Dubourg passed his days talking philosophy with Ménard, who was no philosopher, but listened attentively to the baron, whom he considered a man of profound learning, though he was no longer so overjoyed to have him for a travelling companion, because, when he recalled their adventures, from the time that the palatine had overturned them into a ditch, it seemed to him that Monsieur de Potoski carried about with him a monumental ill luck, of which they had already felt the effects.

After ten days, they received a reply from the count; it was addressed to Monsieur Ménard, but it was Frédéric who, with a trembling hand, broke the seal.

"See what there is enclosed, first," said Dubourg.

They found a draft on a Lyon banker for six thousand francs.

"Good! here's something to help us endure papa's reproaches," said Dubourg; "now let's read his letter."

Monsieur de Montreville wrote to Ménard these few words only:

"He didn't believe us," said Frédéric.

"I am very much afraid that he is angry," said Ménard.

"Credo equidem, monsieur le baron."

"But no more pomp and parade; I resume my incognito."

"What, monsieur le baron!"

"Yes, Monsieur Ménard; at all events, with six thousand francs we couldn't play the grandee very long—I mean, live up to our rank."

"But, monsieur le baron, when you have received answers from Rava and Krapach?"

"Oh! then it will be different; but I fear we shall not have them for a long time. As to the funds, I think that we had better let Frédéric take charge of them. He is calm and cool, and that is what we need in a cashier."

"It's a great pity," muttered Ménard; "we lived so handsomely when monsieur le baron paid the bills!"

All their plans being made, they paid their hotel bill; it amounted to eight hundred and fifty francs for the three weeks they had passed there, so that the count's remittance was seriously impaired at the outset; but meanwhile they had been lodged and fed like lords. Dubourg's only sentiment was regret at their inability to continue the same mode of life; Ménard sighed as he thought of the delicious repasts they had enjoyed; and Frédéric observed to Dubourg, in an undertone:

"My friend, if we had continued to go so fast, we shouldn't have gone very far."

Monsieur le comte's horses were sold, and they arranged with a stable-keeper to journey from Lyon.

"My mind is at rest now, Monsieur Ménard; I defy anyone to rob me. Socrates found his house large enough to receive his friends, and I shall find my purse full enough so long as Frédéric pays for me."

Ménard had no reply to make to that; the comparison did not seem to him a happy one.

Instead of taking the road to Turin, Frédéric gave orders to drive toward Grenoble; he desired to visit that city and its suburbs, especially the Carthusian monastery, whose wild aspect astounds and almost terrifies the traveller. Dubourg was in no hurry to reach Italy; it mattered little to him in which direction they went. Moreover, since his last misadventure, he did not presume to offer his advice. As for Ménard, he was always ready to yield to Frédéric's wishes, but the name of the Carthusian monastery made him shudder; he was afraid that his former pupil would want to take up his quarters in some hermitage, and he felt no sort of inclination for a frugal life.

As they drew near the banks of the Isère, the country became more picturesque, more mountainous, and more impressive. The fields were interspersed with thickets; the brooks, after trickling across a plain, plunged in foamy cascades over steep cliffs. How different the scene from the noisy suburbs of Paris and the lovely landscapes of the Rhône valley! The picture was more serious, more majestic perhaps, disposing the mind to pleasant reverie, and wafting one's thoughts far from the turmoil of great cities.

"And dream of Madame Dernange, I suppose?"

"Oh! no, Dubourg; she has been out of my thoughts for a long while, I assure you, as have all the rest of the coquettes I knew in Paris."

"Well, what do you dream about, then, in your long, solitary walks?"

"Alas! I don't know; I dream of a being I have never seen, a woman who is lovely, sweet-tempered, loving, and, above all, faithful!"

"And you look for her on the banks of a brook?"

"I don't look for her; I am waiting for chance to bring us together."

"If chance should wait for thirty years or so, you would both be a trifle mature."

"Oh! Dubourg, how irritating you are! you have no idea of love!"

"Love, my friend, is a doll that everyone dresses according to his own fancy;—isn't that so, Monsieur Ménard?"

"I cannot answer from experience, monsieur le baron."

In due time they arrived at Grenoble, where they dismissed their driver. Their arrangements there were not the same as at Lyon; but although the hotel was less palatial, they had an excellent table; poultry was abundant, and the wine very good. Monsieur Ménard and Dubourg made the best of it.

The monastery, which they reached after half a day's walk, first appears to the visitor surrounded by mountains covered with firs, by fertile valleys and rich pasture lands. Approaching by Fourvoyerie, you follow a road hewn out of the solid rock, with a rushing mountain stream on the left, and a perpendicular cliff sixty feet high on the right. One inevitably feels an unfamiliar sensation, a blending of wonder and alarm, at sight of that wild landscape.

