know which way to turn. The treatment she had met with gave her a very
depressing idea of life in cities. But she must find a shelter for the
night. She spied a house more brightly lighted than the others; the
front door was open, and many persons were going in and out. She took
one of her gold pieces in her hand, afraid to enter unless she exhibited
it. This time she had made a more fortunate selection: the house in
question was an inn, and the sight of the gold piece procured her a
cordial reception.
When the landlady found that the young traveller could not answer her
questions, she felt called upon to talk for two, and, while she led the
way to a small bedroom, extolled the advantages of her house and the way
in which it was kept, asked her where she came from and where she was
going, then interrupted herself by exclaiming:
"Mon Dieu! what a fool I am! I ask that just as if you could answer."
A moment later, she resumed her chatter, saying:
"It's very hard! I don't understand your signs, I don't understand 'em
at all. Never mind, my child; you shall be served on the dot. If my
nephew was only here! he knows mathematics, and he'd soon explain your
signs. But he's gone away, poor boy! he's a clerk in the telegraph
office at Lyon, now."
At last she left Sister Anne, who, having eaten sparingly, was able to
enjoy the rest she needed so sorely. Sleep, poor girl, and may happy
dreams bring momentary oblivion of your sufferings!
As she had heard the hostess say more than once: "You are in the best
hotel in Grenoble," she knew the name of the city, and remembered that
Frédéric had mentioned that name. That recollection led her to resolve
not to leave that place until she had sought him there; and the next
morning, after she had succeeded in making her hostess understand that
she proposed to pass that day also at Grenoble, she left the inn and set
out to search the city, which seemed to her enormously large.
As she walked along, she looked at every window in every house. If
Frédéric were there, she thought that he would see her pass, and would
either call to her or run after her. Sometimes she stopped, thinking
that she recognized his figure; but she soon discovered her error. She
passed the whole day thus, and did not return to the inn until it was so
dark that she could see nothing.
"Have you been looking about our city?" inquired the landlady; "it's a
very pretty place, I tell you, a very pretty place, our city of
Grenoble. But it isn't as big as Lyon, and even Lyon don't come near
Paris."
At the word _Paris_, the young traveller made a joyful movement, and,
grasping the hostess's arm, signified that that was where she wanted to
go. But she did not make her meaning clear.
"You are going to Lyon, I'll wager," said the hostess; "that isn't so
far; fifteen leagues, that's all. To be sure, in your condition you
can't walk very fast; but in three or four days at most, you ought to do
it."
Sister Anne went sadly to her room. How could she find the road to
Paris, if she could not make people understand that that was where she
wanted to go? That thought disheartened her; but she had implored her
mother to guide her on her journey; she prayed to her again, and hope
was born anew in her heart; without hope, what would be left for the
unhappy?
The next day, the girl prepared to leave the inn; the landlady presented
a bill to her, of which she could make nothing; but she tendered a gold
piece and received very little change. In cities, one has to pay for
every reverence, every attention. Sister Anne had been treated with
great courtesy, so that her stay at the inn cost her rather dear.
They pointed out the road to Lyon, and she set forth once more, with her
little bundle and her stick. But how easy it is to lose one's way in the
hilly, wooded paths between Grenoble and Lyon! She abandoned herself to
Providence for guidance. She walked most of the day, and at night,
thoroughly exhausted, went to a farmhouse, where they consented to let
her sleep in a barn. But, provided that she could pass the night where
she was sheltered from the cold, she slept as well on straw as on
feathers; fatigue enabled her at last to sleep several hours.
Her accommodation at the farm helped to exhaust her little store, and
the young traveller began to realize that she must be sparing of it, for
it was almost the only talisman by means of which she could obtain
shelter. Hospitable folk are rare. The most humane think that they are
doing much for the poor wayfarer when they give him a trifling sum of
money and a crust of bread; but they will not receive him under their
roof. Far distant are the days when men deemed it an honor to give
shelter to a stranger, without inquiring as to his rank and his means;
when they shared their fire and their repast and their bed with him.
Other times, other manners! We have become very proud, we are no longer
inclined to share anything. By way of compensation, we have excellent
friends, who come to our house and eat our bread, drink our wine, and
sometimes make love to our wives, and who, when they leave, go elsewhere
and say countless cruel things about us; but they do it from excess of
affection, and because they are afraid that we may have other friends
than themselves.
