The Milkmaid of Montfermeil Part 92

Auguste held his peace, and Virginie said nothing further on a subject that seemed to distress him. To restore the sick man's strength, he was given no more infusions to drink; old wine and rich soups were prescribed by the doctor, and Virginie, who searched her drawers in a vain endeavor to make money, decided to sell a shawl which was her most beautiful possession, and which she almost never laid aside.

But Auguste saw how much he was costing Virginie, and his distress on that account r.e.t.a.r.ded his convalescence. He watched her as she worked incessantly, often pa.s.sing a large part of the night at her sewing, and he sighed, as he said to himself:

"She is killing herself for me! and I shall never be able to requite all her care of me!"

When Virginie returned after procuring a sum of money by means of her remaining resource, Auguste noticed that she was without the shawl she usually wore.

"Where have you been, Virginie?" he asked in a feeble voice.

"For a little walk, to take the air. I saw that you were asleep and didn't need me."

"Why aren't you wearing your shawl?"

"My shawl? Why, I didn't put it on because it's too warm."

"You had it on when you went out."

"Did I?--Well, the truth is that I've lent it to a friend of mine who's going to a party to-night; but she'll give it back."

"You are deceiving me, Virginie."

"No, monsieur, I am not deceiving you."

"I am costing you a great deal; and you deprive yourself of everything in order to take care of me, so that I may lack nothing! You are stripping yourself clean for me!"

"What are you talking about, Monsieur Auguste? I deprive myself of everything! Let me tell you, monsieur, that I deprive myself of nothing.

Who told you that I am not well fixed, that I haven't money put by?"

"And you work a great part of the night!"

"I work because it amuses me, and because I don't care to sleep. The fact is that I have all I want; I had a h.o.a.rd; I am certainly at liberty to spend it as I please.--The idea of telling me that he is a burden to me! How shameful of him! I, whom he has been kind to so many times! And he is angry because I am taking care of him!--Monsieur would prefer that somebody else should do it, perhaps. If you give me any more nonsense like that, I'll throw the stew out of the window. As for my shawl, it's true that I haven't got it now; but I didn't like it. In the first place, the color isn't in fas.h.i.+on any longer; and then I don't want a flower pattern--it's bad form."

Auguste said no more; he simply sighed as he took Virginie's hands in his; and she pretended to be more lighthearted than ever, and sang all day to prove that she did not regret her shawl.

The doctor came to see his patient; he found him much better, and complimented Virginie on her nursing. She, although she had no idea how she was going to pay him, asked him to tell her how much she owed him.

But the doctor replied that he never charged anything when he went higher than the fourth floor; and he ran away from the thanks of Auguste and Virginie, enjoining anew upon the convalescent to be careful and to wait until his strength had returned before going out.

"There's a mighty fine man!" cried Virginie, looking after the doctor.

"He isn't handsome; certainly no one can say he's handsome; in fact, one eye's smaller than the other. But for all that he's been a little Cupid in my eyes ever since I saw what zeal he showed in his care of you."

Auguste smiled; Virginie's remarks often made his eyes sparkle; but when he thought of his plight, his brow darkened and he sighed, despite all the efforts of his nurse, who said to him constantly:

"You didn't use to sigh like that when you made love to me."

Auguste was anxious to get up and go out, but he was not strong enough; and yet Virginie gave him everything that the doctor ordered. But his convalescence seemed certain to be very slow, and although she told Auguste every day that he must not worry, that she had money enough to last a long while, Virginie discovered one morning that she had nothing left of the proceeds of the sale of her shawl.

But the doctor, who had called on the evening before, had said that Auguste could eat chicken, and Virginie, after searching her boxes, her drawers and her purse, where she found nothing, muttered under her breath:

"It's no use for me to look; there's nothing to raise money on--not even enough to buy a lark; and my work won't be done till day after to-morrow! No matter! if I have to put myself in p.a.w.n, he shall eat chicken to-day!"

And Virginie put on her cap and the little neckerchief which had replaced her shawl; then, leaving Auguste still asleep, she stole softly from her room, saying to herself:

"I won't come back without a chicken."

