in the costume of Thésée. He looked at himself in the mirror, smiled at
himself, and concluded that he looked very well; he kindled his own
ardor by reflecting that he was about to represent the King of Athens,
repeated his lines to himself, especially his first speech, then left
his room to go to the theatre, saying to himself:
"Thus the Fates decree!"
At that very moment, a traveller had arrived at the inn in a comfortable
carriage. Everything about him denoted a man of wealth and of high rank.
The innkeeper made haste to ask what he desired, and the traveller, who
was a short, thin, old man, stern of face, inquired curtly what
travellers had recently passed through the town, and, on receiving the
landlord's reply, exclaimed:
"Shall I never learn what has become of them?"
"Will monsieur have supper?" inquired the innkeeper.
"No; I am not hungry. Let my horses be fed. I may go away again very
soon. Give me a room where I can rest quietly for a few moments."
The traveller's tone did not invite conversation. The innkeeper at once
took a light and escorted the new arrival to the stairs. As they were
going up, they came face to face with Ménard, who was descending with
majestic mien, declaiming:
"'La fortune à mes voeux cesse d'être opposée,
Madame, et dans mes bras met----'"
The little old man raised his eyes when he heard Ménard's voice; he
gazed at him for some time in surprise, and exclaimed at last:
"Can it be possible that it is Monsieur Ménard whom I see in such a
costume as this!"
Ménard looked at the traveller, and was transfixed with amazement when
he recognized the Comte de Montreville, Frédéric's father, whose eyes
gleamed with anger, and who, taking Thésée by the arm, marched him back
abruptly to his room, planted himself in front of him, and began sternly
to question him.
"What does all this mean, Monsieur Ménard? what is the meaning of that
turban on your head, and this yellow costume that makes you look like an
escaped lunatic?"
"Monsieur le comte, yellow is not a color to be scorned; in China, the
marks of highest distinction consist of yellow waistcoats and peacocks'
feathers."
"Morbleu! monsieur, never mind the Chinese, but answer my question: why
do I find you rigged out like this?"
"Because I am to play Thésée this evening, monsieur le comte."
"You, play Thésée!"
"Yes, monsieur le comte; in _Phèdre_, which is to be given at the local
theatre."
"What! monsieur le précepteur, you propose to act?"
"Why not, monsieur le comte? circumstances---- Besides, Roscius was
entertained by Sylla, Garrick is buried at Westminster, and Molière----"
"Do you consider yourself on a level with those men, monsieur? Do you
suppose that I sent you with my son, with the idea of your being an
actor? Was it with that end in view that you undertook this journey? Did
you think, as well as Frédéric, that you could deceive me for long? In a
fortnight, you spent the eight thousand francs I handed you----"
"We didn't spend them, monsieur le comte----"
"Silence, monsieur! I was willing to forgive that first escapade; I sent
you more money, and I learned that, instead of continuing your journey,
you had remained at Grenoble, and that my son was making the tour of
Europe in Dauphiné."
"It's a superb country, monsieur le comte."
"I left Paris; I was determined to find out for myself what detained you
in this neighborhood. I went to Grenoble, and failed to find you; I
sought you in vain in that vicinity. And at last I find you here, in
this absurd costume! I did not expect this, I admit.--But my son--where
is he? is he acting, also?"
"No, monsieur le comte."
"Where is he, then?--speak!"
"He is lost, monsieur le comte."
"Lost! What do you mean? Answer me, monsieur!"
"That is to say, monsieur le comte, he has gone astray."
"Remember, monsieur, that I intrusted my son to you."
"We will find him, monsieur le comte. Monsieur le Baron Potoski is going
to send couriers to all the European courts."
"Who is this Baron Potoski?"
"He's a Polish nobleman, a very intelligent young man, Palatine of Rava
and Sandomir, who has a magnificent castle in the Krapach Mountains,
which he heats with gas."
"Upon my word, Monsieur Ménard, I believe they have made you an absolute
idiot!"
"No, monsieur le comte; I know what I am saying, and I am telling the
simple truth."
"Where did you find this baron?"
