are altogether false? No; on the contrary, I think that it's barbarous
to try to win a girl's whole heart, to inspire a great passion, and then
to leave your victim to waste her best days in tears and despair."

"Why do you say this to me? I still love Sister Anne; I am not
unfaithful to her. Is it my fault that my father dragged me back to
Paris all of a sudden? and that it has been impossible for me to absent
myself since then? Most certainly I shall see her again, I shall not
abandon her; she is still dear to me."

"Pshaw! Frédéric, don't talk that humbug to me! Do you want to make me
believe that my nose is crooked? I tell you, I'm an old hand, and I am
not to be hoodwinked; indeed, I may have read your heart better than you
have yourself. You no longer love Sister Anne, or at least you are no
longer enamored of her; for you are burning now for this fascinating
Constance, who is a perfect image of the poor dumb girl, except that she
is taller and stouter, has darker eyes and a different complexion,
and----"

"No, no, Dubourg! I swear that I am not in love with Constance; I love
her--like a brother--but no word of love has ever passed my lips."

"Well, I give you my word that that will soon come. Oh! it's of no use
for you to look up at the sky; I tell you that you are in love with
Mademoiselle Constance. I don't charge you with it as a crime; it's
perfectly natural: she is pretty, she attracts you--and why not? But
what I do blame is your prowling about in the woods after that poor
little creature who has no knowledge of the world or men, and who
yielded to your seductions and believed all your oaths, because they
were the first oaths she had ever heard. What was wrong was your
inspiring in her heart an exalted passion, which will ruin her life,
because she has nothing there in the woods to divert her thoughts. If,
yielding to a sudden temptation, you had seduced her and then left her
at once, the pain would have been sharp, but it wouldn't have lasted so
long; she wouldn't have had time to love you so dearly; but you always
have to run things into the ground. You abandon everything to live in
the woods--in order not to be separated from her; for six weeks, you
don't leave her for a single moment; you eat nuts together and lie on
the grass; you would live on roots, if need be, in order to speak of
love to her. How in the devil do you think that that can fail to turn
her head? The girl has reached a point where she cannot do without you;
she lives and breathes for you alone; she imagines that that sort of
life will last forever; and then--presto! my gentleman vanishes;
good-evening, it's all over! Weep, and tear your hair! you won't see him
again.--But I have seen her, and I'm almighty sorry; for I fancy that I
see her still, pale, dishevelled, walking without seeing, listening
without hearing, and, absorbed by a single thought, keeping her
tear-dimmed eyes fixed on the road by which he went away; then returning
to her poor cabin, to weep on; and so again the next day, and forever!
And remember that she has not even the one poor consolation of the
unhappy, the power to complain and pour her sorrows into a friend's
bosom. That is what you have caused, and it isn't the noblest chapter in
your history. That is what you would have avoided if you had not
followed the guidance of your romantic ideas, or if you had paid your
addresses to women of the world only."

Frédéric made no response; he seemed to be lost in thought.

"My friend," continued Dubourg, taking his hand, "I have told you just
what I think; you ought not to be angry. Moreover, all that one can say
to a lover never makes any difference; he always follows his own
impulses solely. I know, too, that you cannot marry Sister Anne.
Parbleu! if a man had to marry all the charmers he has loved, I should
have as many wives as King Solomon. I tell you simply that it gave me
great pain to---- But, enough of that! I am none the less your friend,
do with me as you will. Adieu! I am going to dine at a thirty-two-sou
ordinary, because when a man has an income of sixteen hundred francs a
year and wants to keep it, he doesn't go to Beauvilliers."

Long after Dubourg had gone, Frédéric remained where he had left him,
absorbed in his reflections. Argue as he would, Dubourg had opened his
eyes to the state of his heart, and, although he still tried to delude
himself, he knew that he was no longer the dumb girl's devoted, ardent,
faithful lover, who was ready to sacrifice everything in order to pass
his days with her.

It is hard for a man to admit his faults to himself, and even when he
does he always finds some excuse to palliate his conduct, and says to
himself that he could not have done otherwise. Especially in love do we
reason thus, and the last passion, being always the strongest, speedily
vanquishes its predecessor.

Frédéric, cudgelling his brains for some means of repairing the wrong he
had done, said to himself:

"I will see Sister Anne again, I will not leave her to pass her life in
a wretched hovel, cut off from all intercourse with society; I will buy
her a pretty cottage, with a lovely garden, and some cows and sheep; I
will surround her with everything that will make her life pleasant and
happy; I will find some village girl, of her own age, to wait upon her,
whose presence will enliven her; she will live there with old
Marguerite, and she shall have everything that she needs; the sight of
her neighbors, of the passers-by, and of the people at work in the
fields, with her own household cares, will drive away her melancholy; I
will go to see her sometimes, and she will be happy."

Happy, without Frédéric! No; to Sister Anne, that was impossible.
Comfort, even wealth, would not compensate her for the loss of her love;
for Sister Anne was not brought up in Paris; she could not conceive that
anyone could prefer diamonds and fine clothes to joys of the heart, or
that a wrong could be atoned for with gold. Nor, five months earlier,
could Frédéric have conceived it; but as he could readily do so now, it
was natural that he should believe that Sister Anne could do the same:
we judge others' hearts by our own.

For several days, Frédéric, tormented by what Dubourg had said to him,
had the dumb girl's image constantly before his eyes; even when he was
with Constance, his melancholy, which had at one time almost
disappeared, seemed to weigh upon him more heavily than ever. The
general and his niece had returned to Paris. Frédéric was able to see
Constance every day. But he trembled when he entered her presence, and
she, though surprised by his dejection, dared not ask him the cause of
it; but her eyes, when they met Frédéric's, spoke for her, and revealed
all the concern she felt for his secret sorrow, and often, too, her
longing to know its cause.

In his desire to be relieved from his anxiety, and to have news of
Sister Anne, Frédéric several times urged Dubourg to go to Vizille, to
see the poor girl and try to comfort her. But on that point Dubourg was
immovable.

"I will not go," he said; "I saw her once, and that was quite enough. I
have no desire to see her again, and then have unpleasant thoughts for
six weeks--I, who never knew what such thoughts were. Besides, my
presence would not comfort her; she wouldn't believe anything that I
could say to her, because I lied to her once; so my journey would do no
good and would not change her plight at all."

As he could not induce Dubourg to take the journey, Frédéric decided to
ask his father's permission to leave Paris for a fortnight. Not until
after long hesitation did he determine upon that step; but his remorse
was troublesome, he was constantly tormented by the memory of the poor
mute, and he was persuaded that he would be calmer and less
conscience-stricken after he had seen her.

For some time past, the count had treated his son most affectionately;
convinced that he had entirely forgotten the person who had fascinated
him during his stay in Dauphiné, and having no doubt of his love for
Mademoiselle de Valmont, the count had entirely laid aside his former
sternness of manner with Frédéric; he hoped soon to see the plan he had
formed successfully carried out, being confident in advance of the
general's consent; so that he was greatly surprised when his son asked
his permission to leave Paris for a few days.

The Comte de Montreville's brow became clouded and severe, and Frédéric,
who was accustomed to tremble before his father, anxiously awaited his
reply.

"Where do you want to go?" asked the count, after a brief silence.

Frédéric attempted to stammer some pretext, but the count did not give
him time.

"Don't try to beat about the bush; I don't like it. You are still
thinking of a woman who interested you during your journey, and for
whom, I know, you committed a thousand follies. I thought, I confess,
that you had become reasonable; I thought that the memory of that fancy
had long since vanished from your mind--I do not say from your heart,
for the heart has no concern in such affairs."

"Ah! father, if you knew her!"

"Enough, monsieur! You do not propose to marry your conquest, I presume?
Still, it is possible that you have some wrongs to undo. I do not know
this girl. Perhaps you are more culpable than I think; perhaps she whom
you seduced, or led astray, is now cast off and abandoned through your
fault, and is living in want. If her misfortunes can be mended with
money, you may be sure that I will not spare it, monsieur; but I will
attend to the business, not you."

"You, father?"

"Yes, monsieur, I; I shall be better able to arrange it than anyone
else. So you need not leave Paris now. Besides," the count continued,
after a moment's thought, "your presence here is indispensable. The
general expects to marry his niece to a young colonel, who will probably
arrive in Paris very soon."

"The general expects to marry his niece!" echoed Frédéric. Already his
features had assumed a different expression: sadness and melancholy were
succeeded by violent emotion, a jealous perturbation which was manifest
in his excited glance, and which made it impossible for him to remain
seated. His voice trembled, and, as he questioned his father, it seemed
as if his life or death hung upon the answer he was to receive.

"Yes," said the count, in an indifferent tone, pretending not to notice
Frédéric's state of mind, "yes; and, for my part, I see nothing
surprising about it."

"And--this colonel is coming to Paris? Do you know him, father? Is he
young? Is he supposed to be handsome? Mademoiselle de Valmont loves him,
of course?"

"You don't think that I am in Mademoiselle de Valmont's confidence, do
you? She met the colonel in society, I presume. I believe he's a young
man of twenty-eight or thirty."

"Good-looking?"

"Oh! whether he's good-looking or ugly, isn't an honorable man always
attractive?"

"And this marriage is all arranged?"

"So it seems."

"And Mademoiselle Constance has never mentioned it to me!"

"Why on earth should she have told you beforehand of something that a
well-bred young woman never mentions?"

"Oh! of course--I had no claim--there was no reason why I should
know--and still, I should have thought----"

"Besides, it is possible that the general hasn't mentioned his plans to
his niece as yet."

"And this is the reason why I must stay in Paris?"

"To be sure; at such times, there are innumerable details to be attended
to--clothes and presents and wedding festivities; the general, being
accustomed to camp life, knows nothing about such things; a bachelor
always needs advice, and he relies on you to help him."

"Indeed! that's very kind of him; I am highly flattered that he
considers me good enough for that."

"So, Frédéric, I say again that you must not think of leaving Paris
now."

This argument was no longer necessary. The count left the house to call
upon his old friend, to whom he had something to say privately; and
Frédéric, long after his father's departure, was completely crushed by
what he had learned. Poor Sister Anne! your image had vanished.

Pale and excited, hardly able to breathe, Frédéric paced the floor of
his apartment, now throwing himself into a chair for a moment, then
springing abruptly to his feet, sighing, and clenching his fists
convulsively. It was in that frame of mind that Dubourg found him when
he came to bid him good-bye, for Frédéric had told him of his projected
journey.

"What in God's name is the matter, Frédéric?" he said, pausing in the
doorway, alarmed to see him in that condition. "Come, won't you speak,
instead of rushing about like this and banging the furniture?"

"Who would have believed it? who would have thought it?" said Frédéric,
dropping into a chair. "Ah! these women!"

"Oho! so it's a question of women, is it? I begin to feel less alarmed."

"With such an honest face, such lovely eyes, to conceal such perfidy!
for it is perfidy! she ought to have told me that she loved another. To
welcome me so cordially! to seem so pleased to see me! Oh! it's
horrible!"

"There's no doubt of that. Whom are you talking about?"

"Mademoiselle de Valmont--Constance. She is so lovely! so sweet!"

"Oh, yes! and she looks so much like Sister Anne!"

"Would you believe, my friend, that she is going to be married--to a
young colonel whom I don't know, but whom she loves--that goes without
saying; whom I have never seen, and who is coming to Paris very soon to
marry her?"

"Mademoiselle de Valmont is going to be married?"

"Yes, Dubourg."

"Well, what difference does that make to you? you don't love her; you're
not in love with her; no word of love has ever passed your lips; you are
her brother, her friend, nothing more. You told me this yourself, within
a month."

"No, I certainly do not love her; but one owes some regard, some mark of
confidence, to a friend; and when you see a person every day----"

"Oho! you see her every day, do you?"

"She might have told me, have let fall a hint. Ah! I never would have
believed it, Constance!"

"By the way, have you given up going to Dauphiné? I say--Frédéric!
Frédéric!"

But he was already far away, running like a madman to Mademoiselle de
Valmont; and Dubourg left the house, saying to himself:

"He's a good one to accuse women of perfidy! Ah! these men!--I must go
and dine. I don't know how it has happened, but I am already in debt at
my restaurant, and the month has only half gone!"

When Frédéric reached the general's house, he had formed no plan of
action, and had no idea what he was going to say or do. He entered the
house, where his was a familiar presence, and walked rapidly through
several rooms to the salon where Constance usually sat. She was there,
seated at her piano. Seeing that she was intent upon her music and as
placid as ever, Frédéric stood for a moment, gazing at her.

Constance turned her head when she heard footsteps. She smiled when she
recognized her visitor, whose excitement she did not notice at once.

"Is it you, monsieur," she said; "I am glad you have come; you are a
good musician and can help me decipher this piece."

The young man did not reply, but continued to gaze at Constance, who,
being accustomed to his peculiar and often taciturn humor, did not at
first observe that anything was wrong; but, finding that he did not
approach, she turned again, and then his evident excitement did not
escape her notice.

"What is the matter, monsieur?" she asked, with manifest concern; "you
seem excited."

"Oh! nothing's the matter, mademoiselle; what could be the matter?"

"I am sure I don't know; you are not in the habit of telling me your
troubles."

