The Comte de Montreville did not live with his children; but he came often to their house; he still had in his service the man who was with him when he was attacked in the forest, and whom he had forbidden to mention that adventure. But one evening, when he was talking with the other servants, he forgot his master's injunction; and as the others told stories about robbers, he did not fail to tell of the risk he had run in company with monsieur le comte, who had been saved, almost miraculously, by a young dumb woman. Frédéric's valet was present; and the next day, while dressing his master, he asked him if what Dumont had said was true; because he believed that Dumont was a liar, and that monsieur le comte had never mentioned being attacked by robbers and saved by a dumb woman.
These last words attracted Frédéric's attention; a secret presentiment told him that Sister Anne was concerned in the adventure. He made no reply to his servant, but hastened to his father's house. The count was absent, but Dumont was there; Frédéric was able to speak to him alone, which was just what he desired. At his first question, Dumont blushed, remembering his master's orders; but it was too late for him to keep silent. Moreover, it did not seem to him that he was committing any great sin in telling his master's son the whole story, and he could not understand why Monsieur de Montreville wished to make a mystery of the adventure.
Frédéric made him describe the girl his father had taken to the farm; from the beginning, he had no doubt that it was Sister Anne. He asked Dumont innumerable questions, and the valet told him all that he knew.
"Do you think that she remained at the farm?" Frédéric asked.
"Oh! yes, monsieur; she wasn't well enough to continue her journey; and then, I forgot to tell you that she was on the point of becoming a mother."
"What do you say, Dumont?—that girl——"
"Girl or wife, I don't know which; but I can swear she was enceinte."
Sister Anne had a child! Frédéric understood now why his father had acted with so much mystery. He inquired particularly as to the name of the village and the location of the farm at which they had left the dumb girl; then, giving Dumont a handsome present, he enjoined upon him absolute secrecy concerning their interview. Dumont promised not to mention the subject again, and lost himself in conjectures touching the conduct of father and son alike.
After Frédéric had learned that Sister Anne had made him a father, he did not enjoy a moment's repose. The thought haunted him incessantly, and he was consumed by the desire to see his child. His reveries were more frequent, his brow was clouded more often than ever before, and Constance heard him sigh. She dared not question him; but she suffered torments in secret; she flattered herself that she filled Frédéric's heart, that she was the sole object of all his thoughts; but she was always near him, she held his hand in hers, and it could not be she who made him sigh.
When she ventured to ask him what the matter was, he strove to recover himself, pressed her to his heart, and said:
"What more can I possibly desire?"
But, even then, Constance detected a trace of sadness in his smile; he did not seem to her entirely happy.
One day Frédéric told his wife that he was about to undertake the journey which he had postponed so long, but which had become absolutely necessary. Constance had flattered herself that Ménard would go in his stead; indeed, Frédéric himself had suggested it; but he had changed his mind, and was evidently determined to go. Constance dared not try to detain him, or to propose to accompany him; she was afraid of annoying him; she was unwilling to thwart him in the most trivial thing. Moreover, if Frédéric had wanted her to go with him, he would have had but to say the word; she would have left everything to go; but he did not say the word! Constance groaned in secret, but she showed her husband a cloudless brow and a smiling face.
Frédéric embraced her tenderly; he promised to hasten his return, and to be with her again within a month. She tried to be brave; and Frédéric took his departure, commending her to the care of Ménard and Dubourg. But Constance did not need to be entertained: although absent, Frédéric was always with her.
It was the month of August, that lovely season when it is so pleasant to live in the pure air of the country. Constance determined to pass at her country house near Montmorency all the time that her husband was absent. As it was much quieter there than in Paris, it seemed to her that she would be more free to think of him, to count the moments which must pass before his return. Monsieur de Montreville visited his daughter-in-law in the country. But at the count's age a man has settled habits, and amusement becomes a necessity. The count loved Paris, for he had a great number of acquaintances there; and the never-ceasing life and animation of the capital had always attracted him. After a week's stay in the country, he returned to his favorite city and his wonted amusements.
Constance was left alone with Ménard and the servants. It was still early in the quarter, and Dubourg was not in the country; but Constance did not suffer one moment from ennui; when the heart is well occupied, the head is never empty. The old tutor was always ready to bear her company; he talked to her of Greek and Roman history, quoted his favorite Latin authors, and sometimes plunged into Biblical history. It is not certain that Constance was greatly entertained; but when Ménard had finished speaking, she would smile at him so amiably that he was invariably satisfied.
Toward nightfall Constance always went to the summer-house. It was her favorite spot; there she and Frédéric had begun to understand each other, there she had felt the first approach of love. Since that time, she had often visited the summer-house, more often than ever now that she was awaiting her husband's return. From that eminence she could overlook the whole valley and the country round about the walls of her garden.
One fine evening, as she happened to glance at the road which passed the house, Constance noticed a young woman seated at the foot of a tree, with an infant in her arms; the unfortunate creature was evidently in the last stages of destitution; she was gazing mournfully at her child, and, while covering him with kisses, seemed to be utterly hopeless and desperate.
Constance was deeply affected. At that moment, Monsieur Ménard joined her on the platform.
"Look!" she said; "do you see that poor woman? See how frantically she kisses her child! She seems in terrible distress. Do you see her?"
"One moment, madame," said Ménard; "I can't find my spectacles.—Where in the devil have I put them?"
At that instant the poor woman raised her eyes, and, when she saw Constance, her glance became so expressive, so full of entreaty, that it was impossible not to understand her.
"Oh! she is crying," exclaimed Constance; "wait, wait, my poor woman! I will come down."
She rushed out of the summer-house, while Ménard was still looking for his spectacles.
Not far away was a small gate by which the road was reached. Constance opened it, and soon stood beside the unfortunate creature she longed to assist. As she drew near to her, she was even more touched, for the wayfarer's every feature was eloquent of suffering and despair; but it was for her child, above all, that she implored Constance's pity. She held him out to her, and great tears flowed from her drawn and reddened eyes.
"Poor child!" said Constance; "how pale and thin he is! but what lovely features!"—And she took the child in her arms, saying to the mother: "Come, and I will give you something to restore your strength. Follow me."
The woman walked a few steps, but soon fell to the ground; her strength had failed her.
"Great heaven!" said Constance; "what a state the poor creature is in!—Monsieur Ménard, do come and help me take her to the house."
"Here I am, here I am, madame! They were in my waistcoat pocket," said Ménard. "Oho! this young person seems sadly in need of help."
"Support her—let us help her to walk. Poor woman! how she distresses me! Mon Dieu! is it possible that there can be people so unfortunate?"
"Very possible, certainly, madame; but it is important to know the causa causarum."
With the assistance of Ménard and Constance, the latter of whom carried the child as well as supported the mother, the poor woman succeeded in reaching the house. There Constance at once gave her whatever she thought would do her and the child good; and while the mother recovered her strength, she observed her with interest.
