The little man paused at last to take breath and wipe his face. Dubourg, who had not lost a word of what he said, seated himself in a corner, evidently meditating some new plan.

"It is annoying, sure enough," said the innkeeper; "I've ordered a new dress for my daughter to wear to the play."

"Annoying, do you say!" repeated Floridor, twisting about on his chair like one possessed; "why, it is enough to drive one to despair! I would give a hundred francs if I could replace my two actors, and a hundred francs is quite a sum, it's equal to one evening's receipts; but, no matter, I would sacrifice it to be able to open my theatre."

These words were overheard by Dubourg, who still held aloof, however, and seemed to pay no heed to what was being said.

"Ah!" said one of the servants; "I wish I knew how to act! it would just suit me to be able to earn a hundred francs."

"I had engaged my two artists for a month, at sixty francs each," said Floridor; "that's pretty high, but we have to pay for real talent."

"Can't you get anybody to take their places?"

"Supper is served, messieurs," said the maid-servant.

"No, indeed. I shall eat my supper as a matter of habit, but I have no appetite. This calamity has cut off my arms and legs."

"But not his tongue," observed Ménard, in an undertone, as he prepared to take his place at the table; when Dubourg, stalking majestically forward, halted in front of him and declaimed, waving his right arm about as if he were trying to swim:

"Is monsieur an actor?" inquired Floridor, walking toward Dubourg, cap in hand.

"I, monsieur!" he replied, pretending to be surprised and annoyed because he had been overheard. "I—I assure you, monsieur—what ground have you for such an opinion?" he demanded, in a gruff voice, like a villain of melodrama.

"What ground!" cried the little man, delighted beyond words, and seizing Dubourg's hand. "Ah! monsieur, you betrayed yourself just now without knowing it; but even without that I should have recognized you. That voice, that carriage, those noble and majestic attitudes! None but an actor of the first rank combines all these; and you are such a one; it is useless for you to deny it."

"I see," said Dubourg, smiling with an air of mock modesty, "that it is difficult to conceal anything from you. But my companion and I had fully resolved to retain our incognito."

"Your companion!" cried the little man, leaping for joy; "can it be that monsieur is an actor, too?"

"Unexcelled in tearful rôles, superb in tragedy, and absolutely natural in comedy," said Dubourg, while Ménard listened with the air of one listening to a language he does not understand. But Floridor did not allow him to remain in that benumbed condition; he threw his arms about Dubourg's neck, he threw his arms about Ménard's neck, and would have done the same by the maid if somebody had not stopped him.

"What does this mean?" Ménard asked Dubourg, in an undertone.

"It means that we are the two first actors to the King of Poland, that yonder little magpie has already invited us to supper, and that he is going to do a great deal more for us; further, that you must support what I say, and try not to look like an idiot."

"What, monsieur le baron—you and I pass ourselves off as actors?"

"Actors are built like other men, Monsieur Ménard; Roscius was admitted to the presence of Sylla, Garrick is buried beside the kings of England, Molière was an actor, and none the less a great man; and two of the great authors of our own time have acted, and sacrificed none of their merit by so doing."

"But, monsieur le baron, I have never acted."

"Nor have I; but that doesn't alarm me."

"But suppose it should become known, what will people say?"

"It won't become known, as we are incognito."

"But I have no memory; I shall never be able to remember a rôle."

"They'll prompt you."

"But I am very timid, and I shall never dare to appear in public."

"When you are rouged and powdered, you'll be as bold as a page."

"We'll make him pay us a high price, and everybody will think we are superb."

"But——"

"Morbleu! there's enough buts. Just remember that it's only for three or four days; it's a little joke that will have no unpleasant consequences, and will give us the means of waiting for another remittance. Furthermore, when a man like myself, a Polish nobleman, an elector palatine, decides to do such a thing, I consider it very strange that a mere plebeian should presume to remonstrate with him. You will act with me, or I abandon you to the wrath of the Comte de Montreville, whose son you will never be able to find without assistance."

"I'll do it, monsieur le baron."

"That's very lucky for you!"

During this little dialogue, Monsieur Floridor had rushed into the next house, where the wigmaker lived, to tell him that two great actors, whose names he did not know as yet, but who were sure to be overflowing with talent, because they were travelling incognito, had arrived at the Soleil d'Or, and that he proposed to do his utmost to engage them to appear two or three times in the town. The wigmaker abandoned the town clerk's wife's hair, which he was engaged in curling, and hurried off to carry the news to all his customers; the customers told their neighbors, and the word was passed from house to house, as in the game of scandal. The town of Voreppe being rather small, all the townspeople knew before sundown that they had within their walls two dramatic geniuses who were travelling incognito.

The little manager talked incessantly, Dubourg from time to time declaimed such passages as came to his mind, and Ménard concentrated his attention upon his plate.

"May I not know," said Floridor, "with whom I have the honor of supping?"