Toward noon of the second day after she left Grenoble, Sister Anne,
absorbed by her recollections, did not notice that she had strayed from
the road that had been pointed out to her. Not until she began to feel
the need of rest did she look about for the village, which, according to
the directions she had received in the morning, could not be far away.
The place where she was at that moment was wild and deserted; there was
no house in sight. She climbed a hill, and could see nothing in front of
her but an extensive forest of firs. On her left, a mountain stream,
with ice floating on the surface, plunged into a deep and winding
ravine; on her right was a bare mountain side, with steep cliffs, but no
human habitation.
She began to fear that she had lost her way, and hesitated for some time
as to the best course for her to pursue. The roads to the right and left
had a most unpromising look; she was reluctant to retrace her steps; so
she decided to take the road leading to the forest. After walking about
half an hour, she found herself among the stately firs, which time had
not bent, and whose branches, although partly despoiled of their
foliage, seemed to rise no less proudly toward the clouds and to defy
wind and frost.
An excellent road led directly into the forest, and Sister Anne did not
hesitate to take it. She could see the marks of wheels and of horses'
feet, and she hoped that it would lead her to the village or to some
nearby city. She surmounted her fatigue, in order that she might reach a
place of shelter before dark. As she walked on, she did not meet a human
being, and there was a sombreness and gloom about that road, hemmed in
by the forest on both sides, that depressed her beyond words. Her eyes,
straining to discover the end of the interminable road, saw naught save
the dark firs, and there was no indication that she was approaching the
village. Her heart sank; night was beginning to envelop the earth in its
dark folds; she could no longer distinguish anything in the paths that
led to right and left; and soon Sister Anne, her strength giving way
before her courage, felt that it was impossible for her to go farther.
So she was forced to make up her mind to pass the night in the forest.
It was not fear that made the poor child's heart beat fast; she did not
know what robbers were, for there had never been any in her woods. But
the thought of passing a whole night in the forest, without shelter, in
such cold weather, and in her condition! However, it must be done. She
seated herself at the foot of a large tree. She was always careful, when
she passed through a town or a village, to supply herself with
provisions; so she ate some bread and dried nuts; then, wrapping
herself as well as she could in her clothes, and placing her bundle
under her head, she waited for sleep to come. Thanks to the fatigue of
that long day's journey, she had not long to wait.
It was midnight when the dumb girl opened her eyes, and the moon,
shining directly over the road on the edge of which she had fallen
asleep, lighted the strange picture which awaited her at her awakening.
Four men stood about her, all dressed like poor woodcutters, in jackets
and loose trousers held in place by broad belts; they wore broad-brimmed
hats, some with the brims turned down, while the others, being turned up
in front, revealed faces that bore no trace of gentleness or humanity.
Their long, uncombed hair and beards intensified the sinister expression
of their features; each of them carried a gun, on which he leaned; and
each had a hunting-knife and a pair of pistols in his belt.
Two of these men were stooping over Sister Anne; another held a dark
lantern near her face; while the fourth, who also had his eyes upon her,
seemed to be listening, to make sure that everything was quiet on the
road.
The sight of those four faces fixed upon hers caused Sister Anne an
involuntary shock; and, although she did not appreciate the danger that
threatened her, she was conscious of a feeling of terror which she could
not understand, and closed her eyes to avoid those searching glances.
"What in the devil have we got here?" said one of the two who were
leaning over her; "I'm very much afraid that it don't amount to much,
and I doubt if it's worth while to stop."
"Eh? why not?" said the man with the lantern; "it's better'n nothing,
anyway. Look, Pierre, she's got a bundle under her head."
"A lot of worthless rags; don't you see that she's a woman as works in
the fields?"
"I say! is she dead or asleep?" said a third. "Come, Leroux, just push
her a bit! Are we going to spend the night staring at this drudge?"
"Death of my life! I don't know as we've got anything better to do.
All's quiet on the road--eh, Jacques?"
Jacques was the man who stood a few steps away, apparently listening.
When his comrades addressed him, he approached the group about the girl,
saying:
"Damnation! another bad night!"