"Just see," she said to Ménard, "she is still a mere girl—and already so greatly to be pitied! Her features are sweet and pathetic. Poor mother! where have you come from? what do you mean to do?"
The unfortunate creature did not reply to these questions; the reader will have divined the cause: it was Sister Anne and her son to whom Constance had brought succor.
Ten days had passed since the dumb girl left Paris, during which she had wandered about the country, guided by chance alone. Being forced constantly to beg for shelter and food, often repulsed, often depriving herself of sustenance to give it to her son, she had felt her strength and her courage grow less day by day; despair took possession of her mind, it sapped all her faculties, and the unhappy mother was embracing her child in momentary expectation of death, when chance, which had led her to Madame de Montreville's house, decreed that she should notice her and fly to her assistance.
Surprised at receiving no reply to her questions, Constance repeated them; whereupon Sister Anne, putting her hand to her lips and mournfully shaking her head, succeeded in making her understand her pitiful condition.
"O heaven! she cannot speak! Poor soul! All alone with her child, and without money, without a guide, and unable to ask her way! Oh! this is too much, too many trials at once!"
And Constance stooped over Sister Anne, weeping freely at the sight of her misery, while the dumb girl, touched by a compassion to which she had become unaccustomed, took her benefactress's hand, covered it with kisses, and pressed it to her heart.
"Faith!" said Ménard, drawing his handkerchief,—for the kind-hearted tutor could not witness this scene without emotion,—"faith! I agree that she was in a critical position. Indeed, speech is essential throughout life; and anyone who has no tongue, or can't use it, is like a fox without a tail, a butterfly without wings, or a fish without fins."
Constance continued to devote her whole attention to Sister Anne and her son; already the child was laughing in her arms; he was at the happy age when grief vanishes at sight of a cake or a toy. It seemed that Constance could not tire of caressing him.
"See," she said to Ménard, "see how he smiles at me!"
"Of course, for you are giving him bonbons. Men are caught by sugared words, and children by sugar without words; wherein they show more sagacity than men."
"What pretty features, what lovely eyes! It may be a delusion, but it seems to me that he has my husband's eyes."
"My pupil's? I can hardly conceive eyes of two years resembling eyes of twenty-three."
"Poor little dear! I feel that I love him already. How happy I should be to have a child like him!"
"That will come, madame: Sarah was ninety years old when she gave birth to Isaac. You have plenty of time before you."
Sister Anne's heart throbbed with joy when she saw Constance caress her son. Madame de Montreville did not tire of gazing at him, for she detected in his features some resemblance to those of her husband. Ménard gazed compassionately at Sister Anne; he was very far from suspecting that that poor mendicant was the young girl he had seen seated beside Frédéric in the woods at Vizille. How could he have recognized her! He had seen her only a moment, and then she was radiant with happiness and love; her lovely features were not worn by tears and sorrow; the fatigue of a long and toilsome journey, and of incessant suffering, had not made her body weak and her steps tottering. And, lastly, Ménard did not know that that girl was dumb; so that it was impossible for him to suspect that she was before him at that moment.
"Do you know how to write, poor woman?" Constance asked her.
She shook her head.
"What a pity! I would like to know this pretty boy's name."
The dumb girl looked eagerly about. They had taken her to a room on the ground floor, looking on the garden. She went out, motioning to Constance to follow her. She broke a branch from the first shrub she came to; then, stooping over, she traced on the gravel path her son's name.
"Frédéric!" cried Constance, after reading the name; "what! your child's name is Frédéric? Ah! that will make him all the dearer to me. Frédéric! why, that is my husband's name.—What do you think of this, Monsieur Ménard? isn't it strange?"
"I don't see anything so extraordinary in it," said the tutor. "As there are great numbers of Martins, Pierres, and Pauls, there may very well be as many Frédérics. I know of no name but Thesaurochrysonicochrysides, which Plautus invented, that has never become common. So, if I had had a son, I should have insisted on giving him that name, although it isn't very easy to say."
Constance took the child in her arms again. She called him Frédéric; and he, answering to that name, by which he had been called at the farm, lisped the word mamma, and looked about as if in search of the good peasants who used to call him so.
"I am determined that my husband shall see this dear child," said Constance; then, after a moment's reflection, she went up to Sister Anne, took her hand, and said, following her signs closely so that she might understand her answers:
"Where were you going with your child?—She doesn't know.—Unfortunate creature! have you no father or mother?—Ah! they are dead!—And your child's father, your husband—why isn't he with you?—She weeps! Poor dear! He has deserted her! The idea of deserting such a pretty child! and such a sweet, unfortunate mother! Why, it's perfectly ghastly! he must have a terribly hard heart.—But cheer up, and dry your tears; I will not abandon you! No, my mind is made up; I will take care of you and your child. You shall not leave me. You shall live with me; I will give you needlework to do; I will teach you to work, and I will have your child educated under your eyes. My husband is kind, tender-hearted, and generous; I am perfectly certain that he won't blame me for what I am doing. He will love you, too, and you shall end your days with us. Do you understand, poor dear? Don't cry any more, don't worry about your child. Hereafter you shall be out of reach of want.—Why, look, Monsieur Ménard! she actually throws herself at my feet and kisses my hand, as if I were a god! What would be the use of wealth, if we could not do a little good with it?"
"To be charitable, madame, is one of the precepts of the Gospel; unfortunately, everybody doesn't put it in practice as you do!"
"But it's high time to think about arranging a room for this young woman," said Constance, leading Sister Anne back to the house. "After all the fatigue she has undergone, she must feel the need of rest. Where shall we put her? Oh! I know; in that little building adjoining the greenhouse in the garden. My husband intended to make a study of it; but he can work in his own room. Yes, that is what we'll do. Be kind enough to give orders accordingly, Monsieur Ménard. Have a bed taken there, and everything she needs for the night; to-morrow, I will have it properly arranged. She will be quiet there, and she will have her son with her and can take him to walk in the garden in the morning."
Ménard went to tell the servants to prepare a room in the pavilion in the garden. Meanwhile, Constance remained with Sister Anne, who was unable to express her boundless gratitude; her features were beginning already to lose their haggard, hopeless look. As she looked at her, Constance found her face more and more interesting; the dumb girl in no respect resembled those beggars who seem determined to extort alms by lamentations and importunities, and who receive it without gratitude. Sister Anne was meek and shrinking; she was amazed at the interest she inspired; her gratitude could be read in her eyes; and in her whole bearing, her whole aspect, there was something which seemed to indicate that she was not born in the lowest rank of society.
"The more I look at her," thought Constance, "the more surprised I am that anyone could have deserted her. Her features are refined, her eyes sweet and full of charm. How lovely she will be in other clothes!—And you, dear love, ah! I will take good care of you!"
Ménard announced that everything was ready in the pavilion for the reception of the poor woman and her son. Constance took Sister Anne's arm and led her thither, made sure that she had everything that she needed for the night, and left her, urging her not to grieve any more, but to go to bed and sleep.
