The traveller seemed extremely preoccupied all the rest of the day, and
whenever his eyes rested on the dumb girl he fell into a profound
reverie. For five days, Sister Anne's condition was such that her life
was in danger, and the old man did not leave the farm. At the end of
that time there was a perceptible improvement; the physician promised
that she would recover, but said that she would be very weak for a long
time, and that it would be imprudent in the extreme for her to leave
the farm before her lying-in.
Sister Anne's eyes filled with tears when she was told of this; she was
afraid of being a burden to the kind-hearted folk who had taken her in;
but the stranger lost no time in pacifying and consoling her.
"I have provided for everything," he said; "wait here until your health
is fully restored, and, if nothing calls you elsewhere, remain
permanently with these good people; they love you, and you will be happy
here."
But Sister Anne sadly shook her head, and motioned with her hand that
she must go a long, long way. The stranger, who had already given
twenty-five louis to the villagers for their past and future care of the
young woman, put a purse filled with gold in his rescuer's hands. She
would fain have refused it, and was sadly at a loss to express her
gratitude.
"You owe me nothing, my child," he said; "remember that you saved my
life, and that I shall owe you gratitude as long as I live. Take this
paper too; my name and address are written on it. If you are ever in
difficulty, let me know, and always count on my protection."
Sister Anne took the paper and placed it in the purse he had given her.
He, after gazing at her for some moments with evident emotion, kissed
her on the forehead, then, tearing himself away from her demonstrations
of gratitude, entered his carriage and drove away, leaving at the farm
abundant tokens of his generosity.
After he had gone, Sister Anne was melancholy and depressed for a long
while. Her heart went out to that stranger; in her mind, his image had
taken its place beside Frédéric's; but the loving friendship she felt
for the one in no wise impaired her ardent love for the other.
XXV
THE MARRIAGE TAKES PLACE
Frédéric did not pass a day without seeing Constance; since the lovers
had mutually avowed their love, that sentiment seemed to grow stronger
hourly in both their hearts. Mademoiselle de Valmont loved with the
unrestrained ardor of a heart that no longer seeks to conceal its
feelings. She was proud of Frédéric's love for her, and her happiness
consisted in returning it.
Frédéric, even more passionate and impulsive, yielded to the sentiment
that swept him off his feet; but, while he loved as dearly, he could not
be so happy; he needed to forget himself, to banish recollections which
disturbed his bliss. Like those persons who never look behind, for fear
of seeing something to frighten them, Frédéric tried to drive away the
thoughts that carried him back to a still recent period. He desired to
think solely of Constance, he knew that thenceforth she ought to prevail
over all other women; of what use, then, was an occasional sigh which
would bring no comfort to her whom he had abandoned? A man may argue
thus, but, none the less, even in the very bosom of happiness, there is
something in the bottom of his heart that reproves him for the wrong he
has done--unless, indeed, he has no heart, and there are many people in
whom we should seek for it in vain.
The Comte de Montreville had been absent a fortnight. Frédéric was not
certain as to the purpose of his father's journey, although he
suspected it; but he had no desire to take advantage of his absence to
go away himself. Could he leave Constance for a single day? Although she
had set his mind at rest as to the marriage that had frightened him,
Frédéric was not altogether satisfied. He begged his betrothed to
question her uncle on that subject. Constance dared not mention it to
the general; but at last, vanquished by Frédéric's entreaties, she made
up her mind to question him, and one morning she went to him in his
study.
"Uncle," she began, blushing, and lowering her eyes, "I have been told
that you have been making plans for me."
The general smiled as he looked at her, then tried to assume a serious
tone, with which, however, his expression did not harmonize.
"Who told you, mademoiselle, that I had made plans concerning you?"
"Monsieur Frédéric, uncle, who learned it from his father."
"The devil! so Monsieur Frédéric interests himself in it, does he? What
might these plans be, mademoiselle?"
"You should know better than I, uncle."
"Gad! that's true, you're right. Well, yes, I have a plan of my own."
"For my future, uncle?" asked Constance, in a trembling voice.
"Yes, for your marriage, in fact."
