passed her days sitting on the bank of a brook, or in the woods; she
didn't listen to what anyone said to her, and couldn't seem to do
anything but grieve for her father and mother and brother; but she got
partly over her grief in time, and now she's more calm and resigned; she
seems to appreciate what people do for her; she works like any country
girl, and shows the greatest respect for Marguerite, who is very old and
never leaves her cabin. Sister Anne is sweet and good and tender-hearted
now, as she always used to be. She even smiles sometimes, but her smile
is always sad. If she sees a little boy of her brother's age, it makes
her excited and unhappy, and her eyes fill with tears. If you've seen
her, monsieur, you know how pretty she is. She's sixteen now; even if
she can't talk, she can make herself understood; her gestures mean so
much, and her eyes speak so plain! We all understand her as easy as can
be. But, for all that, it's a great pity she can't talk; for all the
women say it would do her a lot of good."
"Poor child!" said Frédéric; "yes, it is a great pity, indeed! How soft
and sweet her voice would be! how I would have liked to hear it! But her
misfortune makes her even more interesting in my eyes.--And you say
that she lives in the woods?"
"Yes, monsieur; but it's easy enough to find old Marguerite's cabin. If
you take the path to the left from the one where the willows are, you'll
come to a clearing; then go down a low hill, and the cabin is in front
of you."
"Very good, my boy; thank you."
"But here you are at Grenoble; you don't need me any more, do you,
monsieur?"
"No, my boy; here, take this with the other, for your trouble."
"Thank you very much, monsieur; if you ever need anyone in the village
to help you, my name's Julien, and I'd be glad to work for you."
"Very well; I will remember."
The two horsemen dismounted; the young guide took their place, doffed
his cap to the travellers, and rode away at a footpace. Frédéric, musing
upon all that he had heard, walked in silence beside his two companions,
who, as they entered Grenoble, were discussing the proper way to serve a
_canard aux olives_--a discussion in which they had been engaged for
some time, Dubourg insisting upon the method in vogue in Bretagne, and
Ménard immovable in the principles he had learned from the _Cuisinier
Royal_.
On reaching the inn, they retired to take the rest of which they stood
in need after so tiresome a day. But Frédéric could not sleep; the dumb
girl's face was constantly in his thoughts; he thought of her
misfortune, of the pathetic story he had heard, and he said to himself:
"How dearly she loved her brother! What a loving heart! How she will
love, when love makes itself known to her! What pleasure to awaken love
in her heart! to read in her lovely eyes, which fill the place so well
of the organ she has lost!"
This thought kept Frédéric busy all night. At daybreak, he rose, and,
leaving his companions to enjoy the repose which he could not obtain,
left the inn, ordered a horse, and galloped away toward Vizille.
XI
A DAY IN THE WOODS
Love is the god who most agreeably employs our leisure; he scoffs at
distances and disarranges time. A lover is never bored, even when he is
not favored. Memories, schemes, hopes, afford constant occupation to a
loving heart. Love is the god of all countries and of all classes; he
finds his way into the humble cottage as well as into the palace. Love
is as sweet on the heather as on the softest cushions; indeed, some
persons go so far as to maintain that love is truer in the country than
in the city; it ought, at all events, to be more natural there. The
mountaineer, the woodchopper, the ploughman, may not devote his time to
the fine arts, to financial schemes, to political intrigues; but
everybody is at liberty to love, luckily for the human race. Some
author, I know not who, has said with much truth: "The happiest time of
a man's life is that which he spends paying court to his mistress."
What a pity it is that this time is so short! It is probably to renew
their happiness that men change mistresses so often. Women do not treat
love so lightly. It is their life's history, while with us it is only a
romance.
Frédéric soon arrived at the valley where there was dancing the night
before, and which was now as peaceful and quiet as the whole
neighborhood. A few laboring men passed, on their way to work; here and
there, a peasant could be seen in the fields. In the country, the
evening's enjoyment does not impair the morrow's toil; the good people
find their diversion in talking over the pleasures of the holiday, which
will not return for a year; but the time will pass quickly to them: they
know so well how to employ it.