Sister Anne pressed her hand to her heart, and Constance said to Ménard as they walked away:
"Now the time won't seem so long while Frédéric is away! I realize that the best way to divert one's thoughts from one's own troubles is to relieve those of other people."
On waking the next morning, Sister Anne feared for a moment that all that she saw was an illusion of her eyesight. After suffering the most horrible tortures of destitution; after wandering so long, often unable to obtain a place to lay her head and her son's; after going through all that a mother can go through who trembles every moment for her child's life—to find herself in a handsome and comfortable apartment, lying in a soft bed, and with her mind at rest concerning her future; instead of the cold contempt of pity, to receive the loving attentions of a noble-hearted woman, who added tenfold to the value of her kind acts by the grace with which she did them—was to pass abruptly into a situation so entirely different, that her softened heart feared to give way to the enjoyment of a happiness in which it could not as yet believe.
Sister Anne embraced little Frédéric; then rose and took him into the garden, which surrounded on all sides the building in which she was lodged. What a lovely spot! what bliss to live there, and guide her child's first hesitating steps! He tried to run about alone among the paths bordered by roses and lilacs; when he fell, the soft gravel deadened his fall, and the child waited, smiling, for his mother to come and help him to start afresh.
Constance was awake very early; she had thought all night of the dumb girl and her son; her determination to be their benefactress made it impossible for her to sleep; for pleasure has its insomnia, and women display in all their decisions more ardor and more sentiment than men. If they sometimes seem to be unduly engrossed by a piece of jewelry or some other trivial object, with what energy and what heartfelt sympathy do they perform a good deed!
Madame de Montreville hurried down into the garden to see her protégée. She found Sister Anne and the child under an arbor of honeysuckle. The boy was playing by his mother, who, when she saw Constance, flew to meet her, and seized one of her hands, which she held for a long time to her heart.
"Up so early!" said Constance, as she kissed little Frédéric; "how did you pass the night? Well? I am glad. After so much trouble and fatigue, you needed a long rest. The dear boy! see how he smiles at me; one would think that he recognizes me already. But you must not continue to wear those clothes; come with me and I will give you one of my dresses. It will fit you, for we're very nearly of the same size. Oh! I won't allow you to refuse; remember that you must obey me, or I shall be angry."
Constance took Sister Anne and little Frédéric to her own room, where she selected one of her simplest gowns and compelled her protégée to put it on. In that new costume the dumb girl seemed to acquire new charms, and her timidity and embarrassment were entirely free from the awkwardness which characterizes so many people in clothes that were not made for them.
"She is charming," said Constance, when she had summoned her maid and had caused her to arrange the young woman's hair, quite simply, but with excellent taste. "How lovely she is so! And in a few days, when she has entirely recovered from her fatigue, when her cheeks have a little color, she'll be lovelier still.—Come, come and look at yourself, and don't lower your eyes. Is it anything to be ashamed of that one is pretty?"
Constance led Sister Anne in front of a mirror. The dumb girl looked at her own image, hesitatingly at first; but she soon recovered her self-possession to some extent, and her face flushed with modest pleasure. Is it possible for a woman to be insensible to anything that beautifies her? Sister Anne, after looking at herself for several minutes, fell at Madame de Montreville's knees.
"Oh! I don't want you to do this any more," said Constance, raising her; "I want you to love me and to be happy, that's all. As for your son, I propose to make him handsome, too, and I will send to Paris for whatever is necessary."
Monsieur Ménard, whose sleep had not been interfered with by thoughts of the wayfarer, came down at last, and was thunderstruck when he saw Sister Anne in such different guise.
"Well, Monsieur Ménard, what do you think of her?"
"Faith! madame, she is so much improved that I should not recognize her."
"Because in her other clothes you saw nothing but her misery, and overlooked the refinement of her features."
"It is an undeniable fact that misery is a great disfigurement. Indeed, a handsome setting adds to the charm of everything. We cannot dine so satisfactorily when the cloth is soiled, and the commonest wine tastes much better in a dainty glass."
Constance was busy all day with her plans for Sister Anne. The room on the first floor of the pavilion was arranged, and supplied with everything that could make it more attractive. By Madame de Montreville's orders a pretty cradle was procured, and placed beside the young mother's bed. The windows were embellished with flowers in boxes.
"She is debarred from other enjoyments," said Constance; "books and music are useless to her; as yet, the poor child doesn't know how to do anything, so we must surround her with things that are pleasing to the eye."
Sister Anne was at a loss to express her gratitude for such overwhelming kindness. Constance was much amused by the astonishment which each new thing caused her. Above all, when she heard for the first time the notes of a piano, blended with Constance's sweet voice, was she conscious of a fascination, an intoxicating pleasure, which moved her to tears. The charm of music was keenly appreciated by that ardent soul, which knew not the art of concealing its sensations.
As she watched Constance sew and embroider, Sister Anne sighed and revealed her grief at her inability to do as much. But Constance undertook to teach her; and the dumb girl was so anxious to make herself useful, that in a very short time she did all that she saw others do.
A week had passed since Constance had taken Sister Anne and the child into her family, and every hour seemed to increase her affection for them. The child very soon learned to love her, for she lavished caresses upon him; and Sister Anne, always gentle, attentive, and grateful, proved to her that her benefactions were well bestowed.
One morning, while the dumb girl was walking with her son in the garden, Dubourg appeared at his friend's house; the quarter was more than half gone, and Constance, who knew something of Dubourg's habits from her husband, was not at all surprised at his arrival.
"Welcome!" she said; "you promised my husband that you would come to see me while he was away, and I was beginning to be offended with you."
"Madame," said Dubourg, with a smile, "I am not one of those friends who undertake to make a wife forget her husband; but if I have it in my power to entertain you, I am entirely at your service until next quarter-day; or the whole year, if I can be of any use to you."
"Oh! you will find a change here; I have someone with me. I have made a new acquaintance since Frédéric went away."
"Indeed! I am sure that it is an acquaintance which will be agreeable to your husband too."
"Why, I hope so."
"My dear Dubourg," said Ménard, "madame does not tell you that she has taken into her family an unfortunate woman and her son; she doesn't boast of her good deeds."
"Hush, Monsieur Ménard! as if that young woman did not deserve all that I have done for her! Could I have placed my benefactions more wisely?"
"I agree that she has learned to work beautifully; I expect very soon to teach her to read."
"You will see, Monsieur Dubourg, how pretty and how interesting she is. And then, her child, a boy of two, is a charming little fellow."
"Ah! she has a son, has she?"
"Yes; and I am sure that you will agree with me that he looks like—— But I want you to see for yourself; I will go and find her."
Constance was already in the garden.
"The dear soul!" said Dubourg; "what a happy mortal Frédéric ought to be! And yet, here he is travelling already!"
"Business before everything, my dear Dubourg.—A pinch of snuff, if you please. My pupil has come into extensive estates, through his wife, and a man ought to be familiar with his estates."
"But why not take his wife with him? Don't you think that she would have been very glad to go along?"