"We did not intend to make ourselves known," said Dubourg; "but, after the flattering attentions with which you have honored us, it is difficult to conceal anything from you. You see in us the two first actors of Cracow, who are taking advantage of a furlough to travel in France and perfect ourselves in the French tongue, in which all our plays are given in Poland; so that our theatre is frequented only by the most distinguished people of the country—like the Bouffons in Paris."

"I understand, I understand! and what parts do you play?"

"Everything, from pantomime to grand opera. My comrade here, Wolowitz, is the Fleury of Poland, and I make bold to say that I am the Talma. Ah! if you should see us together in Les Chasseurs et la Laitière! but you don't give opera here, do you?"

"Pardon me: opéra-comique, without music, to be sure, because we have no orchestra as yet; but if you will deign to accede to our prayers, how happy our town will be to see two such artists as you!"

Wolowitz did not reply, because he had not yet learned his name; but Dubourg kicked him, under the table, and made him raise his head, whereupon he replied, still eating:

"Yes, monsieur le baron."

"You see, he continues to call me the baron," said Dubourg; "he imagines he is still on the stage."

Another kick informed Ménard that he had made a blunder, and he muttered in Dubourg's ear:

"Tell me your name, then; you can't expect me to guess it."

"When people saw on the bill-board: Boleslas and Wolowitz," continued Dubourg, with a glance at Ménard, "the theatre was always crowded to suffocation, and we staggered under the wreaths that were thrown to us."

"Oh! you'll get some here," said Floridor; "we will throw 'em to you. I've had a dozen made on purpose to have thrown on my actors' heads. You shall have verses too—quatrains; I've got all those things."

"You are right; they always have a good effect, they flatter the artist and dazzle the audience."

"Ah! Monsieur Boleslas, may I hope that you and your companion will consent to give us a few performances?"

The little man was beside himself with joy; he instantly prepared three posters, which would be displayed in the town on the morrow, announcing to the people thereof that Messieurs Boleslas and Wolowitz, famous Polish actors, were to appear at their theatre.

"We should like to open with Phèdre or Le Devin du Village," said Floridor.

"Oh! bless my soul! it's a matter of indifference to us," replied Dubourg; "whatever you choose."

"Then we will begin with that."

"Very well, I will do Phèdre."

"Phèdre? do you mean to say that you play female parts too?"

"Oh, no! I meant Hippolyte. Wolowitz will make a glorious Thésée."

"Very good. For the Devin I only need a Colin."

"I'll undertake it. In four days we will be ready."

"Four days—that's rather too long."

"We must have a little rest."

"All right, four days it is. You will be announced to-morrow. Have you any wardrobe?"

"No; for we had no idea of acting."

"No matter; I will see that you have costumes."

With that, Floridor left our friends, and they went to bed, Dubourg laughing over this latest adventure, and Ménard murmuring:

When he woke the next morning, poor Ménard could not believe that he was really going to play Thésée; but Dubourg appeared, book in hand, and gave him his rôle, which the little manager had already sent, with the information that there would be a rehearsal at noon.

"Bah!" said Dubourg; "there aren't a hundred lines in your part. What's that to you, who have learned Horace and Virgil and so many other authors by heart?"

"That's all very well; but I have passed my life learning them, while I have only three days to commit this to memory."

"Don't be afraid, I'll answer for everything; besides, there's a prompter."

"That's true; I must depend on him."

"As long as you know your first speech, that's all that's necessary."

"Oh! as to that, I'm not at all alarmed:

"Bravo! you say it like an angel."

"It's the curse that bothers me."

"See that you gesticulate enough, and it will be all right."

At midday, Monsieur Floridor came to escort them to the theatre, where the rest of the troupe was waiting for them. The aspect of the little hall, which they reached through a dovecote, where the box-office was located, amused Dubourg mightily, while Ménard collided with two old hogsheads which did duty as mountains.

"How well that was declaimed! what talent!"

It was the same with Ménard; and the tutor, bewildered by the applause that was lavished upon him, was persuaded that he possessed a hitherto unsuspected talent for acting.

"Do you take snuff while you are acting?" queried Floridor.

"Why not? I take the part of a king, and the King of Prussia took snuff; witness that box, which——"

"In Poland," interposed Dubourg, "we take as much of it as we please on the stage; it's a recognized thing; indeed, it's a matter of tradition in many rôles."

"How glad I am!" said the constable's wife, who played Phèdre; "I didn't dare to take it when I was the princess."

"In that case," said the carpenter's apprentice, "I'll put a little quid in my mouth when I play Aricie, as Monsieur Boleslas deigns to allow it."

"Whatever you please; great artists indulge in innumerable whims."

"Non est magnum ingenium, sine mixtura dementiæ," observed Ménard.

"Do you hear him? that's Polish," said the manager to his troupe.

The costumes they were to wear in Phèdre were brought to the inn.