They stopped to examine the peak called L'Aiguille, which towers above the gate of the Grande Chartreuse. Frédéric was lost in admiration, Dubourg looked calmly at the rock, and Ménard sighed; but the hospitable welcome they received at the Chartreuse revived the poor tutor's spirits; while he agreed that there were many superb views in that region, he felt that he preferred his little fourth-floor room on Rue Bétisy to the most picturesque cell in the monastery, where, moreover, fast-days were very numerous. It is not given to everybody to appreciate the beauties of nature; and it was with extreme delight that Ménard started to return to Grenoble, although Frédéric proposed that they should sleep at the Chartreuse to avoid overtiring themselves. Ménard declared that he was not tired, and that the walk of five leagues had no terrors for him; so they set out, after dinner.

Frédéric's attention was attracted by strains of rustic music.

"Come," he said, "let us go down in this direction; I see some villagers dancing below; let us enjoy the picture of their merrymaking."

"Come on," said Dubourg; "there are probably some pretty girls among the dancers."

"Let us go," said Ménard; "we shall have a chance to rest and refresh ourselves."

They descended a hill into a valley bordered by oaks and firs, where there were assembled the people of a small village which could be seen farther up the valley. It was the local saint's day, and the peasants were celebrating it by dancing. The orchestra consisted of a bagpipe and tambourine, but that was quite enough for their purpose. Happiness shone on every face; the girls wore their best gowns, and the coquettish costume of the village maidens of that province makes them most attractive, as a general rule. The older people were seated a little apart, chatting together and drinking, while their children danced.

Ménard seated himself at a table, and called for refreshments. Dubourg prowled about the dancers, making sweet speeches to the prettiest peasants; while Frédéric, after watching the picture for some time, walked away from the dance, along the bank of a stream which wound in and out among the willows on the edge of a dense forest.

Frédéric stopped and gazed at the young woman; he could not tire of contemplating her. Why was she there, alone by the brook, while her companions were making merry and dancing? Why that melancholy expression? It was only a moment since Frédéric's eyes had fallen upon her, and his interest was already awakened; he longed to know all about her; it seemed to him that his heart already shared her sorrows.

At that moment, several couples passed along the path on their way to the dance. Frédéric accosted a peasant woman, and said, pointing to the girl sitting by the brook:

"Pray, who is that pretty child, and why doesn't she join in your sports?"

The villagers stopped and replied, with a compassionate glance at the girl:

"Oh! monsieur, the poor dear don't dance! That's Sister Anne."

Frédéric, surprised, expected some further explanation; but they went on toward the dance, repeating sadly:

The peasants had gone, but Frédéric remained on the path among the willows, where the last rays of the sun cast but a feeble light. He was still gazing at the girl, who did not see him because, being no longer able to see the dance, she had let her head fall on her breast, and her eyes were fixed on the water flowing at her feet.

What did those women mean by those words: "Poor dear, she don't dance. That's Sister Anne"?

Frédéric was deeply impressed by the tone of commiseration in which this was said. The villagers seemed to pity the lovely child, and to consider it perfectly natural that she should take no part in her companions' pleasures.

What grief, what possible cause, could keep that pretty girl away from those scenes of merrymaking? Although her charming features wore an expression of gentle melancholy, she did not seem to be agitated by any recent sorrow; on the contrary, she seemed placid and calm; she smiled at the brook which rippled at her feet, and her soul was evidently as pure as the water in which her face was reflected.

"How is this?" said Frédéric, in a trembling voice; "you do not imitate your companions? They are dancing within a few yards, and you stay by yourself in this lonely spot?"

At the sound of Frédéric's voice, the girl turned her head and started back in alarm; but, in a moment, reassured by his gentle tone, she became calm again, and simply rose and moved away from the brook.

"Have you some trouble, some profound sorrow? Can it be that you, young as you are, are already acquainted with unhappiness? If it were in my power to lighten your burden, I should consider myself very fortunate."

The girl glanced at him with an expression in which melancholy resignation was blended with gratitude. She fastened her lovely eyes on his for a moment, then, with a graceful courtesy, started to walk away. He took her hand and gently detained her. She seemed surprised, yes, frightened, and withdrew her hand from the young man's, who was already pressing it.

"You are going away," said Frédéric, "without answering me, without deigning to say a word to me?"

The girl's eyes became even more expressive, as if animated by indescribable pain; in a moment, they were filled with tears, which trickled down her almost colorless cheeks.

He took a few steps in the same direction; but it was quite dark, and he could not see where she went. So he returned to the stream and stopped at the place where she had been sitting.

Frédéric could not as yet fully realize his feelings, but he was conscious of a sentiment for that girl more tender, more intense, and at the same time much more delicious to his heart, than any of his previous passions. When he lost sight of her, his heart beat violently; it seemed to him already that she was something to him. What grace, what charms! But why that melancholy and that silence? They called her Sister Anne: what was the significance of that title of Sister? Did she belong to some religious order? But, no; her costume did not indicate anything of that kind, and she was free to go where she chose. But there was an air of mystery about her.

