The meal, enlivened by Auguste's sallies, Bertrand's bumpers, and the child's artless joy, aroused an unfamiliar sentiment in each of those who partook of it. Mère Fourcy, bursting with pride at the idea of dining with such a fine gentleman, sat a foot away from the table, and did not lift her glass without saluting the company. Bertrand was deeply gratified to sit at table with his lieutenant; and, desirous to prove that he was ever mindful of the respect he owed him, he maintained while eating the attitude with which he would present arms; he did not lift his eyes from his plate, even to fill his neighbor's glass, the result being that he sometimes missed it. The child laughed and chattered, played with Auguste, and fed his goat. Denise spoke very little; she was embarrassed and did not eat, and yet she was conscious of being very happy, seated beside the hare-brained youth who kissed every girl he saw, and who had the secret of winning the love even of those to whom he did not make love. Auguste had never been in such high spirits as at that meal: he caressed the child, he joked with Mère Fourcy, he forced Bertrand to drink with him; it seemed to him that the fresh, pure air of the fields set him free from all the trammels of society, and that he breathed more freely, happy to be rid for a moment of etiquette and gallantry. "Bertrand," said the young man, filling his glass; "I really believe that I am happier here than at a sumptuously-laden table, surrounded by pretty women covered with jewels, and served by an army of footmen." "Here, monsieur, you see nobody but people who care for you, and who will not ruin you by compliments and courtesies." "Well, Bertrand, when the others have ruined me, this is where I will come to seek consolation for the ingratitude of men and the perfidy of women. But you say nothing, Denise; does that mean that you don't approve of my plan?" "No, monsieur," the girl replied under her breath; and her aunt exclaimed: "Come, speak up, my child; you don't eat and you don't talk! Something's the matter, sure." "It's a fact," said Auguste, "that you don't seem to share our merriment. What is the matter, Denise?" "The matter, monsieur? Why, nothing, I give you my word." "And I give you my word that something is the matter!" cried Mère Fourcy. "Pardi! for some time she's been all turned round; she don't like dancing, she don't like games, she don't know what she does like. But I know all about it, I tell you; when a girl gets to be like that, it means that she's thinking about something.--Well, you needn't blush for that, my child; you're a good girl, as everyone knows; but that don't keep you from thinking about getting married, and I hope monsieur'll do us the honor to come to the wedding." "Yes, most assuredly," said Auguste, with a slight grimace; "yes, Denise, I shall be delighted to be a witness of your happiness; and as you love someone--You didn't tell me that you had made your choice."