There was a faint tinge of reproach in the tone in which Constance made
this remark. Frédéric sat down beside her, and seemed to try to read in
her eyes; never before had he looked at her with such an expression, and
Constance, in her surprise, felt that she was blushing, and averted her
lovely eyes.

"You are afraid that I shall guess what is taking place in your heart,"
said Frédéric, affecting an ironical tone to dissemble his suffering.

"I, monsieur! on my word, I don't know what you mean; I don't understand
you. Why should I fear to allow my thoughts to be read? I am conscious
of no guilt; and if it were otherwise, you are not the one to reprove
me."

"Oh! certainly not! you are entirely free as to your feelings,
mademoiselle; I know that I have no claim to your heart."

"Mon Dieu! what is the matter, Monsieur Frédéric? really, you alarm me;
your agitation is not natural."

"What is the matter! Ah! Constance, you love another, and you ask me
that question!"

Mademoiselle de Valmont was speechless with surprise; Frédéric had never
called her by that name before, and are not the words: "You love
another" equivalent to: "You should love no one but me"? A wave of
blissful emotion surged in Constance's heart, which beat faster and with
greater force; joy and happiness shone in her eyes, and her voice was
softer than ever, as she said:

"I, love another! Mon Dieu! what does he mean? Explain yourself,
Frédéric: I don't understand."

The dear girl had understood but one thing, and that was that Frédéric
did not want her to love another; and that was enough to make her
understand that he loved her. For a long time, she had hoped that she
had inspired the sweetest of sentiments in Frédéric's heart; but he had
never said a word to her on the subject, nothing that signified: "I love
you;" and even when everything tends to that conclusion, a woman longs
none the less to hear the words.

Again Frédéric was silent; he sighed long and loud, but said nothing.

"Will you speak, monsieur? what has happened to disturb you so
to-day?--what have I done to deserve your reproaches? Explain yourself
clearly; I insist upon it--do you hear, monsieur? I insist upon it."

The expression of her voice was so tender that Frédéric could not resist
the temptation to look at her again, and doubtless her eyes were in
accord with her voice, for he gazed at them several minutes in a sort of
ecstasy; but suddenly he cried again:

"What an unhappy wretch I am!"

"You unhappy, Frédéric? Why so?"

"You are going to be married."

"Married! This is the first I've heard of it."

"Oh! it's useless for you to try to conceal it from me; I know all,
mademoiselle: I know that your future husband will be here in a few
days, that he's a colonel, and that you love him."

"What do you say? a colonel? and I love him? Upon my word, this is
rather strong! What is the name of this colonel I am going to marry, if
you please?"

"His name! Faith! I forgot to ask that. But you must know perfectly well
whom I mean. Will you say that you don't know a colonel?"

"Several colonels have called on my uncle, but----"

"Ah! several of them--you admit it now."

"Who told you, monsieur, that I am going to be married?"

"Someone who is absolutely certain of it: my father, who learned it from
your uncle."

"From my uncle? Why, I can't understand this at all."

"You pretend not to understand; but, I doubt not, you are impatiently
waiting for your future husband's arrival."

Constance reflected for some little time, then replied in a tone which
she struggled to make indifferent:

"Really, monsieur, I am very much surprised by what you have told me;
but, after all, suppose it to be true that I am to be married--how does
it concern you? I imagine that it is a matter of the utmost indifference
to you."

"Ah! you think that, do you? You are quite right, mademoiselle; of
course, it cannot make any difference to me."

"Very well! then why do you ask me all these questions, monsieur?"

"Why? O Constance! are you going to be married? and this colonel--do you
really love him?"

"And if I did love anyone--would that cause you any grief?"

She was determined to force him to the wall and make him avow his
sentiments. Frédéric could contain himself no longer; his heart could
not keep its secret.

"Yes," he cried, "I love you, I adore you! I shall die if you marry
another man!"

"He loves me!--Ah! it's very lucky that I have extorted that from you! I
thought you would never say it."

And the blushing girl gave her hand to Frédéric, who had fallen at her
feet; and he covered that hand with kisses, while she said to him with
deep earnestness:

"Ah! Frédéric, I love you, too. I shall never love anyone else. Why, my
dear, did you not long ago say those words, which make me so happy, and
which I have been expecting so long? My uncle is very fond of me; he
will never do anything to make me unhappy. If it be true that he has
planned a marriage for me--he has never mentioned the subject--why, he
must abandon it, for I will tell him that I will marry no one but you,
that you alone can obtain my heart and hand; and he will consent, I am
certain of it. He is fond of you too, Frédéric; indeed, who would not
be? You see, you do wrong to be sad and depressed, and to conceal your
sorrows from me. My dear, I read your heart long ago; should you not
have been able to read mine?"

Frédéric replied only by protestations of love; he was beside himself
with joy; Mademoiselle de Valmont's avowal had disturbed his reason; not
without difficulty did she succeed in calming him, and he did not leave
her until she had repeated her solemn promise that she would never give
her hand to another.

Frédéric left the house in a very different frame of mind from that in
which he had entered it. The certainty that Constance loved him had
revolutionized all his ideas in an instant: in his delirious joy, Sister
Anne was entirely forgotten; he did not even feel a pang of remorse.
Like those sick persons who, when the fever is at its height, are
unconscious of pain, he said to himself again and again:

"Dubourg was quite right: I do love Constance, I adore her! I can never
again love anybody else."

Two days after this declaration, the Comte de Montreville, well assured
that his son no longer thought of leaving Constance, set out for
Dauphiné, in his own carriage, attended by a single servant and a
postilion.

XXII

DEATH OF MARGUERITE.--SISTER ANNE LEAVES HER CABIN

Let us now return to the dumb girl in the woods, whom we left awaiting
Frédéric's coming, and whom we shall find still awaiting him.

But the trees have lost their foliage; the fields no longer offer to the
eye the pleasing prospect of luxuriant vegetation; there is no green
turf in the valley, no verdure on the banks of the stream. The leaves
have fallen, and the villager's steps are deadened by that which shaded
him and embellished his garden a few days since. He tramples under foot
the beautiful foliage to which the approach of a harsher season has
brought death. Thus do all things pass away. Other foliage will be born,
only to die in its turn; and the man who tramples upon it must likewise
return to the dust whereon future generations will tread. He fancies
himself of some account because his allotted time is longer; but when
the ages have dispersed his ashes, what more will he have left behind
him than those leaves have done which whirl about in the wind at his
feet?

The autumn disposes us to melancholy; it brings reverie and reflection,
not to him who lives in the city, detained in the vortex of the world by
the necessities of business or pleasure, but to the man of the fields
who can contemplate each day the successive changes in the face of
nature. Not without emotion does he look upon the forest, whose black,
skeleton-like trees seem to be in mourning for the spring; if he walks
along a path but lately shaded by dense foliage, if he seeks the thicket
where he was wont to rest during the heat of the day, he sees naught but
dry branches, often broken by the poor man's hand. The forest is less
dark than in summer, for the sunlight finds its way in on all sides. But
that brightness, far from embellishing it, robs it of all its charm; one
regrets the dark, mysterious paths, through which it is so pleasant to
wander in the season of love.

As he watches the approach of the frost and snow, as he contemplates the
effects of the winter's cold, man, always buoyed up by hope, says to
himself:

"The spring will come again; I shall see once more my leafy lanes, my
lawns, and my shrubs."

The spring comes again--but many men do not see it!

Sister Anne observed the change in the season only because it emphasized
the length of time that had elapsed since Frédéric left her. The unhappy
child could no longer count the days; their number was too great.
However, hope had not vanished from her heart; she could not believe
that her lover intended to abandon her forever; sometimes, she imagined
that he had ceased to live, and then the blackest despair took
possession of her thoughts. When that idea forced itself upon her, life
seemed to be only one long agony. Could she live on, unsustained by the
hope of seeing her lover? Often she longed to die. But she was soon to
be a mother; that thought made her cling to life once more; something
told her that she must live for her child.

It was a very long time since she had been to the village. An old
shepherd, who went back and forth through the woods, was in the habit of
leaving every day, at the foot of a tree, the loaf of rye bread
required by the occupants of the cabin, and always found there, in
exchange, a large pitcher filled with milk. This bread, with milk and
fresh eggs, was all that the two poor women ate in winter. When Sister
Anne had finished preparing the meal, and had given the old woman all
that she required, she drove her goats to the hilltop, and seated
herself at the foot of her mother's tree. Despite the cold, which was
beginning to be severe, the girl did not fail to go thither a single
day. Wrapped in a wretched woollen cloak, half worn out, she defied the
rigor of the season, although the garment was but little protection to
her; her goats, finding nothing on the hill to browse upon, huddled at
her feet; and Sister Anne, her features pinched and worn by her
condition and her sufferings, presented only too faithfully the image of
poverty and sorrow.

More than once, the snow, falling in great flakes, formed an icy cloak
about her body, so that the poor girl's form could hardly be
distinguished from the ground she lay upon; and often she removed her
cloak to cover her shivering companions. The traveller who happened to
pass over the hill could make out nothing in that snow-covered group
save the dumb girl's head, always turned toward the road to the town.
But, unheeding the cold, she did not realize that her whole body
shivered, that her teeth chattered, that her limbs stiffened; she was
unconscious of physical suffering; a single sentiment absorbed her whole
being, and the pain it caused left her no feeling for any other.

When the darkness made it impossible for her to see the road, she rose
and looked at herself, amazed to find that she was almost buried in
snow. Then she would shake her cloak, caress her goats, and slowly
descend the hill to the cabin and old Marguerite. When the old woman was
asleep, and she threw herself on her solitary couch, she no longer found
love there, nor even rest, to which she had long been a stranger. The
memory of her lover was there, as it was everywhere. If only she could
express her grief in words, call to him and implore him to return! It
seemed to her that her voice would reach his ears.--Poor girl! heaven
had deprived you of that priceless organ. Tears! always tears! those
were all that remained to you!

But, meanwhile, Sister Anne saw that old Marguerite was failing from day
to day. For a long while she had not left the house; she was hardly able
to totter to her great armchair. Marguerite was seventy-six years of
age; she had led an active, laborious life, and her old age was placid;
she had no disease and did not suffer; age alone was wearing out her
strength, which was daily diminishing. She was going out like a lamp
whose light has been soft and mellow; she had not shone with great
brilliancy, but she had been useful, which is far preferable.

The hour fixed by nature drew near; Marguerite was destined not to see
another spring. Sister Anne redoubled her loving attentions to her
adopted mother; observing the gradual weakening of her faculties, she
gave up going to the hilltop, in order to be always with her. She could
have made no greater sacrifice. Good Marguerite, touched by her
devotion, smiled at her affectionately, and called her her dear child.

But one morning, when Sister Anne went as usual to her mother's bed to
ask how she had passed the night, Marguerite did not answer, or, as her
custom was, hold out her trembling hand. Her eyes were closed, never to
open again. Sister Anne was terrified; she seized the old woman's
hand--it was cold and inert, and she tried in vain to warm it in her
own. She stooped and kissed Marguerite's forehead, but no smile rewarded
her.

The girl stood by her aged companion's bedside, overwhelmed with grief;
she gazed at the venerable features of her who had taken care of her
from childhood, of her only friend, who had been taken from
her!--Marguerite seemed like one asleep; the serenity of her face
indicated the serenity of her mind in its last moments. Sister Anne,
standing beside the bed, with one hand resting upon it, could not tire
of gazing at her adopted mother. Her grief was calm, but none the less
profound; her eyes were dry, but their expression was none the less
heartrending.

She passed a large part of the day beside the good woman's lifeless
remains; not without difficulty did she succeed in tearing herself away;
but she knew that she must perform the last duties for Marguerite, that
she must consign her to her last resting-place; and she realized that
she was incapable of doing it alone, without assistance. She must go to
the village, therefore, where she had not been seen for a long while.

She left her cabin and went out of the woods on her way to Vizille. As
she passed, she bowed, as usual, to those of the village women whom she
knew; but she could not understand why they turned their heads away, or
stared at her with contempt. Instead of stopping, as their custom was,
to bid her good-day, they walked quickly away, and seemed desirous to
avoid meeting her. The young men looked at her with mocking smiles; some
pointed at her, whispering to one another; and not upon a single face
did she observe the marks of interest which they were accustomed to
manifest.

"What can be the matter?" thought the poor child; "everybody seems to
avoid me; is it because I am more unhappy than ever, because I have lost
my kind mother, and Frédéric has abandoned me?"

She forgot that she bore the testimony of her weakness; that pledge of
love, of which she was so proud, was, in the eyes of the peasants, a
proof of her shame. In villages, people are more severe than in cities;
they set great store by innocence, because it is often the only treasure
they possess. The good people of Vizille held very austere views on the
subject of such falls from virtue: a girl who had been seduced became an
object of general contempt, so long as her seducer did not repair her
fault before the altar. Perhaps they should have been more indulgent to
the dumb girl, who, living in the woods, did not know that she was
culpable in yielding to the promptings of her heart. But peasants do not
reason; they act in obedience to habit, and often mechanically. They had
shown deep interest, so long as she was innocent as well as unfortunate;
now that she bore manifest proofs of her weakness, they spurned her,
without waiting to inquire whether she was not more unfortunate than
before.

At last she reached the village, unable to understand the conduct of the
people, having no idea why the young girls fled at her approach without
deigning to answer her signs, or why their parents stared at her with a
stern, disdainful air.

