But Dubourg was now fully awake; he rubbed his eyes, and, first of all, snatched off his wig, which prevented his seeing, then removed his cloak, in which he was stifling. He stood up, for he heard shouts, cries of terror, words that he did not understand—in short, an uproar, the cause of which he was very far from suspecting. He left the shed and went out into the garden, where he was thunderstruck by the scene before his eyes. There was ample ground for amazement; but as he saw some very pleasing details amid the chaos, he walked on, saying to himself:

"I don't know what insect has stung all these people, but they have a strange way of receiving travellers in this country; one ought to have little difficulty in making acquaintances."

"Well, well! who's that man, and where did he come from?" said the peasant.

At that, all his companions turned their heads and stared at Dubourg, who, having politely assisted Claudine to rise, thus answered the mayor, who repeated the question:

"I am an unfortunate devil, albeit an honest man, who, when surprised by the storm last night, did not know where to go, so took the liberty of lying on yonder bundles of straw, where I slept without waking until this moment. I trust that I have done no harm."

"You say you slept under that shed?" said the mayor.

"To be sure."

"And the big beast didn't eat you?" asked Bertrand.

"What big beast?"

"Pardi! the beast with long hair and red mane that was lying there."

Dubourg turned, and his eye fell on his cloak and wig; he divined the source of the peasants' terror, and gave way to a longing to laugh, which he could not control for several minutes. The villagers, hearing his laughter, began to take courage; the fugitives stopped, the women rose and arranged their dresses; everybody looked at Dubourg and awaited an explanation from him. He went back to the shed, took his cloak in one hand and his wig in the other, and returned to the villagers.

"Here, my friends, is the beast that seems to have frightened you. I abandon it to your wrath."

As he spoke, he threw the cloak and wig on the ground; and the peasants drew near, ventured to touch them, and laughed with Dubourg, saying:

At this juncture, Latouche descended from his pear-tree, crying:

"I told you that that idiot of a Bertrand, who's as cowardly as a hare, had told us some fool story, and taken a nut-cracker for an ox. Tell me, now, if I wasn't right."

"Morguienne!" retorted Bertrand; "I don't see but what my nut-cracker gave you a good fright, too; for you climbed that pear-tree like a cat, and knocked Claudine down when you ran by her."

"Hush!" said Latouche, turning as red as a beet at Bertrand's retort; "hush, you clown! I only climbed the tree so that I could aim better at what you called an animal."

"And you threw your gun away!"

"Unintentionally, of course."

"Come, come," said Dubourg; "I am the cause of all this confusion; and, in truth, I don't wonder you were frightened when you saw me at a distance in this cloak and wig; the bravest men aren't always eager to fight with a savage beast, and Monsieur Latouche must be very brave to have dared to fire at me."

This adroit speech conciliated everybody, and Latouche recovered his good humor.

"This stranger expresses himself well," he said; "he is certainly a learned man."

This tale aroused the deepest interest among the villagers, in Dubourg's favor; they found him very agreeable, having ceased to be afraid of him. The mayor drew up a report, and Latouche observed:

"I have been saying for a long while that there are robbers in the neighborhood; they stole two hens from me a week ago, and that isn't all they've done. We must have a general battue, neighbors; I'll take charge of it, and you know what a good hand I am at making plans. We will begin immediately after the constables have made theirs in pursuance of monsieur le maire's report."

Awaiting the general battue, they turned their attention to Dubourg, who obviously stood in need of refreshment. Everyone wanted to treat him, to give him food and lodging. Every male villager cordially offered him a jacket to replace his cloak, and urged him to make his house his home for a few days. Dubourg gave the preference to Bertrand, because he had not forgotten certain impressions he had received when he assisted Claudine to rise. Bertrand's better half seemed flattered by that honor; she courtesied to the stranger, and accompanied the courtesy with a smile, which smile meant many things. After all that Dubourg had witnessed, it was a great triumph for her over her neighbors.

The villagers returned to their customary occupations: some to the fields, others to their cottages. Bertrand, who had a large field to plow, went off to his work, enjoining upon his wife to take good care of the gentleman until his return. Claudine promised, and kept her word. She was active and obliging; she was most anxious to prove to the stranger that he had done well to give her the preference, and she spared no trouble to make him content with his choice. For his part, Dubourg desired to efface the ghastly impression produced by his appearance in the village, and we know that he had a great talent for making himself agreeable to the ladies; and so, when Bertrand returned from the field at night, his wife ran to meet him, saying:

"Jarni! goodman, what fools we was to be afraid of that gentleman; he's just like anybody else, you see, and he knows a lot more'n you do."