"Marriage! can it be possible? Oh! uncle----"
And the sweet girl looked up at the general, with appealing eyes already
filled with tears.
"Come, come, calm yourself, morbleu!" exclaimed the general, taking her
hand. "Here you are up in arms, as if I proposed to make you unhappy.
Don't you want to marry?"
"Oh! I don't say that, uncle."
"Well, then, why this terror when I tell you that I think of giving you
a husband?"
"Why, because I want--I don't want----"
"Because you want and don't want! Deuce take it! why can't a woman ever
say what she means! Why don't you tell me at once that you don't want to
marry anyone but Frédéric?"
"Oh! uncle, did you know----"
"I should have to be as blind as a bat not to know that; and this fine
gentleman, who presumes to love my niece--and who sighs and is
melancholy and tears his hair, instead of just coming to me and asking
for her hand----"
"Oh! my dear uncle--are you really willing?"
"Parbleu! am I in the habit of not being willing to do anything you
want?"
"But this marriage with some colonel?"
"That was a fable invented by my old friend--I don't quite know why; but
he came to me and begged me to let him say that; I couldn't refuse to
let him do as he chose, although I don't understand all this mystery;
for it seems to me that when two young people love each other and are
suited to each other, there's no need of marching and countermarching to
marry them. But, no matter; Montreville has his tactics, and he's bound
to follow them. Don't think of telling Frédéric this, for his father
would be angry with me; but when he comes back, which will be soon, I'll
put an end to all this prevarication, and give you to your lover, or
he'll end by making himself ill with his sighing."
Constance kissed her uncle and left him; the certainty of happiness made
her more beautiful than ever. Frédéric soon returned, and inquired
anxiously what her uncle had said to her. Constance tried to dissemble
her joy; the most loving woman is not sorry to tease her lover a little
now and then, for in his torments she sees fresh proofs of his love.
"Well!" said Frédéric, impatiently; "why don't you answer me? You have
spoken to your uncle about this proposed marriage--has he formed such a
plan?"
"Why, yes; he is thinking of marrying me."
"Then I was right!" cried the young man, with an agitation that made
Constance tremble; "he is thinking of it; my father told me the truth.
But you shall not be stolen from my love----"
"My dear, don't get excited."
"How can I help it, when you tell me that you are to be married?
Constance, if your uncle is a tyrant, I will carry you off. We will fly
together to the ends of the earth! You, you alone, will suffice for my
happiness! This very night, if you agree, we will start. What,
mademoiselle, you laugh at sight of my despair!"
"Oh! Frédéric, what a hot-headed boy you are!"
"Ah! mademoiselle is pleased to give me lessons in self-restraint! It
seems to me that this projected marriage doesn't disturb you much. Is
this how you love me?"
"Naughty boy! what a savage reproof! Ah! my dear, because my love is
more placid than yours, don't think that it is less strong and deep."
"But this marriage that your uncle has in mind?"
"Suppose it were you, monsieur, to whom he thinks of marrying me?"
"Me!"
Frédéric's features lightened up with a new expression; and Constance
put her finger on his lips, saying:
"Hush! not a word, my dear; uncle forbade me to speak--but how can I let
you suffer long?"
"What, Constance, can it really be true? Oh! what bliss! your uncle is
the best of men! Let me go and throw myself at his feet!"
"No, indeed! do you want him to scold me? shall I never be able to make
you amenable to reason? Sit down here, monsieur, by my side."
"But when may I tell him that I love you?"
"When your father returns--he won't be away much longer, I am sure. Do
you know whether he went very far?"
"Why--no--I don't think so; I am not certain."
"Well, my dear, now you are pensive."
"No, indeed I'm not!"
"So long as we were not certain of our happiness, I overlooked these
dreamy airs, these fits of melancholy that seize you sometimes when you
are with me; but understand, monsieur, that I won't have any more of
such nonsense. You have no trouble, dear, no secret sorrow, that you
can't confide to Constance, have you?"
"Of course not!"
"Promise me that you will tell me everything, absolutely everything;
that I shall have your entire confidence. Ought a husband and wife to
conceal anything from each other?"