"Don't we dress at the theatre?" Dubourg asked the manager.

"We have no dressing-rooms, so everybody dresses at home; but the weather is fine, and there's no inconvenience in that."

"Do you mean that I must walk through the town dressed as Hippolyte?"

"The theatre is only a few steps from the inn, and you can play the part in boots, as Hippolyte is a hunter."

"True."

"In default of a bow, which we haven't, you will carry an old musket, which I have had brought here for you; the ramrod will represent the arrows."

"That will do very well."

"As for the wig, I think you will be pleased; as Hippolyte must have hair falling over his neck, I have prepared a Louis XIV wig, which will fill the bill perfectly."

The auditorium was full, which meant receipts of about eighty francs. Floridor was in ecstasies; he ran to and fro from the prompter's box to the stage, in full view of the audience; for there was no passage under the stage, and the sheet which did duty as a curtain was hung on a rod and drawn aside, like the curtain of a magic lantern.

Dubourg arrived, bathed in perspiration, because the cloak covered with rabbit skins was very heavy and the wig was immense. The actors uttered a cry of admiration when he appeared.

"How handsome he is!" could be heard on all sides; "how well he represents Hippolyte!"

"Ah! I shall play Phèdre by inspiration!" exclaimed the constable's wife, with a passionate glance at Dubourg. But as Phèdre had a slight squint, and an enormous nose covered with snuff, Hippolyte did not return that amorous glance. He drew the curtain aside to look into the hall; when his face appeared, shouts arose on all sides; the ladies thought he was a lion. Thereupon Floridor came forth from his box, and addressed the audience thus:

"I told you that you would be pleased, enchanted!"—and he applauded with all his might, the spectators followed suit, and Dubourg bowed with majestic dignity, then retired behind the curtain.

The wigmaker, who was cast for the part of Théramène, wore a François I wig and a Spanish costume, with his National Guards sabre for a sword. The rôles of the other two confidants were to be read by Floridor from the prompter's box. Only Thésée was missing, and he did not appear; but he was not to come on till the third act.

"Let us begin, the audience is growing restive," said the manager; "we mustn't keep them waiting any longer. Thésée will certainly be on hand for the third act."

"It is undoubtedly his costume that detains him," said Dubourg; "he's very particular about having his costume just what it should be, and he never puts in a pin except in the way tradition demands."

The manager, who was also prompter, stage manager, and scene shifter, struck the traditional three blows, then drew the curtain, which at first disclosed only half of the stage; but with the assistance of two spectators, who came on the stage, he succeeded in drawing it entirely aside. Thereupon he went down into his box, with a candlestick in his hand, and the play began.

"He's a Pole," said the spectators.

"He's terribly ugly," said the young women; "but he is said to have great talent."

Dubourg rolled his eyes in terrifying fashion, to give character to his face; while the unlucky Théramène, whose head touched the flies, was obliged to stoop, so that his wig should not sweep the spiders' webs from the ceiling of the palace.

Dubourg, who was not at all timid, shouted his lines like a deaf man, and gesticulated so wildly that, before the end of the first scene, Théramène had been struck twice by him. At the third blow, the wigmaker began to lose his temper, and muttered between his teeth:

"Sacrebleu! look out what you're doing! if you go on like this, I shall be like a baked apple before the end of the play."

But the audience were delighted with his spirited acting; they applauded and cried bravo! Dubourg continued as he had begun, but not without alarming one woman in the pit who, being singularly affected by his contortions, left the place.

The first act went very well; but the audience manifested some little surprise when, instead of seeing Panope appear, they heard the prompter reading the rôle in his box; but, as it was not long, they let it pass, especially as Floridor, turning toward the pit, explained:

"Messieurs, the rôles of confidants are almost always given in this way in towns of the third order."

But Thésée had not arrived.

"What in the devil can he be doing at the inn?" said Dubourg; "do you suppose he can't put on his costume?"

"Oho! so Thésée will be all yellow, eh?"

"That's traditional, and tradition is never wrong. But let's go on with the second act; we must hope that he will turn up."

They began the second act, which did not go so well as the first. Aricie, in a moment of passion, spat her tobacco into Hippolyte's face, whereupon the latter kicked her viciously just as her lover said to her:

Floridor, who came out of his box after each act, ran on to the stage to console Phèdre, who declared that she would not act any more. He tried to restore the courage of his actors by assuring them that the later acts would make amends for everything; he relied especially on the début of Thésée, who had not yet appeared, and to whom he looked to produce a prodigious effect. But Thésée did not arrive, and the anxiety became general.

"What can have happened to him? I'll run back to the inn," said Dubourg, "for his delay begins to surprise me; I'll bring him back with me at once."

"Make haste!" cried Floridor; "for if we keep the audience waiting, everything will be hopelessly ruined."

