"The devil! that's a villainous fault," the latter replied, putting his glass to his lips. "A man must drink--it's a necessity--but he should be able to govern his thirst, and above all things, never lose his wits.--But, by the way, seeing this little fellow reminds me that he's the one my master's gone to see; when he left me, he said: 'I'm going to the child's cabin.'" "Oh dear! he won't find anybody there," said Denise. "And you never told us! We must go to meet him. I supposed he was at Madame Destival's.--Come, Coco, come; we are going to find your kind friend--the one you love so much." "The one you talk to me about every day, Denise?" asked the child. "Yes, your benefactor.--Are you coming with us, Monsieur Bertrand?" "Faith, Mamzelle Denise, I'm very comfortable here; and if you don't need me----" "No, no; my aunt will keep you company.--Come, Coco, let's make haste to look for your kind friend." The child asked nothing better than to go with Denise. They left Bertrand in the act of making a military salute to Mère Fourcy, who had just entered the room, and they started for the cabin. But Denise was moved by conflicting emotions, of whose source she had no very definite idea: she was happy, and yet she trembled, and her breathing was labored; and as one cannot run far under such circumstances, Denise slackened her pace. But Coco ran on ahead, because at seven years of age such emotions are unknown. Denise was so engrossed by what Bertrand had said to her, that she did not at first notice that the child had left her; but Coco was well acquainted with the roads, so that the girl was not anxious about him, and she paused a moment under a great tree, glad of an opportunity to prepare for her meeting with the young man. A thousand thoughts passed through her mind; but the one that recurred most frequently was that Auguste had come to the village again solely because he thought that she did not love him. "Is it quite certain that he thinks that?" said Denise to herself; "perhaps Monsieur Bertrand heard wrong. Is it quite true that Monsieur Auguste is such a deceiver as he says? An old soldier can't know much about all those things. But after all, what difference does it make to me, as I don't care for the young man? As Monsieur Bertrand says, what good would it do me to love him? He'd just laugh at me afterward. Oh! there's no danger of my marrying a young man from Paris.--A rake, a seducer, fickle----" Having reflected thus, the maiden arranged her neckerchief, adjusted her cap, retied her apron, and looked down at herself, murmuring: "Oh dear! how tumbled I am! If I had known this morning--if I could have guessed. That gentleman won't think me pretty again--Bah! it's all one to me; but a body don't like to look as if she was careless and hadn't any taste."