Dubourg was extremely well treated by the villagers, and he found it very convenient to pass some little time among those honest folk, who strove, by their attentions, to make him forget his misadventure. He paid for his entertainment by telling ghost stories in the evening. To the peasant, a man who can talk for hours of interesting, terrifying, and, consequently, amusing things, is a veritable treasure. Dubourg was such a man, and when Monsieur Latouche was present he always sprinkled his tales with a few Latin words; whereupon the village oracle, although he did not understand, would turn to the peasants and say:

But, after a fortnight, Dubourg began to tire of telling the peasants fairy tales in the evening and making love to their wives during the day; and he determined to leave the village, and go in search of news of his former companions. He still had in his pocket, untouched, the hundred francs he had earned by acting Hippolyte; with that amount he could safely set out without being obliged to disguise himself as a strange beast. Despite all that Claudine could do to detain him, he determined to go. He thanked the mayor, Latouche, and all the villagers for their kind treatment. He thanked Bertrand, and especially his wife, with peculiar warmth. Then, with a stout knotted stick in his hand, which harmonized with his jacket, and a broad-brimmed hat in place of his wig, he left the village, saying to himself:

"Those people who saw me playing the swell will never recognize me; and that is precisely what I desire."

However, he deemed it prudent to avoid Voreppe, where he might fall in with Floridor or some member of his troupe. Nor did he care to pass through Grenoble, where Durosey might still be lying in wait for him, and a creditor's eyes are not easily deceived. So he headed for Vizille, where he hoped to find Frédéric, or, at least, to learn something about him.

He strode gayly along, singing all the time, and sitting down on the grass to eat the provisions with which Claudine had filled his pockets; for women think of everything. Dubourg blessed Madame Bertrand's foresight.

He drank their healths in water from a brook, for he could adapt himself to anything. Moreover, he had money and might have wine, which consideration made the water seem less disagreeable. Toward nightfall, he drew near Vizille.

"If monsieur le comte learned of Frédéric's amourette from Ménard," he said to himself, "he probably came here after him, and I shall not find him; but I shall find the pretty blonde, and she will tell me what has happened."

He did not then know that the poor girl could not tell him anything. He walked through the valley, entered the woods, looked about, and called, but saw no one. At last he discovered the cabin; he entered the garden, which was deserted; then he went into the little house, where he found no one but old Marguerite, dozing in her big armchair.

Surprised not to find the girl, Dubourg left the cabin; he was afraid that the story he had invented for Ménard would prove to be true, and that Frédéric had really taken his sweetheart away with him. He was on his way to the village to try to learn something about Sister Anne, when, in one of the paths in the forest, he met her walking slowly toward her home.

Her whole bearing was so dejected, her features wore an expression of such profound sorrow, that Dubourg was touched. He gazed at her for several minutes, saying to himself:

At that moment, Sister Anne, hearing footsteps, looked up and saw that someone was approaching. She ran forward like a flash; when she reached Dubourg's side, she stopped, and her features, which hope had brightened for a moment, resumed their grief-stricken expression; sadly she shook her head—it was not he!

But Dubourg spoke; recognizing his voice, she looked at him more carefully, and again her heart beat fast with joy. It was one of Frédéric's friends, who had come once before to seek him; doubtless he came now to announce his return. She walked closer to him, questioning him with her eyes, and waiting impatiently for him to explain his presence; whereupon Dubourg, much surprised, asked her what had become of Frédéric.

The name of Frédéric made her quiver; she pointed to the road he had taken, counted on her fingers the number of days he had been gone, and seemed to be trying to ask him why he did not bring him back.

This pantomime revealed to Dubourg Sister Anne's unhappy condition, and he devoted all his efforts to consoling her. But for Sister Anne there was no consolation, no happiness, without Frédéric.

"Poor girl!" thought Dubourg; "he was quite right to assure me that she did not resemble any woman he had ever known! But to leave her in these woods—that was an outrage! for such grace and charm to live in a wretched hovel is downright murder! Upon my word, I have a mind to take her to Paris!"

Sister Anne stared at him in amazement; she seemed not to understand him; but when he waved his hand in the direction of the town, she hastily drew back, and, pointing to the cabin, made him understand by signs that there was someone there whom she could not leave. Ah! had it not been for Marguerite, how willingly she would have gone with Dubourg! for she believed that he would lead her at once to her lover's arms. But as for abandoning the one who had taken charge of her in her childhood, who had been a second mother to her,—now, when she was advanced in years and was most in need of her assistance!—such a thought did not enter the dumb girl's mind; ingratitude was a vice to which her heart was a stranger.

