for you to look up at the sky; I tell you that you are in love with
Mademoiselle Constance. I don't charge you with it as a crime; it's
perfectly natural: she is pretty, she attracts you--and why not? But
what I do blame is your prowling about in the woods after that poor
little creature who has no knowledge of the world or men, and who
yielded to your seductions and believed all your oaths, because they
were the first oaths she had ever heard. What was wrong was your
inspiring in her heart an exalted passion, which will ruin her life,
because she has nothing there in the woods to divert her thoughts. If,
yielding to a sudden temptation, you had seduced her and then left her
at once, the pain would have been sharp, but it wouldn't have lasted so
long; she wouldn't have had time to love you so dearly; but you always
have to run things into the ground. You abandon everything to live in
the woods--in order not to be separated from her; for six weeks, you
don't leave her for a single moment; you eat nuts together and lie on
the grass; you would live on roots, if need be, in order to speak of
love to her. How in the devil do you think that that can fail to turn
her head? The girl has reached a point where she cannot do without you;
she lives and breathes for you alone; she imagines that that sort of
life will last forever; and then--presto! my gentleman vanishes;
good-evening, it's all over! Weep, and tear your hair! you won't see him
again.--But I have seen her, and I'm almighty sorry; for I fancy that I
see her still, pale, dishevelled, walking without seeing, listening
without hearing, and, absorbed by a single thought, keeping her
tear-dimmed eyes fixed on the road by which he went away; then returning
to her poor cabin, to weep on; and so again the next day, and forever!
And remember that she has not even the one poor consolation of the
unhappy, the power to complain and pour her sorrows into a friend's
bosom. That is what you have caused, and it isn't the noblest chapter in
your history. That is what you would have avoided if you had not
followed the guidance of your romantic ideas, or if you had paid your
addresses to women of the world only."
Frédéric made no response; he seemed to be lost in thought.
"My friend," continued Dubourg, taking his hand, "I have told you just
what I think; you ought not to be angry. Moreover, all that one can say
to a lover never makes any difference; he always follows his own
impulses solely. I know, too, that you cannot marry Sister Anne.
Parbleu! if a man had to marry all the charmers he has loved, I should
have as many wives as King Solomon. I tell you simply that it gave me
great pain to---- But, enough of that! I am none the less your friend,
do with me as you will. Adieu! I am going to dine at a thirty-two-sou
ordinary, because when a man has an income of sixteen hundred francs a
year and wants to keep it, he doesn't go to Beauvilliers."
Long after Dubourg had gone, Frédéric remained where he had left him,
absorbed in his reflections. Argue as he would, Dubourg had opened his
eyes to the state of his heart, and, although he still tried to delude
himself, he knew that he was no longer the dumb girl's devoted, ardent,
faithful lover, who was ready to sacrifice everything in order to pass
his days with her.
It is hard for a man to admit his faults to himself, and even when he
does he always finds some excuse to palliate his conduct, and says to
himself that he could not have done otherwise. Especially in love do we
reason thus, and the last passion, being always the strongest, speedily
vanquishes its predecessor.
Frédéric, cudgelling his brains for some means of repairing the wrong he
had done, said to himself:
"I will see Sister Anne again, I will not leave her to pass her life in
a wretched hovel, cut off from all intercourse with society; I will buy
her a pretty cottage, with a lovely garden, and some cows and sheep; I
will surround her with everything that will make her life pleasant and
happy; I will find some village girl, of her own age, to wait upon her,
whose presence will enliven her; she will live there with old
Marguerite, and she shall have everything that she needs; the sight of
her neighbors, of the passers-by, and of the people at work in the
fields, with her own household cares, will drive away her melancholy; I
will go to see her sometimes, and she will be happy."
Happy, without Frédéric! No; to Sister Anne, that was impossible.
Comfort, even wealth, would not compensate her for the loss of her love;
for Sister Anne was not brought up in Paris; she could not conceive that
anyone could prefer diamonds and fine clothes to joys of the heart, or
that a wrong could be atoned for with gold. Nor, five months earlier,
could Frédéric have conceived it; but as he could readily do so now, it
was natural that he should believe that Sister Anne could do the same:
we judge others' hearts by our own.
For several days, Frédéric, tormented by what Dubourg had said to him,
had the dumb girl's image constantly before his eyes; even when he was
with Constance, his melancholy, which had at one time almost
disappeared, seemed to weigh upon him more heavily than ever. The
general and his niece had returned to Paris. Frédéric was able to see
Constance every day. But he trembled when he entered her presence, and
she, though surprised by his dejection, dared not ask him the cause of
it; but her eyes, when they met Frédéric's, spoke for her, and revealed
all the concern she felt for his secret sorrow, and often, too, her
longing to know its cause.