She knocked at the door of a cottage, the owners of which were friends
of Marguerite. The woman who opened the door made a gesture of surprise
when she saw her, then drove her away from the house. Sister Anne tried
to insist and to make her understand the loss she had met with; but,
refusing to notice her signs, the woman pushed her into the street,
where a number of peasants had assembled and stood staring at her.

"How do you dare to come to the village in that state?" asked an old
man; "to show your face here and try to get into our houses? You're
carrying the token of your shame; you'd do better to hide it in your
woods. And you come here and show yourself to our daughters! Do you do
it to let them admire your pretty behavior, and set them an example? Off
with you, Clotilde's child! you ought to die of shame! Go back to your
cabin, clear out with your seducer, but don't come here again among our
wives and children!"

Sister Anne could not understand how a person could be guilty for having
known love. She gazed at the peasants in surprise; she held out her
hands, clasped in entreaty: she tried to make them understand that she
had not come to seek their aid for herself. But they did not choose to
understand; they turned their backs on her and went into their houses;
some escorted her to the outskirts of the village, and did not leave her
until they had ordered her never to return.

The poor child was suffocated by the sobs that convulsed her whole body.
To be treated so for having loved Frédéric! That thought sustained her
courage; it was for him that she was subjected to such humiliation; she
would endure everything rather than cease to love him. She returned to
her cabin, weeping bitterly. It was dark. Absolute solitude reigned in
her poor home, thenceforth the abode of silence. She was utterly alone
on earth. Proof against idle terrors, against the childish fear which
even the greatest geniuses sometimes feel at sight of death, Sister Anne
went to the bed on which Marguerite lay, and, falling on her knees
beside it, held out her arms to her protectress, as if to say:

"You would not have spurned me, mother, if I had come before you even
guiltier than I am! You would have had pity on me. Your great age, your
enfeebled sight, did not permit you to notice my condition; but you
would have forgiven me; and they turned me away! Is it by heaping
obloquy on the unfortunate that the path of repentance should be pointed
out to them?"

She passed the whole night by Marguerite's bed. She prayed with all her
heart for her who had been a mother to her; she implored her to protect
her still, and during that mournful night Frédéric's image did not
disturb her pious occupation.

The next morning, at daybreak, Sister Anne went to the woods to wait for
the old shepherd who supplied her with bread in exchange for milk. He
soon appeared. He was a man of some sixty years, still strong and well,
who had passed most of his life in the forest, and, like Sister Anne,
knew almost nothing of what happened in the village, which is the whole
world to a woodsman. The girl took him by the hand and seemed to urge
him to go with her to the cabin. The old shepherd complied with her
entreaty, and she led him to Marguerite's bedside. He shook his head,
but did not seem moved: the habit of living the life of a savage
sometimes makes men indifferent to the suffering of others. But Sister
Anne appealed to him by signs which he could not fail to understand, and
the old fellow consented to perform the service she asked at his hands.

She led him into the garden, to the fig-tree under which Marguerite
loved to sit, and pointed to the ground: that was where she wished that
her adopted mother should rest. The old shepherd soon dug the grave,
then carried the old woman's remains thither and covered them with
earth. Sister Anne planted a cross by the spot. It was the only monument
she could erect to her benefactress's memory; but she would come often
to water it with her tears. How many magnificent mausoleums there are
whereon no tear was ever shed!

The shepherd went his way, and Sister Anne was once more alone--and
forever! At that moment, she felt more keenly than ever the loss she had
sustained. Marguerite talked little; for some time past, she had dozed
constantly; but she was always there, and the poor child felt that she
was not altogether alone in the world. There was one person who could
comfort her; but he did not come, and each succeeding day helped to
destroy the little hope that still sustained her. She would not have had
the courage to endure her torments, but for the feeling that heaven
would soon give her someone to lighten them. She was now fully aware of
the existence of the being in whom she was to live again. She had
already suffered much for its sake: people shunned and despised her; she
could no longer seek help or shelter in the village; but the mere sight
of that little creature would bring forgetfulness of all her agony; is
it not just that we should find in the cause of our sorrows their
compensation?

As the days passed, Sister Anne's profound grief for the loss of
Marguerite changed into a tender, grateful memory; but time, which
soothes the regrets of friendship, does not allay the sufferings of a
lover. The memory of Frédéric was more constantly in her mind than
ever, for there was nothing to divert her thoughts from it. She saw no
one; and if the movements within her reminded her that she was soon to
be a mother, that fact made her desire more ardently the presence of her
child's father.

While Frédéric was with Sister Anne, he had talked to her sometimes of
the outside world, of his father, and very often of Paris, his
birthplace. During the day, while they sat together by the brook, it
amused him to draw a picture of the great city for the wondering girl,
to describe the pleasures, the plays, the splendid avenues, which make
it a place of enchantment. She did not always comprehend what he said,
but she listened with wide-open eyes, manifesting her amazement by
artless gestures, by curious tokens of surprise; and it amused Frédéric,
who was often obliged to tell her stories to satisfy her, for one cannot
be always making love. Some people maintain that it is a great pity;
they forget that those things which one can do all the time end by
losing their value.

What Frédéric had told Sister Anne was engraved in her memory. Each day
she thought about it more and more, and said to herself:

"He is probably in that great city, Paris, that he used to tell me so
much about, where he was born. Perhaps his father won't let him come
back to me. But if I could go there and find him, if I could once throw
myself into his arms, I'm very sure he would be glad to see me. Then he
would keep me with him, I would never leave him again, and I should be,
oh! so happy! But how can I find my way to Paris?"

Every day, the longing to set out in search of her lover became stronger
in that loving heart, which could not persuade itself that Frédéric had
forgotten her, but believed that the reason he did not return was that
someone was keeping him away from her. Marguerite being dead, there was
nothing to detain Sister Anne in the woods. In her condition, and bereft
as she was of so essential an organ, she ought doubtless to have felt
that her cabin was preferable to the dangers, the suffering, and the
fatigue that would be her portion in the journey she contemplated; but a
woman who loves truly sees neither danger nor suffering; she dares
everything, sustained by the hope of seeing once more the object of her
affection. Sister Anne, unacquainted with the world, unable to speak,
and bearing within her the fruit of her love, determined to leave her
home to go in search of her lover; to face every danger, to endure
poverty and privations of every sort; and even though she should have to
employ years in her search, it seemed to her that every step would bring
her nearer to her lover.

Having formed her decision, she devoted all her thought to its
execution; but she did not wish to leave her cabin and Marguerite's
grave to be utterly neglected. Again it was the old shepherd to whom she
addressed herself: she led him into the house one morning, and pointed
to a small bundle containing her clothing, which she slung over her
shoulders, to indicate that she was going away; then she motioned to him
to sit down, as if to say:

"This cabin is yours, stay here; I ask you only to take care of the
fig-tree that shades my mother's tomb, and these poor creatures who have
been my only companions so long."

The old man readily understood her; but, although the hovel was a palace
in his eyes, and Sister Anne's cession of it to him made him richer than
he had ever been, he tried to induce the girl to abandon a plan which
seemed to him insane.

"Where do you propose to go, my child?" he asked; "can you think of
leaving home in the condition you are in? Within two months you will be
a mother, and you propose to go on a journey; and you a poor, dumb girl!
Who will take you in, who will help you, how will you ask the way? Come,
my girl, you are going to do a very foolish thing. Wait a little while,
at least."

But Sister Anne had made up her mind, and nothing could move her; she
shook her head as she looked at the old shepherd; then raised her eyes
to heaven, as if to say:

"God will take pity on me and guide my steps."

He tried once more to keep her.

"What about money?" he said; "you need money in the world, my girl; I
know that, although I haven't lived much in the world. I haven't got any
myself, and I can't give you anything for your house and what there is
in it, although it's well worth something."

Sister Anne smiled, then took from her bosom a small canvas bag, and
showed the old man four gold pieces: it was Marguerite's little hoard.
Some time before she died, the good woman had told her to look in the
corner of the cabin, under her bed; there she had found the little bag
securely tied, and Marguerite had said to her:

"Take it, my child; it's for you; it's the fruit of my savings in sixty
years of toil. I have always meant it for you; perhaps it will help you
to buy some more goats."

At sight of the four gold pieces, the old shepherd ceased his efforts to
detain her, for he believed that with that amount of money she could go
round the world.

"Go, my child," he said; "I will keep your cabin; remember that it still
belongs to you, if ever you want to come back to it."

Sister Anne smiled sadly; then, with a last glance at her home, she went
forth, with her light bundle in one hand, and in the other a stick on
which she leaned as she walked. She saluted Marguerite's grave in the
garden; her goats ran after her, as if they expected her to drive them
to the hill as usual. She caressed them, weeping, for they had come to
be her only friends, and something told her that she would never see
them again.

What memories stirred her heart as she walked through the woods! There
was the place where they had sat so often! yonder the brook, by which
she first saw him, and where he told her that he loved her! Those
familiar spots seemed alive with his presence, and she found it hard to
make up her mind to leave them. But she said to herself, to sustain her
courage:

"I am going to join him; and perhaps we shall return together."

She climbed the hill, and knelt at the foot of the tree where Clotilde
died. She prayed to her mother to watch over her from on high, and to
guide her in her journey. Then she descended the hill, in the direction
of the town; she followed the road that he had taken, and wished that
she could discover his footprints.

XXIII

SISTER ANNE'S JOURNEY.--THE FOREST

The dumb girl had begun her journey at daybreak; it was a cold but fine
morning; a heavy frost had dried up the roads, frozen the streams, and
checked the torrents. The fields were deserted; the peasants who were
abroad wasted no time, but hastened to return to their cabins and sit
down in front of the fireplace, where the stumps they had brought from
the forest snapped and crackled. A bright fire enlivens the long winter
evening, and the poor beggar, as he passes through a village, stops and
gazes enviously at the flame that shines through a cottage window,
overjoyed when he finds an opportunity to warm himself on the public
square, before a bundle or two of straw which other poor wretches have
set on fire.

It was only four hours since Sister Anne had set out, and her eyes were
already struck by the novelty of what she saw. Having never seen
anything besides her own cabin, her woods, and the village of Vizille,
she paused in amazement before a forge, or a mill, or a country house,
which seemed to her a very castle. Everything was new to her; but how
was she to find her way in this world, which seemed to her so immense,
how could she find that city which she could not name, and of which she
did not even know the direction? Sometimes these thoughts made her heart
sink; she would stop and look sadly about; then she would think of
Frédéric, and resume her journey.

Toward midday, she arrived at a small hamlet, and knocked at the door of
a peasant's cottage; it was opened by a young woman, who was nursing one
child, while four others played about her, and an old woman kindled the
fire with an armful of dry branches she had just brought from the woods.

"What do you want, my good woman?" asked the young mother. Sister Anne
gazed at the picture before her, and could not take her eyes from the
child at its mother's breast. A gleam of joy lighted up her face; one
could see that she was thinking at that moment:

"I will nurse my child, too; I will carry him at my bosom and receive
his caresses."

"Why don't you say what you want?" said the old woman, without taking
her eyes from the fire.

"Oh! see how pale she is, mother!" said the younger woman; "and how she
seems to be suffering! To think of such a young thing, and so near her
time, travelling about when it's as cold as this!--You are going to join
your husband, I suppose?"

Sister Anne sighed; then, seeing that they were waiting for her answer,
she explained by signs that she could not speak.

"Mon Dieu! mother, she's dumb! Poor woman!"

"Dumb!" cried the old mother. "What, my dear, can't you talk? How I pity
you, poor child! Are you deaf too?"

Sister Anne's pantomime indicated that she could hear them perfectly.

"Well, that's lucky, on my word!" exclaimed the old woman, walking
toward the traveller; while all the children stared curiously at her,
thinking that a mute was not like other people.

"Was it some accident that made you dumb, my girl? have you been so
long? Was it an illness? Can't it be cured?"

"Let us first give the poor creature what she needs, mother," said the
young woman; "let her rest and eat something; then you can question
her."

They bustled about, and seated Sister Anne in front of the fire; one
child took her bundle, another her stick, and the old mother brought her
food, for the daughter could not leave the child she was nursing. Sister
Anne, touched by their kindness to her, manifested her gratitude by such
pathetic gestures, that the occupants of the little cottage were deeply
moved.

"So it isn't the same everywhere as it is at my village," thought the
young wayfarer; "here, instead of turning me away and looking down on
me, they are kind to me, and treat me like their own child. The world
isn't so cruel, after all."

This welcome revived her courage; but she could not answer all the old
woman's questions. The peasants believed, according to her signs, that
she was going to join her husband.

"He's in the city, I suppose?" queried the old woman.

Sister Anne nodded her head; and as Grenoble was the nearest city, they
concluded that that was her destination.

After remaining several hours beneath that hospitable roof, she
determined to resume her journey; but first she took one of the gold
pieces from her little bag and offered it to the young woman.

"Keep it, my dear," said she; "we don't want anything for what we've
done. You're so much to be pitied for not being able to talk, that you
deserve to be taken in and put up everywhere for nothing; but,
unluckily, everybody don't think so; there's some folks with hard,
unfeeling hearts. You're going to the city, and you'll need all your
money; they won't refuse it there."