"Very good," said Dubourg; "then remain here in these woods, my child; and may you recover your happiness and peace of mind!"

Sister Anne's eyes questioned him anew.

"Yes, yes," he said; "he will come back; you will see him again, I have no doubt. Dry your tears. He will surely come soon and comfort you."

These words brought a gleam of hope to the dumb girl's pale, sorrowful face. She smiled at him who had given her that assurance, and, bidding him adieu with a motion of her head, left him, to return to Marguerite.

Dubourg left the woods, and, despite his heedless nature, he did not sing as he walked back through the valley to the highroad. Like a heavy weight upon his heart lay the image of that unhappy child, to whom he had held out a hope which he thought would never be realized. He had never been so moved. For several leagues, he thought constantly of Sister Anne, saying to himself:

But, at last, the thought of his own plight brought him back to his natural frame of mind. He sold his jacket and hat to a second-hand dealer, and for a few crowns obtained a more fitting costume; then he started for Lyon, whence he proposed to return to Paris, in the hope of finding his former travelling companions.

The post chaise which bore Frédéric Parisward went like the wind. The Comte de Montreville was in haste to deaden the intensity of his son's memories, and seemed impatient to arrive at the capital.

They exchanged very few words: Frédéric thought exclusively of Sister Anne, his father of the best means of bringing his son to his senses, and Ménard of all the lies the false Polish baron had told him.

The count did not address a word of reproach to Frédéric; he seemed to have forgotten all his grounds of dissatisfaction; and Ménard, who was mortally afraid of Monsieur de Montreville's stern glance, because he realized that his conduct had been far from exemplary, began to breathe more freely, and ventured to hold up his head.

"Is it Monsieur le Baron Potoski that you wish to know about?"

"Potoski, Dubourg—call him what you please."

"Faith! monsieur, I might well call him rather impertinent, considering all the fables he told me. The idea of claiming to be a palatine——"

"Come, come, my dear Ménard, forget all that."

"And his snuff-box that belonged to the King of Prussia!"

"That was a joke!"

"But I thought more of that tokay from Tekely's cellar than of anything else."

"Remember that I am as much to blame as he, for giving him permission to deceive you."

"That closes my mouth, monsieur le comte; besides, if it weren't for his recklessness and his passion for gambling, he would be a man of great merit. He is well informed, he knows his classics."

"But what has become of him? where did you leave him?"

"I left him acting Hippolyte, and coming to get me to make my entrée on the stage."

The Comte de Montreville dismissed Ménard with a reasonable compensation, not for the way he had looked after his son during their journey, but for the time he had lost. Ménard bade adieu to his dear pupil, expressing the hope that he would remember him in case he should ever propose to start around the world again.

Several days had passed since Frédéric's return to Paris, and the dumb girl's image was constantly in his thoughts. He imagined her in the woods, awaiting his return, watching the road by which he was to come, and in despair at his desertion of her. Every moment added to his remorse and his longing to see Sister Anne again. But what could he do? He dared not leave his father; he had no money, and, for the first time in his life, the steward, at the count's bidding, had refused to supply him. Monsieur de Montreville feared that his son would use it to resume his travels, and he did not propose to let him go away again.

Every day, Frédéric formed the most extravagant projects. He determined to leave Paris on foot, to join his young sweetheart and conceal himself with her in the heart of some forest. But Sister Anne could not leave Marguerite; so that they must remain near the cabin, where his father could easily find him; for Ménard had told him everything.

Then what was he to do?—write? Alas! the poor child did not know how to read—she knew how to do nothing, except love; and that is very little in these days.

The count treated his son coldly, but never alluded to his adventures in Dauphiné. On the contrary, he avoided the subject; and when Frédéric, desirous to obtain some idea of his father's feelings, ventured to mention his stay at Grenoble, to speak of the country in that neighborhood, and of the pretty village of Vizille, a stern glance from the count closed his mouth and forbade him to continue.

Frédéric called again and again at the various lodgings which Dubourg had occupied in Paris; but he could not find him at any of them. He went to Ménard, and urged him to do his utmost to unearth Dubourg, who, he said, had perhaps returned to the capital, but was afraid to call upon him, Frédéric, for fear of meeting Monsieur de Montreville.

"Suppose I find him?" said Ménard.

"Send him to me at once."

"Send him to you! God forbid! Monsieur le comte your father spoke very harshly to him when he saw him in the costume of Hippolyte. To be sure, the costume was unbecoming."

