"I don't know whether it's possible, but I know that it sometimes happens." "Don't worry, Monsieur Bertrand, I shall never have any feeling but friendship for Monsieur Auguste; and if it's the dread of my loving him that keeps him from coming to the village, why, tell him he can come as often as he likes. Denise knows only too well that she isn't capable of winning the heart of a city gentleman; she won't ever forget it." "Bravo! that's what I call talking, my dear child. I drink to your virtue,--and, as you see, I leave no heel-taps.--But what's the matter, pray? are you crying?" "No, Monsieur Bertrand, no; you see, I should be very sorry to--But it's all over now. Monsieur Auguste won't be afraid any more to come to see his little protégé. He won't let two months go by again, without coming." "Oh! that depends. At Paris, you know, Mamzelle Denise, my master don't have a minute to himself; he's always at some party or some entertainment! People fight to see who shall have him! He gets ten invitations a day." "Oh, yes! he don't have time to think of the village. Is he so very rich then, your Monsieur Auguste?" "Rich? Yes, to be sure, he is as yet; but if he keeps on at this rate, he won't be rich long!--Your health, Mamzelle Denise." "What do you mean by that, Monsieur Bertrand?" "Oh! nothing, nothing!--At any rate, I ought not to presume to criticise. Monsieur Dalville's money's his own; let him give it to women who deceive him, to grisettes who ruin him; let him pay for furniture and rugs and calico dresses--it's none of my business; I must just obey and pay; but it makes me feel bad because--damnation!--what with women on one side and écarté on the other----" "What's écarté, Monsieur Bertrand?" "Oh! that's a little game at which people ruin themselves while they imagine they're enjoying themselves. They say it's a delightful game, because it's played so fast. For my part, I think it's played much too fast; but Monsieur Auguste gambles so as to do like the others. That's his business. Besides, if he chooses to ruin himself, why, you understand, subordination before everything.--Your health, Mamzelle Denise." Denise was greatly surprised by what she had heard; she was wondering whether she ought to believe Bertrand, who continued to drink and talk, when Coco came bounding into the room. "Who is that child?" queried Bertrand. "The little boy to whom Monsieur Auguste gave so many tokens of his generosity." "He's a pretty little fellow.--Come here, my boy; get up on my knee--so. Haven't you got any father or mother, little white head?" "Yes, monsieur, I've got Papa Calleux," Coco replied, looking up at Bertrand. "What does Papa Calleux do?" "He works in the fields." "He's a drunkard," Denise whispered to Bertrand.