After an infinitude of trouble, he succeeded at last in arraying himself in the costume of Thésée. He looked at himself in the mirror, smiled at himself, and concluded that he looked very well; he kindled his own ardor by reflecting that he was about to represent the King of Athens, repeated his lines to himself, especially his first speech, then left his room to go to the theatre, saying to himself:

"Thus the Fates decree!"

At that very moment, a traveller had arrived at the inn in a comfortable carriage. Everything about him denoted a man of wealth and of high rank. The innkeeper made haste to ask what he desired, and the traveller, who was a short, thin, old man, stern of face, inquired curtly what travellers had recently passed through the town, and, on receiving the landlord's reply, exclaimed:

"Shall I never learn what has become of them?"

"Will monsieur have supper?" inquired the innkeeper.

"No; I am not hungry. Let my horses be fed. I may go away again very soon. Give me a room where I can rest quietly for a few moments."

The traveller's tone did not invite conversation. The innkeeper at once took a light and escorted the new arrival to the stairs. As they were going up, they came face to face with Ménard, who was descending with majestic mien, declaiming:

The little old man raised his eyes when he heard Ménard's voice; he gazed at him for some time in surprise, and exclaimed at last:

Ménard looked at the traveller, and was transfixed with amazement when he recognized the Comte de Montreville, Frédéric's father, whose eyes gleamed with anger, and who, taking Thésée by the arm, marched him back abruptly to his room, planted himself in front of him, and began sternly to question him.

"What does all this mean, Monsieur Ménard? what is the meaning of that turban on your head, and this yellow costume that makes you look like an escaped lunatic?"

"Monsieur le comte, yellow is not a color to be scorned; in China, the marks of highest distinction consist of yellow waistcoats and peacocks' feathers."

"Morbleu! monsieur, never mind the Chinese, but answer my question: why do I find you rigged out like this?"

"Because I am to play Thésée this evening, monsieur le comte."

"You, play Thésée!"

"Yes, monsieur le comte; in Phèdre, which is to be given at the local theatre."

"What! monsieur le précepteur, you propose to act?"

"Why not, monsieur le comte? circumstances—— Besides, Roscius was entertained by Sylla, Garrick is buried at Westminster, and Molière——"

"Do you consider yourself on a level with those men, monsieur? Do you suppose that I sent you with my son, with the idea of your being an actor? Was it with that end in view that you undertook this journey? Did you think, as well as Frédéric, that you could deceive me for long? In a fortnight, you spent the eight thousand francs I handed you——"

"Silence, monsieur! I was willing to forgive that first escapade; I sent you more money, and I learned that, instead of continuing your journey, you had remained at Grenoble, and that my son was making the tour of Europe in Dauphiné."

"It's a superb country, monsieur le comte."

"I left Paris; I was determined to find out for myself what detained you in this neighborhood. I went to Grenoble, and failed to find you; I sought you in vain in that vicinity. And at last I find you here, in this absurd costume! I did not expect this, I admit.—But my son—where is he? is he acting, also?"

"No, monsieur le comte."

"Where is he, then?—speak!"

"He is lost, monsieur le comte."

"Lost! What do you mean? Answer me, monsieur!"

"That is to say, monsieur le comte, he has gone astray."

"Remember, monsieur, that I intrusted my son to you."

"We will find him, monsieur le comte. Monsieur le Baron Potoski is going to send couriers to all the European courts."

"Who is this Baron Potoski?"

"He's a Polish nobleman, a very intelligent young man, Palatine of Rava and Sandomir, who has a magnificent castle in the Krapach Mountains, which he heats with gas."

"Upon my word, Monsieur Ménard, I believe they have made you an absolute idiot!"

"No, monsieur le comte; I know what I am saying, and I am telling the simple truth."

"Where did you find this baron?"

The Comte de Montreville paced the floor, stamping angrily, and looking up at the ceiling in despair. Ménard cowered in a corner, with his turban in his hand, afraid to move. After making the circuit of the room three or four times, the count returned to him.

"What has become of this baron?"

"He is playing Hippolyte, monsieur le comte; he is on the stage at this moment, and—— But, stay, here he is himself, monsieur le comte."

At this moment, in fact, Dubourg rushed into the room, crying:

"Come on, Thésée; we're waiting for you, to begin the third act."

But he stopped short when he saw the count, who exclaimed:

"I was sure of it! It's that scamp Dubourg!"

Ménard opened his eyes at that, and Dubourg contented himself with bowing low to Frédéric's father.

"Come, Monsieur Ménard, follow me," continued the count; "take off that costume, which you should never have put on, and let us leave this place at once."

The unhappy tutor did not wait for the order to be repeated; in an instant, he had cast aside the tunic and trousers; then he resumed his own clothes, took his hat, and stood humbly before the count, who said to Dubourg:

A moment later, the count and the tutor were in the carriage, from which the horses had not been taken; and they drove rapidly away from the inn toward Grenoble, where the count hoped to obtain news of his son.

