes up the hill yonder, then the first turn to the left, then the grass-grown road, and you’ll find yourself at the place where you’re going.”

“I shall never remember all that. You will be responsible for my losing my way.”

“You shouldn’t have left your carriage.”

“It was your lovely eyes that turned my head.”

“Ah! you’re going to begin again. Go along, quick, or they’ll eat the cream cheese without you.”

“I should be very sorry for that, as it was you who made it.”

“The road up the hill—then turn to the left—then the grass-grown road. Adieu, monsieur.”

“One more kiss, Denise.”

“No, no; that sort of thing shouldn’t be repeated too often; you’d soon get tired of it.”

And Denise hurried down the hill toward the village. Auguste followed her with his eyes for a long while, saying to himself:

“She’s very pretty, and she’s bright too! What a pity that she doesn’t live in Paris!—What am I saying? If she were in Paris, she’d look like all the rest; it’s because she’s a milkmaid that her face and her wit have impressed me.—Well, I will follow the directions she gave me, and arrive as soon as possible. I am sure that they are impatient for me to come; poor Bertrand won’t know what to say, and Madame Destival will pout at me—how she will pout!—And great heaven! these scratches! how in the devil am I to explain them? Faith, I scratched myself picking nuts. It’s a pity that nuts don’t have thorns. But no matter, they may think what they choose.”

So Auguste decided to resume his journey; but he cast another glance at Denise’s village, and murmured as he walked away:

“I shall come again and make Montfermeil’s acquaintance.”

III

THE CHILD AND THE BOWL

Auguste followed the road that Denise had pointed out to him, his thoughts still fixed on the little milkmaid. The most fickle of men remembers the last woman who has succeeded in attracting him, until some new and pleasing object, causing him to feel other desires, effaces from his mind the charms of which he has lately dreamed.

Suddenly the sound of tears and lamentations roused the young man from his reverie. He looked about and spied, some ten yards away, by a large tree, a little boy of six years at most, dressed like a peasant’s child, in a little jacket, trousers torn in several places, no stockings, and heavy wooden shoes; his head was bare, protected only by a forest of fair hair.

Auguste walked toward the little fellow, who wept lustily, and gazed with an air of stupefaction at the fragments of an earthen vessel at his feet, the former contents of which were spilled on the road. The child did not turn to look at the person who spoke to him, all his thoughts being concentrated on the broken vessel; he could do nothing but weep, raising to his head and eyes from time to time a pair of very grimy little hands, which, being wet by his tears, smeared his chubby face with mud.

“Why, what makes you cry so, my boy?” asked Auguste, stooping in order to be nearer the child.

The little fellow raised for an instant a pair of light-blue eyes, about which his little hands had drawn circles of black; then turned them again upon the pieces of broken crockery, muttering:

“I’ve broke the bowl—hi! hi! and papa’s soup was in it—hi! hi! I’ll get a licking, like I did before—hi! hi!”

“The deuce! that would be a misfortune, and no mistake! But stop crying, my boy, perhaps we can fix it all right. You say that you were carrying soup to your father?”

“Yes, and I broke the bowl.”

“So I see. But why do they make you carry such a big bowl? You’re too small as yet. How old are you, my boy?”

“Six and a half—and I broke the bowl, and papa’s soup——”

“Yes, yes, it’s on the ground; you mustn’t think any more about it.”

“It was cabbage soup—hi! hi!”

“Oh! I can smell it. But don’t cry any more. I promise you that you shan’t be whipped.”

“Yes, I shall; I broke the bowl, and grandma told me to be very careful.”

“Come, listen to me: what’s your name?”

“Coco—and I’ve broke the bowl.”

“Well, my little Coco, I’ll give you money to buy another bowl, and to have three times as much cabbage soup made. I hope you won’t cry any more now.”

As he spoke, Auguste took a five-franc piece from his pocket and put it in the child’s hand; but Coco stared at the coin with his big blue eyes open wider than ever, and continued none the less to sob bitterly, saying:

“Papa’ll lick me, and so will grandma too.”

“What! when you give them that money?”

“Papa’s waiting for the soup for his dinner; and when he sees me without the bowl—”

“Well,” thought Auguste, “I see that I must take it on myself to arrange this matter. It will make me still later; but this little fellow is so pretty! and they are quite capable of beating him, despite the five-franc piece. I wasted one hour making love to a milkmaid, I can afford to sacrifice a second to save this child a thrashing.—Come, Coco; off we go, my boy! Take me to your father; I’ll tell him that it was I who knocked the bowl out of your hands as I passed, and I’ll promise that you won’t be beaten.”

Coco looked at Auguste, then turned his eyes on the remains of the vessel, from which he was very reluctant to part. But Dalville took his hand, and the child concluded at last to start. On the way Auguste tried to make him talk, to divert him from his terror.

“What does your father do, my boy?”

“He works in the fields.”

“And his name?”

“Papa Calleux.”

“Papa Calleux evidently is not very pleasant, as you’re so afraid of him. And your mother?”

“She’s dead.”

“Then it’s your grandmother who makes the cabbage soup?”

“Yes, and she told me to be very careful and not break the bowl, like I did the other time.”

“Aha! so you’ve broken one before, have you?”

“Yes, and there wasn’t anything in it; but they licked me.”

“You don’t seem to be lucky with bowls. But the idea of whipping such a little fellow! These peasants must be very hardhearted. Poor boy! he is still sobbing; and he isn’t seven years old! So there’s no age at which we haven’t our troubles.”

The boy