"Lovely girl!" thought Frédéric, looking toward the forest in which she had vanished; "I propose to find out all about you; I propose to see you again and to allay your grief. I feel that I love you already; yes, I love you; not as I loved all those coquettes who deceived me, but as you deserve to be loved; for I read sincerity and innocence in your eyes. Ah! how happy I should be, if you should come to love me some day!"

But it had grown quite dark; it was time for him to join his companions. Frédéric regretfully left the willow-bordered path where he had seen Sister Anne; but as he returned to the valley, he said to himself:

The dancing had become very spirited; the villagers abandoned themselves with zest to the pastime; joy and happiness were depicted on every face. The songs of the drinkers blended with the music of the bagpipe and tambourine. The young men squeezed their sweethearts' hands as they danced, the maidens smiled sweetly at their lovers, the mothers at their little ones, and the old men at their bottles. Each smiled at what he loved best, as if in gratitude for the pleasure it afforded him.

Ménard, who had seated himself between two sturdy drinkers, listened calmly to the gossip of the neighborhood, eating a salad the while, and clinking glasses with his neighbors; for pride is unknown in the village, and Ménard never exhibited that sentiment inopportunely—that is to say, he knew enough to make it subordinate to his appetite.

Dubourg, forgetting his titles of nobility, had joined in the dance. He was capering about with a pretty brunette, with bright eyes, a retroussé nose, and an exceedingly shapely leg. The peasant girl was not at all intimidated by her elegant partner; on the contrary, she kept saying to him:

"Come, why don't you dance? you don't move at all!"

Dubourg performed his dainty little Parisian steps, which are so highly esteemed in the salons of the capital; but to the villagers that was nothing more than walking, and the girl said again and again:

Thereupon Dubourg, who did not want her to take another partner, made a telegraph of his arms and legs, and kept them in motion incessantly. Ménard, watching his performance from his table, said to his neighbors:

"There's monsieur le baron dancing a polonaise with your young women! Look, my boys, that's the way they dance at Cracow, and on the Krapach Mountains! How dignified it is! how graceful! What pretty steps he takes per fas et nefas!"

Ménard's neighbors opened their eyes to their fullest extent, understanding nothing of what he said. But Dubourg's partner was content, and he, seeing that she was inclined to look favorably on him, ventured to steal a kiss; but she instantly retorted by boxing his ears, for the village damsels of the suburbs of Grenoble do not resemble the Gotons of the suburbs of Paris.

Frédéric stood near the dancers, but paid no heed to the animated picture before his eyes. He fancied himself still in the lonely path, and saw, in his imagination, the girl sitting beside the stream.

Dubourg joined him, having left his partner because he saw that he would have nothing but his capers and prancing for his pains, and because the cuffing the peasant had given him had cooled his ardor for the dance.

"Where on earth have you been?" he asked; "you left us at just the wrong time."

"I have been taking a walk."

"What a tireless walker you are! But it seems to me that it's time for us to walk to Grenoble, which is still four leagues away."

The weather was superb, and the fields were bathed in moonlight. The forests of fir rose majestically on their left hand, and the smith's hammer alone broke the silence of the night. As they passed a forge, a bright glare would efface for a moment the moon's bluish light, and cast a reddish gleam over the landscape. The voices of the workmen blending with the clang of the hammer inspired Dubourg to say to Ménard:

"Do you hear the Cyclops forging Jupiter's thunderbolts?"

And Ménard replied:

"Not for all the gold of Peru would I venture among those people alone, at night."

And he dug his heels into their charger, which did not quicken its pace. Dubourg and the tutor were a little behind the others, because the road was very stony and the horse could make but slow progress. The guide was a boy of twelve, ingenuous and frank like most mountaineers.

"What is this village we are leaving?" Frédéric asked him.

"Vizille, monsieur; it's the prettiest village round Grenoble."

"Do you live here?"

"Yes, monsieur; I was born here."

Before completing his question, Frédéric turned to see if his companions could hear him; but they were more than fifty yards behind. Dubourg was talking about Bretagne, and describing to Ménard how the people lived there. Frédéric saw that he could talk with their guide without any fear of being overheard.

"Do you know a young girl in the village, who is called Sister Anne?"

"Sister Anne? oh! yes, monsieur; of course I know her. She don't live just in the village, but her cottage ain't far away. Poor Sister Anne! who is there that don't know her, hereabouts?"

"Why, you, too, seem to pity her? Is she so very unfortunate, pray?"

"Dam'! of course I pity her; her story is very sad."

"Do you know it?"

"Yes, monsieur; my mother's told it to me more than once; everybody in our village knows it."

"Tell me the story; tell me all you know about Sister Anne; speak, my friend, and be sure not to forget anything."