"Yes, Constance, I promise; I will tell you all my thoughts."
Frédéric was not absolutely truthful at that moment, but his falsehood
was excusable, for his entire confidence just then would not have
afforded great pleasure to Constance, who was convinced that her lover
thought of no one but her, and who, despite her tranquil air, her
gentleness, and her confidence, loved Frédéric too ardently not to be
susceptible to jealousy, a sentiment which, in women, is almost always
inseparably connected with love.
The Comte de Montreville returned to Paris after an absence of nearly a
month. Under any other circumstances, Frédéric would have been surprised
at the length of a journey which might have been completed in a
fortnight, but in Constance's company he had given little thought to it.
When he saw his father again, however, all his memories of Dauphiné
rushed back into his mind; he was embarrassed in his presence, longing
to question him, but shrinking from it.
The count himself did not seem the same as before his departure; he was
often pensive and abstracted, as if his thoughts were engrossed by some
subject; and when he looked at his son, he, too, seemed to desire and
dread an explanation. At last, Frédéric ventured to question him, and,
contrary to his expectation, his father replied with no trace of the
stern, cold manner which he was wont to assume on approaching that
subject.
"Have you been in Dauphiné?" said Frédéric; "did you go to Vizille?"
"Yes," said the count; "I visited the neighborhood of that village,
including the wood where you lived so long."
"And did you see that--girl?"
"No, I did not see her; she had left her cabin only a few days before,
and there was nobody there but an old shepherd."
"What! Sister Anne not at her old home? Is it possible? And what of
Marguerite?"
"The old woman died some months ago."
"And Sister Anne has gone away? Poor child! what can have become of her?
In her plight, how could she find her way, make herself understood? Ah!
unfortunate girl!"
"What do you mean?" cried the count, gazing at his son with an
expression of the most intense interest; "what is this girl's plight,
which makes her such an object of pity? Answer me, Frédéric!"
"When she was seven years old, father, Sister Anne lost the power of
speech; a shocking calamity and a horrible fright deprived the poor
child of the possibility of making herself understood."
"Great God!" said the count, thunderstruck by what his son had said; "it
is she! I had divined it!"
But Frédéric did not hear his father's last words. He was engrossed by
the thought of Sister Anne, fancying that he saw her wandering through
the woods and fields, helpless and without shelter, turned away from
most public-houses, and everywhere exposed to want and misfortune. He
reflected that that was all his work, that, if he had not tried to
arouse in her heart a violent passion, she would have lived quietly in
her solitude, with no thirst for pleasures of which she knew nothing,
and with no dreams of happiness and of a different existence. At that
moment, Frédéric was overwhelmed by remorse, and he reproached himself
bitterly for his conduct to a woman of whom he was no longer enamored,
but who was still dear to him.
For a long time, the count and his son were buried in thought. The count
broke the silence at last, saying in a voice that shook with emotion:
"Have no concern as to that young woman's present lot. I have found
her."
"You have found her, father? is it possible?"
"Yes; on a farm near Grenoble. I left her there, and I provided against
her ever being in want."
"But how did you find her? You could not recognize her."
"Her misfortune, her youth--she interested me deeply; something told me
that she was the person I sought, and I have no doubt of it now, since
you have told me that she is dumb. I tell you again that you need not be
alarmed concerning her future; I left her with excellent people, who are
fond of her, and she will be very comfortable there; moreover, I shall
not fail to have an eye to her welfare."
The count was careful not to mention his adventure in the forest and his
indebtedness to Sister Anne; he was afraid that Frédéric's love would
blaze up anew if he should learn that she had saved his father's life.
He was especially solicitous that Frédéric should not know that the dumb
girl was on the point of becoming a mother; that intelligence might
disarrange the plans he had formed. For the count, although he was
interested now in Sister Anne, and proposed to take care of her and her
child, was none the less desirous for his son's marriage to his old
friend's niece; and to that end he considered it most essential to
conceal everything relating to the unhappy mute.
On arriving in Paris, he had expressly forbidden his servant to mention
the adventure in the forest or the young woman they had left at the
farm.