Meanwhile, Dubourg, somewhat bewildered by what had taken place, considered what was likely to happen to him; the audience was waiting for Thésée, without whom the play could not go on, and the good people of Voreppe seemed disposed to be unamiable when they were dissatisfied. On the other hand, he had received from the manager his own pay and Ménard's; and now that Ménard had gone, how was their agreement to be kept?

While he reflected, a confused noise arose in the street. Dubourg ran to the window and saw Floridor approaching with several of the spectators, who were swearing and making a great uproar, declaring that the two Poles should act or they would thrash them.

"They will act," cried Floridor; "they will act, messieurs; I paid them in advance."

The count and Ménard soon arrived at Grenoble, and alighted at the inn where our three travellers had sojourned, and which the tutor had pointed out to the count at his request. On the way, he had questioned Ménard closely concerning his son, and the replies he obtained satisfied him that it was nothing more than an amourette which detained Frédéric in that neighborhood; so that he was a little more at ease, having no doubt that his presence would suffice to bring his son to his senses.

When they reached the inn, Ménard had a scene with the landlord on the subject of the char-à-bancs which had been let to him and Dubourg. The landlord also spoke of Dubourg, saying that a creditor of the pretended Baron Potoski had come to Grenoble in search of him, and was now on his trail, meaning to have him arrested.

Poor Ménard had nothing to say; he was utterly overwhelmed when he learned that the man whom he had believed to be a Polish nobleman had done nothing but make sport of him ever since they had travelled together. The Comte de Montreville put an end to the innkeeper's talk by paying him what he demanded. They slept at Grenoble, the count proposing to go with Ménard the next day to the place where he had said that he last saw Frédéric.

But the next morning, as they were preparing to start, Ménard uttered a joyful exclamation, saying:

"Here he is, monsieur le comte; the lamb returns to the fold, the son to his father. Here is your son; let us kill the fatted calf!"

The count hastened downstairs, followed by Ménard; he walked toward his son, with a stern expression, and the young man hung his head and seemed stricken dumb when he saw who was before him.

"I have found you at last, monsieur," said the count; "I have heard of your behavior, I have seen your boon companion, I have learned that your travels have been confined to a miserable village and a forest near by, where you consider, doubtless, that you have acquired sufficient knowledge of the world. But I will abstain from reproaching you; I deserve reproach myself for giving you such a companion as monsieur. Let us forget it all, and return to Paris."

These last words went to Frédéric's heart; he had endured bravely his father's reproaches, but now he became confused, seemed to be deeply distressed, glanced behind him, and stammered a request for a delay of a day or two. But the count pretended not to hear, and said in a harsh tone:

"I am waiting for you, my son."

The carriage was ready; what was he to do? How could he disobey his father? Frédéric trembled with agitation; he was still hesitating; but the count took him by the hand and led him toward the carriage, and he dared not resist. He had had no time for reflection before he was already at some distance from Grenoble. He put his head out of the window and gazed in the direction of Vizille; he heaved a profound sigh, his eyes filled with tears, as he thought of Sister Anne, and he said to himself again and again:

Why does the love of a month bear so little resemblance to the love of a day? why is the love of a year still less passionate than that of a month? why are we so indifferent to the enjoyment of that which we possess without any obstacles, and why does our enjoyment sometimes cease altogether when we possess what we have ardently desired? It is because everything passes away in this world, where we ourselves are simply birds of passage; it is because men who are greedy of pleasure are always seeking new forms of pleasure, and to many of them love is simply a diversion. But you will say to me, perhaps: "I have been married three years, and I love my wife as dearly as I did the first day;" or: "My lover has adored me for six months, and he is more in love than ever." I have no doubt of it; there are exceptions to every rule, and everyone can invoke them in his favor; and, furthermore, I do not say that love vanishes; I mean simply that it changes its hue; and, unhappily, the last variations have not the splendor, the lustre, the charm, of the original color.

Sister Anne felt none of this ennui; she was happier and more loving with Frédéric than ever. As a general rule, women love more truly than men, and, moreover, the unfortunate orphan was no ordinary woman; to her, Frédéric was the whole earth, the universe. Since she had known him, her intelligence had awakened, her mind had developed; she had learned to think, to reflect, to form desires, to fear, and to hope; a thousand new sensations had made her heart beat fast. Before she knew what love was, her life had been only a dream, but Frédéric had roused her from it.

When she saw that he was depressed and preoccupied, she redoubled her attentions and caresses; she would lead him into the woods, and hide behind a bush or a clump of trees; then, suddenly appearing, would rush into his arms; and her childlike grace heightened the sweet expression of her features.

Thus did Sister Anne seek to enchain the man she loved. It was not the tactics of a coquette—it was love, pure and simple, and nothing else; whereas in the manœuvres of a coquette there is not the faintest trace of that sentiment.