"Sister Anne's mother was a lady named Clotilde, who was sweet and pretty, so they say. She belonged to a rich family, and wasn't brought up like a peasant girl; she knew ever so much, but she and her husband came and lived in our village. Folks said it was a love match, and that Clotilde chose to have her lover and a cottage instead of the fine house she could have had with another husband.

"Clotilde and her husband lived happily for some time in our village; they had a daughter first, little Anne, who was as pretty as her mother—but you've seen her, haven't you, monsieur?

"Four years after, they had another child, a boy; and they were very glad, and the little girl never left her little brother. But, before long, the poor things had lots of trouble: a big storm beat down their crops, so they lost them; and poor Clotilde was taken sick. Then her husband couldn't see any other way to support his wife and children but to enlist. So he sold himself as a substitute, gave all the money to Clotilde, and went away.

"'Take good care of our poor children,' he says to her.

"Clotilde felt so bad to have her husband go away that she couldn't do anything for a long time, and little Anne took the whole care of her brother, because she loved him with all her heart. Her mother used to say to her:

"A whole year passed. Clotilde's husband used to write often at first, but all of a sudden his letters stopped. There had been a battle—for in those days they were fighting all the time.

"Poor Clotilde's husband was killed. The folks in the neighborhood heard of it, but no one was brave enough to tell her; and Clotilde kept expecting to hear from him long after he was dead.

"Every day, the poor woman used to go to the top of a hill, where you can see the road a long way in the direction of Grenoble; that was the way she expected to see her husband come. She often passed whole days sitting at the foot of a tree, looking at the road where she saw her dear husband the last time.

"When anybody saw Clotilde there, they'd try to comfort her by talking about her children, but she'd say in a sad voice:

"'Anne is with her brother; she never leaves him; she'll be a second mother to him.'

"You see, the little girl was only seven years old, but she surprised the whole village by her intelligence and her loving care of her brother. The poor little fellow didn't see anybody but her most of the day, but he always had all he wanted. His Sister Anne dressed him, put him to sleep, played with him, and tried to guess what he was going to want; so her name, Sister Anne, was the first word he ever spoke, and everybody in the village called her that, and spoke of her as a model of sisterly affection; she has gone by that name ever since.

"'Why don't mamma come?'

"When the night came, Clotilde hadn't come home. If Anne had been alone, she would have gone to the village and all around, to ask if anyone had seen her mother. But she couldn't leave her brother; he was a treasure that had been given to her to take care of, and she couldn't think of leaving him for an instant. At last, the poor girl decided to put her brother to bed, for he was only three years old and needed his sleep; then she sat down by his bed to wait for their mother. Every minute she suffered more and more; she couldn't help crying, and she kept saying to herself:

"'Why don't mamma come? O mon Dieu! she can't have deserted us!'

"To make it all the harder for her, a terrible storm came up. The thunder made a frightful uproar, and Sister Anne was awfully afraid of it; so she put her head into her brother's cradle and called to her mother to come and save them.

"All of a sudden, there was a frightful crash that startled the whole village. Sister Anne was dazed by it, and didn't dare to open her eyes for some time. But when she did open them, and looked around, the cottage was filled with thick smoke. The poor girl looked to see where it could come from. The smoke got thicker every minute. Anne ran toward the window, but couldn't get to it on account of the flames. The lightning had struck the roof and set it on fire, and the two poor children were surrounded by flames on all sides.

"Everybody in the village ran to the cottage, of course, monsieur. They couldn't save the house, but they must save the children, anyway. They succeeded, by taking great risks, in getting into Sister Anne's room. They found her with her brother under their mother's bed; she was holding him tight against her breast, trying to save him from death; but it was no use; the poor little fellow was dead! Sister Anne had only fainted, and they succeeded in bringing her back to life.—But just imagine how surprised and grieved everybody was, monsieur, when they found that the terrible shock had made her dumb!—She opened her mouth, but could only make a sort of low, moaning noise. Since then, the poor girl has never spoken a word!"

"Great God!" cried Frédéric; "poor child! so that is the cause of the melancholy expression of her lovely face!"

"The burning of the little cottage deprived Anne of her only place of shelter. But everybody in the village subscribed to help her; and a good woman named Marguerite, who lives in a little cabin in the woods, near the valley, took her in and adopted her. Marguerite was poor, too; but with the money collected from the richest people in the village, Anne bought a cow and a number of goats.

"For several years, she didn't seem able to do any kind of work. She passed her days sitting on the bank of a brook, or in the woods; she didn't listen to what anyone said to her, and couldn't seem to do anything but grieve for her father and mother and brother; but she got partly over her grief in time, and now she's more calm and resigned; she seems to appreciate what people do for her; she works like any country girl, and shows the greatest respect for Marguerite, who is very old and never leaves her cabin. Sister Anne is sweet and good and tender-hearted now, as she always used to be. She even smiles sometimes, but her smile is always sad. If she sees a little boy of her brother's age, it makes her excited and unhappy, and her eyes fill with tears. If you've seen her, monsieur, you know how pretty she is. She's sixteen now; even if she can't talk, she can make herself understood; her gestures mean so much, and her eyes speak so plain! We all understand her as easy as can be. But, for all that, it's a great pity she can't talk; for all the women say it would do her a lot of good."