"We found him on the road, near Paris; he overturned our carriage, by
the way, and I was thrown into a ditch. But monsieur your son recognized
Baron Potoski as one of his friends; so we joined him in King
Stanislas's berlin, where I sat in the seat once occupied by the
Princess of Hungary; and we have travelled with the baron ever since."
The Comte de Montreville paced the floor, stamping angrily, and looking
up at the ceiling in despair. Ménard cowered in a corner, with his
turban in his hand, afraid to move. After making the circuit of the room
three or four times, the count returned to him.
"What has become of this baron?"
"He is playing Hippolyte, monsieur le comte; he is on the stage at this
moment, and---- But, stay, here he is himself, monsieur le comte."
At this moment, in fact, Dubourg rushed into the room, crying:
"Come on, Thésée; we're waiting for you, to begin the third act."
But he stopped short when he saw the count, who exclaimed:
"I was sure of it! It's that scamp Dubourg!"
Ménard opened his eyes at that, and Dubourg contented himself with
bowing low to Frédéric's father.
"Come, Monsieur Ménard, follow me," continued the count; "take off that
costume, which you should never have put on, and let us leave this place
at once."
The unhappy tutor did not wait for the order to be repeated; in an
instant, he had cast aside the tunic and trousers; then he resumed his
own clothes, took his hat, and stood humbly before the count, who said
to Dubourg:
"As for you, monsieur, whose company has been so profitable to my son,
remember that if I do not find Frédéric soon, my wrath will fall on
you.--Come, Monsieur Ménard."
A moment later, the count and the tutor were in the carriage, from which
the horses had not been taken; and they drove rapidly away from the inn
toward Grenoble, where the count hoped to obtain news of his son.
Meanwhile, Dubourg, somewhat bewildered by what had taken place,
considered what was likely to happen to him; the audience was waiting
for Thésée, without whom the play could not go on, and the good people
of Voreppe seemed disposed to be unamiable when they were dissatisfied.
On the other hand, he had received from the manager his own pay and
Ménard's; and now that Ménard had gone, how was their agreement to be
kept?
While he reflected, a confused noise arose in the street. Dubourg ran to
the window and saw Floridor approaching with several of the spectators,
who were swearing and making a great uproar, declaring that the two
Poles should act or they would thrash them.
"They will act," cried Floridor; "they will act, messieurs; I paid them
in advance."
Dubourg realized the danger that threatened him; he hesitated whether he
should give back the money, whether he should excuse himself by
disclosing his colleague's departure, or whether he should leave the
manager to settle with his audience. The last plan was the most
agreeable to him; he was afraid of being beaten, even if he did return
the money; moreover, he considered that his performance of Hippolyte was
well worth what he had received. So he ran to another window, looking on
the open country, and, hearing the crowd enter the innyard, he no longer
wavered; he jumped down into the sorrel, picked himself up, wrapped
himself in his cloak, and ran across the fields as if the whole town
were at his heels.
The count and Ménard soon arrived at Grenoble, and alighted at the inn
where our three travellers had sojourned, and which the tutor had
pointed out to the count at his request. On the way, he had questioned
Ménard closely concerning his son, and the replies he obtained satisfied
him that it was nothing more than an amourette which detained Frédéric
in that neighborhood; so that he was a little more at ease, having no
doubt that his presence would suffice to bring his son to his senses.
When they reached the inn, Ménard had a scene with the landlord on the
subject of the char-à-bancs which had been let to him and Dubourg. The
landlord also spoke of Dubourg, saying that a creditor of the pretended
Baron Potoski had come to Grenoble in search of him, and was now on his
trail, meaning to have him arrested.
Poor Ménard had nothing to say; he was utterly overwhelmed when he
learned that the man whom he had believed to be a Polish nobleman had
done nothing but make sport of him ever since they had travelled
together. The Comte de Montreville put an end to the innkeeper's talk by
paying him what he demanded. They slept at Grenoble, the count proposing
to go with Ménard the next day to the place where he had said that he
last saw Frédéric.
But the next morning, as they were preparing to start, Ménard uttered a
joyful exclamation, saying:
"Here he is, monsieur le comte; the lamb returns to the fold, the son to
his father. Here is your son; let us kill the fatted calf!"
Frédéric was, in fact, entering the innyard at that moment, but he was
very far from suspecting that he would find his father there.
