"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."