"Yes, monsieur; but it's easy enough to find old Marguerite's cabin. If you take the path to the left from the one where the willows are, you'll come to a clearing; then go down a low hill, and the cabin is in front of you."

"Very good, my boy; thank you."

"But here you are at Grenoble; you don't need me any more, do you, monsieur?"

"No, my boy; here, take this with the other, for your trouble."

"Thank you very much, monsieur; if you ever need anyone in the village to help you, my name's Julien, and I'd be glad to work for you."

"Very well; I will remember."

The two horsemen dismounted; the young guide took their place, doffed his cap to the travellers, and rode away at a footpace. Frédéric, musing upon all that he had heard, walked in silence beside his two companions, who, as they entered Grenoble, were discussing the proper way to serve a canard aux olives—a discussion in which they had been engaged for some time, Dubourg insisting upon the method in vogue in Bretagne, and Ménard immovable in the principles he had learned from the Cuisinier Royal.

On reaching the inn, they retired to take the rest of which they stood in need after so tiresome a day. But Frédéric could not sleep; the dumb girl's face was constantly in his thoughts; he thought of her misfortune, of the pathetic story he had heard, and he said to himself:

This thought kept Frédéric busy all night. At daybreak, he rose, and, leaving his companions to enjoy the repose which he could not obtain, left the inn, ordered a horse, and galloped away toward Vizille.

Love is the god who most agreeably employs our leisure; he scoffs at distances and disarranges time. A lover is never bored, even when he is not favored. Memories, schemes, hopes, afford constant occupation to a loving heart. Love is the god of all countries and of all classes; he finds his way into the humble cottage as well as into the palace. Love is as sweet on the heather as on the softest cushions; indeed, some persons go so far as to maintain that love is truer in the country than in the city; it ought, at all events, to be more natural there. The mountaineer, the woodchopper, the ploughman, may not devote his time to the fine arts, to financial schemes, to political intrigues; but everybody is at liberty to love, luckily for the human race. Some author, I know not who, has said with much truth: "The happiest time of a man's life is that which he spends paying court to his mistress."

Frédéric soon arrived at the valley where there was dancing the night before, and which was now as peaceful and quiet as the whole neighborhood. A few laboring men passed, on their way to work; here and there, a peasant could be seen in the fields. In the country, the evening's enjoyment does not impair the morrow's toil; the good people find their diversion in talking over the pleasures of the holiday, which will not return for a year; but the time will pass quickly to them: they know so well how to employ it.

Frédéric rode toward the little, willow-lined path; there he dismounted, tied his horse to a tree, and plunged into the woods. He looked for the maid on the bank of the stream, but she was not at the place where he had seen her the night before. So he went farther into the woods, recalled what his guide had told him, and took the path to the left. Everything was peaceful and calm; the dark foliage of the firs almost excluded the daylight. At last he came to a clearing, descended a hill, and saw a wretched cabin before him. The wood of which it was built had rotted in several places, and the thatched roof threatened to fall in. There was a small garden at the right, surrounded by a picket fence, a part of which had fallen.

Frédéric's heart ached at the aspect of the place, which was eloquent of utter poverty and of a lack of the prime necessities of life.

He leaned against a tree and gazed at the cabin; his heart was so full that he could not go forward; he could only sigh and say to himself:

"She is there!"

Several minutes passed. Suddenly, the door of the cabin was thrown open, and a girl appeared in the doorway and looked out into the woods. It was she! The depressing aspect of that wild spot, the gloomy woods, the dilapidated cabin, all vanished! The girl's presence instantly made her surroundings beautiful.—The woman we love wields a tremendous power; she communicates her fascination to everything about her: by her side, the darkest cavern causes no fear, the wildest spot on earth seems a paradise.

Sister Anne went back into the cabin, and soon came out again with four goats, her whole flock. There was a cow in the little garden; she patted her as she passed, as if promising to return soon. Then, driving her goats toward a hillside where there was an abundance of grass, the dumb girl walked slowly behind them, with her head bent forward, raising it only to see that her goats did not go astray.

Frédéric had retained his position against the tree, which concealed him almost entirely, and watched every movement of Sister Anne. When she went toward the hill, he followed her noiselessly; he longed to be by her side, to speak to her; but he was afraid of startling her if he appeared too abruptly. She seemed so shy and timid: suppose she should run away from him again!

The girl made a movement which seemed to be due rather to surprise than alarm; indeed, there was nothing about Frédéric to inspire fear; as he stood before her, himself anxious and trembling, his glance was gentle and timid; his whole aspect and manner bore witness to the tender interest she aroused in him.