Why, then, fools that we are, do we allow ourselves to be caught in the nets of the one, and repay with cold disdain the sincere love of the other? Because the coquette has the art to keep us in suspense; when she sees that we are well caught, she plays the cruel; if we seem a little cool, she excites us by giving us some cause of jealousy; if we seem overconfident, her mockery arouses our fears; if we are disgusted and ready to turn our back, she becomes tender, sentimental, passionate, and with a word brings us back to her feet. These constant changes do not give the heart time to grow cold. I was on the point of comparing us men to the epicures whose appetites are sharpened by a variety of dishes, but I refrain; you would think that I had studied the art of love in the Cuisinier Royal.

For several days, Frédéric had taken to making short excursions in the neighborhood. Sister Anne was alarmed at first; but he was away only a little while, and her fears vanished. Frédéric was beginning to think of the future, of his father. What would the Comte de Montreville say, if he knew that his son was living in the woods with a village girl? That question frequently disturbed Frédéric's repose, and as the days passed it recurred with increasing frequency.

"If father should see her, it would be impossible for him not to love her. But would he accept her as his son's wife? No, that is not to be expected; the Comte de Montreville is not in the least romantic; he is proud; he loves wealth, because he knows that money always adds to the estimation in which one is held; so there is no hope that he will allow his son to marry a penniless village girl."

To be sure, he could act without his father's consent; but, in that case, he must renounce his fortune, turn his talents to account, and work for his living; in any event, he must leave the woods, for he was beginning to realize that it is absurd for a young man to turn his back on the world at twenty-one; that men are made for society; and that the being in love with a pretty woman is no reason for burying one's self alive with her in the depths of a forest.

These arguments assumed greater force from day to day; especially when he was away from Sister Anne, he abandoned himself to such reflections, and his absences became longer every day. The poor child groaned in secret; she counted the minutes that she spent without her lover; she ran down into the valley to watch for his coming, and she pouted—oh! so sadly!—when he had been long absent; but she was so overjoyed to see him again, that her dejection soon passed away; she forgot all her anxieties when she held him to her heart.

So that Frédéric was at a loss to understand the indifference of his friends, especially of Ménard.

"Something new must have happened to them," he said to himself. "Dubourg has probably performed some further crazy exploit. I did wrong to trust him with all the money I possessed."

The invariable result of his reflections was that he must go to Grenoble, to find out what those gentlemen were doing. But to join them after saying to Dubourg that he would never leave those woods again, that he had abandoned forever a false and wicked world, all of whose pleasures were not equal to the tranquil life of a cottage—that was most embarrassing, and that was why Frédéric could not make up his mind to go to the town; for a man often chooses to persevere in an act of folly rather than admit that he is wrong.

Meanwhile, Frédéric's absolute idleness had become a heavy burden to him; with the best will in the world, one cannot talk twenty-four hours at a stretch to a pretty woman, and the poor girl was unhappy because she saw that her lover was melancholy and often sighed. At last, one fine evening, Frédéric, finding that he could endure it no longer, said to her:

"To-morrow, at daybreak, I shall go to Grenoble, to learn something about my friends."

As if struck by an unforeseen blow, the girl did not move for an instant, then her bosom heaved, and two streams of tears gushed from her eyes. She pointed to the road to the town, then to herself, as if to say:

The poor child was unable, in order to detain her lover, to resort to the sweet, loving words and entreaties which it is so hard to resist. But how expressive her gestures were, and how eloquent her eyes! one had but to glance at them to read all her thoughts.

"I will return," said Frédéric, "I promise you; I will return, and I shall never love anyone but you."

These words at once allayed Sister Anne's grief, for she did not doubt her lover's word. Remember, mesdames, that Sister Anne did not know the world—a very painful knowledge sometimes, since it teaches us to renounce the illusions of the heart.

The evening passed sadly enough; for, although she did not doubt that he would return soon, the idea of her friend's departure was very cruel to that glowing heart, upon which love had bestowed an unalloyed happiness which she had thought would endure to the end of her life. Frédéric did all that he could to comfort her; but by giving fresh proofs of his love a man inspires greater love than ever. Surely, then, that is not the best way to lessen the pain of a separation; but it is the way that is usually employed.

The dawn was a gloomy one in the eyes of the young orphan. Can that be a pleasant day which is to part us from all that we love best? Frédéric climbed the hill to the road, holding the poor girl's trembling hand in his. There, having repeated his promises and bade her a most affectionate farewell, he rode away and vanished from his sweetheart's sight.

Sister Anne was in the habit of going several times a year to pray by the old oak, near which the unhappy Clotilde had breathed her last; but she had never been there with Frédéric. On that day they had climbed that hill, over which ran the road to the town, and Sister Anne, absorbed by her grief, had not noticed it.

Poor child! what melancholy presentiment oppresses your heart? You think of your mother's fate, and say to yourself:

"Shall I be as unhappy as she was?"