"Tell him to write to me; what is there to prevent his meeting me somewhere else, if he's afraid to come to the house? Am I watched? Ah! Monsieur Ménard, I can't stand it any longer. Every day adds to my torture! I must see her again, or at least hear something from her."

"Hear from whom?"

"Ah! I understand—the little maid of the forest. Monsieur Dubourg told me that you had furnished a lodging for her and had taken her away with you."

"Would to God that I had! I should be with her now. Ah! my dear Monsieur Ménard, if you were a different man—— But you are kind-hearted and sympathetic; you are fond of me, and you would restore me to life if you would consent to go to her and tell her that I love her more dearly than ever!"

"I am very sorry, monsieur; but I shall not go to tell her that or anything else. I will do nothing to forward a passion which your worthy father does not approve; he has too much reason now to complain of my negligence. I love you dearly, and that is why I will not help you to continue a guilty connection which would lead to no good end. Monsieur your father knows very well what he is doing; it was high time that he should come, for we were all making fools of ourselves, I most of all. His presence restored our equilibrium. He snatched you away from temptation; that distresses you, and yet it was the best thing he could possibly do. Qui bene amat, bene castigat; experto crede Roberto."

Frédéric went home, to think of Sister Anne, and to try to devise some means of seeing her. If he had known that she bore within her a pledge of his love, that she was about to become a mother, nothing could have kept him in Paris. He would have flown to her, defying his father's wrath. But he knew nothing of that circumstance, so he confined himself to saying every day:

"I will go to her."

"You have ceased to appear in society," said the count; "have your travels made a misanthrope of you?"

Frédéric said nothing,—always the best course to pursue when one has nothing to say.

"I wish you to go with me this evening," continued the count, "to call on one of my old comrades in arms, Général de Valmont. After a long residence on his estates in the country, he has come to Paris to stay some little time. He desires to see you, and I desire to present you to him."

Frédéric bowed, and prepared to accompany his father. He had heard him speak of this Monsieur de Valmont, with whom he had served in the army, and who was of about his age; so that there was nothing to cause surprise in his desire to present his son to his old friend.

On their way to the general's house, Monsieur de Montreville was unusually amiable, and Frédéric strove to appear less melancholy than usual. When they reached their destination, they were announced in due course, and Monsieur de Valmont came forward to meet them. At first sight, his appearance was most prepossessing. His manners were frank and cordial, his features instinct with sincerity and good humor. He embraced his old friend, shook hands heartily with Frédéric, and seemed delighted to see him.

After the exchange of greetings, the general invited his visitors to step into an adjoining room.

"You have shown me your family," he said to the count; "now, I must show you mine. It surprises you, perhaps, that I, an old bachelor, have a family; it is not quite so near to me, to be sure, but it is none the less dear."

"Constance," said the general, "this is my friend, the Comte de Montreville, and his son; messieurs, let me present my niece—my daughter—for I love her as dearly as if I were her father."

Constance courtesied gracefully to the two visitors. Frédéric looked at her—he could not do otherwise than think her charming. As for the count, a smile of satisfaction played over his features. I believe that the sly old fellow had heard of Mademoiselle Constance, and that he had his little scheme in his head when he took his son to see the general.

Constance was slender and graceful; there was something sweet and modest in her aspect, which impressed one favorably. She was fair, with a touch of color in her cheeks. Her great blue eyes, set off by long, dark lashes, had an indefinable charm; her expression was amiable and frank; every movement was instinct with grace, and she seemed absolutely unconscious of it. Far from seeking to attract attention, she seemed desirous to shun the admiration she aroused.

May God protect you from prodigies, reader, especially of the female variety! There is nothing comparable to that which is simple, modest, and natural; we are always glad to return to that. Those qualities do not exclude intelligence and knowledge, but they add to them a varnish of unassuming gentleness which makes them even more attractive, and which is never found in the others.

The young people talked of painting, music, and the pleasures of the country. Suddenly the general said to his niece:

"Sing us something, Constance; sit you down at your piano and sing. I like singing myself, and perhaps it will entertain our young friend here."

Constance did not wait to be urged; she took her place at the piano and sang, accompanying herself excellently; her voice was sweet and full of expression; it had not a great range, but she sang with so much taste that one never tired of listening to her. Frédéric listened with keen delight; he had never heard a voice that pleased him so much. Constance sang several pieces, until at last her uncle said to her:

"That is well, very well; you are good-natured and don't make so much fuss about singing as some people do. Morbleu! I can't endure such affectation!"