"I don't say she wouldn't, but—— What a fellow you are! always harping on the same subject!"
"Hum! I trust that this journey doesn't conceal some scheme! I know that Frédéric would be terribly sorry to cause his wife the slightest pain; but I know also that such sentimental fellows as he take fire when they hear a woman sigh!"
"I tell you that my pupil is visiting his estates, deuce take it!—What about dominoes? are you beginning to be strong at it?"
"Much stronger than you, who can never guess where the double-six is. But let us join Madame de Montreville; I am curious to see this woman she has taken under her wing."
"She's a woman whom you will find it hard not to agree with, for there can't be a quarrel without a dispute; now, when there's no dispute, there can't be a quarrel; and there can't be a dispute in this case, because——"
But Dubourg was not listening; he was already in the garden, where he saw Madame de Montreville in the distance, with a child in her arms, and beside her a young woman dressed in a simple white gown. He walked toward them; the young woman saw him and ran, yes, flew to his side, seized his arm, and gazed at him in anxious suspense; while Dubourg stood like one petrified, for he had recognized Sister Anne.
"Mon Dieu! what has happened to her?" Constance asked Dubourg, who was completely bewildered to find the dumb girl, in such a different costume, walking with Constance, who was carrying her son in her arms. "What an extraordinary effect your presence has produced on her! See how she looks at you! She seems to be questioning you with those eloquent eyes. Do you know this poor child?"
"Why, no—that is, yes, yes, I saw her once; but she was so different then; in this dress—and with this child—faith, I did not recognize her!"
Dubourg was confused and embarrassed; he did not know what he ought to say, and Sister Anne still held his arm, while her eyes implored him to speak.
"What! you know her?" said Constance, in surprise; "but what does she want of you now? can't you guess what it is that she seems to want to know?"
"Oh! I beg your pardon—I begin to understand. I knew this poor girl's lover, and she is trying to ask me about him."
"Well, answer her, then, at once; see! her eyes are full of tears."
"Faith! I have nothing pleasant to tell her; her seducer has gone abroad, and, in all probability, she will never see him again.—I don't know what has become of him," he said to Sister Anne; "I have never seen him since, any more than you. And so, my dear child, you must try to forget him."
Sister Anne, who had listened with the closest attention to every word that fell from Dubourg's lips, dropped her head on her breast when he had finished; then she went and sat down under a tree, and gave free vent to her grief and her tears.
"Poor woman!" said Constance; "alas! she still loves the man who deserted her. Who could have abused her innocence so heartlessly?"
"He was a young painter, madame; he was travelling at the time—for his instruction. While in search of fine views, he fell in with Sister Anne—for that is her name. She is, I believe, the child of peasants; but I can't say so with certainty, for I do not know her family; however, my friend saw her and fell in love with her. These painters have flighty imaginations—and a child was the result. That's all that I know; I never saw this girl but once, when I was riding with my friend."
"In my eyes, he is very blameworthy. You men treat such affairs very lightly. To seduce a woman, and then abandon her, is, in your eyes, a mere youthful escapade, of which, indeed, you often boast!"
"Oh! madame, I can flatter myself that I never seduced anybody."
"I am speaking generally; but I am very certain that my Frédéric never did as so many thoughtless, heedless young men do! He is too sensitive, too loving, to try to deceive a young and inexperienced heart. See what horrible results such reckless conduct may have! This poor child, finding that she was enceinte, must have left her parents and fled from her native place. Without money, and bereft of that organ which is so necessary in the world, she travelled through city and country at random, and exposed to all the horrors of want. The unhappy creature! how she must have suffered! Oh! if you had seen her when I took her in, she would have made your heart ache. But she has found a friend now; I will not desert her, and, if I cannot make her altogether happy, she will not, at all events, have to dread want while she is with me."
Dubourg made no reply; the sight of Sister Anne gave him too much to think about.
"Your presence has renewed her grief by recalling her seducer," said Constance; "go away for a moment, and I will try to comfort her, although I am well aware that for such griefs there is no comfort. Could I enjoy a moment's happiness if Frédéric should forget me? But she has her son at least, and his caresses will allay her sorrow."
Constance carried little Frédéric to his mother and placed him on her knees, while Dubourg walked quickly back to the house and joined Ménard, who did not know what to think when he saw his former travelling companion's horrified expression.
"All is lost, Monsieur Ménard!" cried Dubourg, halting in front of the tutor.
"What? what is lost? King Stanislas's berlin or the King of Prussia's snuff-box? You know perfectly well that I am not to be taken in in that way again."
"Oh! let's hear no more of all that nonsense! This is a very serious matter, involving the happiness and peace of mind of Frédéric and his wife."
"I'll bet that it's not true; you're going to tell me some new fairy tale to lead me into a trap; but non me ludit amabilis insania."
"Will you listen to me, Monsieur Ménard? Morbleu! how could a man of your years fail to anticipate what has happened?"
"What do you mean by that? a man of my years! I beg that you will explain yourself, Monsieur Dubourg."
"You allow Madame de Montreville to take into her house, to install there——"
"Whom, in heaven's name?"
"Whom! morbleu! the girl for whom Frédéric made a fool of himself; the girl who turned his head, and with whom he lived six weeks in the woods; the girl whom he adored then, and whom, for all I know, he loves still; for a man's heart is beyond comprehension! In short, Sister Anne, the dumb girl of the woods, of Vizille, is the one whom Madame de Montreville now has in her house!"
"Mon Dieu! what do I hear?"
"Do you mean to say you didn't recognize her?"
"Recognize her! a girl I never saw but once, and then at a distance? I don't scrutinize young women as you do, monsieur; and could I suspect, did I know, that she was dumb? did anyone tell me so? No; no one tells me anything, and then they expect me to know everything by divination! You young men are inconceivable! do you suppose I should know Latin if I had never learned it?"
"Well! you know it now."
"Parbleu! I was thrashed often enough to know it! Gad! how many stripes I got for the Epitome, and how many pensums for Phædrus's fables!"
"Great heaven! Monsieur Ménard, I am talking about Sister Anne, who is here in this house, with Frédéric's wife."
"I understand, I understand perfectly."
"When Frédéric returns, she will see him; her excitement, her tears, and her caresses will betray the truth. Just think of Madame de Montreville's feelings, when the husband whom she adores and believes to be a model of fidelity finds in his house a mistress and a child—a child, above all!"
"Yes, yes; I realize all that."
"Well, then, speak! what are we to do?"
"I have no idea."
"It is impossible to let Sister Anne live under the same roof as Frédéric."
"Of course; it's most embarrassing! But she was so wretched!"
"Do you think that I mean to abandon her? I've only sixteen hundred francs a year, but I would gladly sacrifice it all to prevent her presence from disturbing the happiness of this young couple. Yes; I will work for my living, if necessary, or I'll pass the whole of every quarter with Frédéric; but that young woman and her child shall be placed beyond the reach of want."