As she seemed disposed to rise and go away, Frédéric said to her:

"Do not fly from me, I entreat you, sweet girl; I should be very unhappy if I caused you the slightest fear."

The child smiled, and gave him to understand, by shaking her head gently, that she had no such feeling.

"I saw you last night by the brook," said Frédéric, walking toward her. Sister Anne looked at him, then lowered her eyes, smiling again, as if to say that she remembered him.

"What! you remember me? And you, sweet girl, have not been out of my thoughts for one moment. How could I fail to be impressed by the sight of such lovely features and such charms of person and of manner?"

"When I saw you yesterday, I felt the deepest interest in you. But how that interest has grown since I learned—— Poor child! Ah! I know of your sad plight! I know all the misfortunes that have been heaped upon you."

The dumb girl's features became more expressive than ever; a heartrending memory seemed to agitate her. She groaned, raised her eyes to heaven, then turned them on the ground once more as a flood of tears poured from them.

Frédéric went to her side; he put one arm lightly about her, and took her hand, which he placed upon his heart.

"I have revived your grief," he said; "pray forgive me. Would to heaven that I could, on the contrary, help you to forget it by making you happy! Poor child! let me wipe away your tears. From this moment, you are no longer alone on earth; you have a friend, there is a heart that beats in answer to yours, a heart that will beat for you alone, so long as it lives. Anne, dear friend, give me leave to love you, to share your grief, your suffering, to think constantly of you, to see you every day—oh! do not deny me this favor, or I shall be much unhappier than you are!"

Frédéric spoke with great animation; love excited him and made his voice sweeter than ever, his glance more seductive. The dumb girl listened to him at first with surprise; an unfamiliar sentiment disturbed her; she tried to withdraw her hand, but she had not the strength. Frédéric had ceased to speak, and she continued to listen.

"No, you cannot love me; I am too unfortunate."

Frédéric understood her; he put her hand to his heart again, and said, pointing to the cabin:

"With you, I should be happy living here in these woods."

At that moment, they heard the sound of a little bell. It was a signal which notified Anne that old Marguerite had risen. She hastily called her goats together and prepared to return to the cabin.

"Will you come back?" asked Frédéric; "oh! do let me see you again to-day!"

She pointed to the sun, whose beams were just beginning to shine through the foliage, then rested her head on the back of her hand.

"When the sun goes to rest, you will go to the brook?"

Sister Anne made an affirmative gesture, then hastened back to the cabin, driving her goats before her. But she turned her head before she went in, and looked back to the place where she had left Frédéric, smiled at him, and disappeared. That glance and smile enraptured the young lover; he had already ceased to be a stranger to Sister Anne; that thought filled his heart with joy. It needs so little to make one happy, in love!

In the village, whither he went to rest and breakfast, he talked about Sister Anne; and everyone seemed to take pleasure in praising her virtue, her sweet nature, her tender heart; but they generally added:

"The poor girl is greatly to be pitied; she stands a good chance of spending her life in that miserable hut; for what man would ever marry an unfortunate mute?"

Frédéric smiled and held his peace; but he was thinking that he had seen in Paris many women resplendent with beauty, charm, and talents, and that he preferred the dumb girl of the forest to them all.

He found in the village such refreshment as he required; he saw that his horse was bountifully fed; then, mounting him again, he rode back to the woods, where he fastened him to a tree near the stream, then bent his steps toward the lonely cabin.

The sun had performed but half his journey; but Frédéric hoped that, if he prowled about the little house, he might see Sister Anne, which would make it easier for him to wait patiently until evening.

As he looked about, Frédéric saw an old woman seated under a fig-tree. She was evidently very old, but her venerable face was the mirror of a calm and peaceful soul. He gazed at her for some time with profound respect; it was she who had adopted Anne, who had filled her mother's place.

The good old woman's face lighted up as the dumb girl approached her, carrying a wooden bowl filled with milk, which she placed on Marguerite's knees. The old woman patted her cheek, saying:

"That is nice, my girl, my dear child. Sit down here by my side. You know how I like to look at you while I am eating."

The girl at once sat down in front of Marguerite; she seemed to be on the alert to anticipate her lightest wish, and more than once she raised her withered hand and kissed it respectfully.

Frédéric did not stir; he could have passed hours watching that picture.

The old woman, after she had finished her meal of milk and fruit, rose, and with Sister Anne's assistance walked two or three times about the garden. Frédéric concealed himself when they passed, but he noticed that the girl glanced into the woods, as if looking for someone. Could that glance be for him! Ah! if so, how fortunate he would be! his heart dared to conceive the hope. He was tempted to enter the garden, to throw himself at the dumb girl's feet; but Marguerite's presence held him back.