"Not so bad as it might be!" rejoined Leroux, still gazing at Sister
Anne; "morbleu! that's a pretty woman!"
It was at that moment that Sister Anne opened her eyes, resolved to
appeal to the compassion of the men who surrounded her, and whose
language she did not comprehend, having no suspicion of their
profession.
"I say, look!" cried Leroux; "she's waking up. She's got a fine pair of
eyes, on my word! I'm curious to hear what she'll say."
Sister Anne cast a glance of entreaty upon them, one after another,
clasping her hands as if to implore their pity.
"Oh! don't you be afraid," said Pierre; "we ain't going to hurt you.
Where did you come from? where you going? what put it into your head to
sleep in our forest?"
The dumb girl, taking the robbers for woodcutters, tried to make them
understand that she had lost her way.
"What's this! a woman, and she won't speak!" cried Jacques; "what does
this mean? Is it fear that makes her dumb? Come, speak--damnation!"
Sister Anne rose, and indicated by signs that she could not speak.
"What devilish kind of a woman is this?" cried Pierre; while Leroux,
holding his lantern still nearer to her, exclaimed, with a roar of
laughter:
"My eyes, comrades! Dumb or not, the hen has found her rooster, and the
egg won't be long coming!"
This jest was welcomed with a savage laugh by the other three robbers;
and all four kept their eyes fixed on the poor girl, who, not divining
the cause of their merriment, but unable to endure their glances,
timidly lowered her eyes and stood trembling in the midst of them.
"Come on, let's leave the woman," said Pierre; "she's a poor deaf mute;
we mustn't take her on our shoulders."
"Deaf?" rejoined Leroux, whose eyes gleamed with a terrifying
expression; "why, such a woman as that's a downright treasure. She's so
pretty! she takes my eye, and I'll make her my moll as soon as she gets
rid of her load."
"Nonsense, Leroux! you're joking."
"No! ten thousand thunders! a deaf mute--think how useful she'll be to
us in our business."
Sister Anne, trembling like a leaf, did not fully understand the
conversation of the miscreants; but, observing their indecision, and
fearing that they would refuse to give her the shelter of which she felt
more in need than ever, for the cold had benumbed all her limbs, she
took her little store from her bosom. She knew that the sight of money
smooths all obstacles; so she took a coin from her little bag, and
offered it with an air of entreaty to one of the ruffians.
"Oho! she's got money, and she offers it to us; that's good! Parbleu!
give it here, give it here, girl!"
As he spoke, Pierre snatched the bag from Sister Anne, who was stupefied
at being thus forcibly despoiled of her treasure; while the robbers
greedily counted its contents.
"Three gold pieces, as I'm alive!" cried Jacques; and the brigands'
faces gleamed with savage joy. "That's more'n we've made in five days!"
"Didn't I tell you this wasn't a bad find?" rejoined Leroux. "Come,
comrades, let's take this girl to our hole, and have a good time."
With that, the fellow seized Sister Anne's arm and dragged her into the
forest; Jacques took charge of the bundle, Pierre followed him, and
Franck, the fourth man, taking the lantern from Leroux's hand, went
ahead to light his companions.
The dumb girl walked unresistingly in the midst of the robbers, still
not realizing the horror of her position; she thought they were taking
her to their home, to their wives and children. But their brutal
features, their abrupt and insolent manners, the weapons they carried,
and the strangeness of their language, inspired her with a terror she
could not control. She glanced timidly at them again and again, hoping
to find, for her comfort, a look of sympathy or pity on their faces; but
whenever she raised her eyes, they met Leroux's fastened upon her and
blazing with brutal passion. That ruffian's features intensified the
fear caused by his manners: his curly hair corresponded in color with
his name, which his companions had given him on that account; his pale,
gray eyes rolled this way and that with amazing rapidity; his mouth,
about which a ferocious smile always lurked, was surmounted by heavy
moustaches of the color of his hair; and a broad scar, extending from
the top of the nose to the bottom of the left ear, put the finishing
touch to his sinister countenance. He had one arm about the girl's
body, supporting her as they walked rapidly along the forest paths,
while the other bandits, by their actions and their speech, momentarily
added to Sister Anne's alarm.