"That is very noble, my dear Dubourg, and if I had any property—but I have nothing save my old classics, which wouldn't be of any use to her, because she can't read."
"But how are we to set about inducing Sister Anne to leave this house?"
"That would be a very hard task: Madame de Montreville is very fond of her, and is wild over the child; she thinks that he looks like my pupil—Frédéric. By the way, I can conceive a reason for that resemblance now."
"I don't know what to do; I can think of nothing. When does Frédéric return?"
"In a week; we have plenty of time."
"Time! a week will soon be gone; and if he finds Sister Anne here!"
"Why, it seems to me that we might tell the girl not to speak."
"Of course she won't speak; but her gestures, the expression of her face, will say enough."
"Indeed! well, I give you my word that I often can't understand her at all."
Dubourg tortured his brain to find some method of sending away Sister Anne and her son. Ménard sat with his eyes fixed on his snuff-box, and pretended to be equally engrossed by that subject, but in reality his thoughts were full of a pâté of hare which had arrived from Paris the night before, and which they were to attack at dinner.
Constance returned to the house with the dumb girl and the child; Sister Anne's face still bore traces of suffering, but she was calmer and more resigned; when she saw Dubourg, she smiled sadly at him, and presented her son, at whom he gazed with interest, dismayed by the striking resemblance between his features and his father's.
"Don't you think he's a lovely boy?" said Constance.
"Yes, madame," Dubourg replied, as he kissed the child; "he's very pretty."
"Does he look like his father?"
"Very much."
"And don't you think he has a look of my husband?"
"Oh! not the slightest!"
"That's strange; it impressed me at once. His name is Frédéric, too, the dear child; I believe that I love him the more for that."
As she spoke, Constance took the child in her arms; Sister Anne watched her, deeply moved, and Dubourg turned his face away to conceal the sensations aroused by that scene.
During the rest of the day, Dubourg cudgelled his brain to think how he could bring about Sister Anne's departure from Madame de Montreville's house, but he could not decide upon any plan. How was he to remove her from a luxurious home, where the most affectionate attentions were lavished upon her, and where her son was overwhelmed with caresses? Would not Sister Anne, far from consenting to such a plan, refuse to see therein anything more than shocking ingratitude, of which her loving, grateful heart was utterly incapable? To tell her that Constance's husband was her seducer would not avail to induce her to go away, for her intense longing to see Frédéric would prevail in her heart over every other consideration. She conceived herself to be united to her lover by the oaths they had exchanged; could she imagine that another woman had rights, more sacred at least, if not more equitable, than her own?
Dubourg dared not risk that method, and he tormented himself in vain to find another. At last he went to Ménard, and said to him:
"Well, have you thought of any expedient to induce Sister Anne to leave this house?"
And Ménard, after taking a pinch of snuff and reflecting for five minutes, led Dubourg into a corner and replied in an undertone:
"I can't think of anything at all."
While talking with Constance, Dubourg tried to persuade her to send the dumb girl to live on one of her estates at some distance from Paris; but Madame de Montreville scouted the suggestion with much earnestness.
"Why," she said, "should I deprive myself of this young woman's company, and of the presence of her son, whom I love as if he belonged to me? If the unhappy creature were not under my eyes, would she receive all the attentions that tend to alleviate her position? No; I shall never part with her; every day I feel that I become more and more attached to her. If you knew how grateful she is to me for everything I do for her! Ah! I have read to the very bottom of her heart; I have not misplaced my benefactions, and I am certain that Frédéric will not blame me."
"Well," said Dubourg to himself, "I have done all I could; and even if I should give myself the jaundice trying to separate these two women, I fancy that I shouldn't succeed; I'll just let things take their course, and see what happens. The most that I can do will be to warn Frédéric when he comes home."
On the evening after Dubourg's arrival, Constance said to him:
"I want you to see what pleasure my unfortunate companion derives from music; when she hears me play and sing, it always seems to me as if she were going to speak."
She took Sister Anne's hand and led her to a seat near the piano; the dumb girl was more melancholy than usual; Dubourg's presence had revived all her sorrows; however, she smiled at her benefactress, and did her utmost to appear less downcast.
Constance had played several pieces, when she said:
"I believe I have never sung her that pretty little thing that my husband likes so much."
She played the prelude to the air. Dubourg paid little attention to the music; he was still thinking of the strange chance that had brought Sister Anne and Frédéric's wife together. Ménard was sitting in a corner of the salon, doing all that he could to understand the music; and little Frédéric was playing near his mother, who listened intently to her benefactress.
Constance had no sooner sung the first words of the ballad than Sister Anne manifested an emotion which seemed to increase with every measure; she leaned toward the singer, listening with all her ears, and hardly breathing; her whole body shook, all her faculties were absorbed by an overpowering memory; and before Constance had finished the first stanza, a deadly pallor overspread the dumb girl's features; she uttered a plaintive moan, and fainted.
Intent upon her music as she was, Constance had not observed Sister Anne's agitation; but when she heard her groan, she sprang to her feet and flew to her side.
"Great God!" she exclaimed; "what is the matter with her? She is unconscious!"
Dubourg hastened to her assistance, while Ménard ran to fetch salts and call the servants.
"Can you imagine what upset her? She was listening to me with evident pleasure, and suddenly she fainted."
"Madame," said Dubourg, attempting to take advantage of this incident, "haven't you noticed that this young woman is not always in her right mind; that there are moments when she seems—rather light-headed?"
"Why, no; I have never noticed anything of the sort. Since she has been here, she has always been very reasonable, and her depression seems perfectly natural to me. Poor dear! she doesn't open her eyes."
"Oh! this will amount to nothing; probably her emotion when she saw me this morning is the cause of her swoon."
"I am inclined to think so."
Ménard returned, armed with a dozen bottles of salts. For a long while, all their efforts were unavailing: Sister Anne did not recover consciousness, and Constance was in despair; at last, a long-drawn sigh announced that the sufferer was returning to life, and she soon opened her eyes. Her first thought was for her son; he was too young to realize his mother's danger, and had not interrupted his play. Sister Anne took him in her arms and kissed him, then looked at all those who stood about her, as if to thank them for their kindness.
"Come with me, and go to bed," said Madame de Montreville; "all your sorrow has been revived to-day, and you must forget it in sleep."
But, instead of following her, Sister Anne took her hand, led her to the piano, and motioned to her to sit down again.
"No, to-morrow," said Constance; "the music excites you too much. I will sing to you to-morrow."
Sister Anne clasped her hands, and her glance was so expressive, it besought her so earnestly to do what she desired, that Constance had not the heart to refuse; she seated herself at the piano, while Ménard observed sotto voce:
"That young woman is passionately fond of music; it would be a good idea to teach her to play."
Constance began an air, but Sister Anne stopped her and shook her head emphatically, as if to say: "Not that."—Thereupon she played another, but still the dumb girl was not satisfied. At last, Constance remembered that she was singing a ballad when she was interrupted; she sang it again, and had no sooner begun it than Sister Anne's emotion and the strained attention with which she listened showed plainly enough that that was what she wanted to hear.