XXIX

WHAT WAS TO BE EXPECTED.--RETURN TO THE VILLAGE

Virginie walked along the street, with no very clear idea as to where she was going; she cudgelled her brains to think of somebody who might accommodate her, but the memory is often in default when one asks it the name of a true friend. If Cezarine had been in Paris, Virginie would not have hesitated to call on her, because she knew her kindness of heart; but Cezarine was then on the track of her Theodore, who had left the capital, and her Theodore was likely to lead her a long way.

Virginie's other acquaintances offered too unpromising a prospect; there were several to whom she would not have dreamed of applying. However, the result of her reflections was always the same:--"I must have a chicken for Auguste, and I will have one. I don't know just how I shall do it; but whenever I've taken it into my head to do a thing, I've always succeeded in doing it, and it's often been a question of things much more interesting than a chicken; it would be a deuce of a go, if I couldn't acquit myself creditably in the matter of a little chicken!"

And Virginie stopped in front of poultry shops and cookshops; she walked back and forth, cudgelling her brains to no purpose; she found no money, and she heaved a sigh as she gazed at the delicacies with which she desired to regale the convalescent.

The amusing faces that Virginie made--her decent dress did not indicate want--and the way she glared at the roast chickens, made the pa.s.sers-by smile now and then, for they saw in the grisette's emotion only an outburst of gluttony; and she, seeing them smile as they looked at her, muttered between her teeth: "The idiots! Suppose they do laugh in my face--what difference does that make to me? Isn't there one of them who will be polite enough to offer me a chicken? Men are getting to be brutes!"

For ten minutes Virginie had been walking back and forth before a cookshop, beside which was the small establishment of a linen-draper.

Virginie had not noticed the proprietress, because she had no eyes for anything but the chickens; but through the gloves, ribbons and drygoods in her window, the tradeswoman had noticed Virginie, whose strange behavior was calculated to arouse curiosity. Women have a sentimental instinct which enables them to understand at once what men cannot divine in an hour, or what they cannot divine at all. The young linen-draper saw in Virginie's eyes that it was not gluttony that caused her to stand in contemplation before her neighbor's merchandise. She went out of her shop by the rear door,--her yard and that of the cookshop were the same,--entered the cookshop, purchased a fine, fat chicken, wrapped it in two thicknesses of paper, and returned to her own shop by the same road. Then she stood in her doorway and looked at Virginie, not knowing how to proffer her gift. For some time Virginie paid no heed to the young woman; but the latter gazed at her with such a meaning expression, and seemed so anxious to speak to her, that Virginie walked toward the shop-door.

The young tradeswoman at once said to her, in a low tone and blus.h.i.+ng hotly:

"Madame, you have forgotten your purse, haven't you? If you would allow me to offer you----"

And as she spoke, she thrust the chicken under Virginie's arm, trembling as if she had done a ridiculous thing; but one often trembles much more when doing a kind deed. Virginie could only squeeze the young woman's hand and say:

"You guessed my plight. Ah! if you knew how happy you have made me! if you knew why--But you will see me again; I will come again to thank you and pay my debt to you."

"Yes, yes, madame," said the young tradeswoman; and she retreated, sorely embarra.s.sed, to the back of her shop, while Virginie, light as a feather, tripped gayly homeward, her chicken under her arm, saying to herself:

"I knew that I'd get one! I never lose hope, I don't!"

However, the chicken had not yet reached Auguste. At a street corner, Virginie, who probably was looking at her feet and nothing else, was roughly jostled by a man who knocked the chicken to the ground.

"You infernal idiot!" cried Virginie, stooping to pick up the chicken.

But her voice caught the ears of the man who had jostled her, and who had simply apologized and kept on his way. He stopped, retraced his steps and exclaimed in his turn:

"Why--yes! ten thousand bayonets! it's Mamzelle Virginie! Morbleu!

perhaps she'll be able to tell me something about him."

"Hallo! it's Bertrand!" said Virginie, as she recognized the ex-corporal; "it's good old Ber--But what am I saying! he's a villain, an ungrateful, hardhearted wretch, and I don't like him any more. Let me carry my chicken--don't hold me, monsieur."

"Whether you like me or not, mademoiselle, isn't the question just at this moment. One word, if you please: have you seen him, do you know where he is, what's become of him?"

"Of whom?"