The robbers lived in a wretched hovel in the heart of the forest; by
day, they passed for poor woodcutters, being careful to keep their
weapons out of sight in a cellar under their den. But at night they
armed themselves to the teeth and betook themselves to the highroad,
where, when they considered that they were sufficiently numerous, they
attacked belated travellers.
Sister Anne was surprised that they had to go so far to reach their
home, and even more surprised by the almost impassable paths they chose.
At last, after walking more than an hour, they led her down into a
ravine, amid dense underbrush. Soon she made out a flickering light in
the window of a hut, and a woman opened the door after the robbers had
whistled several times.
The appearance of one of her own sex cheered Sister Anne for a moment;
but when she looked closely at the woman who appeared in the doorway,
her short-lived hope vanished. In truth, the aspect of the robbers'
companion was not calculated to restore tranquillity to the unhappy
girl's mind: she was a tall woman, shockingly thin, and her strongly
marked features wore an expression of calm, cold cruelty which pointed
to absolute lack of sensibility; her face was of a livid pallor; a red
silk handkerchief covered her head, and a handful of rags barely
concealed her emaciated body.
"Here we are, Christine," cried the brigands, as they approached. "We've
got a prize; we've brought you a companion you can't quarrel with."
At that, Christine stepped out of the house, and, snatching the lantern
from Franck's hand, held it close to Sister Anne's face. After examining
her closely for several minutes, she said, in a harsh voice:
"What's all this?"
"A woman, can't you see? And a rare woman, too! a deaf mute!"
"A deaf mute! A fine capture, I swear! What do you expect to do with
her?"
"That's none of your business," said Leroux, in a voice that echoed
through the forest; "I took this woman for myself; I like her, she suits
me just as she is. Don't you dare to look crooked at her, or I'll hang
you up to the tallest fir in the forest!"
Christine did not seem alarmed by the threat; she continued to stare at
the girl, and, when she noticed her condition, a sarcastic smile lighted
up her face, and she muttered between her teeth:
"You'll be sure of having a brat, anyway."
A blow which sent her reeling against the wall of the cabin was Leroux's
only reply to this remark of the repellent Christine; she rushed at him
with a threatening air, but Pierre stepped between them.
"Come, come, comrades," he said, "that's enough of such fooling; we
mustn't let the new-comer raise a row here. Go in, Christine, and see
about giving us some supper, quick; we're as hungry as wolves!"
During this altercation between the robbers and their housekeeper, the
unfortunate dumb girl felt a sensation of fear, of absolute terror, such
as she had never known before. The aspect of the woman, the language of
the men, whose brutal character she began to divine, the appearance of
that horrible lair--everything combined to give her some conception of
the perils that encompassed her. But what could she do? what would
become of her? She would have been only too glad, at that moment, to be
far away from that spot, even though she had to endure the severe cold,
unsheltered, in the forest. But there was no means of escape, and they
did not return her money; they had taken her treasure and her clothes;
was it for a moment only? she dared not hope so, and she discovered some
new cause of alarm every minute. She shuddered from head to foot, her
teeth chattered, her knees gave way under her.
"See!" said Leroux, holding her up; "that fury has frightened my pretty
bird.--Come, don't be afraid, little one, and let's go in and get warm."
The robbers entered the hovel, which was divided into two rooms: the
outer one was that in which the occupants of that horrible den passed
most of their time; there they ate, and slept on bundles of straw in one
corner. There was a fireplace, where a huge fire was blazing, which
warmed the room, the larger and better of the two. The other, which had
no fireplace, and but a single window looking into the forest, was
Christine's bedroom; they kept their provisions and firewood there.
When she entered that dirty, smoke-begrimed room, and saw the heap of
straw in a corner, the weapons standing against the wall, and the great
fire, at which several huge joints of meat were cooking for the robbers'
supper, Sister Anne's strength gave way, and Leroux carried her to the
fire, saying:
"Sit down there and warm yourself; the supper'll bring back your
strength."
"What a damned fool you are, to talk to her as if she could hear you!"
"That's so, but I keep forgetting it."
"How do you know she's deaf, anyway?" said Franck; "perhaps she's making
believe. She might be just dumb."