Sister Anne expressed her gratitude as best she could. She kissed the
young mother and her little nursling affectionately, then left the
cottage, after they had pointed out the road to Grenoble, where they
supposed that she was going.

The young woman did not travel rapidly; her pregnancy, her lack of
practice in walking, and the bundle of clothing she carried, compelled
her to stop frequently. She would sit down on a felled tree, a stone, or
the bank of a ditch, and wait until her strength had returned and she
could go on.

Sometimes other travellers passed her while she was resting. Those in
carriages did not look at her; several men on horseback cast a glance at
her; but the pedestrians stopped and said a few words to her. Receiving
no reply, they went their way, some thinking that she was half-witted,
others calling her impertinent because she did not deign to speak to
them. Sister Anne gazed at them with an air of surprise, smiled at a
peasant who proposed to take her on his horse, and lowered her eyes when
another lost his temper because she did not answer him; the most curious
ended by doing as the others did, and left her.

Toward nightfall, Sister Anne, having followed the directions given her,
reached Grenoble. The sight of a large city was a source of fresh
surprise, which increased with every step she took in the streets, where
the people were dressed so much more handsomely than in her village.
Everything surprised and bewildered her, and she trembled as she
walked. The tall houses, the shops, the throng of people moving in every
direction, the continual uproar, the strange way in which the passers-by
gazed at her--everything tended to increase her confusion. Poor girl!
how would it be if you were in Paris?

But it grew dark, and she must seek shelter for the night. She dared not
enter any of the houses; they all seemed too fine; she was afraid that
she would not be admitted. For a long while, she wandered at random
through those unfamiliar streets; but she was tired out at last, and
determined to knock somewhere. The poor child did not know what an inn
was; she thought that she could obtain a place to sleep anywhere by
paying for it.

She knocked at the door of a house of modest appearance. The door
opened, and she entered trembling.

"What do you want?" demanded an old tailor, who acted as concierge.

The girl looked sadly at him, and made signs to indicate that she could
not speak; but he paid no attention to them, and repeated his question.
Receiving no reply, he sprang to his feet in a rage, ran to Sister Anne,
took her by the arm, and put her out of the door, saying:

"Oho! so you won't tell where you're going, won't you? Folks don't get
in here that way, my girl."

This reception was not encouraging; the poor girl was once more in the
street; her eyes filled with tears, but she summoned all her courage and
knocked at another door. There, they called her a beggar, and refused to
admit her. She could stand it no longer; her sobs choked her; she sat
down on a stone bench beside a door and wept bitterly. In a moment the
door opened, and an old couple came out, wrapped in furs and
comforters, followed by a servant carrying a lantern. As they passed,
they ordered Sister Anne to leave the bench, which belonged to their
house, calling her an idler and a beggar, and threatening to have her
put in prison if she did not move on. Sister Anne rose, trembling in
every limb, and dragged her sorrow and weariness elsewhere; and the old
couple went their way, chuckling over what they had done, and promising
to hold forth concerning the audacity of the lower classes at the party
where they were to pass the evening.

The dumb girl, utterly worn out, could hardly stand erect, and did not
know which way to turn. The treatment she had met with gave her a very
depressing idea of life in cities. But she must find a shelter for the
night. She spied a house more brightly lighted than the others; the
front door was open, and many persons were going in and out. She took
one of her gold pieces in her hand, afraid to enter unless she exhibited
it. This time she had made a more fortunate selection: the house in
question was an inn, and the sight of the gold piece procured her a
cordial reception.

When the landlady found that the young traveller could not answer her
questions, she felt called upon to talk for two, and, while she led the
way to a small bedroom, extolled the advantages of her house and the way
in which it was kept, asked her where she came from and where she was
going, then interrupted herself by exclaiming:

"Mon Dieu! what a fool I am! I ask that just as if you could answer."

A moment later, she resumed her chatter, saying:

"It's very hard! I don't understand your signs, I don't understand 'em
at all. Never mind, my child; you shall be served on the dot. If my
nephew was only here! he knows mathematics, and he'd soon explain your
signs. But he's gone away, poor boy! he's a clerk in the telegraph
office at Lyon, now."

At last she left Sister Anne, who, having eaten sparingly, was able to
enjoy the rest she needed so sorely. Sleep, poor girl, and may happy
dreams bring momentary oblivion of your sufferings!

As she had heard the hostess say more than once: "You are in the best
hotel in Grenoble," she knew the name of the city, and remembered that
Frédéric had mentioned that name. That recollection led her to resolve
not to leave that place until she had sought him there; and the next
morning, after she had succeeded in making her hostess understand that
she proposed to pass that day also at Grenoble, she left the inn and set
out to search the city, which seemed to her enormously large.

As she walked along, she looked at every window in every house. If
Frédéric were there, she thought that he would see her pass, and would
either call to her or run after her. Sometimes she stopped, thinking
that she recognized his figure; but she soon discovered her error. She
passed the whole day thus, and did not return to the inn until it was so
dark that she could see nothing.

"Have you been looking about our city?" inquired the landlady; "it's a
very pretty place, I tell you, a very pretty place, our city of
Grenoble. But it isn't as big as Lyon, and even Lyon don't come near
Paris."

At the word _Paris_, the young traveller made a joyful movement, and,
grasping the hostess's arm, signified that that was where she wanted to
go. But she did not make her meaning clear.

"You are going to Lyon, I'll wager," said the hostess; "that isn't so
far; fifteen leagues, that's all. To be sure, in your condition you
can't walk very fast; but in three or four days at most, you ought to do
it."

Sister Anne went sadly to her room. How could she find the road to
Paris, if she could not make people understand that that was where she
wanted to go? That thought disheartened her; but she had implored her
mother to guide her on her journey; she prayed to her again, and hope
was born anew in her heart; without hope, what would be left for the
unhappy?

The next day, the girl prepared to leave the inn; the landlady presented
a bill to her, of which she could make nothing; but she tendered a gold
piece and received very little change. In cities, one has to pay for
every reverence, every attention. Sister Anne had been treated with
great courtesy, so that her stay at the inn cost her rather dear.

They pointed out the road to Lyon, and she set forth once more, with her
little bundle and her stick. But how easy it is to lose one's way in the
hilly, wooded paths between Grenoble and Lyon! She abandoned herself to
Providence for guidance. She walked most of the day, and at night,
thoroughly exhausted, went to a farmhouse, where they consented to let
her sleep in a barn. But, provided that she could pass the night where
she was sheltered from the cold, she slept as well on straw as on
feathers; fatigue enabled her at last to sleep several hours.

Her accommodation at the farm helped to exhaust her little store, and
the young traveller began to realize that she must be sparing of it, for
it was almost the only talisman by means of which she could obtain
shelter. Hospitable folk are rare. The most humane think that they are
doing much for the poor wayfarer when they give him a trifling sum of
money and a crust of bread; but they will not receive him under their
roof. Far distant are the days when men deemed it an honor to give
shelter to a stranger, without inquiring as to his rank and his means;
when they shared their fire and their repast and their bed with him.
Other times, other manners! We have become very proud, we are no longer
inclined to share anything. By way of compensation, we have excellent
friends, who come to our house and eat our bread, drink our wine, and
sometimes make love to our wives, and who, when they leave, go elsewhere
and say countless cruel things about us; but they do it from excess of
affection, and because they are afraid that we may have other friends
than themselves.

Toward noon of the second day after she left Grenoble, Sister Anne,
absorbed by her recollections, did not notice that she had strayed from
the road that had been pointed out to her. Not until she began to feel
the need of rest did she look about for the village, which, according to
the directions she had received in the morning, could not be far away.

The place where she was at that moment was wild and deserted; there was
no house in sight. She climbed a hill, and could see nothing in front of
her but an extensive forest of firs. On her left, a mountain stream,
with ice floating on the surface, plunged into a deep and winding
ravine; on her right was a bare mountain side, with steep cliffs, but no
human habitation.

She began to fear that she had lost her way, and hesitated for some time
as to the best course for her to pursue. The roads to the right and left
had a most unpromising look; she was reluctant to retrace her steps; so
she decided to take the road leading to the forest. After walking about
half an hour, she found herself among the stately firs, which time had
not bent, and whose branches, although partly despoiled of their
foliage, seemed to rise no less proudly toward the clouds and to defy
wind and frost.

An excellent road led directly into the forest, and Sister Anne did not
hesitate to take it. She could see the marks of wheels and of horses'
feet, and she hoped that it would lead her to the village or to some
nearby city. She surmounted her fatigue, in order that she might reach a
place of shelter before dark. As she walked on, she did not meet a human
being, and there was a sombreness and gloom about that road, hemmed in
by the forest on both sides, that depressed her beyond words. Her eyes,
straining to discover the end of the interminable road, saw naught save
the dark firs, and there was no indication that she was approaching the
village. Her heart sank; night was beginning to envelop the earth in its
dark folds; she could no longer distinguish anything in the paths that
led to right and left; and soon Sister Anne, her strength giving way
before her courage, felt that it was impossible for her to go farther.
So she was forced to make up her mind to pass the night in the forest.
It was not fear that made the poor child's heart beat fast; she did not
know what robbers were, for there had never been any in her woods. But
the thought of passing a whole night in the forest, without shelter, in
such cold weather, and in her condition! However, it must be done. She
seated herself at the foot of a large tree. She was always careful, when
she passed through a town or a village, to supply herself with
provisions; so she ate some bread and dried nuts; then, wrapping
herself as well as she could in her clothes, and placing her bundle
under her head, she waited for sleep to come. Thanks to the fatigue of
that long day's journey, she had not long to wait.

It was midnight when the dumb girl opened her eyes, and the moon,
shining directly over the road on the edge of which she had fallen
asleep, lighted the strange picture which awaited her at her awakening.

Four men stood about her, all dressed like poor woodcutters, in jackets
and loose trousers held in place by broad belts; they wore broad-brimmed
hats, some with the brims turned down, while the others, being turned up
in front, revealed faces that bore no trace of gentleness or humanity.
Their long, uncombed hair and beards intensified the sinister expression
of their features; each of them carried a gun, on which he leaned; and
each had a hunting-knife and a pair of pistols in his belt.

Two of these men were stooping over Sister Anne; another held a dark
lantern near her face; while the fourth, who also had his eyes upon her,
seemed to be listening, to make sure that everything was quiet on the
road.

The sight of those four faces fixed upon hers caused Sister Anne an
involuntary shock; and, although she did not appreciate the danger that
threatened her, she was conscious of a feeling of terror which she could
not understand, and closed her eyes to avoid those searching glances.

"What in the devil have we got here?" said one of the two who were
leaning over her; "I'm very much afraid that it don't amount to much,
and I doubt if it's worth while to stop."

"Eh? why not?" said the man with the lantern; "it's better'n nothing,
anyway. Look, Pierre, she's got a bundle under her head."

"A lot of worthless rags; don't you see that she's a woman as works in
the fields?"

"I say! is she dead or asleep?" said a third. "Come, Leroux, just push
her a bit! Are we going to spend the night staring at this drudge?"

"Death of my life! I don't know as we've got anything better to do.
All's quiet on the road--eh, Jacques?"

Jacques was the man who stood a few steps away, apparently listening.
When his comrades addressed him, he approached the group about the girl,
saying:

"Damnation! another bad night!"

"Not so bad as it might be!" rejoined Leroux, still gazing at Sister
Anne; "morbleu! that's a pretty woman!"

It was at that moment that Sister Anne opened her eyes, resolved to
appeal to the compassion of the men who surrounded her, and whose
language she did not comprehend, having no suspicion of their
profession.

"I say, look!" cried Leroux; "she's waking up. She's got a fine pair of
eyes, on my word! I'm curious to hear what she'll say."

Sister Anne cast a glance of entreaty upon them, one after another,
clasping her hands as if to implore their pity.

"Oh! don't you be afraid," said Pierre; "we ain't going to hurt you.
Where did you come from? where you going? what put it into your head to
sleep in our forest?"

The dumb girl, taking the robbers for woodcutters, tried to make them
understand that she had lost her way.

"What's this! a woman, and she won't speak!" cried Jacques; "what does
this mean? Is it fear that makes her dumb? Come, speak--damnation!"

Sister Anne rose, and indicated by signs that she could not speak.

"What devilish kind of a woman is this?" cried Pierre; while Leroux,
holding his lantern still nearer to her, exclaimed, with a roar of
laughter:

"My eyes, comrades! Dumb or not, the hen has found her rooster, and the
egg won't be long coming!"

This jest was welcomed with a savage laugh by the other three robbers;
and all four kept their eyes fixed on the poor girl, who, not divining
the cause of their merriment, but unable to endure their glances,
timidly lowered her eyes and stood trembling in the midst of them.

"Come on, let's leave the woman," said Pierre; "she's a poor deaf mute;
we mustn't take her on our shoulders."

"Deaf?" rejoined Leroux, whose eyes gleamed with a terrifying
expression; "why, such a woman as that's a downright treasure. She's so
pretty! she takes my eye, and I'll make her my moll as soon as she gets
rid of her load."

"Nonsense, Leroux! you're joking."

"No! ten thousand thunders! a deaf mute--think how useful she'll be to
us in our business."