But she must needs return to the cabin; old Marguerite might need her attention. She walked slowly down the hillside, sighing as she looked back at the old oak. There he had parted from her, and there, as her mother had done, she would come every day to await his return.

She returned to her cabin, her goats, and her woods; she resumed her ordinary habits and occupations. But everything was changed in her eyes; the woods seemed gloomy to her; wherever she went, she was oppressed by ennui. Her garden no longer had any charm for her, her home was like a desert. Frédéric embellished everything, and Frédéric was not there! Before she knew him, her eyes looked with pleasure upon things that she now viewed with indifference; and yet, the things themselves had not changed; but she had lost peace of mind and repose, and nothing looked to her as it did before.

Each day, Sister Anne went to the hilltop with her goats, and her eyes were constantly fixed on the road to the town; she sought Frédéric there, even as poor Clotilde had sought her husband. She amused herself by tracing her lover's name on the ground with a stick; that was all that he had taught her, but she had practised writing the name so often with him that she had succeeded in writing it legibly.

Several days passed, and Frédéric did not return. Sister Anne still hoped, because she could not believe that her lover would break his promise; and every morning, as she went up the hill, she said to herself:

"To-day I shall certainly come down with him."

Vain hope! she must needs return alone once more to her cabin, to that abode whence repose had fled since love had crossed the threshold.

Poor child! whose every action manifests your perfect innocence—enjoy to the utmost this sentiment newborn in your heart! That, at all events, will never grow less.

But the days passed, and Frédéric did not return. Sister Anne was certain that she was to be a mother, and she could not tell her lover the joyful news! There can be no pleasure without pain; hers was poisoned by the anxiety she felt at the non-appearance of the being whom she adored; and every day the old oak was a silent witness of her sighs and her tears.

We left Dubourg running across the fields to escape Monsieur Floridor, the angry audience, and the raw potatoes of which Phèdre had received a specimen in the eye; we must not forget that his flight was so sudden that he had no time to change his costume, that his head was still buried under the huge Louis XIV wig, which fell in great curls over his neck and shoulders, and that his body was enveloped in the cloak covered with rabbit skins.

He paused at last and listened; he heard nothing to indicate that he was pursued. The most profound silence reigned all about him; he tried to look about and find out where he was; he no longer was afraid of being caught, and he felt the need of rest. It was the middle of autumn, the evenings were beginning to be cool, and our fugitive was not at all desirous to pass the night in the open air, unprotected from the rain; to be sure, his wig took the place of a hat, and his cloak was as good as an umbrella; but they would be drenched in time, and then he would be very uncomfortable; so that it was most advisable to seek a place of shelter.

He knew by the feeling that he was walking over vegetables, and soon his path was barred by a tall hedge; but as his cloak protected him from the thorns, he climbed over, leaving two or three rabbit skins and two curls from his wig in the bushes, and found himself at last on the other side, uncertain whether he would be any better off there. But various fruit-trees, pots of flowers, and a trellis, led him to think that he was in a garden. He walked on, holding his hands in front of him, and came to a wall; then he found that he was under a roof, where his progress was arrested by bundles of hay and straw: he was in a shed which was evidently used to store fodder.

"Parbleu!" he said to himself; "I have found all that I need for a comfortable night; I am sheltered from the rain, so I'll just lie down on this straw, wrap myself in my cloak, and sleep. To-morrow, we will consider our future plans."

The shed in which he lay was at the end of a garden belonging to a very pretty little cottage, occupied by a farmer named Bertrand, who had married, seven years before, a pretty damsel of his village, a fresh, wide-awake young woman known as La Belle Claudine; she had already presented Monsieur Bertrand with two bouncing children, and hoped that the end was not yet.

In the country, everyone rises early. At daybreak, Fanfan and Marie, the farmer's two children, one five years old and the other four, having had their porridge, went out as usual to run about and play in the garden. Happening to pass near the shed, what did they see on the straw? Imagine Azor in Beauty and the Beast, and you will have an idea of the aspect of Dubourg, whose face was entirely hidden by a profusion of reddish-brown curls, which fell over his breast, while his whole body was covered by the cloak, which counterfeited some other animal if not the tiger; fancy, therefore, the fright of those children when they saw that shapeless mass.

Little Marie dropped the slice of bread and butter she held in her hand; while the little boy opened his mouth and could not close it again, being almost petrified by fear.

"Oh! oh! brother, do you see?" said little Marie at last, clinging to him and pointing to the object stretched out on the straw.

"Oh! oh! what a horrid beast!" said Fanfan, running behind his sister.

Bertrand had just kissed his Claudine, preparatory to going into the fields to work, when the two frightened, screaming children appeared.

"What's the matter?" said their papa; "why don't you speak, you rascals?"

The children were so panic-stricken that they could not speak coherently. At last, they cried in unison:

"Over there—under the shed—a great big beast all covered with hair—on the straw—with a black head and a red mane; he's bigger'n our donkey! He's a horrid-looking thing!"

