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.
"What a beautiful country this is!" said Frédéric; "I find here an
indefinable charm which fascinates my heart as well as my eyes. How
pleasant it is to drive along these shady roads!"
"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.
On the day following their arrival, Frédéric and his companions started
off to visit the Carthusian monastery. Dubourg, having ceased to play
the grand seigneur, was quite as willing to accompany his friend as to
remain with Ménard, and the latter decided to go along, although he was
a poor walker, and Frédéric, the better to enjoy the country, proposed
to go on foot.
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.
The sun was just setting and our travellers were still four leagues from
Grenoble, because Frédéric paused every instant to call his friends'
attention to a valley, a windmill, or a lovely view. Every time that
Frédéric stopped, Ménard sat down on the turf, and they had much
difficulty in inducing him to rise again. The worthy man was not a
great walker, but he summoned all his courage and took the liberty of
clinging to the arm of monsieur le baron, who was the most good-natured
fellow in the world when he was not putting on the airs of a palatine.
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.
He had walked so far that the notes of the bagpipe hardly reached his
ears, and was about to return to his companions, when, on turning his
head, he espied, within a few paces, a young girl seated on the bank,
looking toward the valley with a bewitchingly sweet expression, and
smiling at the dance, which she could see in the distance; but there was
in her smile a tinge of melancholy which seemed to be a natural part of
it. She was apparently fifteen or sixteen years of age. Her garments
indicated poverty, but her charms made one overlook them. Beautiful fair
hair played in curls about her innocent brow, her features were refined
and delicate, her mouth graceful and smiling, and her soft blue eyes
wore a pathetic expression of gentle melancholy which harmonized with
the pallor of her complexion.
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:
"That's Sister Anne."
IX
WHAT WAS SHE DOING THERE?--THE VILLAGE DANCE
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.
The girl was, as it were, wrapped in mystery, and Frédéric longed to
solve that mystery. Anything that concerned Sister Anne was no longer a
matter of indifference to him. He walked toward her very softly; he was
close beside her, and she did not raise her eyes.
"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.
"Great heaven! you weep! can it be that I am the cause?" cried Frédéric,
seizing the poor child's hand again. She made a sign, as if to say that
it was not his fault. A faint smile broke through her tears; but she
withdrew her hand again, and, darting into the thickest part of the
wood, as light of foot as a fawn, she speedily disappeared.
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:
"I will see her again; I absolutely must! I won't mention her to
Dubourg; he would laugh at me; he believes that all women are alike; he
has no conception of love.--Poor child! I will soon find out why you
don't take part in your comrades' sports."
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:
"Can't you dance better'n that? What kind of dancing do you call that?
Come, you must kick up your heels, or I'll take another partner!"
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."
They joined Ménard, who complimented Dubourg on his dancing. Frédéric
inquired the shortest way to Grenoble, and a young villager offered to
guide them part of the way; but Ménard did not seem capable of walking
four leagues, and even Dubourg was dismayed by the distance. The
villager suggested his farm horse, on condition that they should ride
him at a footpace. The suggestion was gratefully accepted by Dubourg and
Ménard; the latter rode behind, clinging fast to the baron. Frédéric
went on foot with their guide.
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."
"Do you know----"
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."
As he spoke, Frédéric put a silver coin in the boy's hand; he was much
surprised to be paid for such a simple thing, and artlessly began his
story, of which Frédéric, walking close beside him, did not lose a
word.
X
SISTER ANNE'S STORY
"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:
"'Take good care of your brother; perhaps he won't have anybody but you
to support him before long.'
"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.
"One day, Clotilde went out as usual, to go where she always used to go,
and left Sister Anne with her brother. Their mother didn't come back at
the usual time. The little boy kept on playing, but his sister kept
looking out into the fields and saying:
"'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.
"Then the girl thought of nothing but her brother; she took him out of
the cradle and ran all around the room, shrieking at the top of her
voice. But the danger was increasing all the time, and she lost her
strength; the smoke suffocated her; she tried to keep on calling, but
she couldn't.
"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!"
"Yes, monsieur," resumed the boy; "Sister Anne is dumb; all that has
been done since then to make her able to speak hasn't done any good. The
city doctors said that the horrible fright, and her agony at seeing her
brother die and not being able to save him, had taken away the power of
speech, and that the same kind of shock might give it back to her,
perhaps, but nothing else could. But the poor little girl still had a
heart to feel her sorrow; she succeeded in making people understand all
she had suffered. For ever so many years, she mourned for her brother
and her mother; for poor Clotilde gave way to her grief the same night
that was so fatal to her children, and they found her dead on top of
the mountain, at the foot of the tree.
"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.