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:
"Poor creature! he has gone, and he didn't take you! How much better it
would have been for you if he had never come!"
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!"
"Why didn't you go with him?" he asked her; "what detains you here in
the woods? Come with me, my child, and we will find Frédéric; or, if we
don't find him, there are thousands of others who will be only too happy
to fill his place."
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:
"Poor girl! she was well worth the trouble!"
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.
XIX
ILLUSIONS OF THE HEART.--INCONSTANCY AND LOYALTY
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.
They arrived at Paris. Before Ménard took leave of the count, Frédéric
found an opportunity to speak with him in private, and asked him about
Dubourg. Ménard did not answer for a moment; he bit his lips, as if he
were not quite sure whether he ought to take offence, and said at last,
with what he intended for a sly look:
"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."
As Frédéric was entirely in the dark, Ménard described their adventures
in the little town, at which anybody but the young count would have
laughed heartily. But he heard only this, that Dubourg had been left in
a very embarrassing position. He could form no idea when he would see
him again, which was a grievous disappointment; for he had proposed to
send Dubourg to Sister Anne, to allay the poor girl's apprehensions and
explain his failure to return.
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.
Frédéric rarely went into society, for he did not enjoy himself. In vain
did pretty little Madame Dernange renew her provocations; he paid no
heed to them; and she, piqued by his indifference, employed all the
resources of coquetry to bring him to her feet. But Frédéric did not
fall into the trap, for he had learned what true love is; he realized
the worthlessness of all those promptings of self-esteem, those caprices
of the senses, which one mistakes for love until he has learned to know
the real thing.
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?"
"From the woman I adore, the woman whom--I was compelled to desert, in
order to return to Paris with you."
"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."
The count sent to ask his son to come to him, and Frédéric obeyed, his
brow still clouded with ennui.
"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."
As he spoke, they entered the room, where a young lady was seated at a
piano. At sight of the strangers, she hastily rose.
"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.
The two old friends fell to talking over their campaigns and their
youthful adventures, and, at sixty, such subjects are inexhaustible. So
that it was necessary for Frédéric to talk with the general's niece;
and, although one's heart is heavy, one does not like to bore a pretty
woman, but makes an effort to forget one's sorrow momentarily, in order
not to appear too dull. That is what our hero tried to do while chatting
with Mademoiselle Constance, who talked very agreeably, and, without the
least trace of ostentation, revealed a judicious, cultivated mind, great
love for art, and a candor and modesty which imparted an additional
charm to everything she said. She was not one of those young women who
know everything and discuss every subject, of whom we have so many, and
whom we are good-natured enough to call little prodigies because they
chatter on for hours with extraordinary assurance, and because it is
customary to praise every word that falls from a pretty mouth, even when
it lacks common sense.
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!"
The count and his son joined in their praise of the singing, and thanked
Constance, who blushed at their compliments. But their visit had lasted
two hours, and they rose to go.
"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 general was jovial, outspoken, and unaffected, as usual; his niece
was as pretty and affable and modest as ever. In a large party, it is
easier to arrange a tête-à-tête than when the guests are few in number,
and Frédéric returned again and again to Constance's side. He fancied
that he did so from courtesy simply, because it was his duty to pay
especial attention to the general's niece; but he could not blind
himself to the fact that, of all the assembled company, Constance was
the one who attracted him the most, if it were possible for anyone to
attract him. He could talk with her without having to think what he was
going to say. The words that fell from her mouth were not mere trite
phrases and tasteless epigrams; Constance did not devote her attention
exclusively to other women's costumes; she did not pass them in review
and criticise them one after another, as a young woman is very likely to
do. With her, he felt more free, more at his ease; it seemed to him that
he had known her a long while. She smiled at him so pleasantly when he
seated himself beside her, her voice was so tender, her eyes so sweet,
that it was natural that he should prefer her conversation to that of
all the rest; even when he was not talking with her, he was conscious of
a secret charm in her presence. Although he strove to overcome his
sadness, his face still wore a melancholy expression, which was not
unbecoming to him; and women often yield to the seduction of such
expressions. When he was pensive, Constance looked at him with deep
interest, her eyes seemed to ask him if he was unhappy. And when she
spoke to him, her voice was even softer, her manner more sympathetic;
one would have said that she unconsciously shared his sorrow, or that
she was trying to make him forget it.
Several young ladies exhibited their talents and their voices in
selections self-accompanied on the harp or piano, but Frédéric heard no
one but Mademoiselle de Valmont. She sang only one ballad, but she sang
it so beautifully! As he listened, Frédéric examined her more closely
than he had hitherto dared to do. Whether it was mere chance, or an
illusion of the heart, he discovered in Constance's features a striking
resemblance to those of Sister Anne: the same expression, the same
melting sweetness; and if the poor mute could speak, surely her voice
would be as tender and expressive. Frédéric, while listening to
Constance, persuaded himself that it was Sister Anne's voice that he
heard, and his eyes were wet with tears. Full of that illusion, and
discovering every moment some new point of resemblance in feature, he
did not take his eyes from Mademoiselle de Valmont. When she had
finished singing, Frédéric remained by her side, and his eyes,
persistently fastened on her face, shone with a new fire and meaning.
Constance noticed it, and avoided his gaze; a crimson flush overspread
her cheeks. If Frédéric, when he gazed so tenderly at her, fancied that
the dumb girl was before him, should he not have told Mademoiselle de
Valmont of the real object of his preoccupation? And was not Constance
justified in the belief that the Comte de Montreville's son did not look
upon her with indifference?
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.
Several days passed; Frédéric heard nothing from Dubourg, and concluded
that he had not yet returned to Paris. The young count was still sad and
thoughtful, but there was something not unpleasant in his sadness. The
thought of Sister Anne often caused him to sigh. He was intensely
anxious to see her again; but he had ceased to form those extravagant
projects which, in the first days after his return, seemed so easy of
execution. He longed to ensure Sister Anne's happiness and repose
forever; but he thought of the future, and he was more certain than ever
that his father would never consent to give her to him for his wife. He
said to himself:
"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.
The general's country house was in the outskirts of Montmorency, and the
visitors arrived about noon. As he alighted from the carriage, Frédéric
was conscious of a quickening of the pulses, which he attributed to the
pleasure of seeing a woman whose features recalled those of his beloved.
He was, in truth, deeply moved, and, when he entered the house, his
eyes sought Mademoiselle de Valmont. But he saw no one but the general,
who welcomed them with great cordiality.
"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."