"Just see how this ballad excites her!" said Constance; "it's the one Frédéric always liked so much!"
The words were hardly out of her mouth, when Sister Anne seized her hand, pressed it with all her strength, and nodded her head. Madame de Montreville did not understand her pantomime; she looked at Dubourg, who said in an undertone:
"I assure you that there are times when she doesn't know what she is doing. She thinks that she sees her lover everywhere; love has turned her brain."
Sister Anne's agitation partially subsided; the tears forced their way to the surface and relieved the strain. Constance gazed at her with emotion, repeating again and again:
"Poor child! what a guilty wretch he was to desert you!"
For several minutes everybody was silent. Constance resorted to her usual method of allaying the young mother's suffering: she took little Frédéric in her arms and carried him to her. She looked up gratefully at her benefactress, and, having covered her son with kisses, rose and prepared to go to her room.
Constance insisted on accompanying her to the pavilion; there she left her, after urging her anew to be brave.
"Your troubles will come to an end before long, I hope," she said. "Yes, your seducer will certainly return to sentiments more worthy of the man you love; he cannot have forgotten you entirely. Dubourg may not be accurately informed. Dry your tears; some day you will see him again; and how can he ever leave you after you put this darling boy in his arms?"
These comforting words went to Sister Anne's heart; she welcomed the soothing hope that Constance held out to her, and parted from her somewhat less unhappy. Madame de Montreville returned slowly to her apartment; the sight of the suffering of the woman she had saved from want made her sad; Frédéric was not there to divert her thoughts and make her forget everything but her own happiness; she had never been separated from him for so long a time, and his absence tended to increase her melancholy.
Ménard had retired, after saying to Dubourg:
"This has been rather a tempestuous day."
"Ah!" was the reply; "I apprehend a much more violent storm! If that young woman fainted simply because she heard the ballad that Frédéric used to sing to her, what will happen to her when she sees him again, and when she learns that he is another woman's husband? I tell you, Monsieur Ménard, I can't think of anything else!"
"I can well believe it; it has taken away my appetite!"
"Let us try to ward off that catastrophe."
"Let us ward it off; I ask nothing better."
"Remember that the repose, the happiness, yes, even the honor, of your pupil are at stake, and that his sins will rebound on you."
"I beg your pardon: a mistake in syntax, or in Latin verses, I agree; but I never taught him to seduce innocent girls; it was rather your evil counsels that perverted him."
"Monsieur Ménard!"
"Monsieur Dubourg!"
"Let's go to bed."
Dubourg had been Madame de Montreville's guest for ten days, and during those ten days he had not ceased his efforts to invent some means of warding off the effect that the sight of Frédéric would surely produce on Sister Anne. He saw that Constance's attachment to her protégée and the latter's gratitude to her benefactress increased from day to day. To separate them seemed more difficult than ever; Constance frequently said that she could not do without Sister Anne and her son, and the young mother seemed to feel her grief less keenly by her side.
Frédéric was expected at any moment; indeed, he was already overdue. Constance was worried by his delay; she was less cheerful than usual, and her eyes were often wet with tears. At such times, Sister Anne strove to comfort her, and to say to her by signs that her husband would soon return.
"Suppose he no longer loves me!" Constance would say sometimes; and the dumb girl would take her hand and lead her before a mirror, as if to say:
"Look at yourself; can anyone help loving you?"
"Alas!" Constance would reply; "someone forgot you very quickly, and you are as pretty as I am!"
The Comte de Montreville, who had promised to pass a few days in the country, was detained by the gout. Dubourg was not sorry; he preferred that he should not be a witness of the recognition he dreaded; he had no idea that the count knew Sister Anne.
At last, Constance received a letter from her husband: he wrote her that unforeseen circumstances had delayed his return, but that he hoped to arrange everything soon. His letter was affectionate and expansive; he seemed to be as much in love as ever. Nevertheless, Constance was not satisfied: to stay away from her so long seemed in itself to indicate less warmth. Frédéric was not there, so she was at liberty to weep; before him, she concealed her tears. As always, it was to Sister Anne that she confided her troubles; on her bosom she poured out her tears and found consolation.
Dubourg saw in this delay so much time gained.
"Let us try to make use of it to prevent an interview between the lovers," he said to Ménard.
"Let's prevent it; I agree with you."
"But I've been trying for ten days to think up some expedient, and I can't find anything."
"Faith! then I'm luckier than you, for I found something the day before yesterday."
"What! if that's so, for heaven's sake tell me what it is!"
"It's my receipt for making milk punch, which I thought I had lost."
On leaving home, Frédéric had gone at once to the farm to ascertain the whereabouts of Sister Anne, and of his son, whom he ardently desired to embrace. But when he arrived there, he learned from the worthy peasants that the lone girl had started for Paris with her child long before. Frédéric did not know what to do, and what caused him the greatest distress was that a messenger from his father followed close on his heels, bringing, as usual, money and divers other things for her whom the count called his liberatress; which fact proved that he was unaware that Sister Anne had left the farm, and that she had failed to find her friend's house in Paris.
Frédéric was distressed beyond words; the people at the farm shared his disappointment. They regretted that they had allowed Sister Anne to go; but how could they have opposed her resolution with success? What had become of her? what was she doing in Paris, without friends or protector? If they had known that the unfortunate girl had been heartlessly robbed of all that she possessed, their grief would have been greater.
Frédéric remained only one day at the farm; he started back toward Paris, and all along the road tried to obtain some information that might put him on Sister Anne's track. On reaching Paris, he did not go home; he did not wish his presence in the city to be known, because he desired his wife to remain in ignorance of it, so that he might have time to institute a search for the dumb girl and her son. For more than a week he searched the vast city, visiting the most deserted as well as the most populous quarters, often going up to rooms under the eaves, and asking everywhere if anyone had seen a young woman who could not speak and who had a child. But his search was fruitless; he did not obtain a shred of information to put him on Sister Anne's track. With an aching heart, he decided at last to return to Constance; he was very far from thinking that he would find there those whom he had been seeking so long.
Every day, Dubourg lay in ambush on one road, and stationed Ménard as a sentry on the other to notify him if he should see Frédéric coming. As the country house could not be reached except by those two roads, he felt certain of not missing him. But one morning, Ménard, having taken his Horace with him, became so interested in an ode he was reading, that the man for whom he was watching passed him unnoticed. Frédéric entered the house and hurried to Constance's room, where she was sitting, alone, thinking of her husband.
She looked up, uttered a joyful cry, and flew into his arms. All the pain of separation was instantly forgotten on her husband's breast. Frédéric responded affectionately to her outbursts of love. After the first transports of joy had subsided, Constance said:
"During your absence, I have taken an unfortunate woman into the house. Oh! I hope that you will love her as I do."
"Whatever you do is well done, my dear Constance; your heart could never lead you astray; I am certain beforehand that your benefactions have been well bestowed."