Sister Anne, trembling like a leaf, did not fully understand the
conversation of the miscreants; but, observing their indecision, and
fearing that they would refuse to give her the shelter of which she felt
more in need than ever, for the cold had benumbed all her limbs, she
took her little store from her bosom. She knew that the sight of money
smooths all obstacles; so she took a coin from her little bag, and
offered it with an air of entreaty to one of the ruffians.

"Oho! she's got money, and she offers it to us; that's good! Parbleu!
give it here, give it here, girl!"

As he spoke, Pierre snatched the bag from Sister Anne, who was stupefied
at being thus forcibly despoiled of her treasure; while the robbers
greedily counted its contents.

"Three gold pieces, as I'm alive!" cried Jacques; and the brigands'
faces gleamed with savage joy. "That's more'n we've made in five days!"

"Didn't I tell you this wasn't a bad find?" rejoined Leroux. "Come,
comrades, let's take this girl to our hole, and have a good time."

With that, the fellow seized Sister Anne's arm and dragged her into the
forest; Jacques took charge of the bundle, Pierre followed him, and
Franck, the fourth man, taking the lantern from Leroux's hand, went
ahead to light his companions.

The dumb girl walked unresistingly in the midst of the robbers, still
not realizing the horror of her position; she thought they were taking
her to their home, to their wives and children. But their brutal
features, their abrupt and insolent manners, the weapons they carried,
and the strangeness of their language, inspired her with a terror she
could not control. She glanced timidly at them again and again, hoping
to find, for her comfort, a look of sympathy or pity on their faces; but
whenever she raised her eyes, they met Leroux's fastened upon her and
blazing with brutal passion. That ruffian's features intensified the
fear caused by his manners: his curly hair corresponded in color with
his name, which his companions had given him on that account; his pale,
gray eyes rolled this way and that with amazing rapidity; his mouth,
about which a ferocious smile always lurked, was surmounted by heavy
moustaches of the color of his hair; and a broad scar, extending from
the top of the nose to the bottom of the left ear, put the finishing
touch to his sinister countenance. He had one arm about the girl's
body, supporting her as they walked rapidly along the forest paths,
while the other bandits, by their actions and their speech, momentarily
added to Sister Anne's alarm.

The robbers lived in a wretched hovel in the heart of the forest; by
day, they passed for poor woodcutters, being careful to keep their
weapons out of sight in a cellar under their den. But at night they
armed themselves to the teeth and betook themselves to the highroad,
where, when they considered that they were sufficiently numerous, they
attacked belated travellers.

Sister Anne was surprised that they had to go so far to reach their
home, and even more surprised by the almost impassable paths they chose.
At last, after walking more than an hour, they led her down into a
ravine, amid dense underbrush. Soon she made out a flickering light in
the window of a hut, and a woman opened the door after the robbers had
whistled several times.

The appearance of one of her own sex cheered Sister Anne for a moment;
but when she looked closely at the woman who appeared in the doorway,
her short-lived hope vanished. In truth, the aspect of the robbers'
companion was not calculated to restore tranquillity to the unhappy
girl's mind: she was a tall woman, shockingly thin, and her strongly
marked features wore an expression of calm, cold cruelty which pointed
to absolute lack of sensibility; her face was of a livid pallor; a red
silk handkerchief covered her head, and a handful of rags barely
concealed her emaciated body.

"Here we are, Christine," cried the brigands, as they approached. "We've
got a prize; we've brought you a companion you can't quarrel with."

At that, Christine stepped out of the house, and, snatching the lantern
from Franck's hand, held it close to Sister Anne's face. After examining
her closely for several minutes, she said, in a harsh voice:

"What's all this?"

"A woman, can't you see? And a rare woman, too! a deaf mute!"

"A deaf mute! A fine capture, I swear! What do you expect to do with
her?"

"That's none of your business," said Leroux, in a voice that echoed
through the forest; "I took this woman for myself; I like her, she suits
me just as she is. Don't you dare to look crooked at her, or I'll hang
you up to the tallest fir in the forest!"

Christine did not seem alarmed by the threat; she continued to stare at
the girl, and, when she noticed her condition, a sarcastic smile lighted
up her face, and she muttered between her teeth:

"You'll be sure of having a brat, anyway."

A blow which sent her reeling against the wall of the cabin was Leroux's
only reply to this remark of the repellent Christine; she rushed at him
with a threatening air, but Pierre stepped between them.

"Come, come, comrades," he said, "that's enough of such fooling; we
mustn't let the new-comer raise a row here. Go in, Christine, and see
about giving us some supper, quick; we're as hungry as wolves!"

During this altercation between the robbers and their housekeeper, the
unfortunate dumb girl felt a sensation of fear, of absolute terror, such
as she had never known before. The aspect of the woman, the language of
the men, whose brutal character she began to divine, the appearance of
that horrible lair--everything combined to give her some conception of
the perils that encompassed her. But what could she do? what would
become of her? She would have been only too glad, at that moment, to be
far away from that spot, even though she had to endure the severe cold,
unsheltered, in the forest. But there was no means of escape, and they
did not return her money; they had taken her treasure and her clothes;
was it for a moment only? she dared not hope so, and she discovered some
new cause of alarm every minute. She shuddered from head to foot, her
teeth chattered, her knees gave way under her.

"See!" said Leroux, holding her up; "that fury has frightened my pretty
bird.--Come, don't be afraid, little one, and let's go in and get warm."

The robbers entered the hovel, which was divided into two rooms: the
outer one was that in which the occupants of that horrible den passed
most of their time; there they ate, and slept on bundles of straw in one
corner. There was a fireplace, where a huge fire was blazing, which
warmed the room, the larger and better of the two. The other, which had
no fireplace, and but a single window looking into the forest, was
Christine's bedroom; they kept their provisions and firewood there.

When she entered that dirty, smoke-begrimed room, and saw the heap of
straw in a corner, the weapons standing against the wall, and the great
fire, at which several huge joints of meat were cooking for the robbers'
supper, Sister Anne's strength gave way, and Leroux carried her to the
fire, saying:

"Sit down there and warm yourself; the supper'll bring back your
strength."

"What a damned fool you are, to talk to her as if she could hear you!"

"That's so, but I keep forgetting it."

"How do you know she's deaf, anyway?" said Franck; "perhaps she's making
believe. She might be just dumb."

"Then someone must have cut her tongue out," said Leroux; "but anyone
can see that she's got one like anybody else; so, as she can't speak, it
must be because she's deaf. You fellows don't understand about that; but
I've travelled in my time, I know more'n you do, and I know that deaf
mutes are mute because they can't hear. All you've got to do is look at
the woman; anybody can see that she don't hear a word we're saying."

In truth, Sister Anne, since she had entered the cabin, being completely
prostrated by fatigue, pain, and fear, had seemed to be insensible to
everything that was taking place. However, she heard every word that the
brigands said; but, on learning that they believed her to be deaf, a
secret presentiment warned her not to correct their error. If they felt
sure that she could not hear them, they would not hesitate to discuss
their plans before her; thus she would learn what she must fear or hope;
and perhaps they might unwittingly suggest a means of escape. That ray
of hope sustained the poor girl's courage, and she strove to conceal the
emotion caused by the conversation of the cutthroats.

They had laid aside their arms, and while waiting for supper discoursed
of their exploits. The dumb girl learned with dismay that she was among
villains capable of any crime. But in the very excess of her despair she
found a source of courage; and realizing at last the full extent of the
perils which encompassed her, she felt that her only hope of escaping
them was by craft and adroitness. If she alone were threatened with
death, she would not fear it, but she wished to save the life of the
being she carried within her. Mother-love has inspired many acts of
heroism; it was that sentiment which sustained Sister Anne and gave her
strength to endure her horrible situation.

Christine placed a table in the middle of the room, and covered it with
food, bottles, and glasses; the robbers seated themselves about the
table, and fell to with a sort of brutal satisfaction. Sister Anne
remained in front of the fire. Leroux placed bread, wine, and roast meat
before her; she thanked him with an inclination of the head, and forced
herself to eat a little, in order to keep up her strength and to
dissemble her terror.

"You see that woman?" said Leroux to his companions; "well, I'll bet
she's as meek as a lamb; I'll do whatever I choose with her."

"Don't trust to looks," said Christine, as she joined the robbers at the
table; "a woman can take a man in with those airs and graces; but faces
are deceitful."

"Yours isn't, for you're the picture of Lucifer's sister!"

This jest made them all laugh, they filled and emptied their glasses
with startling rapidity; the more they drank, the more they talked. The
hideous Christine kept pace with them, and only Leroux, whose thoughts
were fixed on Sister Anne, retained some show of reason.

"Where could this woman have come from?" queried one of the thieves;
"she don't look as if she worked in the fields."

"Bah! it's some girl that's gone wrong; her lover's left her, and she's
travelling about looking for him. That's the way with all the girls that
listen to lovers!"

Sister Anne wiped away the tears that trembled on her eyelids, for her
heart told her that the man was right.

"_Morgué!_" said Christine; "if I had a daughter, and she was unlucky
enough to go wrong, I'd strangle her with my own hands."

"Hear that!" said Jacques; "it's a blasted shame that you haven't got
some children; they'd be a handsome lot!"

"I don't care who the woman is," said Leroux; "she shan't leave this
house.--And you, Christine, treat her well, or remember what I promised
you!"

"I snap my fingers at your hussy. Look, you'd do much better to comfort
her; I believe she's squalling now; go and give her a kiss."

"What about us?" said the other robbers, heated by the fumes of the
wine; "we'll comfort her, too. Let's go and kiss the pretty mute; we
must cheer her up a bit."

With that, Leroux's three comrades rose to go to Sister Anne; but he
planted himself in front of them, and, taking a pistol in each hand,
shouted to them in stentorian tones:

"Not another step, corbleu! or I'll kill you! That woman's mine; I found
her on the road, when you were going by like fools without seeing her; I
insisted on bringing her here; I swore I'd make her my wife; and, damn
your eyes! the first man who touches her dies by my hand!"

This harangue checked the ardor of his fellows; they knew their
companion, they knew that the act would follow close on the heels of the
threat; so they contented themselves with laughing at Leroux's jealousy,
while Sister Anne, frozen with terror by the scene, retreated into a
corner of the room and fell on her knees before her captors.

Leroux went to her and tried to soothe her; but, fearing some new
enterprise on the part of his companions, he led her into the other
room, and, pointing to a wretched pallet, motioned to her to lie down
upon it; then he went out, locking the door on her.

Sister Anne was alone in the little room, where there was no light
except that which shone through the interstices of the partition, and
which enabled her to make out her surroundings. Having made a pretence
of lying down on the pallet, she soon rose and listened intently to what
the robbers said. They continued to drink, and began to sing. If only
she could escape while they were thus engaged! She felt along the wall
until she came to a window; it must open into the forest, and the room
was level with the ground, so that it would be easy to escape that way.
But a moment later her hand came in contact with stout bars, which
prevented her passing through. Poor girl! the pangs of disappointment
were more cruel than all the sufferings she had endured hitherto. When
she believed that she was on the point of recovering her liberty, to
lose that last hope! to be unable to conceive any possible means of
escaping from that horrible den! It was like dying twice over. She fell,
utterly disheartened, on the bed, and tried to stifle with her hands the
groans that escaped from her breast.

XXIV

THE STRANGER

Thus the night passed. The robbers fell asleep in front of the fire;
and, luckily for Sister Anne, their vile housekeeper did the same, and
did not come to share the bed with the poor girl, who lay there all
night, listening intently, quivering at the slightest sound in the next
room, and praying to heaven to send her a rescuer.

At daybreak, the ruffians woke; they hastily concealed their weapons,
then went forth into the forest to work as woodcutters. Before he left,
Leroux went to Sister Anne, smiled at her, patted her under the chin,
and muttered under his breath:

"To-night, my beauty, I'll say a couple of words to you."

The unhappy girl could not evade those disgusting caresses. Not without
an effort did she restrain her indignation. But he went away at last, on
the heels of his companions, bidding Christine to keep a sharp lookout
on her prisoner.

When Sister Anne was alone with the robbers' female confederate, she was
fain to endure the ill humor of that fury, who, being jealous of her
presence there, tried to avenge herself by heaping all sorts of
indignities upon her, being well assured that she could not complain of
them. She laughed at her tears and gestures of entreaty, and the poor
child felt that she would die if she did not escape soon from that
horrible place.

At night, the four men returned; they ate a little, then took their
weapons, Leroux alone excepted.

"Well! don't you propose to go out on the trail with us?" his companions
asked him.

"No, no, not yet; I'll join you later; but I'm glad of the chance to say
a word to my little mute."

As he said this, a bestial smile gleamed in his eyes, which were
constantly fixed upon Sister Anne.

"Oh, yes! I understand," said Pierre; "we'll let it pass to-day, but you
mustn't let love make you forget your duty."

"But if a well-lined post chaise should happen along," said Jacques, "we
shan't be strong enough to attack."

"Bah! it ain't likely that there'll be one to-night; anyway, I tell you
I'll join you soon."

"All right! all right! we'll get along without him; and if some rich
prize does turn up, why, it will belong to us, and he won't get any of
it."

"That's fair enough, mates."

The three men left the cabin, with a mocking glance at the dumb girl,
who did not divine her impending peril, or the meaning of their smile.
But when she saw that Leroux did not accompany them, she shuddered
involuntarily and turned her eyes on Christine, as if she hoped for aid
from her. But she, after glancing at her and at Leroux with the same
mocking smile, went into the other room and slammed the door behind her.