"I will pay you a visit," said the general; "I have just bought a little country house in the suburbs for mademoiselle, who drives me crazy with her chatter about fields and birds. I hope that we shall see you and your son there before the season is much further advanced."

The count promised, and returned to his carriage with Frédéric, to whom he was careful not to say a word of the general's niece. The sight of Constance was certain to do more than anything a father could say. Frédéric said nothing; his thoughts had returned to the poor dumb girl in the woods. For two hours he had almost forgotten her! Two hours is no great matter; but Sister Anne did not forget him for an instant.

Three days after this visit, the general and his niece dined with the Comte de Montreville, who entertained quite a large party. When he learned that he was to see Mademoiselle de Valmont again, Frédéric was conscious of a thrill of excitement, which he attributed to the annoyance of being obliged to conceal his melancholy. Was that the real cause?

The evening passed very swiftly to Frédéric. When the general and his niece went away, the former announced that they were going to their country house on the following day, and that he should await impatiently a visit from the count and his son.

When Constance had gone, Frédéric felt entirely alone in the midst of the company; and as soon as he could with courtesy retire, he hastened to his room to think—of Constance? oh, no! of Sister Anne; it was still the poor dumb girl who filled his thoughts; but was it his fault if now and then the memory of Mademoiselle de Valmont intruded itself? It was solely because of the resemblance between them. A loving heart sees its loved one everywhere, even where she is not. It loves her in another who recalls her features. That is why it is no safer to trust sentimental lovers than fickle ones.

"What should we do? what would be the result of our liaison? One cannot always live in the woods. Man is made for society, and Sister Anne is utterly unfitted for it: she is ignorant of everything that it is indispensable to know."

Poor girl! why did he not think of all these things the first time he saw you by the brook? Ah! then you seemed fascinating to him, just as you were; your very ignorance made you a thousand times more alluring in his eyes; and now—— I say again, that men whose sentiments are so easily stirred are no better than other men.

One morning, the count suggested to his son a visit to the general at his country house. Frédéric was always at his father's orders, but he now chose to take unusual pains with his toilet. Even though one have no desire to please, one does not wish to repel. The count closely observed his son's actions, and exulted in secret; but he said no more to him on the subject of Mademoiselle de Valmont than on any other subject.

"You must stay with us several days," he said; "I have you in my power, and I shall not let you go at present. We will talk and laugh and hunt and play cards; my niece will play and sing to us; in short, we will pass the time as pleasantly as we can."

Frédéric continued to look about for the niece, whom he did not see; and as the general had already begun to discuss with his father one of their campaigns, which was likely to lead them far afield, he ventured to inquire for her.

"She is probably in the garden," said the general; "either in her aviary, or looking after her flowers, or in her summer-house. Go and find her, young man; corbleu! that's your business; at your age, I would have run here from Paris for a pretty face."

"So you have all the talents?" he said. Constance looked up, and at sight of him her eyes expressed the pleasure she felt, while her bosom rose and fell more rapidly. She made a motion as if to lay aside her drawing.

"Go on, I pray you," said Frédéric; "I did not come here to interrupt your studies; on the contrary, I should be glad to join you in them. And, furthermore, your uncle insists that we must remain here several days; so that our presence must not be allowed to disarrange your habits."

"And are you really going to give us the pleasure of keeping you for some days?" said Constance, unsteadily.

"Most assuredly. I cannot believe that my father will refuse his old friend's invitation; he is much too happy with him for that."

"I am afraid, monsieur, that you, not having the same reason to enjoy yourself here, will soon regret the diversions of Paris. We see very few people here; you will surely be bored."

"You judge me very ill, if you think it possible for me to be bored with you."

"Oh! I beg your pardon. I said that—because I was afraid; but if you really love the country and music and drawing and reading, you ought to enjoy yourself here."

"Yes, I am very fond of the country."

The young woman looked at him in amazement, and smiled; then, finding that he said nothing more, she returned to her drawing-board, and tried to continue her sketch. But Frédéric's presence embarrassed her; the hand that held the pencil trembled, and she did not know what she was doing.

Frédéric continued to gaze at her in silence; he was charmed by her manner, her grace, her amiable yet reserved air. If Sister Anne had had a good education, she would have been like her; she would have had her manners, her talents; she would have had the same command of language. And he began to consider that education, instead of lessening a woman's attractions, imparts an additional fascination to them.

The conversation languished, for Frédéric often relapsed into reverie; but, for all that, the time passed very quickly; it seemed that they were happy to be together, and that that sufficed them. So far as Frédéric was concerned, he would gladly have passed the whole day looking at Constance and drawing comparisons. She noticed that he kept his eyes constantly upon her; but his eyes were so soft, there was in their expression something so tender and touching, that no woman could have been offended at being the object of their scrutiny.

