to day. For a long while she had not left the house; she was hardly able
to totter to her great armchair. Marguerite was seventy-six years of
age; she had led an active, laborious life, and her old age was placid;
she had no disease and did not suffer; age alone was wearing out her
strength, which was daily diminishing. She was going out like a lamp
whose light has been soft and mellow; she had not shone with great
brilliancy, but she had been useful, which is far preferable.
The hour fixed by nature drew near; Marguerite was destined not to see
another spring. Sister Anne redoubled her loving attentions to her
adopted mother; observing the gradual weakening of her faculties, she
gave up going to the hilltop, in order to be always with her. She could
have made no greater sacrifice. Good Marguerite, touched by her
devotion, smiled at her affectionately, and called her her dear child.
But one morning, when Sister Anne went as usual to her mother's bed to
ask how she had passed the night, Marguerite did not answer, or, as her
custom was, hold out her trembling hand. Her eyes were closed, never to
open again. Sister Anne was terrified; she seized the old woman's
hand--it was cold and inert, and she tried in vain to warm it in her
own. She stooped and kissed Marguerite's forehead, but no smile rewarded
her.
The girl stood by her aged companion's bedside, overwhelmed with grief;
she gazed at the venerable features of her who had taken care of her
from childhood, of her only friend, who had been taken from
her!--Marguerite seemed like one asleep; the serenity of her face
indicated the serenity of her mind in its last moments. Sister Anne,
standing beside the bed, with one hand resting upon it, could not tire
of gazing at her adopted mother. Her grief was calm, but none the less
profound; her eyes were dry, but their expression was none the less
heartrending.
She passed a large part of the day beside the good woman's lifeless
remains; not without difficulty did she succeed in tearing herself away;
but she knew that she must perform the last duties for Marguerite, that
she must consign her to her last resting-place; and she realized that
she was incapable of doing it alone, without assistance. She must go to
the village, therefore, where she had not been seen for a long while.
She left her cabin and went out of the woods on her way to Vizille. As
she passed, she bowed, as usual, to those of the village women whom she
knew; but she could not understand why they turned their heads away, or
stared at her with contempt. Instead of stopping, as their custom was,
to bid her good-day, they walked quickly away, and seemed desirous to
avoid meeting her. The young men looked at her with mocking smiles; some
pointed at her, whispering to one another; and not upon a single face
did she observe the marks of interest which they were accustomed to
manifest.
"What can be the matter?" thought the poor child; "everybody seems to
avoid me; is it because I am more unhappy than ever, because I have lost
my kind mother, and Frédéric has abandoned me?"
She forgot that she bore the testimony of her weakness; that pledge of
love, of which she was so proud, was, in the eyes of the peasants, a
proof of her shame. In villages, people are more severe than in cities;
they set great store by innocence, because it is often the only treasure
they possess. The good people of Vizille held very austere views on the
subject of such falls from virtue: a girl who had been seduced became an
object of general contempt, so long as her seducer did not repair her
fault before the altar. Perhaps they should have been more indulgent to
the dumb girl, who, living in the woods, did not know that she was
culpable in yielding to the promptings of her heart. But peasants do not
reason; they act in obedience to habit, and often mechanically. They had
shown deep interest, so long as she was innocent as well as unfortunate;
now that she bore manifest proofs of her weakness, they spurned her,
without waiting to inquire whether she was not more unfortunate than
before.
At last she reached the village, unable to understand the conduct of the
people, having no idea why the young girls fled at her approach without
deigning to answer her signs, or why their parents stared at her with a
stern, disdainful air.
She knocked at the door of a cottage, the owners of which were friends
of Marguerite. The woman who opened the door made a gesture of surprise
when she saw her, then drove her away from the house. Sister Anne tried
to insist and to make her understand the loss she had met with; but,
refusing to notice her signs, the woman pushed her into the street,
where a number of peasants had assembled and stood staring at her.