In his desire to be relieved from his anxiety, and to have news of
Sister Anne, Frédéric several times urged Dubourg to go to Vizille, to
see the poor girl and try to comfort her. But on that point Dubourg was
immovable.
"I will not go," he said; "I saw her once, and that was quite enough. I
have no desire to see her again, and then have unpleasant thoughts for
six weeks--I, who never knew what such thoughts were. Besides, my
presence would not comfort her; she wouldn't believe anything that I
could say to her, because I lied to her once; so my journey would do no
good and would not change her plight at all."
As he could not induce Dubourg to take the journey, Frédéric decided to
ask his father's permission to leave Paris for a fortnight. Not until
after long hesitation did he determine upon that step; but his remorse
was troublesome, he was constantly tormented by the memory of the poor
mute, and he was persuaded that he would be calmer and less
conscience-stricken after he had seen her.
For some time past, the count had treated his son most affectionately;
convinced that he had entirely forgotten the person who had fascinated
him during his stay in Dauphiné, and having no doubt of his love for
Mademoiselle de Valmont, the count had entirely laid aside his former
sternness of manner with Frédéric; he hoped soon to see the plan he had
formed successfully carried out, being confident in advance of the
general's consent; so that he was greatly surprised when his son asked
his permission to leave Paris for a few days.
The Comte de Montreville's brow became clouded and severe, and Frédéric,
who was accustomed to tremble before his father, anxiously awaited his
reply.
"Where do you want to go?" asked the count, after a brief silence.
Frédéric attempted to stammer some pretext, but the count did not give
him time.
"Don't try to beat about the bush; I don't like it. You are still
thinking of a woman who interested you during your journey, and for
whom, I know, you committed a thousand follies. I thought, I confess,
that you had become reasonable; I thought that the memory of that fancy
had long since vanished from your mind--I do not say from your heart,
for the heart has no concern in such affairs."
"Ah! father, if you knew her!"
"Enough, monsieur! You do not propose to marry your conquest, I presume?
Still, it is possible that you have some wrongs to undo. I do not know
this girl. Perhaps you are more culpable than I think; perhaps she whom
you seduced, or led astray, is now cast off and abandoned through your
fault, and is living in want. If her misfortunes can be mended with
money, you may be sure that I will not spare it, monsieur; but I will
attend to the business, not you."
"You, father?"
"Yes, monsieur, I; I shall be better able to arrange it than anyone
else. So you need not leave Paris now. Besides," the count continued,
after a moment's thought, "your presence here is indispensable. The
general expects to marry his niece to a young colonel, who will probably
arrive in Paris very soon."
"The general expects to marry his niece!" echoed Frédéric. Already his
features had assumed a different expression: sadness and melancholy were
succeeded by violent emotion, a jealous perturbation which was manifest
in his excited glance, and which made it impossible for him to remain
seated. His voice trembled, and, as he questioned his father, it seemed
as if his life or death hung upon the answer he was to receive.
"Yes," said the count, in an indifferent tone, pretending not to notice
Frédéric's state of mind, "yes; and, for my part, I see nothing
surprising about it."
"And--this colonel is coming to Paris? Do you know him, father? Is he
young? Is he supposed to be handsome? Mademoiselle de Valmont loves him,
of course?"
"You don't think that I am in Mademoiselle de Valmont's confidence, do
you? She met the colonel in society, I presume. I believe he's a young
man of twenty-eight or thirty."
"Good-looking?"
"Oh! whether he's good-looking or ugly, isn't an honorable man always
attractive?"
"And this marriage is all arranged?"
"So it seems."
"And Mademoiselle Constance has never mentioned it to me!"
"Why on earth should she have told you beforehand of something that a
well-bred young woman never mentions?"
"Oh! of course--I had no claim--there was no reason why I should
know--and still, I should have thought----"
"Besides, it is possible that the general hasn't mentioned his plans to
his niece as yet."
"And this is the reason why I must stay in Paris?"
"To be sure; at such times, there are innumerable details to be attended
to--clothes and presents and wedding festivities; the general, being
accustomed to camp life, knows nothing about such things; a bachelor
always needs advice, and he relies on you to help him."
"Indeed! that's very kind of him; I am highly flattered that he
considers me good enough for that."
"So, Frédéric, I say again that you must not think of leaving Paris
now."