"Can you make anything of all that?" Bertrand asked his wife.

"They said something about a big beast, goodman."

"Morgué! there's only us in the house; how could it get in? Perhaps it's neighbor Gervais's bull, or Dame Catherine's donkey."

"No, papa, no; it's all gray and red. Oh! it's awful-looking!"

"The devil! what does it mean?"

"Has it got any tail?" inquired Claudine.

"I don't know 'bout that, mamma; he looked as if he was asleep, and we ran right away."

"You must go and see what it is, goodman."

"Yes, yes; I must go and see."

At last they stood in front of the little building, and the children said, their voices trembling with fear and excitement:

"There—look, in there!"

Bertrand and Claudine thrust their heads forward, saw the horrifying object, and dared not advance; the husband turned pale and drew closer to his wife, who motioned to the children not to go any nearer.

"Let's go and call help," said Bertrand at last, in a choking voice.

"S'pose you fire at it, goodman."

"I guess not! my gun's only loaded with salt; that wouldn't kill him, but would just wake him up, and he'd be mad and go for us."

"Ah! you're right, you mustn't fire; let's run to the village. Come, children. Great God! I hope he won't wake up!"

The one undoubted fact was that there was an extraordinary creature in Bertrand's garden, and in a moment that news had put the whole village in a ferment. The people assembled, and took counsel together; the women went to fetch their husbands from the fields, and the mothers brought their little ones into the house and forbade them to go out. They called on the mayor, who, like his constituents, was an honest peasant, and who declared that he knew no more about beasts than did the other inhabitants of his bailiwick. But there was a certain Latouche in the village, who had once been a customs clerk at the barrier in Paris, and who set up for a wit, a joker, and a scholar. They hunted up Latouche, who was at work on a process of making preserves without sugar, and told him of the event which had upset the equilibrium of the whole village.

Latouche listened gravely, passed his hand under his chin, required every detail to be repeated several times, made a pretence of reflecting long and profoundly, and said at last:

"We must go and see what it is."

"That is true, he's quite right," said all those who heard him; "let's go and see the beast."

"When I have seen it," said Latouche, "I will tell you at once what it is, and to what genus it belongs; I ought to know about such things; I studied botany once, and my cousin was under-porter at the Museum of Natural History."

They left the village; men, women, boys, and girls plodded along, discussing the adventure. But the nearer they came to Bertrand's house, the less inclined they were to talk; and soon, as a result of the general terror, the silence became general. They marched in closer order, and everyone tried to gather courage from the glance of his neighbor.

Latouche walked ahead, with his gun over his shoulder, arranging his forces as if it were a matter of surprising a hostile camp. As they drew near the garden hedge, Bertrand uttered an exclamation and dodged behind a large rock.

"There it is!" he cried.

Instantly the whole body of peasants executed a retrograde movement, and Latouche darted into the centre of his battalion; but soon, hearing no sound, they moved forward again, looking for the object which had frightened Bertrand. It was a red cat, which had glided under the hedge.

"Morbleu! Bertrand," said Latouche, hastily resuming his place as leader, "do you know that you're terribly chicken-hearted? it's shameful for a man of your years to have so little courage!"

"Yes, that's true enough," said Claudine; "he ain't brave a bit, and I often tell him so."

"The idea of calling out and spreading an alarm just for a cat!"

"Perhaps it was some foolish thing like that that made him turn the whole village upside down, and interrupt the chemical experiment I was making."

"Oh, no! that wasn't anything foolish! you'll soon see that it was worth the trouble; here we are, close to the shed; just go through this little gate and you'll be right there."

"No; let's go in by the house, and examine the creature first at a distance."

Latouche's advice was followed: they went through Bertrand's house into the garden. As they approached the shed, the bravest turned pale, several women dared not go any farther, and Latouche, who resembled those persons who sing to dissemble their fear, issued precautionary orders on this side and that, but found an excuse for abandoning his position at the head of the procession.

"There it is! there it is!" exclaimed several of the villagers, pointing to Dubourg, who was still in the same position, because he was in a heavy sleep. Terror was depicted on every face, but it was blended with curiosity; everyone stretched out his neck, or stooped forward, or leaned against his neighbor. Latouche instantly ordered a halt, and one could hear on all sides:

"Oh! what a horrid beast! oh! how ugly! What a head! what a body! I can't see any eyes. No, nor any paws."

"Hush! hush!" said Latouche; "don't talk so loud, you may wake him up. Wait till I examine him. Neighbors, did you ever hear of the famous beast that ravaged Gévaudan?"

"No, no!" said the villagers.

"A sea-lion!" repeated the peasants; "are they ugly?"

"Parbleu! they eat a man as if he was an oyster."

"Oh! mon Dieu! What shall we do? how shall we catch him?"