He walked slowly back to the brook, and sat down on the spot where he had first seen Sister Anne. It might be a long while before she came. Frédéric took his notebook and pencil from his pocket, and wrote—what? Poetry for Sister Anne; for is not every lover a poet? and are not poets more eloquent when they are lovers? We have the lines Tibullus wrote for Delia; Ovid immortalized Julia; Orpheus enchanted the Shades while seeking Eurydice; it was love that tuned Anacreon's lyre, love that inspired Sappho; Lesbia's charms aroused Catullus's poetic ardor, and Cynthia's imparted delicacy and passion to the flowing verses of Propertius. Does not Petrarch owe a large part of his renown to Laura? without her, he might have been a poet; but would he have sung of love? To you, Eucharis and Eléonore, we owe the moving elegies of Bertin and Parny's charming verses.

Time passes very swiftly when we are writing poetry for her we love. Frédéric was still leaning over his notebook and writing busily, when he heard a faint sound; he turned his head and saw Sister Anne behind him, watching him with deep interest. She blushed when he detected her, but Frédéric set her mind at rest, and, bidding her sit down beside him, read what he had written.

The girl was already less shy and embarrassed in Frédéric's presence; at sixteen, one is quick to make acquaintances, especially when one has no knowledge of the customs of society or of its laws. Frédéric was so gentle and kind and sympathetic! he pitied her, he talked of her sad story, and the poor orphan was surprised to find that there was somebody besides old Marguerite who was interested in her destiny. The village people always manifested much sympathy and pity for her; but there is in that sentiment something distressing to its object. But that was not what she read in Frédéric's eyes. He talked to her with deep interest and looked at her with affection, and she was already beginning to feel less unhappy.

But the approach of night found them still seated by the stream. They had been there two hours, to their great surprise. Anne rose and pointed to Frédéric's horse; then turned her eyes anxiously toward the village, the woods, and the mountains, and lastly upon Frédéric himself.

"I am going to Grenoble," he said; "I am staying there now with two friends, who may be alarmed by my long absence. But I will come again to-morrow, I will come every day. Do you think that I could pass a single day without seeing you?"

"Where in the devil have you been?" Dubourg inquired of Frédéric, who arrived at the inn just as his two companions were sitting down to supper.

"I have been—riding about the neighborhood."

"What a mania you have for travelling about the country! Are you going to lead the same kind of life here as at Lyon?"

"Possibly."

"That will be amusing for us! At Lyon, we could at least vary our amusements a little, see people——"

"Yes, the Marquise de Versac, and others, eh?"

"But here! why, we know the city by heart already. If one could make an acquaintance or two, obtain an introduction to a few houses—but when a man has no money, he doesn't dare to show his face anywhere, for it gives one an awkward manner that betrays one at once. If it's absolutely necessary, in every place we stop, for you to know the history of every tree, every stone, and every view, and to pause in rapt contemplation beside every brook, why, we shan't get to Italy for ten years! and your life won't be long enough for you to see half of Europe."

"I could forgive you for making a minute examination of Naples or Florence; there are monuments there which one cannot contemplate too long. Gaze in admiration at the Coliseum or the Basilica of Saint Peter at Rome; walk on Mount Pausilippus or Vesuvius, and I shall not be surprised; but what do you find so extraordinary in this province? It is picturesque and romantic, I agree; but we shall find some much more remarkable views on our journey. Wait, before going into ecstasies, until you are on the glaciers of Mont Blanc, or on some peak of the Apennines; and don't stand a whole day in admiration before an old mulberry-tree overhanging a tiny stream; for there are trees, shrubbery, turf, and fountains everywhere—except in the African desert; and we are not going so far as that."

"My friend," said Frédéric, with a smile, "I have found here what one would seek in vain elsewhere; and that, to my mind, is of more value than all the wonders of the world."

With that, Frédéric went to his room and to bed, paying no heed to Dubourg, who called after him:

"For heaven's sake, tell us what you've found?—What in the devil can he have found, Monsieur Ménard?"

"I am trying to think, monsieur le baron."

"Gad! I wonder if it's the wallet that was stolen from me at Lyon."

"Or your berlin, monsieur le baron."

"My berlin! of course, that's all spent before now—that is to say, that rascal of a postilion has probably sold it to get money for drink."

"But what can he have found that's so delightful?"

"Perhaps it's a method of keeping eggs fresh on a journey."

"Bah! as if Frédéric ever gave a thought to such things!"

"But it would be a most valuable discovery, monsieur le baron. Somebody gave me a receipt for it once, and also one for making milk punch, but I was unlucky enough to lose them while moving."

"It is plain that we shall not find out what he has found, unless he chooses to tell us."

"I will go and think about it while I sleep, monsieur le baron."

"And I will go to sleep thinking about it, Monsieur Ménard."

Early the next morning, Frédéric again set out for the village. He rode down into the valley, left his horse in a field where the grass was as high as his knees, and walked rapidly along the path toward the woods; in a moment he was on the hillside with Sister Anne, who had already driven her little flock to pasture.