Frédéric rode toward the little, willow-lined path; there he dismounted,
tied his horse to a tree, and plunged into the woods. He looked for the
maid on the bank of the stream, but she was not at the place where he
had seen her the night before. So he went farther into the woods,
recalled what his guide had told him, and took the path to the left.
Everything was peaceful and calm; the dark foliage of the firs almost
excluded the daylight. At last he came to a clearing, descended a hill,
and saw a wretched cabin before him. The wood of which it was built had
rotted in several places, and the thatched roof threatened to fall in.
There was a small garden at the right, surrounded by a picket fence, a
part of which had fallen.
Frédéric's heart ached at the aspect of the place, which was eloquent of
utter poverty and of a lack of the prime necessities of life.
"And this is where she lives," he said to himself; "where she has lived,
in poverty and solitude, ever since she was seven years old! Poor child!
When your sublime self-sacrifice, when the catastrophe which resulted
from it, deserved the homage of all mankind, you had only this wretched
hut in which to weep for your brother and parents, and were fortunate
not to be left without a shelter and without bread!"
He leaned against a tree and gazed at the cabin; his heart was so full
that he could not go forward; he could only sigh and say to himself:
"She is there!"
Several minutes passed. Suddenly, the door of the cabin was thrown open,
and a girl appeared in the doorway and looked out into the woods. It was
she! The depressing aspect of that wild spot, the gloomy woods, the
dilapidated cabin, all vanished! The girl's presence instantly made her
surroundings beautiful.--The woman we love wields a tremendous power;
she communicates her fascination to everything about her: by her side,
the darkest cavern causes no fear, the wildest spot on earth seems a
paradise.
Sister Anne went back into the cabin, and soon came out again with four
goats, her whole flock. There was a cow in the little garden; she patted
her as she passed, as if promising to return soon. Then, driving her
goats toward a hillside where there was an abundance of grass, the dumb
girl walked slowly behind them, with her head bent forward, raising it
only to see that her goats did not go astray.
Frédéric had retained his position against the tree, which concealed him
almost entirely, and watched every movement of Sister Anne. When she
went toward the hill, he followed her noiselessly; he longed to be by
her side, to speak to her; but he was afraid of startling her if he
appeared too abruptly. She seemed so shy and timid: suppose she should
run away from him again!
But she seated herself on a green mound, and took from her little basket
a piece of bread and some figs; she was about to breakfast. Frédéric
drew nearer and nearer, until he stood close beside her; and when she
turned her head to look after one of her goats, she saw before her again
the young man of the previous evening.
The girl made a movement which seemed to be due rather to surprise than
alarm; indeed, there was nothing about Frédéric to inspire fear; as he
stood before her, himself anxious and trembling, his glance was gentle
and timid; his whole aspect and manner bore witness to the tender
interest she aroused in him.
As she seemed disposed to rise and go away, Frédéric said to her:
"Do not fly from me, I entreat you, sweet girl; I should be very unhappy
if I caused you the slightest fear."
The child smiled, and gave him to understand, by shaking her head
gently, that she had no such feeling.
"I saw you last night by the brook," said Frédéric, walking toward her.
Sister Anne looked at him, then lowered her eyes, smiling again, as if
to say that she remembered him.
"What! you remember me? And you, sweet girl, have not been out of my
thoughts for one moment. How could I fail to be impressed by the sight
of such lovely features and such charms of person and of manner?"
The girl listened in surprise; all that he said was entirely strange to
her ears. He sat down on the turf, a few feet away from her. This action
seemed to surprise her still more; she looked at him again, with
something like alarm, but the sentiment expressed in his eyes soon set
her heart at rest. She looked at the ground, but it was easy to read on
her ingenuous features that she was waiting curiously for him to speak
again.
"When I saw you yesterday, I felt the deepest interest in you. But how
that interest has grown since I learned---- Poor child! Ah! I know of
your sad plight! I know all the misfortunes that have been heaped upon
you."
The dumb girl's features became more expressive than ever; a
heartrending memory seemed to agitate her. She groaned, raised her eyes
to heaven, then turned them on the ground once more as a flood of tears
poured from them.
Frédéric went to her side; he put one arm lightly about her, and took
her hand, which he placed upon his heart.