"Then someone must have cut her tongue out," said Leroux; "but anyone
can see that she's got one like anybody else; so, as she can't speak, it
must be because she's deaf. You fellows don't understand about that; but
I've travelled in my time, I know more'n you do, and I know that deaf
mutes are mute because they can't hear. All you've got to do is look at
the woman; anybody can see that she don't hear a word we're saying."
In truth, Sister Anne, since she had entered the cabin, being completely
prostrated by fatigue, pain, and fear, had seemed to be insensible to
everything that was taking place. However, she heard every word that the
brigands said; but, on learning that they believed her to be deaf, a
secret presentiment warned her not to correct their error. If they felt
sure that she could not hear them, they would not hesitate to discuss
their plans before her; thus she would learn what she must fear or hope;
and perhaps they might unwittingly suggest a means of escape. That ray
of hope sustained the poor girl's courage, and she strove to conceal the
emotion caused by the conversation of the cutthroats.
They had laid aside their arms, and while waiting for supper discoursed
of their exploits. The dumb girl learned with dismay that she was among
villains capable of any crime. But in the very excess of her despair she
found a source of courage; and realizing at last the full extent of the
perils which encompassed her, she felt that her only hope of escaping
them was by craft and adroitness. If she alone were threatened with
death, she would not fear it, but she wished to save the life of the
being she carried within her. Mother-love has inspired many acts of
heroism; it was that sentiment which sustained Sister Anne and gave her
strength to endure her horrible situation.
Christine placed a table in the middle of the room, and covered it with
food, bottles, and glasses; the robbers seated themselves about the
table, and fell to with a sort of brutal satisfaction. Sister Anne
remained in front of the fire. Leroux placed bread, wine, and roast meat
before her; she thanked him with an inclination of the head, and forced
herself to eat a little, in order to keep up her strength and to
dissemble her terror.
"You see that woman?" said Leroux to his companions; "well, I'll bet
she's as meek as a lamb; I'll do whatever I choose with her."
"Don't trust to looks," said Christine, as she joined the robbers at the
table; "a woman can take a man in with those airs and graces; but faces
are deceitful."
"Yours isn't, for you're the picture of Lucifer's sister!"
This jest made them all laugh, they filled and emptied their glasses
with startling rapidity; the more they drank, the more they talked. The
hideous Christine kept pace with them, and only Leroux, whose thoughts
were fixed on Sister Anne, retained some show of reason.
"Where could this woman have come from?" queried one of the thieves;
"she don't look as if she worked in the fields."
"Bah! it's some girl that's gone wrong; her lover's left her, and she's
travelling about looking for him. That's the way with all the girls that
listen to lovers!"
Sister Anne wiped away the tears that trembled on her eyelids, for her
heart told her that the man was right.
"_Morgué!_" said Christine; "if I had a daughter, and she was unlucky
enough to go wrong, I'd strangle her with my own hands."
"Hear that!" said Jacques; "it's a blasted shame that you haven't got
some children; they'd be a handsome lot!"
"I don't care who the woman is," said Leroux; "she shan't leave this
house.--And you, Christine, treat her well, or remember what I promised
you!"
"I snap my fingers at your hussy. Look, you'd do much better to comfort
her; I believe she's squalling now; go and give her a kiss."
"What about us?" said the other robbers, heated by the fumes of the
wine; "we'll comfort her, too. Let's go and kiss the pretty mute; we
must cheer her up a bit."
With that, Leroux's three comrades rose to go to Sister Anne; but he
planted himself in front of them, and, taking a pistol in each hand,
shouted to them in stentorian tones:
"Not another step, corbleu! or I'll kill you! That woman's mine; I found
her on the road, when you were going by like fools without seeing her; I
insisted on bringing her here; I swore I'd make her my wife; and, damn
your eyes! the first man who touches her dies by my hand!"
This harangue checked the ardor of his fellows; they knew their
companion, they knew that the act would follow close on the heels of the
threat; so they contented themselves with laughing at Leroux's jealousy,
while Sister Anne, frozen with terror by the scene, retreated into a
corner of the room and fell on her knees before her captors.
Leroux went to her and tried to soothe her; but, fearing some new
enterprise on the part of his companions, he led her into the other
room, and, pointing to a wretched pallet, motioned to her to lie down
upon it; then he went out, locking the door on her.