"How do you dare to come to the village in that state?" asked an old
man; "to show your face here and try to get into our houses? You're
carrying the token of your shame; you'd do better to hide it in your
woods. And you come here and show yourself to our daughters! Do you do
it to let them admire your pretty behavior, and set them an example? Off
with you, Clotilde's child! you ought to die of shame! Go back to your
cabin, clear out with your seducer, but don't come here again among our
wives and children!"
Sister Anne could not understand how a person could be guilty for having
known love. She gazed at the peasants in surprise; she held out her
hands, clasped in entreaty: she tried to make them understand that she
had not come to seek their aid for herself. But they did not choose to
understand; they turned their backs on her and went into their houses;
some escorted her to the outskirts of the village, and did not leave her
until they had ordered her never to return.
The poor child was suffocated by the sobs that convulsed her whole body.
To be treated so for having loved Frédéric! That thought sustained her
courage; it was for him that she was subjected to such humiliation; she
would endure everything rather than cease to love him. She returned to
her cabin, weeping bitterly. It was dark. Absolute solitude reigned in
her poor home, thenceforth the abode of silence. She was utterly alone
on earth. Proof against idle terrors, against the childish fear which
even the greatest geniuses sometimes feel at sight of death, Sister Anne
went to the bed on which Marguerite lay, and, falling on her knees
beside it, held out her arms to her protectress, as if to say:
"You would not have spurned me, mother, if I had come before you even
guiltier than I am! You would have had pity on me. Your great age, your
enfeebled sight, did not permit you to notice my condition; but you
would have forgiven me; and they turned me away! Is it by heaping
obloquy on the unfortunate that the path of repentance should be pointed
out to them?"
She passed the whole night by Marguerite's bed. She prayed with all her
heart for her who had been a mother to her; she implored her to protect
her still, and during that mournful night Frédéric's image did not
disturb her pious occupation.
The next morning, at daybreak, Sister Anne went to the woods to wait for
the old shepherd who supplied her with bread in exchange for milk. He
soon appeared. He was a man of some sixty years, still strong and well,
who had passed most of his life in the forest, and, like Sister Anne,
knew almost nothing of what happened in the village, which is the whole
world to a woodsman. The girl took him by the hand and seemed to urge
him to go with her to the cabin. The old shepherd complied with her
entreaty, and she led him to Marguerite's bedside. He shook his head,
but did not seem moved: the habit of living the life of a savage
sometimes makes men indifferent to the suffering of others. But Sister
Anne appealed to him by signs which he could not fail to understand, and
the old fellow consented to perform the service she asked at his hands.
She led him into the garden, to the fig-tree under which Marguerite
loved to sit, and pointed to the ground: that was where she wished that
her adopted mother should rest. The old shepherd soon dug the grave,
then carried the old woman's remains thither and covered them with
earth. Sister Anne planted a cross by the spot. It was the only monument
she could erect to her benefactress's memory; but she would come often
to water it with her tears. How many magnificent mausoleums there are
whereon no tear was ever shed!
The shepherd went his way, and Sister Anne was once more alone--and
forever! At that moment, she felt more keenly than ever the loss she had
sustained. Marguerite talked little; for some time past, she had dozed
constantly; but she was always there, and the poor child felt that she
was not altogether alone in the world. There was one person who could
comfort her; but he did not come, and each succeeding day helped to
destroy the little hope that still sustained her. She would not have had
the courage to endure her torments, but for the feeling that heaven
would soon give her someone to lighten them. She was now fully aware of
the existence of the being in whom she was to live again. She had
already suffered much for its sake: people shunned and despised her; she
could no longer seek help or shelter in the village; but the mere sight
of that little creature would bring forgetfulness of all her agony; is
it not just that we should find in the cause of our sorrows their
compensation?
As the days passed, Sister Anne's profound grief for the loss of
Marguerite changed into a tender, grateful memory; but time, which
soothes the regrets of friendship, does not allay the sufferings of a
lover. The memory of Frédéric was more constantly in her mind than
ever, for there was nothing to divert her thoughts from it. She saw no
one; and if the movements within her reminded her that she was soon to
be a mother, that fact made her desire more ardently the presence of her
child's father.