"I have revived your grief," he said; "pray forgive me. Would to heaven
that I could, on the contrary, help you to forget it by making you
happy! Poor child! let me wipe away your tears. From this moment, you
are no longer alone on earth; you have a friend, there is a heart that
beats in answer to yours, a heart that will beat for you alone, so long
as it lives. Anne, dear friend, give me leave to love you, to share your
grief, your suffering, to think constantly of you, to see you every
day--oh! do not deny me this favor, or I shall be much unhappier than
you are!"
Frédéric spoke with great animation; love excited him and made his voice
sweeter than ever, his glance more seductive. The dumb girl listened to
him at first with surprise; an unfamiliar sentiment disturbed her; she
tried to withdraw her hand, but she had not the strength. Frédéric had
ceased to speak, and she continued to listen.
But soon the remembrance of her condition, of her misfortune, destroyed
the spell that was upon her. She looked at Frédéric with a melancholy
expression, and, with a much bitterer glance at herself, withdrew her
hand and pushed him away, shaking her head as if to say:
"No, you cannot love me; I am too unfortunate."
Frédéric understood her; he put her hand to his heart again, and said,
pointing to the cabin:
"With you, I should be happy living here in these woods."
At that moment, they heard the sound of a little bell. It was a signal
which notified Anne that old Marguerite had risen. She hastily called
her goats together and prepared to return to the cabin.
"Will you come back?" asked Frédéric; "oh! do let me see you again
to-day!"
She pointed to the sun, whose beams were just beginning to shine through
the foliage, then rested her head on the back of her hand.
"When the sun goes to rest, you will go to the brook?"
Sister Anne made an affirmative gesture, then hastened back to the
cabin, driving her goats before her. But she turned her head before she
went in, and looked back to the place where she had left Frédéric,
smiled at him, and disappeared. That glance and smile enraptured the
young lover; he had already ceased to be a stranger to Sister Anne; that
thought filled his heart with joy. It needs so little to make one happy,
in love!
Frédéric went back to the place where he had left his horse; but, on the
way, he asked himself whether he should go to Grenoble and return at
night. It seemed to him more natural to remain in the village, to take a
light lunch there, and then to wander about in the neighborhood of the
cabin, which, even now, he found it so hard to leave. He cared little
what his fellow travellers might think or say. They must end by
accustoming themselves to his absences, for Frédéric had a feeling that
he would come often to Vizille, or, rather, that he would rarely go to
Grenoble. She whom he loved dwelt in those woods; Sister Anne was all in
all to him; he no longer thought of the future, his station in life, or
his father's plans; he saw only her, he had no wish to live except for
her. To be sure, his love dated only from the night before, and he was
only twenty-one.
In the village, whither he went to rest and breakfast, he talked about
Sister Anne; and everyone seemed to take pleasure in praising her
virtue, her sweet nature, her tender heart; but they generally added:
"The poor girl is greatly to be pitied; she stands a good chance of
spending her life in that miserable hut; for what man would ever marry
an unfortunate mute?"
Frédéric smiled and held his peace; but he was thinking that he had seen
in Paris many women resplendent with beauty, charm, and talents, and
that he preferred the dumb girl of the forest to them all.
He found in the village such refreshment as he required; he saw that his
horse was bountifully fed; then, mounting him again, he rode back to the
woods, where he fastened him to a tree near the stream, then bent his
steps toward the lonely cabin.
The sun had performed but half his journey; but Frédéric hoped that, if
he prowled about the little house, he might see Sister Anne, which would
make it easier for him to wait patiently until evening.
As he approached the garden fence, which was only four feet high, he had
no difficulty in taking in at a glance the whole extent of the garden.
It was small, but they had made the most that could be made of it.
Several fruit trees, a few grapevines, vegetables, and flowers, were
growing together in that contracted space, where nature was at liberty
to follow all her caprices.
As he looked about, Frédéric saw an old woman seated under a fig-tree.
She was evidently very old, but her venerable face was the mirror of a
calm and peaceful soul. He gazed at her for some time with profound
respect; it was she who had adopted Anne, who had filled her mother's
place.
The good old woman's face lighted up as the dumb girl approached her,
carrying a wooden bowl filled with milk, which she placed on
Marguerite's knees. The old woman patted her cheek, saying:
"That is nice, my girl, my dear child. Sit down here by my side. You
know how I like to look at you while I am eating."