Sister Anne started to follow her, but when she saw that it was
impossible she fell back on the straw on which she had been sitting; she
trembled convulsively; she was alone with the brigand.

Leroux seated himself in front of the fire and poked it; then lighted a
pipe and smoked for several minutes, interrupting his smoking only to
drink and to glance at Sister Anne. She trembled in every limb, in the
corner where she had seated herself in order to be as far as possible
from the robber, whose eyes, as he glanced at her, were inflamed with
lust.

"Damned fine, ten thousand devils!" he cried, from time to time. "Fine
eyes, fine teeth. She'll be even better looking in a few months, but
damn the odds! And those clowns didn't see her! Oh! I won't give her up
to you, my mates! We don't capture such prizes often."

These words added to the poor girl's alarm; it was increased tenfold
when Leroux, who had not remained behind solely to drink and smoke,
motioned to her to come to him. She pretended not to understand, and
lowered her eyes. Thereupon he rose and walked toward her. The girl
could hardly breathe. The brigand threw himself on the straw, beside
her; she tried to rise and go away from him, but he detained her by
force, passing his arm about her waist, and putting his repulsive face
close to hers. The poor girl put her hand before her eyes, so that she
could not see Leroux's.

"Ha! ha! I really believe she's trembling!" he exclaimed, with a roar of
savage laughter. "I promise you, my dear, it don't become you to play
the prude; anyone can see you haven't always been one."

With that, he put his face still nearer to hers, and tried to kiss her
on the lips; but she, summoning all her courage, pushed him away, and,
taking advantage of his surprise, sprang quickly to her feet and ran to
the other end of the room, behind the table on which the robbers ate.

Leroux stared at her in amazement, but in a moment smiled again,
saying:

"Oho! so you're balky, are you? Pretty good! Do you really think of
resisting me?"

He rose and went toward her; with a well-directed kick, he sent the
table to the other end of the room; then, seizing the girl, who
struggled to no purpose, he took her in his arms and carried her back to
the heap of straw. Once more she summoned all her courage, all her
strength, to resist the brigand, who was determined to triumph over her,
and who, after laughing scornfully at her defence, finally became
furious at her obstinate resistance. This pitiful struggle lasted a long
time, but the unfortunate girl felt that her strength was failing her;
tears and sobs suffocated her, and she was on the point of becoming the
victim of the villain who strove to force her, when of a sudden there
was a succession of violent blows on the door of the cabin.

"The devil take anybody who comes just now!" cried Leroux. "Those
fellows have done it on purpose; but I won't let 'em in."

At that moment, he heard a strange voice, which said:

"Open, for God's sake! save me! you shall be handsomely rewarded!"

It was not the voice of any of Leroux's companions. The robber was
surprised beyond words. He listened in terror, while Sister Anne fell on
her knees and thanked heaven for rescuing her.

Christine came hastily from the other room, and ran up to Leroux in
evident perturbation.

"Somebody's knocking, do you hear? It's a strange voice."

"Morbleu! yes, I hear it well enough. Go and look out of the window, and
try to see whether it's just one man."

Christine obeyed, and returned in a moment.

"Yes, he's alone," she said.

"Then let's let him in," said Leroux; "but we must be prudent till our
friends return."

Having replaced the table in the middle of the room, Leroux resumed his
pipe and his seat before the fire, while Christine opened the door of
the hovel to the person who had knocked.

The stranger who appeared in the doorway was an elderly man, whose dress
denoted wealth, and his manners high rank; but he was hatless, his
clothes were in disorder, and the pallor of his cheeks betrayed
agitation and fear. He rushed into the cabin, and did not seem to
breathe freely until he saw the door closed and locked behind him.

"Pardon, pardon, good people!" he said, addressing Leroux and Christine;
"I fear I have disturbed you and interrupted your rest; but by giving me
shelter you save my life."

"How so, monsieur?" said Leroux, with an air of deep interest.

"I have just been attacked, my friends, yonder, on the road that crosses
the forest I was in my carriage, with my servant, and the postilion was
urging the horses. Suddenly a party of robbers came out of the forest;
they rushed to the horses' heads and fired point-blank at the postilion;
the poor fellow fell dead! Having stopped the carriage, they ordered me
and my servant to alight, and one of them got in to search it; while he
was inside, I took advantage of a moment when the villains had not their
eyes on me, and plunged into the forest, selecting the darkest paths; I
succeeded in getting thus far, when I saw this light and knocked at your
door."

"You did well, monsieur," said Leroux, with a significant glance at
Christine. "Sit you down before the fire, and warm yourself and get back
your breath."

"Oh! you are too kind!" said the traveller, seating himself by the
hearth; "but my unfortunate servant--what have they done to him? will
he, too, be their victim?"

"Oh! that ain't likely. They probably let him go, after robbing him.
They only killed the postilion to make him stop. I know their ways;
there's so much robbery in this infernal forest!"

"I ought not to have taken that road; it was out of my way; but I wanted
to see this region."

"Did the rascals rob you, monsieur?"

"No, thank heaven! they were going to do it, no doubt, when I got away.
I have saved my wallet and my purse, at all events."

"You're very lucky, on my word," said Leroux, with another glance at
Christine. "Well, monsieur, you must make the best of it, and try to
forget all about it. We'll do our best for you; for you mustn't think of
leaving here before daylight; that would be very imprudent."

"I have no intention of doing so, if you will allow me to remain."

"Allow you! why, with great pleasure! Come, Christine, be spry! prepare
our guest's supper."

Throughout this conversation, Sister Anne had kept her eyes fixed on the
stranger, whose face, although rather stern, aroused her interest and
respect. She shuddered at the thought that he had escaped one danger
only to fall into another. Knowing now the unmitigated villainy of the
occupants of the hovel, she trembled for the traveller's life, and her
gaze, fastened insistently upon him, seemed to be striving to warn him
of the perils by which he was surrounded.

But the stranger had not yet noticed the dumb girl, who was seated on
the floor in a corner of the room; hardly recovered from his agitation,
he drew nearer to the fire, and rarely removed his eyes from it.

"It's lucky, on my word, that the robbers didn't follow you," said
Leroux, offering the traveller a glass of wine.

"What saved me, I fancy, was this: at the moment I escaped, I heard a
great clatter of hoofs----"

"Oho! you heard the sound of horses?" queried Leroux, uneasily.

"Yes; at least, I thought so. But I was so excited! It may have been
other brigands, or the constables in pursuit of them."

"Yes, that's so; it might have been."

"I served in the army once, but I confess that I don't care for an
encounter with robbers; against such hounds, courage is often of no
avail. Besides, I had no weapons about me."

"Ah! you have no weapons?"

"No; my pistols were in the carriage, but they didn't give me time to
take them."

Leroux seemed to reflect. Since the stranger had said that he had heard
horses on the road, he was less tranquil in his mind.

"You are a woodcutter, I presume?" said the traveller.

"Yes, monsieur; I'm a woodcutter; and this is my wife," said Leroux,
pointing to Christine, who was laying the table for supper.

"Aren't you at all afraid, here in the heart of this forest?"

"Why, what should we be afraid of? We're not rich enough to tempt
robbers. Come, Christine, look alive; monsieur will want to sleep when
he's had his supper."

"Oh! don't hurry her so."

The stranger, having recovered somewhat from his excitement, began to
look about him with more attention; and as he scrutinized the different
parts of the room, he at last observed Sister Anne seated on the heap of
straw, with her eyes fixed upon his with an expression which made it
impossible for him not to notice her. Taken by surprise, he gazed for
some time with interest at the dumb girl's pale, worn features, and
seemed puzzled by the strange way in which she looked at him.

"Who is that girl?" he asked Christine; "I didn't notice her before."

"That! oh! she don't amount to much," replied the tall woman, shortly.

"Isn't she your child?"

"No, monsieur," said Leroux; "she's an unfortunate deaf mute that I
found in the forest; and we took her in from charity. She'll soon be a
mother, and I took pity on her."

"That does you honor, monsieur; the poor thing is so young, and her face
so sweet! Haven't you been able to find out where she came from, or her
name?"

"How in the devil do you suppose one can find out anything from a deaf
and dumb woman? However, it don't make much difference; she's pretty
near an idiot, too, I think; but I'll keep her here."

When she heard this, Sister Anne rose and walked slowly toward the
stranger, still gazing at him with an expression of interest blended
with compassion.

"Well, well! what's she doing?" said Leroux; "the poor girl has surely
lost her reason! Make her go into the other room, Christine; it's time
she went to bed."

Christine pushed the dumb girl roughly toward the door of the rear room.
Sister Anne left the stranger's presence with profound regret; she would
have liked to keep him in sight, because she took the liveliest interest
in his welfare; but she was forced to obey. She walked slowly toward the
door, still looking at the stranger, who seemed touched by the intensity
of her gaze and followed her with his eyes until the door closed upon
her.

Christine went into the rear room with Sister Anne; she looked through
the window, and seemed disturbed by the non-return of the robbers. The
dumb girl lay down on the pallet, not to sleep, but to reflect upon the
means of saving the stranger by warning him of the risk he ran if he
remained in the cabin. How could she gain access to him, and how make
herself understood? At that moment, Leroux entered the room and closed
the door carefully; then he went up to Christine, and, thanks to their
conviction that Sister Anne could not hear them, she was soon made
acquainted with their plans.

"Well! can't you hear them coming?" asked Leroux.

"No; I can't hear anything."

"It's very strange! what can they be doing in the forest since that man
got here? I don't feel easy in my mind; he said something about horses
and constables. Suppose our friends are arrested!"

"The devil! would they sell us?"

"Hark ye! when this stranger's had his supper and gone to sleep, I'll go
out and try to find out something. If the others are in the forest, I
know where to find 'em. If they're taken or gone, we'll take advantage
of the stranger's sleep to make way with him, and with what he has on
him we'll do well to get out of danger ourselves by leaving the forest."

"That's a good idea; give him his supper, and let him go to sleep; and
then, when you come back, we'll go to work. Meanwhile, I'll lie down and
rest a bit."

"Yes, do; don't be afraid but what I'll wake you when I need you."

Leroux went back to the traveller, and the repulsive Christine threw
herself on the bed, beside Sister Anne, who had to endure the close
proximity of a creature whom she knew to be planning a murder with the
most revolting deliberation. But the poor girl did not stir; she had
overheard all the conversation of those monsters, she had not lost a
word of their schemes, and she still hoped to save the stranger. A
single fear oppressed her: that the three robbers would return; for then
all would be lost; she would be compelled to witness the unfortunate
man's death, or to die with him.

Christine was hardly on the bed when a prolonged snore indicated that
she was asleep. Thereupon Sister Anne rose softly and crept to the
partition, where she put her eye to a crack through which she could look
into the other room.

The stranger was tranquilly eating his supper; Leroux strove to
entertain him, but he constantly listened with marked disquietude for
sounds out of doors, and seemed desirous that the traveller should go to
bed at once. Sister Anne was able to observe the old man's features at
her leisure; and the more she looked at him, the stronger grew her
feeling of interest and attachment, which seemed not to be born solely
of his perilous situation. At the slightest noise caused by the wind or
by the falling of a dead branch, the girl shivered in mortal terror,
fancying that it was the three brigands returning; whereas, on the
contrary, Leroux's face would assume a look of satisfaction, as he ran
and listened at the door, hoping to hear his confederates' voices.

"Are you expecting company?" inquired the stranger.

"No, monsieur, no; it's the fear of robbers that makes me keep my ears
open; but I'm beginning to think they haven't followed you; so you can
go to sleep quietly."

"I'll lie down till daybreak; then you will be good enough to guide me
to the nearest village."

"Yes, monsieur, with pleasure; but you can sleep comfortably; it's a
long while to daybreak. This is the only bed I can offer you--fresh
straw; I'm sorry not to be able to give you anything better, but we're
pretty poor!"

"Oh! I shall be very comfortable; don't worry at all about me."

As he spoke, the stranger lay down on the straw and tried to sleep;
while Leroux stood before the fire, turning his head now and again to
see if his guest had fallen asleep. The dumb girl, her eye still glued
to the crack in the partition, did not lose either of them from sight,
and prayed fervently that Christine might not wake.

At last, the traveller seemed to doze, and Leroux went to fetch his
weapons from the cellar, the opening to which was covered by a plank and
concealed by a heap of straw. Sister Anne shuddered; suppose the villain
proposed to murder the old man at once! But, no; having replaced the
board, he stole softly from the cabin, muttering: "I'll go to the usual
place; and if they ain't there, I'll come right back."

He opened the door without a sound, and disappeared. The time to act had
come; the dumb girl summoned all her courage, and stole into the other
room, walking on tiptoe for fear of waking Christine; then she locked
the door securely, to prevent her from coming out in case she should
wake. The room in which the stranger lay asleep was lighted only by the
fire on the hearth. Sister Anne went to him, grasped his arm, and
squeezed it with all her force. The old man woke, and was surprised to
see her bending over him with an expression of the most intense and
painful anxiety on her face. He was about to speak, but she hastily
placed a finger on his lips, and her eyes, as she glanced about in
terror, bade him keep perfectly still. He rose and nervously awaited an
explanation of this mysterious scene.