This argument was no longer necessary. The count left the house to call
upon his old friend, to whom he had something to say privately; and
Frédéric, long after his father's departure, was completely crushed by
what he had learned. Poor Sister Anne! your image had vanished.
Pale and excited, hardly able to breathe, Frédéric paced the floor of
his apartment, now throwing himself into a chair for a moment, then
springing abruptly to his feet, sighing, and clenching his fists
convulsively. It was in that frame of mind that Dubourg found him when
he came to bid him good-bye, for Frédéric had told him of his projected
journey.
"What in God's name is the matter, Frédéric?" he said, pausing in the
doorway, alarmed to see him in that condition. "Come, won't you speak,
instead of rushing about like this and banging the furniture?"
"Who would have believed it? who would have thought it?" said Frédéric,
dropping into a chair. "Ah! these women!"
"Oho! so it's a question of women, is it? I begin to feel less alarmed."
"With such an honest face, such lovely eyes, to conceal such perfidy!
for it is perfidy! she ought to have told me that she loved another. To
welcome me so cordially! to seem so pleased to see me! Oh! it's
horrible!"
"There's no doubt of that. Whom are you talking about?"
"Mademoiselle de Valmont--Constance. She is so lovely! so sweet!"
"Oh, yes! and she looks so much like Sister Anne!"
"Would you believe, my friend, that she is going to be married--to a
young colonel whom I don't know, but whom she loves--that goes without
saying; whom I have never seen, and who is coming to Paris very soon to
marry her?"
"Mademoiselle de Valmont is going to be married?"
"Yes, Dubourg."
"Well, what difference does that make to you? you don't love her; you're
not in love with her; no word of love has ever passed your lips; you are
her brother, her friend, nothing more. You told me this yourself, within
a month."
"No, I certainly do not love her; but one owes some regard, some mark of
confidence, to a friend; and when you see a person every day----"
"Oho! you see her every day, do you?"
"She might have told me, have let fall a hint. Ah! I never would have
believed it, Constance!"
"By the way, have you given up going to Dauphiné? I say--Frédéric!
Frédéric!"
But he was already far away, running like a madman to Mademoiselle de
Valmont; and Dubourg left the house, saying to himself:
"He's a good one to accuse women of perfidy! Ah! these men!--I must go
and dine. I don't know how it has happened, but I am already in debt at
my restaurant, and the month has only half gone!"
When Frédéric reached the general's house, he had formed no plan of
action, and had no idea what he was going to say or do. He entered the
house, where his was a familiar presence, and walked rapidly through
several rooms to the salon where Constance usually sat. She was there,
seated at her piano. Seeing that she was intent upon her music and as
placid as ever, Frédéric stood for a moment, gazing at her.
Constance turned her head when she heard footsteps. She smiled when she
recognized her visitor, whose excitement she did not notice at once.
"Is it you, monsieur," she said; "I am glad you have come; you are a
good musician and can help me decipher this piece."
The young man did not reply, but continued to gaze at Constance, who,
being accustomed to his peculiar and often taciturn humor, did not at
first observe that anything was wrong; but, finding that he did not
approach, she turned again, and then his evident excitement did not
escape her notice.
"What is the matter, monsieur?" she asked, with manifest concern; "you
seem excited."
"Oh! nothing's the matter, mademoiselle; what could be the matter?"
"I am sure I don't know; you are not in the habit of telling me your
troubles."
There was a faint tinge of reproach in the tone in which Constance made
this remark. Frédéric sat down beside her, and seemed to try to read in
her eyes; never before had he looked at her with such an expression, and
Constance, in her surprise, felt that she was blushing, and averted her
lovely eyes.
"You are afraid that I shall guess what is taking place in your heart,"
said Frédéric, affecting an ironical tone to dissemble his suffering.
"I, monsieur! on my word, I don't know what you mean; I don't understand
you. Why should I fear to allow my thoughts to be read? I am conscious
of no guilt; and if it were otherwise, you are not the one to reprove
me."
"Oh! certainly not! you are entirely free as to your feelings,
mademoiselle; I know that I have no claim to your heart."
"Mon Dieu! what is the matter, Monsieur Frédéric? really, you alarm me;
your agitation is not natural."
"What is the matter! Ah! Constance, you love another, and you ask me
that question!"