"We have two guests, as you see, niece," he said; "try to do the honors of the establishment so satisfactorily that they won't think of leaving us for a long time."

"I will do my best," said Constance, blushing.

"Mademoiselle," said the count, "your presence alone is enough to detain us."

Frédéric said nothing, but looked at Constance, who, as she thanked the count, cast a furtive glance at his son, as if to make sure that he thought the same.

After dinner, two of the general's neighbors called. One was an enthusiastic player of billiards, who could not sleep if he had not had his game; the other, who was somewhat younger, had seen service in the army, and had an endless stock of campaign stories, which he interspersed with compliments and gallant speeches to Mademoiselle de Valmont.

Frédéric declined to join them at billiards, in order to remain with Constance and to hear her sing or play.

"Don't feel bound to stay with me," she said; "remember that we are not in Paris."

"Unless it is disagreeable to you," Frédéric replied, "I prefer to stay with you."

"We must make the most of the last fine days," said Constance; "the winter is at hand, and I must say good-bye to my trees and my flowers and my birds. But I shall see them again; it is not an eternal farewell."

"Don't you expect to return to your uncle's estate in the provinces?"

"Oh, no! I like this house much better; he bought it for me, and he is willing that I should spend seven months of the year here. We shall return to Paris for the winter. Uncle is so kind to me! He does whatever I want, for he is very fond of me."

"Who could fail to——"

Frédéric did not finish his question; he checked himself, as if he regretted what he had said, and Constance, taken by surprise, lowered her eyes and said nothing. But she was beginning to become accustomed to the young man's eccentricities. Sometimes, when he sat by her for a long while without speaking, and seemed to be sad and distressed, she was tempted to ask him what was troubling him; but she dared not; so she held her peace, and sighed with him, although she did not quite know why. Melancholy is a disease readily transmitted between two young people of different sexes. Often the hours of silence are more dangerous than a conversation devoted to love making.

"No," he said to himself, "I have not forgotten Sister Anne. I always see her when I look at Constance. I always think of her when I have Constance's lovely features before my eyes; I fancy that I am with her, when, sitting beside Constance, I quiver with delicious emotion."

And he was probably still thinking of Sister Anne, when, on the day before he returned to Paris with his father, as he sat beside Constance in the garden, he took her hand and held it a long while in his. Constance did not withdraw her hand. She lowered her eyes, and seemed deeply moved. Frédéric said nothing, but he pressed her hand very tenderly; and the sweet-tempered girl, perhaps unconsciously, returned the pressure.

Thereupon the young man's embarrassment revived; he dropped the hand he held, and hastily moved away from Constance, who raised her head, and, observing his agitation, smiled at him with that indefinable charm which captures and enslaves.

"Are you really going to-morrow?" she said.

"I must," faltered Frédéric, returning to her side; "I should have gone sooner, I fear—— Ah! yes, it is she, always she, whom I see! I would like to stay with you forever; I am so happy here! Oh! forgive me, mademoiselle; I don't know where I am."

The count took his son back to Paris; but never a word concerning Constance! Ah! monsieur le comte, you have your project, and you are well aware what you are doing. A few days later, Frédéric said that they ought to take advantage of the last of the fine weather to call on the general; for he was burning to see Constance again—so that he could think of Sister Anne!

We left Dubourg about to start for Paris. He no longer travelled as a Polish nobleman, but fared modestly on foot, with a stick in his hand, which he swung jauntily as if he were simply out for a walk. He had no bundle to carry, because he had his whole wardrobe on his back, which he found much more convenient for a pedestrian. He saw at a distance the localities where he had recently appeared in such magnificent and noble guise. He passed quite near to Monsieur Chambertin's house, waved his hand by way of salutation to that hospitable abode, and sighed—not for its mistress, but for the old pomard in the cellar.

"Can't you see where you're going, idiot?" exclaimed Lunel; "the road isn't so narrow that you need to run into my donkey."

At the word idiot, Dubourg, who had never liked the old jockey, for he had waited upon him with an ill grace during the whole of his sojourn at Monsieur Chambertin's, and had constantly sought opportunities to show his spite to him and to Ménard—Dubourg, who had not forgotten, either, the horsewhipping Lunel had given the two little Poles, turned suddenly upon him and struck him thrice with his knotted stick.

"Help! murder!" cried Lunel.