Sister Anne ran to the cellar, succeeded in raising the opening, took a
blazing brand from the fire, and, motioning to the traveller to come
near, showed him the interior, where there were weapons and garments of
all sorts, the blood with which they were covered sufficiently attesting
the method by which the robbers had come into possession of them. The
stranger shuddered.

"Great God!" he said; "am I in a den of thieves?"

The girl nodded her head, then ran to the pile of straw, and indicated
by signs that they intended to return and murder him while he slept.

The stranger at once took possession of a pair of pistols which he found
near the entrance to the cellar.

"At all events, I will sell my life dearly," he said. "But you, poor
woman, what are you to do?"

Sister Anne interrupted him by running to the door of the cabin,
throwing it open, and making signs that he must fly at once and that she
would go with him. The stranger took her hand, and they left the house.
At that moment, Christine, hearing a noise, rose and tried to leave her
room; when she found that she was locked in, she began to shriek and
call Leroux, and, running to the window, saw the dumb girl and the
stranger just disappearing in the forest.

"Damnation! they've got away!" cried Christine, trying to remove the
bars at the window.

The old man pointed one of his pistols at her; but Sister Anne stopped
him, making him understand that the report would attract the brigands.
Her companion saw that she was right; so they fled, and, leaving the
vile creature hurling curses at them, they were soon far away from the
robbers' lair.

After wandering about the forest more than an hour, trembling at the
slightest sound, lest they should fall in with Leroux and his
confederates, the fugitives heard the steps of several horses. That
could be nothing but the constabulary in search of the brigands. The
dumb girl and the stranger started in the direction of the sound. Soon a
man passed them, running at full speed; it was Leroux, with a horseman
in pursuit. Another man on horseback followed, and, when he saw Sister
Anne's companion, cried: "Here's my master! Thank heaven, the scoundrels
didn't kill him!"

The traveller pointed out to the officers the abode of the brigands;
then, mounting a horse that his servant was leading, he took the dumb
girl _en croupe_ who had saved his life, and they rode rapidly out of
the forest.

The traveller did not cease to express his gratitude to his liberatress,
while she thanked God that she was no longer in the power of the
robbers.

The servant told his master that, a few moments after he had fled into
the forest, the constables appeared, and the outlaws thought of nothing
but escape; but two of them were overtaken, and were killed while
resisting capture. Thereupon, taking the horses, which had already been
unhitched from the chaise, the servant had mounted one and joined the
constables who were searching the forest, hoping to find his master.

A danger passed is soon forgotten. They arrived at a large village, and
the travellers knocked at the door of a farmhouse, where they were made
welcome and received every attention. The dumb girl was especially in
need of speedy assistance. The horrible situation in which she had been
placed for two days, the danger she had barely escaped, the superhuman
effort she had made during that ghastly night--all these things together
had been too much for the unfortunate child, who was hardly able to
stand erect. They put her in a warm bed; the people at the farm, when
they learned of her condition and of what she had done to save the aged
traveller, manifested the most sympathetic interest in her, and her
companion would not go to bed until he was certain that everything
possible had been done for his liberatress.

The next day, the carriage, which had been found on the road, was
brought to the farm, and there was nothing to prevent the stranger from
continuing his journey; but Sister Anne was in a high fever, and he was
unwilling to leave her until he was assured that her life was in no
danger. The best physician in the neighborhood was summoned; the
stranger spent money lavishly to provide her with everything that her
condition demanded. He passed a large part of the day in her room,
adding his attentions to those of the farmer's family.

Sister Anne was conscious of all that he did for her, and her heart was
deeply touched. Despite her weakness and suffering, she seized his hand
and pressed it gratefully.

"Poor woman!" said the stranger, profoundly affected; "I will not leave
you until my mind is at rest concerning your life. I would have liked to
take you to your destination, in my carriage. What can I do for you? You
can hear me, I see; so that you are deprived of the power of speech
only. Do you know how to write?"

Sister Anne shook her head; then she seemed suddenly to remember
something, and made a movement with her hand as if she were trying to
form letters. The old man handed her a pen, but she could not use it;
then he gave her a piece of chalk; whereupon she sat up in bed, leaned
over a table that stood beside it, and succeeded, not without a mighty
effort, in writing the name _Frédéric_ with the chalk. That done, she
pointed to it and sadly shook her head, as if to say:

"That is all I know."

The old man seemed greatly surprised when he read the name she had
written on the table. He reflected a moment, then looked at Sister Anne
with renewed interest; but it seemed to her that the expression of his
eyes was less gentle, that there was in it a touch of sternness which
she could not define.

"And your own name," he said; "can't you write that?"

Sister Anne shook her head, and again wrote the name _Frédéric_.

The traveller seemed extremely preoccupied all the rest of the day, and
whenever his eyes rested on the dumb girl he fell into a profound
reverie. For five days, Sister Anne's condition was such that her life
was in danger, and the old man did not leave the farm. At the end of
that time there was a perceptible improvement; the physician promised
that she would recover, but said that she would be very weak for a long
time, and that it would be imprudent in the extreme for her to leave
the farm before her lying-in.

Sister Anne's eyes filled with tears when she was told of this; she was
afraid of being a burden to the kind-hearted folk who had taken her in;
but the stranger lost no time in pacifying and consoling her.

"I have provided for everything," he said; "wait here until your health
is fully restored, and, if nothing calls you elsewhere, remain
permanently with these good people; they love you, and you will be happy
here."

But Sister Anne sadly shook her head, and motioned with her hand that
she must go a long, long way. The stranger, who had already given
twenty-five louis to the villagers for their past and future care of the
young woman, put a purse filled with gold in his rescuer's hands. She
would fain have refused it, and was sadly at a loss to express her
gratitude.

"You owe me nothing, my child," he said; "remember that you saved my
life, and that I shall owe you gratitude as long as I live. Take this
paper too; my name and address are written on it. If you are ever in
difficulty, let me know, and always count on my protection."

Sister Anne took the paper and placed it in the purse he had given her.
He, after gazing at her for some moments with evident emotion, kissed
her on the forehead, then, tearing himself away from her demonstrations
of gratitude, entered his carriage and drove away, leaving at the farm
abundant tokens of his generosity.

After he had gone, Sister Anne was melancholy and depressed for a long
while. Her heart went out to that stranger; in her mind, his image had
taken its place beside Frédéric's; but the loving friendship she felt
for the one in no wise impaired her ardent love for the other.

XXV

THE MARRIAGE TAKES PLACE

Frédéric did not pass a day without seeing Constance; since the lovers
had mutually avowed their love, that sentiment seemed to grow stronger
hourly in both their hearts. Mademoiselle de Valmont loved with the
unrestrained ardor of a heart that no longer seeks to conceal its
feelings. She was proud of Frédéric's love for her, and her happiness
consisted in returning it.

Frédéric, even more passionate and impulsive, yielded to the sentiment
that swept him off his feet; but, while he loved as dearly, he could not
be so happy; he needed to forget himself, to banish recollections which
disturbed his bliss. Like those persons who never look behind, for fear
of seeing something to frighten them, Frédéric tried to drive away the
thoughts that carried him back to a still recent period. He desired to
think solely of Constance, he knew that thenceforth she ought to prevail
over all other women; of what use, then, was an occasional sigh which
would bring no comfort to her whom he had abandoned? A man may argue
thus, but, none the less, even in the very bosom of happiness, there is
something in the bottom of his heart that reproves him for the wrong he
has done--unless, indeed, he has no heart, and there are many people in
whom we should seek for it in vain.

The Comte de Montreville had been absent a fortnight. Frédéric was not
certain as to the purpose of his father's journey, although he
suspected it; but he had no desire to take advantage of his absence to
go away himself. Could he leave Constance for a single day? Although she
had set his mind at rest as to the marriage that had frightened him,
Frédéric was not altogether satisfied. He begged his betrothed to
question her uncle on that subject. Constance dared not mention it to
the general; but at last, vanquished by Frédéric's entreaties, she made
up her mind to question him, and one morning she went to him in his
study.

"Uncle," she began, blushing, and lowering her eyes, "I have been told
that you have been making plans for me."

The general smiled as he looked at her, then tried to assume a serious
tone, with which, however, his expression did not harmonize.

"Who told you, mademoiselle, that I had made plans concerning you?"

"Monsieur Frédéric, uncle, who learned it from his father."

"The devil! so Monsieur Frédéric interests himself in it, does he? What
might these plans be, mademoiselle?"

"You should know better than I, uncle."

"Gad! that's true, you're right. Well, yes, I have a plan of my own."

"For my future, uncle?" asked Constance, in a trembling voice.

"Yes, for your marriage, in fact."

"Marriage! can it be possible? Oh! uncle----"

And the sweet girl looked up at the general, with appealing eyes already
filled with tears.

"Come, come, calm yourself, morbleu!" exclaimed the general, taking her
hand. "Here you are up in arms, as if I proposed to make you unhappy.
Don't you want to marry?"

"Oh! I don't say that, uncle."

"Well, then, why this terror when I tell you that I think of giving you
a husband?"

"Why, because I want--I don't want----"

"Because you want and don't want! Deuce take it! why can't a woman ever
say what she means! Why don't you tell me at once that you don't want to
marry anyone but Frédéric?"

"Oh! uncle, did you know----"

"I should have to be as blind as a bat not to know that; and this fine
gentleman, who presumes to love my niece--and who sighs and is
melancholy and tears his hair, instead of just coming to me and asking
for her hand----"

"Oh! my dear uncle--are you really willing?"

"Parbleu! am I in the habit of not being willing to do anything you
want?"

"But this marriage with some colonel?"

"That was a fable invented by my old friend--I don't quite know why; but
he came to me and begged me to let him say that; I couldn't refuse to
let him do as he chose, although I don't understand all this mystery;
for it seems to me that when two young people love each other and are
suited to each other, there's no need of marching and countermarching to
marry them. But, no matter; Montreville has his tactics, and he's bound
to follow them. Don't think of telling Frédéric this, for his father
would be angry with me; but when he comes back, which will be soon, I'll
put an end to all this prevarication, and give you to your lover, or
he'll end by making himself ill with his sighing."

Constance kissed her uncle and left him; the certainty of happiness made
her more beautiful than ever. Frédéric soon returned, and inquired
anxiously what her uncle had said to her. Constance tried to dissemble
her joy; the most loving woman is not sorry to tease her lover a little
now and then, for in his torments she sees fresh proofs of his love.

"Well!" said Frédéric, impatiently; "why don't you answer me? You have
spoken to your uncle about this proposed marriage--has he formed such a
plan?"

"Why, yes; he is thinking of marrying me."

"Then I was right!" cried the young man, with an agitation that made
Constance tremble; "he is thinking of it; my father told me the truth.
But you shall not be stolen from my love----"

"My dear, don't get excited."

"How can I help it, when you tell me that you are to be married?
Constance, if your uncle is a tyrant, I will carry you off. We will fly
together to the ends of the earth! You, you alone, will suffice for my
happiness! This very night, if you agree, we will start. What,
mademoiselle, you laugh at sight of my despair!"

"Oh! Frédéric, what a hot-headed boy you are!"

"Ah! mademoiselle is pleased to give me lessons in self-restraint! It
seems to me that this projected marriage doesn't disturb you much. Is
this how you love me?"

"Naughty boy! what a savage reproof! Ah! my dear, because my love is
more placid than yours, don't think that it is less strong and deep."

"But this marriage that your uncle has in mind?"

"Suppose it were you, monsieur, to whom he thinks of marrying me?"

"Me!"

Frédéric's features lightened up with a new expression; and Constance
put her finger on his lips, saying:

"Hush! not a word, my dear; uncle forbade me to speak--but how can I let
you suffer long?"

"What, Constance, can it really be true? Oh! what bliss! your uncle is
the best of men! Let me go and throw myself at his feet!"

"No, indeed! do you want him to scold me? shall I never be able to make
you amenable to reason? Sit down here, monsieur, by my side."

"But when may I tell him that I love you?"

"When your father returns--he won't be away much longer, I am sure. Do
you know whether he went very far?"

"Why--no--I don't think so; I am not certain."

"Well, my dear, now you are pensive."

"No, indeed I'm not!"

"So long as we were not certain of our happiness, I overlooked these
dreamy airs, these fits of melancholy that seize you sometimes when you
are with me; but understand, monsieur, that I won't have any more of
such nonsense. You have no trouble, dear, no secret sorrow, that you
can't confide to Constance, have you?"

"Of course not!"

"Promise me that you will tell me everything, absolutely everything;
that I shall have your entire confidence. Ought a husband and wife to
conceal anything from each other?"

"Yes, Constance, I promise; I will tell you all my thoughts."

Frédéric was not absolutely truthful at that moment, but his falsehood
was excusable, for his entire confidence just then would not have
afforded great pleasure to Constance, who was convinced that her lover
thought of no one but her, and who, despite her tranquil air, her
gentleness, and her confidence, loved Frédéric too ardently not to be
susceptible to jealousy, a sentiment which, in women, is almost always
inseparably connected with love.

The Comte de Montreville returned to Paris after an absence of nearly a
month. Under any other circumstances, Frédéric would have been surprised
at the length of a journey which might have been completed in a
fortnight, but in Constance's company he had given little thought to it.
When he saw his father again, however, all his memories of Dauphiné
rushed back into his mind; he was embarrassed in his presence, longing
to question him, but shrinking from it.