His father's assurance that Sister Anne was living among kindly people,
and was amply provided against want, allayed Frédéric's remorse. That
sentiment rarely lasts long in love, and the new passion is always at
hand to dispel the memories of the old one. By Constance's side the
young man entirely forgot the poor maid of the woods; and while renewing
his oaths and protestations of love to Constance, he lost the memory of
those he had laid at another woman's feet.
The Comte de Montreville's return was soon to be followed by the
marriage of the young people. Frédéric longed for it, Constance hoped
for it, and the general made no objection, because he did not believe in
making lovers sigh too long.
Thus everybody was agreed; there was no obstacle to delay their
happiness. The wedding day was fixed. The general vowed that he would
dance at his niece's wedding, although he had never danced in his life;
the count was anxious to greet Constance by the sweet name of daughter,
and the lovers--oh! you know what their desires were; it may be guessed,
but must not be said.
Engrossed by his approaching happiness, Frédéric was rarely disturbed by
the memories which brought a sad expression to his face; if by chance a
sigh escaped him, a glance from Constance speedily put to flight the
thoughts of other times. Constance was so sweet-tempered, and the near
approach of happiness made her so beautiful, that it was impossible not
to adore her.
At last the day arrived which was to witness the union of Frédéric and
Constance. The Comte de Montreville was so overjoyed that he allowed his
son to invite everyone he chose. Frédéric knew no better friend than
Dubourg, who, with all his follies, had often given him proofs of a
genuine attachment. Moreover, since Dubourg had inherited his aunt's
property, he had become much more sensible. To be sure, he was always
hard up about the middle of the month, but he had not pledged his
income, and he had taken up dominoes instead of écarté, that being a
game at which one gets much less excited.
Ménard was not forgotten, either. The worthy man was much attached to
Frédéric; he had been a little too indulgent on the journey, but the
count had forgiven that; moreover, he had always acted with the best
intentions. As for his fondness for the table, that is often considered
in society an estimable quality.
Constance was dressed with taste and elegance; but one could pay no heed
to her toilet, in presence of her beauty and her charms; for happiness,
which embellishes everything, adds to the fascination of a pretty face.
The men can only admire that; as for the women, they see at a glance
every detail of the costume, and can, at need, tell us how every pin was
put in, and how many pleats there were in the gown, in front and behind;
our perspicacity will never go so far as that.
Frédéric was radiant with love; he did not lose sight of Constance,
which is the surest means of having no unpleasant recollections.
Frédéric was very comely, too; his face was noble and winning; and if
the men admired Constance, the women were not inclined to pity her for
marrying Frédéric.
The general and the count felt the keenest satisfaction in the union of
their children. In his joy, Monsieur de Valmont was more hilarious and
effusive than the Comte de Montreville; but the latter smiled benignly
upon everybody, and, for the first time, embraced his son tenderly.
Monsieur Ménard was dressed with care and maintained a very sedate
bearing until the dinner. As for Dubourg, he was overjoyed to be invited
to his friend's wedding, and, as he desired to obtain the count's good
graces, he assumed throughout the day such a dignified air, that he
looked as if he had a fit of the _spleen_; and he tried so hard to be
staid and respectable, that he might well have been taken for a man of
sixty. Whenever the count approached him, he discoursed upon the
illusive pleasures of the world, of the bliss of retirement, and of the
joys that await the just man after death. He carried it so far, that the
general said to Frédéric:
"What a devil of a fellow your friend Dubourg is! Does he pass his time
in graveyards? I have been to him once or twice to talk, and he at once
quotes a passage from Young's _Night Thoughts_ or Massillon's _Petit
Carême_. He's a very cheerful guest for a wedding party."
Frédéric went to Dubourg and urged him to act as he naturally would;
but, convinced that his conversation, his tone, and his bearing
delighted Monsieur de Montreville, it was impossible to induce Dubourg
to change them.
A magnificent dinner was served at the Hôtel de Montreville, whence the
young people were to return in the evening to the general's house, where
they were to live. As the general was often absent, he required only a
small suite, and gave up three-fourths of the house to the newly married
pair.