And as Dubourg's sudden movement had disarranged his hat, the old servant recognized his features, and shouted louder than ever:

"It's that miserable palatine, who owes four hundred francs at his restaurant! It's that sham baron, who showed madame such attention and surprised monsieur! Peste! he ain't such a swell now!"

"Will you hold your tongue, you rascal!" said Dubourg, raising his stick again.

"What are you hitting me for?"

"I am simply returning what you gave my servants; I've owed you this a long while."

"If I did your master the honor to visit him, what business have you to make comments on it, you clown?"

"Oh, yes! a great honor you did him!"

"Take care, or I'll begin again."

As Dubourg still had his cane in the air, the old jockey decided to lower his tone. He held his peace and looked about for the ass, in order to go his way; but the animal had disappeared while they were quarrelling; she had wandered into the underbrush that lined the road, and was nowhere to be seen.

"Oh! mon Dieu! my ass! where is my ass?" cried Lunel, searching anxiously in every direction.

"Faith! I have no idea. Find your ass, and I'll continue my journey. Give my compliments to your mistress, and tell your master that, if he ever comes to Paris, I'll give him a little reception, with fireworks."

Lunel paid no heed; he ran to right and left, calling: "Madelon! ohé! Madelon!"—He rushed into a wooded path, and Dubourg, having lost sight of him, went his way, laughing heartily at the adventure. About half an hour after he had parted from Lunel, as he reached a place where the road left the woods for the open country, he saw Madelon within twenty paces, trotting slowly along with her pack on her back, following such roads as she pleased, and halting now and then to eat a thistle or a mouthful of wild briers.

Thereupon he walked back some distance into the forest he had just left, and began to shout at the top of his lungs:

"Lunel! holà, Lunel! here's your jenny!"

There was no reply; Dubourg called again and again, to no purpose. Weary at last of calling, he returned to the ass, saying to himself:

"It seems to me that I have done all I can, and my conscience is beginning to be less troublesome. I can't go back half a league, and I have no desire to present myself again at the house of my friend Chambertin, who is no longer my friend. But let us see what this creature has on her back; it is not probable that there's anything of much value."

Dubourg began an examination of the two baskets, which were covered with stout canvas. In one he found two syringes, one mechanical, marked: For madame; the other plain: For monsieur; also, a large box containing a number of phials and small pasteboard boxes.

First of all, he found a box containing an exquisitely curled wig, which madame probably wore when she had not time to arrange her hair. Also, a wooden head, designed to hold the wig when it was not in use. Also, a pair of riding-boots, and doeskin gloves.

Having fully decided to embark upon this new escapade, Dubourg led his donkey into a dense thicket. There he began operations by removing his palatine boots, which were badly worn, and throwing them into the bushes; he replaced them with the long riding-boots, which came halfway to his hips, so that no one might recognize Baron Potoski in the dealer in pills; he pulled over his head the blonde wig intended for Madame Chambertin, having first tied the hair behind and made a Prussian queue; he daubed his cheeks, forehead, and chin with superfine rouge; then, mounting Madelon en croupe, with the two baskets containing his itinerant pharmacy in front of him, he resumed his journey, inciting his steed with his stick, by way of riding-whip.

Dubourg's singular aspect, his face surrounded by beautiful flaxen curls, the long queue falling down his back, his high boots, which he held as far back as possible because the baskets were much in his way, and, lastly, his majestic bearing, attracted the attention of all the peasants he met. They called to one another to look at him. They stood at doors and windows to watch him pass, and at times a number of boys followed at his heels. Dubourg bowed to right and left, with a benevolent expression, calling out in a loud tone:

Peasants are naturally credulous. On hearing this harangue, some of them approached Dubourg, and, after respectfully removing their hats or making a reverence, proceeded to tell him their ills. When the number about him was considerable, Dubourg took from his basket the mechanical syringe, which he had filled with Eau de Baréges; then he pressed the spring, and the villagers had to hold their noses; but they remained, because the syringe played the air Avec les Jeux dans le Village, and Dubourg said:

"This magic syringe, my children, came to me from the favorite sultana of the Sultan of Egypt. It plays three hundred tunes; but, as it is subject to whims, it insists on playing the same one over and over to-day. This marvellous water that comes from it—it does not smell like rosewater, by the way—is a prompt and certain remedy for women with the colic. I sometimes administer these remedies myself, but I have to be very particular as to persons, for this syringe doesn't fit all figures."

After this promising début, he belabored Madelon and rode away as fast as possible from his patients. He was not half a league away, when the poor creatures began to feel the effects of his remedies. Some held their hands to their bellies, some were nauseated, some had a violent headache, some could not endure the taste of the drug they had swallowed, and some ran after the charlatan, calling him swindler and thief. But he did not wait for them. Luckily, he was prudent enough to administer his remedies in very small quantities, so that the results were not serious.