While Frédéric was with Sister Anne, he had talked to her sometimes of
the outside world, of his father, and very often of Paris, his
birthplace. During the day, while they sat together by the brook, it
amused him to draw a picture of the great city for the wondering girl,
to describe the pleasures, the plays, the splendid avenues, which make
it a place of enchantment. She did not always comprehend what he said,
but she listened with wide-open eyes, manifesting her amazement by
artless gestures, by curious tokens of surprise; and it amused Frédéric,
who was often obliged to tell her stories to satisfy her, for one cannot
be always making love. Some people maintain that it is a great pity;
they forget that those things which one can do all the time end by
losing their value.
What Frédéric had told Sister Anne was engraved in her memory. Each day
she thought about it more and more, and said to herself:
"He is probably in that great city, Paris, that he used to tell me so
much about, where he was born. Perhaps his father won't let him come
back to me. But if I could go there and find him, if I could once throw
myself into his arms, I'm very sure he would be glad to see me. Then he
would keep me with him, I would never leave him again, and I should be,
oh! so happy! But how can I find my way to Paris?"
Every day, the longing to set out in search of her lover became stronger
in that loving heart, which could not persuade itself that Frédéric had
forgotten her, but believed that the reason he did not return was that
someone was keeping him away from her. Marguerite being dead, there was
nothing to detain Sister Anne in the woods. In her condition, and bereft
as she was of so essential an organ, she ought doubtless to have felt
that her cabin was preferable to the dangers, the suffering, and the
fatigue that would be her portion in the journey she contemplated; but a
woman who loves truly sees neither danger nor suffering; she dares
everything, sustained by the hope of seeing once more the object of her
affection. Sister Anne, unacquainted with the world, unable to speak,
and bearing within her the fruit of her love, determined to leave her
home to go in search of her lover; to face every danger, to endure
poverty and privations of every sort; and even though she should have to
employ years in her search, it seemed to her that every step would bring
her nearer to her lover.
Having formed her decision, she devoted all her thought to its
execution; but she did not wish to leave her cabin and Marguerite's
grave to be utterly neglected. Again it was the old shepherd to whom she
addressed herself: she led him into the house one morning, and pointed
to a small bundle containing her clothing, which she slung over her
shoulders, to indicate that she was going away; then she motioned to him
to sit down, as if to say:
"This cabin is yours, stay here; I ask you only to take care of the
fig-tree that shades my mother's tomb, and these poor creatures who have
been my only companions so long."
The old man readily understood her; but, although the hovel was a palace
in his eyes, and Sister Anne's cession of it to him made him richer than
he had ever been, he tried to induce the girl to abandon a plan which
seemed to him insane.
"Where do you propose to go, my child?" he asked; "can you think of
leaving home in the condition you are in? Within two months you will be
a mother, and you propose to go on a journey; and you a poor, dumb girl!
Who will take you in, who will help you, how will you ask the way? Come,
my girl, you are going to do a very foolish thing. Wait a little while,
at least."
But Sister Anne had made up her mind, and nothing could move her; she
shook her head as she looked at the old shepherd; then raised her eyes
to heaven, as if to say:
"God will take pity on me and guide my steps."
He tried once more to keep her.
"What about money?" he said; "you need money in the world, my girl; I
know that, although I haven't lived much in the world. I haven't got any
myself, and I can't give you anything for your house and what there is
in it, although it's well worth something."
Sister Anne smiled, then took from her bosom a small canvas bag, and
showed the old man four gold pieces: it was Marguerite's little hoard.
Some time before she died, the good woman had told her to look in the
corner of the cabin, under her bed; there she had found the little bag
securely tied, and Marguerite had said to her:
"Take it, my child; it's for you; it's the fruit of my savings in sixty
years of toil. I have always meant it for you; perhaps it will help you
to buy some more goats."
At sight of the four gold pieces, the old shepherd ceased his efforts to
detain her, for he believed that with that amount of money she could go
round the world.