"Oh! she is such an interesting young thing! a victim of love, and we women are always sympathetic with that sort of unhappiness. Her seducer deserted her, with a charming child, whom I am perfectly wild over. His name is Frédéric, like yours.—Why, what's the matter, dear? you are as pale as a ghost, and all of a tremble!"
"Oh!—fatigue, I fancy—I was in such a hurry to get home!"
Frédéric sat down, for his legs were giving way: what Constance had told him caused him an emotion that he could not control. He looked about him, shuddering involuntarily.
"And this woman—this child—where are they?" he asked, in a trembling voice.
"She has a room in the pavilion in the garden. But I see her now.—Come here, my dear, come quickly," Constance called, running to meet Sister Anne, who was coming through the hall with her son. "My husband has returned; oh! I am so happy! Now my happiness is complete!"
She took the dumb girl's hand and drew her into the room, where her husband was still sitting. At sight of Frédéric, Sister Anne uttered a heartrending shriek; she ran to him, threw herself into his arms, pointed to her son, and lost consciousness.
With one hand Frédéric supported Sister Anne, whose lifeless head lay against his breast; with the other he covered his eyes, as if he were afraid to look about him. His son was at his feet, still holding his mother's hand, and Constance, speechless with amazement and trembling from head to foot, stood before them.
In an instant a thousand conflicting sensations seemed to be at work in Constance's breast. She changed color her eyes expressed surprise and apprehension; she shuddered, and seemed to be trying to banish the thought that had forced itself upon her mind. But her glance, resting alternately on Sister Anne and her husband, strove to discover the truth. Her first impulse was to run to Sister Anne and take her from Frédéric's arms.
"What is the matter? Why did the sight of you put her in such a condition?" she faltered, looking at Frédéric. "Answer me, dear; do you know this young woman?"
Frédéric had not the courage to reply, or even to look at Constance. But his eye fell upon his son, and he took him in his arms and covered him with kisses; thereupon Constance's heart received a terrible shock, for the whole truth was laid bare before her.
Dubourg appeared upon the scene, followed by Ménard; at sight of Frédéric, he divined all that had happened, and he instantly ran to the assistance of Sister Anne, crying:
"Fainted again! an attack of madness, I'll wager! I told you before, this poor creature has times when she loses her reason."
Constance made no reply; she left Sister Anne to the ministrations of Dubourg and Ménard, and returned to her husband, who still held the child in his arms.
"He is lovely—is he not?" she asked, in a trembling voice, with her eyes still fastened on Frédéric. He did not speak, whereupon Constance roughly snatched the child from his arms; but soon, repenting of that impulsive movement, which she could not control, she covered the child with kisses, crying in a heart-broken tone:
"Poor child! you are not guilty!"
Dubourg and Ménard carried Sister Anne away to the pavilion, leaving Frédéric and Constance with the child. Frédéric's eyes were fixed on the floor, as if he were afraid to meet those of Constance, who had seated herself a few steps away and had taken little Frédéric on her knees. She tried to restrain her tears, but she had not the courage to speak. For some minutes neither of them broke the silence. At last, Frédéric raised his eyes and saw his wife caressing Sister Anne's son. At that sight he was on the point of throwing himself at her feet and confessing all, when Dubourg rushed into the room.
"It's all right! I don't think it will amount to anything," he said, motioning to Frédéric not to betray himself. "That young woman is subject to attacks of insanity; then she thinks that she sees her lover everywhere. I have already advised madame more than once not to keep her in the house."
"Really," faltered Frédéric, trying to recover his self-possession, "I am utterly unable to understand what has happened. I was so agitated by that poor creature's condition—that I didn't realize what I was doing."
Constance said nothing; she simply looked from her husband to Dubourg.
"I'll take her son to her," said the latter, walking toward Constance to take the child.
"Let him stay," said Constance; "Frédéric will do that."
Frédéric was thrown into confusion again; he could not support his wife's glance. In vain did Dubourg whisper:
"Come, come, morbleu! have your wits about you. Remember that, for her own happiness, you must deceive her."
At that moment Ménard appeared, in a comical state of dismay.
"She has recovered her senses," he said to Dubourg, in an undertone; "but it's impossible to make her stay quietly in her room! She's a perfect devil! She insists on seeing him. She's running about the garden like a madwoman."
"Why did you leave her?"
And Dubourg hurried from the room.
"What is the matter?" said Constance; "is she worse?"
"No, madame," replied Ménard, who had no idea what he ought to say or do; "but, I'm afraid—her head—these women—love—quid femina possit."
"I will go and look after her," said Constance; "I will take her her son, and perhaps, when she sees him—— Aren't you coming with me, Frédéric; won't you add your efforts to mine to pacify the poor, unhappy creature?"
Frédéric hesitated; he did not know what it was best for him to do. He longed to see Sister Anne, whose terrible plight had torn his heart; but he was afraid of betraying himself when he saw her. At that moment, they heard cries in the garden; they looked out and saw Sister Anne running hither and thither, pursued by the servants and Dubourg. The former, when they saw how intensely excited she was, rushing in all directions, with her hair flying in the wind, had no doubt that she had lost her reason; and Dubourg confirmed them in that idea, which might prevent their guessing the truth.
But Sister Anne spied Frédéric at one of the windows on the ground floor; instantly she rushed in that direction, entered the room, and, in the twinkling of an eye, threw herself into Frédéric's arms, pushing away Constance, who stood beside him, and looking at her with a jealous and at the same time anxious expression, as if to say:
"I alone have the right to be here."
The servants halted in the doorway and gazed at the picture before them. Constance felt a terrible sinking at the heart when she saw Sister Anne in her husband's arms; but she retained sufficient strength to walk toward the servants and say in a trembling voice:
"Go, my friends; this unhappy woman is not in her right mind, but we shall be able to pacify her."
The servants retired; Ménard had gone in search of Dubourg, to whom he always had recourse at difficult crises; Sister Anne was left alone with her son and Frédéric and Constance.
The dumb girl seemed as if she would attach herself inseparably to Frédéric, who had not the courage to push her away. She smiled at him, she took his hands and held them to her heart, then pointed to their son. At the same time, she glanced uneasily at Constance, who was seated a few steps away, with her face hidden in her hands, unable to endure that scene. But her tears were suffocating her; they burst forth at last, and she sobbed as if her heart would break. Sister Anne shuddered. Constance's grief seemed to touch her to the quick. Frédéric could contain himself no longer; he ran and threw himself at his wife's feet; but she, without looking at him, gently repulsed him.
"Go, go," she said; "this unhappy girl has more claim to your love than I; this child is your son. Console her for all she has suffered since you deserted her. I know the whole truth now. No; she has not lost her reason; she has found her seducer, the father of her child!"
Frédéric was thunderstruck. Pale and trembling, he remained at Constance's feet; and Sister Anne, with her eyes fixed upon his face, seemed to be waiting to hear what he would say. But Frédéric seized his wife's hand and covered it with tears and kisses; at that sight a plaintive moan escaped the dumb girl, and again she fell unconscious to the floor.