Mademoiselle de Valmont was speechless with surprise; Frédéric had never
called her by that name before, and are not the words: "You love
another" equivalent to: "You should love no one but me"? A wave of
blissful emotion surged in Constance's heart, which beat faster and with
greater force; joy and happiness shone in her eyes, and her voice was
softer than ever, as she said:
"I, love another! Mon Dieu! what does he mean? Explain yourself,
Frédéric: I don't understand."
The dear girl had understood but one thing, and that was that Frédéric
did not want her to love another; and that was enough to make her
understand that he loved her. For a long time, she had hoped that she
had inspired the sweetest of sentiments in Frédéric's heart; but he had
never said a word to her on the subject, nothing that signified: "I love
you;" and even when everything tends to that conclusion, a woman longs
none the less to hear the words.
Again Frédéric was silent; he sighed long and loud, but said nothing.
"Will you speak, monsieur? what has happened to disturb you so
to-day?--what have I done to deserve your reproaches? Explain yourself
clearly; I insist upon it--do you hear, monsieur? I insist upon it."
The expression of her voice was so tender that Frédéric could not resist
the temptation to look at her again, and doubtless her eyes were in
accord with her voice, for he gazed at them several minutes in a sort of
ecstasy; but suddenly he cried again:
"What an unhappy wretch I am!"
"You unhappy, Frédéric? Why so?"
"You are going to be married."
"Married! This is the first I've heard of it."
"Oh! it's useless for you to try to conceal it from me; I know all,
mademoiselle: I know that your future husband will be here in a few
days, that he's a colonel, and that you love him."
"What do you say? a colonel? and I love him? Upon my word, this is
rather strong! What is the name of this colonel I am going to marry, if
you please?"
"His name! Faith! I forgot to ask that. But you must know perfectly well
whom I mean. Will you say that you don't know a colonel?"
"Several colonels have called on my uncle, but----"
"Ah! several of them--you admit it now."
"Who told you, monsieur, that I am going to be married?"
"Someone who is absolutely certain of it: my father, who learned it from
your uncle."
"From my uncle? Why, I can't understand this at all."
"You pretend not to understand; but, I doubt not, you are impatiently
waiting for your future husband's arrival."
Constance reflected for some little time, then replied in a tone which
she struggled to make indifferent:
"Really, monsieur, I am very much surprised by what you have told me;
but, after all, suppose it to be true that I am to be married--how does
it concern you? I imagine that it is a matter of the utmost indifference
to you."
"Ah! you think that, do you? You are quite right, mademoiselle; of
course, it cannot make any difference to me."
"Very well! then why do you ask me all these questions, monsieur?"
"Why? O Constance! are you going to be married? and this colonel--do you
really love him?"
"And if I did love anyone--would that cause you any grief?"
She was determined to force him to the wall and make him avow his
sentiments. Frédéric could contain himself no longer; his heart could
not keep its secret.
"Yes," he cried, "I love you, I adore you! I shall die if you marry
another man!"
"He loves me!--Ah! it's very lucky that I have extorted that from you! I
thought you would never say it."
And the blushing girl gave her hand to Frédéric, who had fallen at her
feet; and he covered that hand with kisses, while she said to him with
deep earnestness:
"Ah! Frédéric, I love you, too. I shall never love anyone else. Why, my
dear, did you not long ago say those words, which make me so happy, and
which I have been expecting so long? My uncle is very fond of me; he
will never do anything to make me unhappy. If it be true that he has
planned a marriage for me--he has never mentioned the subject--why, he
must abandon it, for I will tell him that I will marry no one but you,
that you alone can obtain my heart and hand; and he will consent, I am
certain of it. He is fond of you too, Frédéric; indeed, who would not
be? You see, you do wrong to be sad and depressed, and to conceal your
sorrows from me. My dear, I read your heart long ago; should you not
have been able to read mine?"
Frédéric replied only by protestations of love; he was beside himself
with joy; Mademoiselle de Valmont's avowal had disturbed his reason; not
without difficulty did she succeed in calming him, and he did not leave
her until she had repeated her solemn promise that she would never give
her hand to another.
Frédéric left the house in a very different frame of mind from that in
which he had entered it. The certainty that Constance loved him had
revolutionized all his ideas in an instant: in his delirious joy, Sister
Anne was entirely forgotten; he did not even feel a pang of remorse.
Like those sick persons who, when the fever is at its height, are
unconscious of pain, he said to himself again and again:
"Dubourg was quite right: I do love Constance, I adore her! I can never
again love anybody else."
Two days after this declaration, the Comte de Montreville, well assured
that his son no longer thought of leaving Constance, set out for
Dauphiné, in his own carriage, attended by a single servant and a
postilion.