"Go, my child," he said; "I will keep your cabin; remember that it still
belongs to you, if ever you want to come back to it."
Sister Anne smiled sadly; then, with a last glance at her home, she went
forth, with her light bundle in one hand, and in the other a stick on
which she leaned as she walked. She saluted Marguerite's grave in the
garden; her goats ran after her, as if they expected her to drive them
to the hill as usual. She caressed them, weeping, for they had come to
be her only friends, and something told her that she would never see
them again.
What memories stirred her heart as she walked through the woods! There
was the place where they had sat so often! yonder the brook, by which
she first saw him, and where he told her that he loved her! Those
familiar spots seemed alive with his presence, and she found it hard to
make up her mind to leave them. But she said to herself, to sustain her
courage:
"I am going to join him; and perhaps we shall return together."
She climbed the hill, and knelt at the foot of the tree where Clotilde
died. She prayed to her mother to watch over her from on high, and to
guide her in her journey. Then she descended the hill, in the direction
of the town; she followed the road that he had taken, and wished that
she could discover his footprints.
XXIII
SISTER ANNE'S JOURNEY.--THE FOREST
The dumb girl had begun her journey at daybreak; it was a cold but fine
morning; a heavy frost had dried up the roads, frozen the streams, and
checked the torrents. The fields were deserted; the peasants who were
abroad wasted no time, but hastened to return to their cabins and sit
down in front of the fireplace, where the stumps they had brought from
the forest snapped and crackled. A bright fire enlivens the long winter
evening, and the poor beggar, as he passes through a village, stops and
gazes enviously at the flame that shines through a cottage window,
overjoyed when he finds an opportunity to warm himself on the public
square, before a bundle or two of straw which other poor wretches have
set on fire.
It was only four hours since Sister Anne had set out, and her eyes were
already struck by the novelty of what she saw. Having never seen
anything besides her own cabin, her woods, and the village of Vizille,
she paused in amazement before a forge, or a mill, or a country house,
which seemed to her a very castle. Everything was new to her; but how
was she to find her way in this world, which seemed to her so immense,
how could she find that city which she could not name, and of which she
did not even know the direction? Sometimes these thoughts made her heart
sink; she would stop and look sadly about; then she would think of
Frédéric, and resume her journey.
Toward midday, she arrived at a small hamlet, and knocked at the door of
a peasant's cottage; it was opened by a young woman, who was nursing one
child, while four others played about her, and an old woman kindled the
fire with an armful of dry branches she had just brought from the woods.
"What do you want, my good woman?" asked the young mother. Sister Anne
gazed at the picture before her, and could not take her eyes from the
child at its mother's breast. A gleam of joy lighted up her face; one
could see that she was thinking at that moment:
"I will nurse my child, too; I will carry him at my bosom and receive
his caresses."
"Why don't you say what you want?" said the old woman, without taking
her eyes from the fire.
"Oh! see how pale she is, mother!" said the younger woman; "and how she
seems to be suffering! To think of such a young thing, and so near her
time, travelling about when it's as cold as this!--You are going to join
your husband, I suppose?"
Sister Anne sighed; then, seeing that they were waiting for her answer,
she explained by signs that she could not speak.
"Mon Dieu! mother, she's dumb! Poor woman!"
"Dumb!" cried the old mother. "What, my dear, can't you talk? How I pity
you, poor child! Are you deaf too?"
Sister Anne's pantomime indicated that she could hear them perfectly.
"Well, that's lucky, on my word!" exclaimed the old woman, walking
toward the traveller; while all the children stared curiously at her,
thinking that a mute was not like other people.
"Was it some accident that made you dumb, my girl? have you been so
long? Was it an illness? Can't it be cured?"
"Let us first give the poor creature what she needs, mother," said the
young woman; "let her rest and eat something; then you can question
her."
They bustled about, and seated Sister Anne in front of the fire; one
child took her bundle, another her stick, and the old mother brought her
food, for the daughter could not leave the child she was nursing. Sister
Anne, touched by their kindness to her, manifested her gratitude by such
pathetic gestures, that the occupants of the little cottage were deeply
moved.