Constance hastened to her assistance.
"Leave us," she said to Frédéric; "your presence is too painful to her. Oh! you can trust her to me; I shall be no different to her from what I have always been."
Frédéric made no reply, but left the room, in a state of complete bewilderment. He met Dubourg and Ménard hurrying toward him.
"The pretence is of no avail," he said; "Constance has divined the truth; she knows all."
"As she knows all," said Ménard, "we mustn't conceal anything more from her."
Constance lavished upon Sister Anne the most zealous attention. At last, the dumb girl opened her eyes. When they fell upon Frédéric's wife, her first impulse was to push her away; then she looked about in search of Frédéric. Constance beckoned to the child, who held out his little arms to his mother. Sister Anne seemed touched by Constance's conduct; she looked at her with less jealousy, but she shuddered from head to foot, her teeth chattered violently, her eyes closed again, and a ghastly pallor overspread her cheeks.
Constance ordered the servants to carry her to the pavilion, where she was put to bed. She was in a raging fever, and was really delirious. Her eyes rolled from side to side with an expression of intense anxiety; she recognized nobody, and even repulsed her son.
"Poor dear! I will not abandon you," said Constance; and she passed the whole day beside Sister Anne's bed. Not until evening, when she found that she was a little calmer, did she decide to leave her; but she left her in charge of faithful and willing servants, intending to return frequently to ascertain her condition.
She returned to her own apartment, where Frédéric awaited her. How different was that day, which reunited them, from those that they had previously passed together! Constance said nothing; her heart was drawn hither and thither by a multitude of conflicting emotions; her bosom rose and fell convulsively, but she tried to conceal her suffering and to appear calm before her husband. Frédéric stood before her, motionless, like a criminal awaiting his doom; her kindness made him keenly alive to his wrong-doing. At last he approached her, not daring to speak, and fell at her feet.
"What are you doing?" said Constance, gently; "why do you kneel at my feet? You are not guilty toward me. Ah! it would be more just for you to kneel at the feet of her whom you have betrayed and deserted! I have no right to complain: your fault is only too common among men. You knew this poor girl before your marriage. She has become a mother. But, in the world, your conduct would be considered perfectly natural and proper. Far from blaming you, society would perhaps applaud you for forgetting a woman who could not be your wife. But, I confess, I thought that you were different from the heedless rakes who pride themselves on the tears of which they are the cause. What lamentable results your fault has had! If you only knew all that the unhappy creature has suffered! She was in the last stages of destitution, actually dying of starvation, when I took her in; yes, dying of starvation—with your son in her arms. Oh! Frédéric! do you realize what your remorse would have been? You weep? Ah! my dear, let your tears flow; I would rather lose your heart than believe that it was capable of utter lack of feeling. Listen: you have found your child's mother; you must not abandon her again. If you will leave everything to me, I will assure her future; she shall live in a house which I will buy for her in some pleasant place in the country; she shall want nothing. Her son is a dear boy; I would have liked to be a mother to him, but it would be a horrible thing to separate her from her child. He shall have a good education. When he has grown up, you shall decide his fate; and be assured that I shall never consider anything that you do for him more than you ought to do. That is what I propose to do for the woman you once loved. But it may be that this plan does not satisfy you. Perhaps, on seeing the poor girl again, the love that she formerly inspired in you has revived. Perhaps you love her still. Oh! Frédéric, I entreat you to be sincere with me; let me read in the bottom of your heart. There is no sacrifice of which I am not capable to make you happy. Yes, my dear; I shall be able to endure anything—except the sight of your regret for another. If you love her—if you still feel drawn to her—I will go away, I will bury myself on one of our estates; you will not see me again, and you will be at liberty to keep the mother of your child with you."
Constance could no longer hold back the tears that were suffocating her. She had made a prolonged effort to restrain her feelings, but her courage gave way when she proposed to Frédéric that they should part.
"I, leave you!" he cried, throwing his arms about her. "Oh! Constance, can you believe that I have ceased for one instant to love you? No, I swear to you, you alone possess my heart! I realize the wrong I have done; I propose to assure Sister Anne's future; I must do it. Could I help feeling profoundly moved when I saw her again? And the child—I love him, and I propose to see to his future welfare and happiness; for that you cannot blame me. I approve all your plans; I know the goodness of your heart, the nobility of your soul. How few wives would have acted as you have done! Command me: send Sister Anne away; let her go to-morrow."
"To-morrow! oh! no, dear. The poor child is ill—very ill! she shall not leave this place until she has fully recovered. So long as she is here—you must avoid seeing her; your presence can do her nothing but harm. Promise me that you will not see her; that is the only sacrifice I ask of you."
"I will do whatever you say."
"When she has recovered, I will go with her myself to her new home, and I will not leave her until I am certain that she lacks nothing."
Frédéric embraced Constance with profound affection; her kindness of heart made her even dearer to him. A wife ought never to employ any other weapons; reproaches and complaints repel a husband; gentleness and indulgence always end by winning back his heart.
In her husband's arms, Constance found happiness once more; he swore to her that he loved no one but her, and she believed his oaths: could she live without his love?
Early the next morning, Constance went to the pavilion; and Frédéric sought Dubourg and Ménard, to tell them of his wife's noble conduct.
"There aren't many women like her," said Dubourg; "guard her carefully; you cannot love her too dearly; you have a veritable treasure in her!"
"Madame de Montreville's conduct," said Ménard, "is certainly worthy of one of Plutarch's heroines; and I know of nothing finer in history save that of Cunegunde, wife of the Emperor Henry II, who grasped a red-hot iron to prove her chastity."
Sister Anne was still in an alarming condition; she recognized nobody, but she seemed to be constantly looking for somebody and holding out her arms to him. Constance looked to it that she wanted nothing; she herself brought a doctor to her, and installed at her bedside an old maid-servant, who did not leave her for an instant. Then Constance took little Frédéric and carried him to her husband.
"Love him dearly," she said, as she placed him in his arms; "by making the child happy, you can best atone for the wrong you have done the mother. I feel that I, too, love him as if he were my own son. When I first saw him, a secret presentiment seemed to tell me that he belonged to you; and that thought made me love him more rather than less."
Frédéric embraced his son, who thenceforth passed a large part of the time with him; for the poor child no longer received the caresses of his mother, who was still in a raging fever, and delirious, and, for nearly a fortnight, lay at the gates of death. During that time, Constance passed whole days and often whole nights in the pavilion, refusing to leave to another the nursing that the young patient required; she hung over her pillow, and held her in the most violent paroxysms of her delirium; she triumphed over fatigue, she was unconscious of suffering, she devoted her whole attention to Sister Anne; in vain did Frédéric, day after day, urge her to be careful of her own health and to take some rest.
"Let me nurse her," said Constance; "by devoting myself to her, it seems to me that I repair a part of the wrong that you have done her."