Dubourg was careful not to attempt any cures in the neighborhood of the places where he stopped to eat or to sleep. After travelling about forty leagues in a fortnight,—for, as the great healer halted frequently to sell his drugs, and as his steed's best gait was a slow trot, he did not get ahead very fast,—Dubourg found himself one day in front of an extensive farm. It was a long while since he had sold anything, for as he drew nearer to the capital he found the country people less and less gullible. His fortune had not increased. He spent regularly at night what he had earned during the day; and when his receipts were large, he fared sumptuously, content to leave his original hoard untouched.

Several buxom dairymaids procured ointments for fever and chilblains, and a number of peasants bought pastilles of mint and cachou for toothache; but one and all stared in amazement at the marvellous syringe that made music, and the wig-block that spoke when it was stormy, as its owner assured them.

The pretty girl was a daughter of the farmer, who happened to be absent. With her was her aunt, a good old soul who believed in dreams, fortune telling, magic, ghosts, talismans, and sorcerers. She was anxious to consult Dubourg, because for three nights past she had fallen asleep on her back and waked up on her stomach, which she considered very extraordinary.

"I'll give you something that will keep you from changing your position," said our charlatan to the old woman, while ogling the young one; "here are some pastilles that came to me from a native of the Guinea Coast, who sometimes slept a whole week on his left ear. But if you take them in moderate doses, you pass a delightful night, and have charming dreams, divine dreams, such dreams as you had at fifteen! It is so pleasant, that you don't want to wake up. And then, my dear lady, when you have taken them, you are certain to dream of any person you choose; all you need to do is walk round your somno before you go to bed."

Dubourg gave her a box of laxative pills, which she received with deep gratitude; then he turned to the young woman and asked her what he could do for her.

"Dame! monsieur," she replied, "a week ago, while I was dancing with Thomas, I fell and sprained my wrist, and since then I haven't been able to use it as well as usual; have you got anything that will cure that right away?"

"Have I, my sweet child! As if I hadn't everything! In a quarter of an hour, I'll drive away your pain, and it will never come back. All I've got to do is rub you with a certain ointment of mine; but I must say some magic words over it, and I can't say them before witnesses; that would break the spell. So take me to your chamber, or some other place where we shall be alone, and I'll operate."

"Shall I, aunt?" asked the farmer's daughter.

"Shall you!" repeated the good woman; "why, of course. Make the most of this great man's kindness, and let him rub you."

The girl made no further objection, but requested Dubourg to follow her. He fastened his donkey, with his whole outfit, at the farmhouse door, and walked quickly after his pretty patient, who led him to her chamber and closed the door, abandoning herself with perfect confidence to the skill of the sorcerer, whose appearance was rather laughable than terrifying.

While the ladies were experimenting with Dubourg's specifics, the farmer came home. He began by inquiring who owned the ass that he found at his door, and was told that it was the property of the great healer who had recently arrived. The farmer asked who this great healer was, and his servants replied that they did not know, but that he was probably a sorcerer, because he wore his hair in curls, like a woman, and had a long queue, enormous boots, a syringe that played dance music, and a wig-block that spoke when it was stormy.

Now, the farmer was one of those men who are so unfortunate as not to believe in sorcerers, spells, and magic, who insist on seeing with their eyes and hearing with their ears, and cannot be convinced that a black hen evokes the devil, or that the future can be read by means of a sheep's liver, coffee grounds, or molten lead thrown in water. Such men are the bane of the occult sciences.

Vexed by what he learned from his servants, the farmer inquired where this great healer had gone. They told him that they had seen him go into the house with the young woman and her aunt. The farmer hurried to the old lady's chamber and found her in bed, still awaiting the delicious dream that did not come.

"Morbleu!" retorted the farmer; "ain't you nearly through with your fairy tales and nonsense? Where is your sorcerer? stealing my rabbits, most likely."

"What an idea! he's with your daughter, in her room, saying magic words to cure her wrist."

"Locked in with my daughter!" cried the farmer; "morgué! we'll see about this!"

And he ran to his daughter's chamber without listening to what the old woman said. He opened the door with a vigorous kick, and it is to be presumed that he was not pleased with the great healer's method of healing his daughter; for he seized a broom, and opened the conversation by striking him with it again and again.

Dubourg had no time to parley; with a muttered oath, he fled; the girl wept, the father swore, and the whole household was up in arms.