"So it isn't the same everywhere as it is at my village," thought the
young wayfarer; "here, instead of turning me away and looking down on
me, they are kind to me, and treat me like their own child. The world
isn't so cruel, after all."
This welcome revived her courage; but she could not answer all the old
woman's questions. The peasants believed, according to her signs, that
she was going to join her husband.
"He's in the city, I suppose?" queried the old woman.
Sister Anne nodded her head; and as Grenoble was the nearest city, they
concluded that that was her destination.
After remaining several hours beneath that hospitable roof, she
determined to resume her journey; but first she took one of the gold
pieces from her little bag and offered it to the young woman.
"Keep it, my dear," said she; "we don't want anything for what we've
done. You're so much to be pitied for not being able to talk, that you
deserve to be taken in and put up everywhere for nothing; but,
unluckily, everybody don't think so; there's some folks with hard,
unfeeling hearts. You're going to the city, and you'll need all your
money; they won't refuse it there."
Sister Anne expressed her gratitude as best she could. She kissed the
young mother and her little nursling affectionately, then left the
cottage, after they had pointed out the road to Grenoble, where they
supposed that she was going.
The young woman did not travel rapidly; her pregnancy, her lack of
practice in walking, and the bundle of clothing she carried, compelled
her to stop frequently. She would sit down on a felled tree, a stone, or
the bank of a ditch, and wait until her strength had returned and she
could go on.
Sometimes other travellers passed her while she was resting. Those in
carriages did not look at her; several men on horseback cast a glance at
her; but the pedestrians stopped and said a few words to her. Receiving
no reply, they went their way, some thinking that she was half-witted,
others calling her impertinent because she did not deign to speak to
them. Sister Anne gazed at them with an air of surprise, smiled at a
peasant who proposed to take her on his horse, and lowered her eyes when
another lost his temper because she did not answer him; the most curious
ended by doing as the others did, and left her.
Toward nightfall, Sister Anne, having followed the directions given her,
reached Grenoble. The sight of a large city was a source of fresh
surprise, which increased with every step she took in the streets, where
the people were dressed so much more handsomely than in her village.
Everything surprised and bewildered her, and she trembled as she
walked. The tall houses, the shops, the throng of people moving in every
direction, the continual uproar, the strange way in which the passers-by
gazed at her--everything tended to increase her confusion. Poor girl!
how would it be if you were in Paris?
But it grew dark, and she must seek shelter for the night. She dared not
enter any of the houses; they all seemed too fine; she was afraid that
she would not be admitted. For a long while, she wandered at random
through those unfamiliar streets; but she was tired out at last, and
determined to knock somewhere. The poor child did not know what an inn
was; she thought that she could obtain a place to sleep anywhere by
paying for it.
She knocked at the door of a house of modest appearance. The door
opened, and she entered trembling.
"What do you want?" demanded an old tailor, who acted as concierge.
The girl looked sadly at him, and made signs to indicate that she could
not speak; but he paid no attention to them, and repeated his question.
Receiving no reply, he sprang to his feet in a rage, ran to Sister Anne,
took her by the arm, and put her out of the door, saying:
"Oho! so you won't tell where you're going, won't you? Folks don't get
in here that way, my girl."
This reception was not encouraging; the poor girl was once more in the
street; her eyes filled with tears, but she summoned all her courage and
knocked at another door. There, they called her a beggar, and refused to
admit her. She could stand it no longer; her sobs choked her; she sat
down on a stone bench beside a door and wept bitterly. In a moment the
door opened, and an old couple came out, wrapped in furs and
comforters, followed by a servant carrying a lantern. As they passed,
they ordered Sister Anne to leave the bench, which belonged to their
house, calling her an idler and a beggar, and threatening to have her
put in prison if she did not move on. Sister Anne rose, trembling in
every limb, and dragged her sorrow and weariness elsewhere; and the old
couple went their way, chuckling over what they had done, and promising
to hold forth concerning the audacity of the lower classes at the party
where they were to pass the evening.