The count hastened downstairs, followed by Ménard; he walked toward his
son, with a stern expression, and the young man hung his head and seemed
stricken dumb when he saw who was before him.
"I have found you at last, monsieur," said the count; "I have heard of
your behavior, I have seen your boon companion, I have learned that your
travels have been confined to a miserable village and a forest near by,
where you consider, doubtless, that you have acquired sufficient
knowledge of the world. But I will abstain from reproaching you; I
deserve reproach myself for giving you such a companion as monsieur. Let
us forget it all, and return to Paris."
These last words went to Frédéric's heart; he had endured bravely his
father's reproaches, but now he became confused, seemed to be deeply
distressed, glanced behind him, and stammered a request for a delay of a
day or two. But the count pretended not to hear, and said in a harsh
tone:
"I am waiting for you, my son."
The carriage was ready; what was he to do? How could he disobey his
father? Frédéric trembled with agitation; he was still hesitating; but
the count took him by the hand and led him toward the carriage, and he
dared not resist. He had had no time for reflection before he was
already at some distance from Grenoble. He put his head out of the
window and gazed in the direction of Vizille; he heaved a profound sigh,
his eyes filled with tears, as he thought of Sister Anne, and he said to
himself again and again:
"Poor child! what will she think?"
XVII
THE JOYS OF LOVE LAST BUT A MOMENT, THE SORROWS OF LOVE ENDURE THROUGH
LIFE
Why does the love of a month bear so little resemblance to the love of a
day? why is the love of a year still less passionate than that of a
month? why are we so indifferent to the enjoyment of that which we
possess without any obstacles, and why does our enjoyment sometimes
cease altogether when we possess what we have ardently desired? It is
because everything passes away in this world, where we ourselves are
simply birds of passage; it is because men who are greedy of pleasure
are always seeking new forms of pleasure, and to many of them love is
simply a diversion. But you will say to me, perhaps: "I have been
married three years, and I love my wife as dearly as I did the first
day;" or: "My lover has adored me for six months, and he is more in love
than ever." I have no doubt of it; there are exceptions to every rule,
and everyone can invoke them in his favor; and, furthermore, I do not
say that love vanishes; I mean simply that it changes its hue; and,
unhappily, the last variations have not the splendor, the lustre, the
charm, of the original color.
Frédéric still loved the pretty mute, beyond question; but he had been
living with her in the woods for three weeks, and it began to seem a
little monotonous to him. The great fault of lovers is to yield too
freely to the intoxication of passion in the first days of their
happiness. They are like those gluttons who go to the table with a
tremendous appetite, and who eat so fast that they are filled to
repletion before the repast is half served.
Sister Anne felt none of this ennui; she was happier and more loving
with Frédéric than ever. As a general rule, women love more truly than
men, and, moreover, the unfortunate orphan was no ordinary woman; to
her, Frédéric was the whole earth, the universe. Since she had known
him, her intelligence had awakened, her mind had developed; she had
learned to think, to reflect, to form desires, to fear, and to hope; a
thousand new sensations had made her heart beat fast. Before she knew
what love was, her life had been only a dream, but Frédéric had roused
her from it.
When she saw that he was depressed and preoccupied, she redoubled her
attentions and caresses; she would lead him into the woods, and hide
behind a bush or a clump of trees; then, suddenly appearing, would rush
into his arms; and her childlike grace heightened the sweet expression
of her features.
When night came, they returned to the garden of the cottage. Sister
Anne, alert and light of foot, prepared in a twinkling their evening
meal, which they ate as soon as old Marguerite had gone to bed. The dumb
girl gathered fruit, brought milk and rye bread, then seated herself
beside Frédéric, close against him, and selected for him what seemed to
her the finest and best morsels. When her lover spoke, she listened in
rapture; one could see that Frédéric's words echoed in her heart. Once
he sang a love song, and the girl listened without moving a muscle, as
if she feared to lose a note, then motioned to him to sing it again.
Since then, her greatest joy had been to hear him sing; he had a sweet
and flexible voice, and she would gladly have passed the whole day
listening to him.
Thus did Sister Anne seek to enchain the man she loved. It was not the
tactics of a coquette--it was love, pure and simple, and nothing else;
whereas in the manoeuvres of a coquette there is not the faintest
trace of that sentiment.