The count himself did not seem the same as before his departure; he was
often pensive and abstracted, as if his thoughts were engrossed by some
subject; and when he looked at his son, he, too, seemed to desire and
dread an explanation. At last, Frédéric ventured to question him, and,
contrary to his expectation, his father replied with no trace of the
stern, cold manner which he was wont to assume on approaching that
subject.

"Have you been in Dauphiné?" said Frédéric; "did you go to Vizille?"

"Yes," said the count; "I visited the neighborhood of that village,
including the wood where you lived so long."

"And did you see that--girl?"

"No, I did not see her; she had left her cabin only a few days before,
and there was nobody there but an old shepherd."

"What! Sister Anne not at her old home? Is it possible? And what of
Marguerite?"

"The old woman died some months ago."

"And Sister Anne has gone away? Poor child! what can have become of her?
In her plight, how could she find her way, make herself understood? Ah!
unfortunate girl!"

"What do you mean?" cried the count, gazing at his son with an
expression of the most intense interest; "what is this girl's plight,
which makes her such an object of pity? Answer me, Frédéric!"

"When she was seven years old, father, Sister Anne lost the power of
speech; a shocking calamity and a horrible fright deprived the poor
child of the possibility of making herself understood."

"Great God!" said the count, thunderstruck by what his son had said; "it
is she! I had divined it!"

But Frédéric did not hear his father's last words. He was engrossed by
the thought of Sister Anne, fancying that he saw her wandering through
the woods and fields, helpless and without shelter, turned away from
most public-houses, and everywhere exposed to want and misfortune. He
reflected that that was all his work, that, if he had not tried to
arouse in her heart a violent passion, she would have lived quietly in
her solitude, with no thirst for pleasures of which she knew nothing,
and with no dreams of happiness and of a different existence. At that
moment, Frédéric was overwhelmed by remorse, and he reproached himself
bitterly for his conduct to a woman of whom he was no longer enamored,
but who was still dear to him.

For a long time, the count and his son were buried in thought. The count
broke the silence at last, saying in a voice that shook with emotion:

"Have no concern as to that young woman's present lot. I have found
her."

"You have found her, father? is it possible?"

"Yes; on a farm near Grenoble. I left her there, and I provided against
her ever being in want."

"But how did you find her? You could not recognize her."

"Her misfortune, her youth--she interested me deeply; something told me
that she was the person I sought, and I have no doubt of it now, since
you have told me that she is dumb. I tell you again that you need not be
alarmed concerning her future; I left her with excellent people, who are
fond of her, and she will be very comfortable there; moreover, I shall
not fail to have an eye to her welfare."

The count was careful not to mention his adventure in the forest and his
indebtedness to Sister Anne; he was afraid that Frédéric's love would
blaze up anew if he should learn that she had saved his father's life.
He was especially solicitous that Frédéric should not know that the dumb
girl was on the point of becoming a mother; that intelligence might
disarrange the plans he had formed. For the count, although he was
interested now in Sister Anne, and proposed to take care of her and her
child, was none the less desirous for his son's marriage to his old
friend's niece; and to that end he considered it most essential to
conceal everything relating to the unhappy mute.

On arriving in Paris, he had expressly forbidden his servant to mention
the adventure in the forest or the young woman they had left at the
farm.

His father's assurance that Sister Anne was living among kindly people,
and was amply provided against want, allayed Frédéric's remorse. That
sentiment rarely lasts long in love, and the new passion is always at
hand to dispel the memories of the old one. By Constance's side the
young man entirely forgot the poor maid of the woods; and while renewing
his oaths and protestations of love to Constance, he lost the memory of
those he had laid at another woman's feet.

The Comte de Montreville's return was soon to be followed by the
marriage of the young people. Frédéric longed for it, Constance hoped
for it, and the general made no objection, because he did not believe in
making lovers sigh too long.

Thus everybody was agreed; there was no obstacle to delay their
happiness. The wedding day was fixed. The general vowed that he would
dance at his niece's wedding, although he had never danced in his life;
the count was anxious to greet Constance by the sweet name of daughter,
and the lovers--oh! you know what their desires were; it may be guessed,
but must not be said.

Engrossed by his approaching happiness, Frédéric was rarely disturbed by
the memories which brought a sad expression to his face; if by chance a
sigh escaped him, a glance from Constance speedily put to flight the
thoughts of other times. Constance was so sweet-tempered, and the near
approach of happiness made her so beautiful, that it was impossible not
to adore her.

At last the day arrived which was to witness the union of Frédéric and
Constance. The Comte de Montreville was so overjoyed that he allowed his
son to invite everyone he chose. Frédéric knew no better friend than
Dubourg, who, with all his follies, had often given him proofs of a
genuine attachment. Moreover, since Dubourg had inherited his aunt's
property, he had become much more sensible. To be sure, he was always
hard up about the middle of the month, but he had not pledged his
income, and he had taken up dominoes instead of écarté, that being a
game at which one gets much less excited.

Ménard was not forgotten, either. The worthy man was much attached to
Frédéric; he had been a little too indulgent on the journey, but the
count had forgiven that; moreover, he had always acted with the best
intentions. As for his fondness for the table, that is often considered
in society an estimable quality.

Constance was dressed with taste and elegance; but one could pay no heed
to her toilet, in presence of her beauty and her charms; for happiness,
which embellishes everything, adds to the fascination of a pretty face.
The men can only admire that; as for the women, they see at a glance
every detail of the costume, and can, at need, tell us how every pin was
put in, and how many pleats there were in the gown, in front and behind;
our perspicacity will never go so far as that.

Frédéric was radiant with love; he did not lose sight of Constance,
which is the surest means of having no unpleasant recollections.
Frédéric was very comely, too; his face was noble and winning; and if
the men admired Constance, the women were not inclined to pity her for
marrying Frédéric.

The general and the count felt the keenest satisfaction in the union of
their children. In his joy, Monsieur de Valmont was more hilarious and
effusive than the Comte de Montreville; but the latter smiled benignly
upon everybody, and, for the first time, embraced his son tenderly.

Monsieur Ménard was dressed with care and maintained a very sedate
bearing until the dinner. As for Dubourg, he was overjoyed to be invited
to his friend's wedding, and, as he desired to obtain the count's good
graces, he assumed throughout the day such a dignified air, that he
looked as if he had a fit of the _spleen_; and he tried so hard to be
staid and respectable, that he might well have been taken for a man of
sixty. Whenever the count approached him, he discoursed upon the
illusive pleasures of the world, of the bliss of retirement, and of the
joys that await the just man after death. He carried it so far, that the
general said to Frédéric:

"What a devil of a fellow your friend Dubourg is! Does he pass his time
in graveyards? I have been to him once or twice to talk, and he at once
quotes a passage from Young's _Night Thoughts_ or Massillon's _Petit
Carême_. He's a very cheerful guest for a wedding party."

Frédéric went to Dubourg and urged him to act as he naturally would;
but, convinced that his conversation, his tone, and his bearing
delighted Monsieur de Montreville, it was impossible to induce Dubourg
to change them.

A magnificent dinner was served at the Hôtel de Montreville, whence the
young people were to return in the evening to the general's house, where
they were to live. As the general was often absent, he required only a
small suite, and gave up three-fourths of the house to the newly married
pair.

Marriages in the first society have not the hilarity of bourgeois
marriages; which fact is some compensation to the bourgeoisie for not
belonging to the first society. However, the repast was rather merry in
a mild way. Monsieur Ménard devoted himself to the good cheer, as he did
at Monsieur Chambertin's; but Dubourg ate little; he refused almost
every dish, because he thought it much more _comme il faut_. Nor was it
possible to induce him to accept a glass of champagne or liqueur.

"I never take it," he said, with imperturbable phlegm.

The Comte de Montreville stared at him in amazement, while Ménard, who
sat next to him, said again and again:

"You used to take it, though; I've seen you take it often enough! Say
you're sick, and I'll believe you."

"Your friend is wonderfully sober," said the general to Frédéric; "you
have brought us an anchorite."

After the dinner, dancing engaged the attention of the guests for the
rest of the evening. The new husband and wife indulged in that pastime,
which enabled them to wait with more patience for the greater pleasures
to come; dancing is always essential to bring a wedding party to a
cheerful termination.

But Dubourg did not dance; he walked stiffly through the salons, holding
his head as if he had a stiff neck, and never stopping near an écarté
table.

"Don't you play, Monsieur Dubourg?" asked the count, with a smile.

"No, monsieur le comte; I have altogether renounced all games for money;
I care for nothing but chess; that is the only sensible game, and the
only one suited to me."

"Don't you dance, either?"

"Never; I care for nothing but the minuet, which is a sedate and
dignified dance. It's a great pity that it isn't danced nowadays."

"The deuce! Monsieur Dubourg, you are tremendously changed. You used to
be a little giddy, I think."

"Ah! monsieur le comte, other times, other cares; with advancing years,
one grows wiser."

"Advancing years! why, it's not one year yet since you played Hippolyte,
and would have made poor Ménard play Thésée."

"Oh! monsieur le comte, a very great revolution has taken place in me
since then. I care for nothing now but study and science--science above
all things; for, as Cato says: _Sine doctrina vita est quasi mortis
imago_."

The count walked away with a smile on his face, and Dubourg was
convinced that he was greatly pleased with him. The day was at an end.
Ménard returned to his tiny lodging, reviewing in his mind all the
delicious dishes he had eaten. Dubourg was no sooner outside the house
than he began to jump and run like a schoolboy who is no longer under
the master's eye. Frédéric and Constance were happy. Annoying witnesses
were no longer present to curb the transports of their affection.
Company is a burden to lovers, and they await impatiently solitude and
mystery. At last, Frédéric was permitted to take his wife away; on the
wedding night, a husband is a lover who abducts his mistress.

XXVI

SISTER ANNE BECOMES A MOTHER.--HER LONG STAY AT THE FARM

Sister Anne was still at the farmhouse where the Comte de Montreville
left her; for it is no longer a secret to us that the stranger whom she
had rescued from the robbers' hovel was Frédéric's father, then
returning from Vizille, where he had been to inquire concerning the fate
of the girl whom his son had abandoned. He had found no one in the cabin
in the woods but the old shepherd, who did not know in what direction
Sister Anne had gone. To all the count's questions, he could make no
other answer than:

"She's gone away; she insisted on going; I don't know where she's gone."

On leaving the woods, the count had visited the outskirts of Grenoble,
and was on his way back to Lyon when his carriage was stopped in the
forest.

Sister Anne, despite her longing to continue her journey, realized that
she was in no condition to travel; the moment of her delivery was
drawing near, when she could press to her heart the fruit of her love.
That thought diminished her suffering to some extent; the hope of seeing
her child diverted her thoughts at times from her troubles, and everyone
at the farm strove to restore her peace of mind and to bring back a
smile to her lips. They were worthy people, who took the most
affectionate interest in the poor girl. Even without recompense, they
would have been no less kind to her; but money does no harm, and the sum
the Comte de Montreville had given them, when he requested them to
continue to take care of Sister Anne, was considerable, according to
their ideas.

The dumb girl, realizing that her stay among them must be long, offered
them the purse that the old gentleman had given her just before he went
away; but they would take nothing from her.

"Keep the money," said the farmer's wife; "keep it, my child; that
excellent man you saved from the robbers paid for everything; in fact,
he paid us too much. We didn't need that to be kind to you; you're so
pretty and sweet and unfortunate! Poor little woman! I can make a guess
at your situation. Some man abused your innocence and inexperience; he
deceived you, and then dropped you! That's the story of most young girls
who haven't got any father and mother to protect 'em from the snares
those fine fellows lay for 'em. Don't cry, my child; I'm a long way
from blaming you; you're less to blame than other women! But the man who
deserted you's the one as ought to be punished. The idea of leaving you,
in the condition you're in! he must be a hard-hearted wretch!"

When she heard that, Sister Anne made a hasty gesture as if to prevent
the farmer's wife from saying any more; she put her finger on her lips
and shook her head vigorously, evidently to deny what the woman had
said.

"Well, well!" said the farmer's wife; "she don't want me to speak ill of
him! she still loves him! That's just like a woman: always ready to make
excuses for the man that does 'em the most harm. But don't you be
worried about the future, my child; stay with us; we'll love you like
our own daughter and take good care of you. You're out of reach of want
forever here."

Sister Anne pressed her hand affectionately, but her eyes refused to
make a promise which her heart had no intention of keeping. Frédéric was
still supreme in that ardent heart, and the girl did not renounce the
hope of finding him.

A short time after the stranger's departure, Sister Anne, remembering
that he had given her a paper, took it from the purse and carried it to
the farmer's wife, being anxious to know what was written on it. The
woman read: _Comte de Montreville_, _Rue de Provence_, _Paris_. There
was nothing else on the paper, and Sister Anne had no suspicion that it
was Frédéric's father's name, for her lover had never mentioned his
family name in her presence. But she was overjoyed when the farmer's
wife read _Paris;_ she tried to make her understand that that was where
she wanted to go; then she carefully replaced the paper in the purse.

"That's the gentleman's address," said her hostess; "I tell you, he
ain't like most men; he's grateful, and he won't ever forget what you
did for him. I'm sure he'd give you a kind reception, if you should go