The girl at once sat down in front of Marguerite; she seemed to be on
the alert to anticipate her lightest wish, and more than once she raised
her withered hand and kissed it respectfully.
Frédéric did not stir; he could have passed hours watching that picture.
The old woman, after she had finished her meal of milk and fruit, rose,
and with Sister Anne's assistance walked two or three times about the
garden. Frédéric concealed himself when they passed, but he noticed that
the girl glanced into the woods, as if looking for someone. Could that
glance be for him! Ah! if so, how fortunate he would be! his heart dared
to conceive the hope. He was tempted to enter the garden, to throw
himself at the dumb girl's feet; but Marguerite's presence held him
back.
At last they returned to the cabin, and Frédéric left the spot from
which he could look into the garden. He wandered about the woods for
some time. Everything brought the orphan's face before him; every tree,
every bush spoke of her. Had she not lived in those woods nine long
years? Her feet had trodden every foot of turf, and doubtless her eyes
had rested on everything that surrounded her.
He walked slowly back to the brook, and sat down on the spot where he
had first seen Sister Anne. It might be a long while before she came.
Frédéric took his notebook and pencil from his pocket, and wrote--what?
Poetry for Sister Anne; for is not every lover a poet? and are not poets
more eloquent when they are lovers? We have the lines Tibullus wrote for
Delia; Ovid immortalized Julia; Orpheus enchanted the Shades while
seeking Eurydice; it was love that tuned Anacreon's lyre, love that
inspired Sappho; Lesbia's charms aroused Catullus's poetic ardor, and
Cynthia's imparted delicacy and passion to the flowing verses of
Propertius. Does not Petrarch owe a large part of his renown to Laura?
without her, he might have been a poet; but would he have sung of love?
To you, Eucharis and Eléonore, we owe the moving elegies of Bertin and
Parny's charming verses.
Time passes very swiftly when we are writing poetry for her we love.
Frédéric was still leaning over his notebook and writing busily, when he
heard a faint sound; he turned his head and saw Sister Anne behind him,
watching him with deep interest. She blushed when he detected her, but
Frédéric set her mind at rest, and, bidding her sit down beside him,
read what he had written.
Sister Anne had no idea what poetry was; but she understood Frédéric's
meaning in what he read. The heart is the key to an unsophisticated
woman's mind; the opposite is true of women of worldly training.
The girl was already less shy and embarrassed in Frédéric's presence; at
sixteen, one is quick to make acquaintances, especially when one has no
knowledge of the customs of society or of its laws. Frédéric was so
gentle and kind and sympathetic! he pitied her, he talked of her sad
story, and the poor orphan was surprised to find that there was somebody
besides old Marguerite who was interested in her destiny. The village
people always manifested much sympathy and pity for her; but there is in
that sentiment something distressing to its object. But that was not
what she read in Frédéric's eyes. He talked to her with deep interest
and looked at her with affection, and she was already beginning to feel
less unhappy.
But the approach of night found them still seated by the stream. They
had been there two hours, to their great surprise. Anne rose and pointed
to Frédéric's horse; then turned her eyes anxiously toward the village,
the woods, and the mountains, and lastly upon Frédéric himself.
"I am going to Grenoble," he said; "I am staying there now with two
friends, who may be alarmed by my long absence. But I will come again
to-morrow, I will come every day. Do you think that I could pass a
single day without seeing you?"
The girl smiled, and seemed more content; she went with him to where his
horse was waiting; he pressed her soft hand to his lips, and finally
made up his mind to return to the city. Sister Anne went to the edge of
the woods, in order to follow him with her eyes as far as the twilight
permitted. Not until she could no longer hear his horse's step, did she
return slowly to the cabin, pensive and dreamy, surprised by the
unfamiliar sensations of which she was conscious, but which she could
not understand.
XII
HOW A MAN LOVES AT TWENTY
"Where in the devil have you been?" Dubourg inquired of Frédéric, who
arrived at the inn just as his two companions were sitting down to
supper.
"I have been--riding about the neighborhood."
"What a mania you have for travelling about the country! Are you going
to lead the same kind of life here as at Lyon?"
"Possibly."