XXII
DEATH OF MARGUERITE.--SISTER ANNE LEAVES HER CABIN
Let us now return to the dumb girl in the woods, whom we left awaiting
Frédéric's coming, and whom we shall find still awaiting him.
But the trees have lost their foliage; the fields no longer offer to the
eye the pleasing prospect of luxuriant vegetation; there is no green
turf in the valley, no verdure on the banks of the stream. The leaves
have fallen, and the villager's steps are deadened by that which shaded
him and embellished his garden a few days since. He tramples under foot
the beautiful foliage to which the approach of a harsher season has
brought death. Thus do all things pass away. Other foliage will be born,
only to die in its turn; and the man who tramples upon it must likewise
return to the dust whereon future generations will tread. He fancies
himself of some account because his allotted time is longer; but when
the ages have dispersed his ashes, what more will he have left behind
him than those leaves have done which whirl about in the wind at his
feet?
The autumn disposes us to melancholy; it brings reverie and reflection,
not to him who lives in the city, detained in the vortex of the world by
the necessities of business or pleasure, but to the man of the fields
who can contemplate each day the successive changes in the face of
nature. Not without emotion does he look upon the forest, whose black,
skeleton-like trees seem to be in mourning for the spring; if he walks
along a path but lately shaded by dense foliage, if he seeks the thicket
where he was wont to rest during the heat of the day, he sees naught but
dry branches, often broken by the poor man's hand. The forest is less
dark than in summer, for the sunlight finds its way in on all sides. But
that brightness, far from embellishing it, robs it of all its charm; one
regrets the dark, mysterious paths, through which it is so pleasant to
wander in the season of love.
As he watches the approach of the frost and snow, as he contemplates the
effects of the winter's cold, man, always buoyed up by hope, says to
himself:
"The spring will come again; I shall see once more my leafy lanes, my
lawns, and my shrubs."
The spring comes again--but many men do not see it!
Sister Anne observed the change in the season only because it emphasized
the length of time that had elapsed since Frédéric left her. The unhappy
child could no longer count the days; their number was too great.
However, hope had not vanished from her heart; she could not believe
that her lover intended to abandon her forever; sometimes, she imagined
that he had ceased to live, and then the blackest despair took
possession of her thoughts. When that idea forced itself upon her, life
seemed to be only one long agony. Could she live on, unsustained by the
hope of seeing her lover? Often she longed to die. But she was soon to
be a mother; that thought made her cling to life once more; something
told her that she must live for her child.
It was a very long time since she had been to the village. An old
shepherd, who went back and forth through the woods, was in the habit of
leaving every day, at the foot of a tree, the loaf of rye bread
required by the occupants of the cabin, and always found there, in
exchange, a large pitcher filled with milk. This bread, with milk and
fresh eggs, was all that the two poor women ate in winter. When Sister
Anne had finished preparing the meal, and had given the old woman all
that she required, she drove her goats to the hilltop, and seated
herself at the foot of her mother's tree. Despite the cold, which was
beginning to be severe, the girl did not fail to go thither a single
day. Wrapped in a wretched woollen cloak, half worn out, she defied the
rigor of the season, although the garment was but little protection to
her; her goats, finding nothing on the hill to browse upon, huddled at
her feet; and Sister Anne, her features pinched and worn by her
condition and her sufferings, presented only too faithfully the image of
poverty and sorrow.
More than once, the snow, falling in great flakes, formed an icy cloak
about her body, so that the poor girl's form could hardly be
distinguished from the ground she lay upon; and often she removed her
cloak to cover her shivering companions. The traveller who happened to
pass over the hill could make out nothing in that snow-covered group
save the dumb girl's head, always turned toward the road to the town.
But, unheeding the cold, she did not realize that her whole body
shivered, that her teeth chattered, that her limbs stiffened; she was
unconscious of physical suffering; a single sentiment absorbed her whole
being, and the pain it caused left her no feeling for any other.
When the darkness made it impossible for her to see the road, she rose
and looked at herself, amazed to find that she was almost buried in
snow. Then she would shake her cloak, caress her goats, and slowly
descend the hill to the cabin and old Marguerite. When the old woman was
asleep, and she threw herself on her solitary couch, she no longer found
love there, nor even rest, to which she had long been a stranger. The
memory of her lover was there, as it was everywhere. If only she could
express her grief in words, call to him and implore him to return! It
seemed to her that her voice would reach his ears.--Poor girl! heaven
had deprived you of that priceless organ. Tears! always tears! those
were all that remained to you!