Why, then, fools that we are, do we allow ourselves to be caught in the
nets of the one, and repay with cold disdain the sincere love of the
other? Because the coquette has the art to keep us in suspense; when she
sees that we are well caught, she plays the cruel; if we seem a little
cool, she excites us by giving us some cause of jealousy; if we seem
overconfident, her mockery arouses our fears; if we are disgusted and
ready to turn our back, she becomes tender, sentimental, passionate, and
with a word brings us back to her feet. These constant changes do not
give the heart time to grow cold. I was on the point of comparing us men
to the epicures whose appetites are sharpened by a variety of dishes,
but I refrain; you would think that I had studied the art of love in the
_Cuisinier Royal_.
For several days, Frédéric had taken to making short excursions in the
neighborhood. Sister Anne was alarmed at first; but he was away only a
little while, and her fears vanished. Frédéric was beginning to think of
the future, of his father. What would the Comte de Montreville say, if
he knew that his son was living in the woods with a village girl? That
question frequently disturbed Frédéric's repose, and as the days passed
it recurred with increasing frequency.
Sometimes he said to himself:
"If father should see her, it would be impossible for him not to love
her. But would he accept her as his son's wife? No, that is not to be
expected; the Comte de Montreville is not in the least romantic; he is
proud; he loves wealth, because he knows that money always adds to the
estimation in which one is held; so there is no hope that he will allow
his son to marry a penniless village girl."
To be sure, he could act without his father's consent; but, in that
case, he must renounce his fortune, turn his talents to account, and
work for his living; in any event, he must leave the woods, for he was
beginning to realize that it is absurd for a young man to turn his back
on the world at twenty-one; that men are made for society; and that the
being in love with a pretty woman is no reason for burying one's self
alive with her in the depths of a forest.
These arguments assumed greater force from day to day; especially when
he was away from Sister Anne, he abandoned himself to such reflections,
and his absences became longer every day. The poor child groaned in
secret; she counted the minutes that she spent without her lover; she
ran down into the valley to watch for his coming, and she pouted--oh! so
sadly!--when he had been long absent; but she was so overjoyed to see
him again, that her dejection soon passed away; she forgot all her
anxieties when she held him to her heart.
A month had passed. Dubourg and Ménard had not returned to inquire
concerning his plans, and he was greatly surprised. He did not know, as
we do, that his two travelling companions were at that time installed
under their friend Chambertin's roof, where that surprise in the way of
fireworks was being prepared, which disclosed to their host what you
already know, but what he did not know, even after the event, so they
say, because his wife convinced him that he had seen nothing but fire.
So that Frédéric was at a loss to understand the indifference of his
friends, especially of Ménard.
"Something new must have happened to them," he said to himself. "Dubourg
has probably performed some further crazy exploit. I did wrong to trust
him with all the money I possessed."
The invariable result of his reflections was that he must go to
Grenoble, to find out what those gentlemen were doing. But to join them
after saying to Dubourg that he would never leave those woods again,
that he had abandoned forever a false and wicked world, all of whose
pleasures were not equal to the tranquil life of a cottage--that was
most embarrassing, and that was why Frédéric could not make up his mind
to go to the town; for a man often chooses to persevere in an act of
folly rather than admit that he is wrong.
Meanwhile, Frédéric's absolute idleness had become a heavy burden to
him; with the best will in the world, one cannot talk twenty-four hours
at a stretch to a pretty woman, and the poor girl was unhappy because
she saw that her lover was melancholy and often sighed. At last, one
fine evening, Frédéric, finding that he could endure it no longer, said
to her:
"To-morrow, at daybreak, I shall go to Grenoble, to learn something
about my friends."
As if struck by an unforeseen blow, the girl did not move for an
instant, then her bosom heaved, and two streams of tears gushed from her
eyes. She pointed to the road to the town, then to herself, as if to
say:
"And me? are you going to leave me?"
The poor child was unable, in order to detain her lover, to resort to
the sweet, loving words and entreaties which it is so hard to resist.
But how expressive her gestures were, and how eloquent her eyes! one had
but to glance at them to read all her thoughts.
"I will return," said Frédéric, "I promise you; I will return, and I
shall never love anyone but you."