"That will be amusing for us! At Lyon, we could at least vary our
amusements a little, see people----"
"Yes, the Marquise de Versac, and others, eh?"
"But here! why, we know the city by heart already. If one could make an
acquaintance or two, obtain an introduction to a few houses--but when a
man has no money, he doesn't dare to show his face anywhere, for it
gives one an awkward manner that betrays one at once. If it's absolutely
necessary, in every place we stop, for you to know the history of every
tree, every stone, and every view, and to pause in rapt contemplation
beside every brook, why, we shan't get to Italy for ten years! and your
life won't be long enough for you to see half of Europe."
"I must say," observed Ménard, "that monsieur le baron's remarks seem to
me most judicious. We move about as rapidly as a tortoise, _si parva
licet componere magnis_."
"I could forgive you for making a minute examination of Naples or
Florence; there are monuments there which one cannot contemplate too
long. Gaze in admiration at the Coliseum or the Basilica of Saint Peter
at Rome; walk on Mount Pausilippus or Vesuvius, and I shall not be
surprised; but what do you find so extraordinary in this province? It is
picturesque and romantic, I agree; but we shall find some much more
remarkable views on our journey. Wait, before going into ecstasies,
until you are on the glaciers of Mont Blanc, or on some peak of the
Apennines; and don't stand a whole day in admiration before an old
mulberry-tree overhanging a tiny stream; for there are trees, shrubbery,
turf, and fountains everywhere--except in the African desert; and we are
not going so far as that."
"My friend," said Frédéric, with a smile, "I have found here what one
would seek in vain elsewhere; and that, to my mind, is of more value
than all the wonders of the world."
With that, Frédéric went to his room and to bed, paying no heed to
Dubourg, who called after him:
"For heaven's sake, tell us what you've found?--What in the devil can he
have found, Monsieur Ménard?"
"I am trying to think, monsieur le baron."
"Gad! I wonder if it's the wallet that was stolen from me at Lyon."
"Or your berlin, monsieur le baron."
"My berlin! of course, that's all spent before now--that is to say, that
rascal of a postilion has probably sold it to get money for drink."
"True, that is probable. What a pity! such a venerable carriage!"
"But what can he have found that's so delightful?"
"Perhaps it's a method of keeping eggs fresh on a journey."
"Bah! as if Frédéric ever gave a thought to such things!"
"But it would be a most valuable discovery, monsieur le baron. Somebody
gave me a receipt for it once, and also one for making milk punch, but I
was unlucky enough to lose them while moving."
"It is plain that we shall not find out what he has found, unless he
chooses to tell us."
"I will go and think about it while I sleep, monsieur le baron."
"And I will go to sleep thinking about it, Monsieur Ménard."
Early the next morning, Frédéric again set out for the village. He rode
down into the valley, left his horse in a field where the grass was as
high as his knees, and walked rapidly along the path toward the woods;
in a moment he was on the hillside with Sister Anne, who had already
driven her little flock to pasture.
A deep flush overspread the girl's cheeks at sight of Frédéric; she
smiled, and offered him her hand with a friendly air. She had begun to
be impatient at his non-arrival; "Will he not come again?" she had said
to herself, and had kept her eyes fastened on the path from the valley.
She had known him only two days; but in a heart so affectionate and pure
as hers, love is certain to make rapid progress. Was it, then, love that
she already felt for the young stranger? Poor child! I am afraid so; and
was it not natural? was she not at an age when love blends with all our
other sentiments? and Frédéric was well adapted to inspire it.
"I am late," he said, "for my horse did not share my impatience; dear
friend, I am so happy with you! I would like never to leave you."
Anne gazed earnestly at him for a long while; she sighed, pointed to the
road leading to the city, then glanced at her cabin, as if to say:
"We shall always be separated."
"Leave that cabin, agree to come with me," cried Frédéric, eagerly; "and
we will never part."
The girl rose with a gesture of dismay, and, pointing again to the
cabin, imitated old Marguerite's tottering steps; then shook her head
emphatically, while her eyes shone with a divine expression which said
to Frédéric:
"No, I will never leave her."
"Oh! forgive me; I am wrong, I can see it now; your heart cannot be
ungrateful; forgive me! love led me astray."