"I am late," he said, "for my horse did not share my impatience; dear friend, I am so happy with you! I would like never to leave you."

Anne gazed earnestly at him for a long while; she sighed, pointed to the road leading to the city, then glanced at her cabin, as if to say:

"We shall always be separated."

"Leave that cabin, agree to come with me," cried Frédéric, eagerly; "and we will never part."

The girl rose with a gesture of dismay, and, pointing again to the cabin, imitated old Marguerite's tottering steps; then shook her head emphatically, while her eyes shone with a divine expression which said to Frédéric:

"No, I will never leave her."

"Oh! forgive me; I am wrong, I can see it now; your heart cannot be ungrateful; forgive me! love led me astray."

The dumb girl bore him no ill-will; she returned to her seat by his side, and a charming smile lighted up her features. Her beautiful hair, fluttering in the wind, caressed Frédéric's face, and she laughed as she drew it away. But he passed an arm about her waist, and held that lovely head against his heart. His eyes exchanged tender glances with Sister Anne's; his lips touched her cheeks, and the pretty dumb girl's sweet breath mingled with the air he breathed; are not such moments the sweetest in love, the happiest in life?

Toward evening, she remained longer with her adopted mother. Meanwhile, Frédéric went down to the stream and waited for her there, his notebook making the time pass quickly. When the girl surprised him writing, she heaved a profound sigh, and, looking sadly down at herself, seemed to say:

"I don't know anything; I never shall know anything."

"I will be your teacher," said Frédéric, in reply to her unspoken thoughts; "I will teach you to speak on paper."

At nightfall, the young man left his friend, who accompanied him sadly to his horse, and whose eyes said:

"Until to-morrow!"

A week passed away. Every morning at daybreak Frédéric left Grenoble, and rode to Vizille on the first horse he found in the inn stable. He passed the whole day with Sister Anne, and left her at nightfall.

Frédéric tried to teach her to write, but love constantly interfered with the lessons he gave her. Seated by her side, pressing her to his heart, with full liberty to gaze at leisure on her lovely features, her intoxicating eyes—he stopped, and forgot what he was about to show her. She looked at him and smiled, and the lesson was forgotten. Frédéric strained her to his heart, his passions were aroused—but one is timid with innocence, especially when one loves sincerely.

But the most timid passion grows bold in time; the habit of seeing each other, of being together, of displaying their mutual affection, drew them closer together every day. They were always alone in the forest, and the forest is a very dangerous place for innocence. Could they long resist their hearts, the flame that consumed them? Frédéric became daring, and Sister Anne gave herself to him without regret, without remorse, for it seemed natural to her to make the man happy whom she was sure that she should love all her life.

In the transports of passion, Frédéric determined not to leave his sweetheart in order to go to Grenoble to sleep. The eight leagues, going and coming, kept them apart a few moments longer, and compelled him to leave her a few moments earlier.

"No," he said, "I do not propose to go away from you any more, not for an hour, not for a minute. When I cannot see you, why, I will sleep in the woods, on the grass, near your cabin. As if I could be uncomfortable there!"

"Yes, I will sleep with you, always by your side! Ah! how happy we shall be!"

Thus did the child of nature soon discover what would forward her love; for to love ardently requires neither art nor study; the heart is the best master. Several times, Sister Anne manifested a wish to present Frédéric to her adopted mother; she could not understand why he avoided her, until he said:

"Marguerite would not leave you so entirely at liberty, if she knew that you saw me every day; on the contrary, she would tell you that you must avoid me and not speak to me."

These words were enough to prevent Anne from returning to the subject. Forbid her to see Frédéric! order her to avoid him! why, that would be condemning her to weep all her life. She felt that she would not have the strength to obey; so it was much better to conceal her happiness from Marguerite. The good old woman was growing weaker every day; she rarely left her chair, where she dozed a great part of the time; so that it was very easy to conceal the truth from her.

He did not give a thought to his companions, to their anxiety about him, or to their embarrassing position since he had all the money; he did not remember that he had a horse belonging to the inn; he had no thought for anything on earth but Sister Anne. Not even the memory of his father interfered to mar his happiness. The present was all in all to him; Sister Anne engrossed his heart and mind; he had never known a woman who could be compared with her. Could he find elsewhere in the world so much beauty, grace, innocence, and love? Her misfortune made her even dearer to him. Frédéric was very romantic, and he did not look upon love so lightly as most young men of his years; so that his conduct should appear less extraordinary to us. And then, too, the dumb girl was so pretty! In the first transports of love, a cabin, a forest, a desert, is what all lovers desire; but this intoxication is of short duration. Will Frédéric be more constant?

In the path by the stream, where they sat together so often, he waited until old Marguerite should fall asleep. Then Sister Anne was to steal out of the cabin and come for her lover.

Frédéric tied his horse to an old ruined hovel, where a woodcutter had once lived, and which he used as a stable.

"Come, come," he said; "lead me!"