These words at once allayed Sister Anne's grief, for she did not doubt
her lover's word. Remember, mesdames, that Sister Anne did not know the
world--a very painful knowledge sometimes, since it teaches us to
renounce the illusions of the heart.
The evening passed sadly enough; for, although she did not doubt that he
would return soon, the idea of her friend's departure was very cruel to
that glowing heart, upon which love had bestowed an unalloyed happiness
which she had thought would endure to the end of her life. Frédéric did
all that he could to comfort her; but by giving fresh proofs of his love
a man inspires greater love than ever. Surely, then, that is not the
best way to lessen the pain of a separation; but it is the way that is
usually employed.
The dawn was a gloomy one in the eyes of the young orphan. Can that be a
pleasant day which is to part us from all that we love best? Frédéric
climbed the hill to the road, holding the poor girl's trembling hand in
his. There, having repeated his promises and bade her a most
affectionate farewell, he rode away and vanished from his sweetheart's
sight.
A heavy weight settled down upon the girl's heart. She could not see
Frédéric, but still she stood there, still she sought him with her eyes.
Suddenly she turned them upon her immediate surroundings; a groan
escaped her, and she fell on her knees at the foot of an old oak, which
she kissed with profound respect. Poor child! she was on the very spot
where her mother had died while waiting for her father! She recognized
the spot, and, clasping her hands, prayed fervently, and commended
herself to her mother.
Sister Anne was in the habit of going several times a year to pray by
the old oak, near which the unhappy Clotilde had breathed her last; but
she had never been there with Frédéric. On that day they had climbed
that hill, over which ran the road to the town, and Sister Anne,
absorbed by her grief, had not noticed it.
Poor child! what melancholy presentiment oppresses your heart? You think
of your mother's fate, and say to yourself:
"Shall I be as unhappy as she was?"
But she must needs return to the cabin; old Marguerite might need her
attention. She walked slowly down the hillside, sighing as she looked
back at the old oak. There he had parted from her, and there, as her
mother had done, she would come every day to await his return.
She returned to her cabin, her goats, and her woods; she resumed her
ordinary habits and occupations. But everything was changed in her eyes;
the woods seemed gloomy to her; wherever she went, she was oppressed by
ennui. Her garden no longer had any charm for her, her home was like a
desert. Frédéric embellished everything, and Frédéric was not there!
Before she knew him, her eyes looked with pleasure upon things that she
now viewed with indifference; and yet, the things themselves had not
changed; but she had lost peace of mind and repose, and nothing looked
to her as it did before.
Frédéric had not said how many days he would be absent, and the girl
hoped to see him soon; she did not dream that he had found his father
at Grenoble, and that the Comte de Montreville was at that moment taking
his son with him to Paris.
Each day, Sister Anne went to the hilltop with her goats, and her eyes
were constantly fixed on the road to the town; she sought Frédéric
there, even as poor Clotilde had sought her husband. She amused herself
by tracing her lover's name on the ground with a stick; that was all
that he had taught her, but she had practised writing the name so often
with him that she had succeeded in writing it legibly.
Several days passed, and Frédéric did not return. Sister Anne still
hoped, because she could not believe that her lover would break his
promise; and every morning, as she went up the hill, she said to
herself:
"To-day I shall certainly come down with him."
Vain hope! she must needs return alone once more to her cabin, to that
abode whence repose had fled since love had crossed the threshold.
But a new sentiment diverted her thoughts from her sorrow. Sister Anne
bore within her a pledge of her love for Frédéric; she was enceinte, but
had not yet tried to understand the change that she observed in herself.
In her simplicity, it had not occurred to her that she might be a
mother; but that thought suddenly came into her mind. Thereupon an
unfamiliar joy took possession of her heart; she abandoned herself in
ecstasy to that newborn hope. She would have a child--a child by
Frédéric! It seemed to her that he must love her more than ever. The
thought filled her heart with joy. To be a mother! what bliss! and what
pleasure to be able to tell Frédéric! The girl leaped and ran about
through the woods; in her excitement, she did innumerable foolish
things; she looked at herself in the brook and in the fountain; she was
proud to be a mother, and would have been glad that people should see it
when they looked at her.