Marriages in the first society have not the hilarity of bourgeois
marriages; which fact is some compensation to the bourgeoisie for not
belonging to the first society. However, the repast was rather merry in
a mild way. Monsieur Ménard devoted himself to the good cheer, as he did
at Monsieur Chambertin's; but Dubourg ate little; he refused almost
every dish, because he thought it much more _comme il faut_. Nor was it
possible to induce him to accept a glass of champagne or liqueur.
"I never take it," he said, with imperturbable phlegm.
The Comte de Montreville stared at him in amazement, while Ménard, who
sat next to him, said again and again:
"You used to take it, though; I've seen you take it often enough! Say
you're sick, and I'll believe you."
"Your friend is wonderfully sober," said the general to Frédéric; "you
have brought us an anchorite."
After the dinner, dancing engaged the attention of the guests for the
rest of the evening. The new husband and wife indulged in that pastime,
which enabled them to wait with more patience for the greater pleasures
to come; dancing is always essential to bring a wedding party to a
cheerful termination.
But Dubourg did not dance; he walked stiffly through the salons, holding
his head as if he had a stiff neck, and never stopping near an écarté
table.
"Don't you play, Monsieur Dubourg?" asked the count, with a smile.
"No, monsieur le comte; I have altogether renounced all games for money;
I care for nothing but chess; that is the only sensible game, and the
only one suited to me."
"Don't you dance, either?"
"Never; I care for nothing but the minuet, which is a sedate and
dignified dance. It's a great pity that it isn't danced nowadays."
"The deuce! Monsieur Dubourg, you are tremendously changed. You used to
be a little giddy, I think."
"Ah! monsieur le comte, other times, other cares; with advancing years,
one grows wiser."
"Advancing years! why, it's not one year yet since you played Hippolyte,
and would have made poor Ménard play Thésée."
"Oh! monsieur le comte, a very great revolution has taken place in me
since then. I care for nothing now but study and science--science above
all things; for, as Cato says: _Sine doctrina vita est quasi mortis
imago_."
The count walked away with a smile on his face, and Dubourg was
convinced that he was greatly pleased with him. The day was at an end.
Ménard returned to his tiny lodging, reviewing in his mind all the
delicious dishes he had eaten. Dubourg was no sooner outside the house
than he began to jump and run like a schoolboy who is no longer under
the master's eye. Frédéric and Constance were happy. Annoying witnesses
were no longer present to curb the transports of their affection.
Company is a burden to lovers, and they await impatiently solitude and
mystery. At last, Frédéric was permitted to take his wife away; on the
wedding night, a husband is a lover who abducts his mistress.
XXVI
SISTER ANNE BECOMES A MOTHER.--HER LONG STAY AT THE FARM
Sister Anne was still at the farmhouse where the Comte de Montreville
left her; for it is no longer a secret to us that the stranger whom she
had rescued from the robbers' hovel was Frédéric's father, then
returning from Vizille, where he had been to inquire concerning the fate
of the girl whom his son had abandoned. He had found no one in the cabin
in the woods but the old shepherd, who did not know in what direction
Sister Anne had gone. To all the count's questions, he could make no
other answer than:
"She's gone away; she insisted on going; I don't know where she's gone."
On leaving the woods, the count had visited the outskirts of Grenoble,
and was on his way back to Lyon when his carriage was stopped in the
forest.
Sister Anne, despite her longing to continue her journey, realized that
she was in no condition to travel; the moment of her delivery was
drawing near, when she could press to her heart the fruit of her love.
That thought diminished her suffering to some extent; the hope of seeing
her child diverted her thoughts at times from her troubles, and everyone
at the farm strove to restore her peace of mind and to bring back a
smile to her lips. They were worthy people, who took the most
affectionate interest in the poor girl. Even without recompense, they
would have been no less kind to her; but money does no harm, and the sum
the Comte de Montreville had given them, when he requested them to
continue to take care of Sister Anne, was considerable, according to
their ideas.
The dumb girl, realizing that her stay among them must be long, offered
them the purse that the old gentleman had given her just before he went
away; but they would take nothing from her.