excellent man you saved from the robbers paid for everything; in fact,
he paid us too much. We didn't need that to be kind to you; you're so
pretty and sweet and unfortunate! Poor little woman! I can make a guess
at your situation. Some man abused your innocence and inexperience; he
deceived you, and then dropped you! That's the story of most young girls
who haven't got any father and mother to protect 'em from the snares
those fine fellows lay for 'em. Don't cry, my child; I'm a long way
from blaming you; you're less to blame than other women! But the man who
deserted you's the one as ought to be punished. The idea of leaving you,
in the condition you're in! he must be a hard-hearted wretch!"
When she heard that, Sister Anne made a hasty gesture as if to prevent
the farmer's wife from saying any more; she put her finger on her lips
and shook her head vigorously, evidently to deny what the woman had
said.
"Well, well!" said the farmer's wife; "she don't want me to speak ill of
him! she still loves him! That's just like a woman: always ready to make
excuses for the man that does 'em the most harm. But don't you be
worried about the future, my child; stay with us; we'll love you like
our own daughter and take good care of you. You're out of reach of want
forever here."
Sister Anne pressed her hand affectionately, but her eyes refused to
make a promise which her heart had no intention of keeping. Frédéric was
still supreme in that ardent heart, and the girl did not renounce the
hope of finding him.
A short time after the stranger's departure, Sister Anne, remembering
that he had given her a paper, took it from the purse and carried it to
the farmer's wife, being anxious to know what was written on it. The
woman read: _Comte de Montreville_, _Rue de Provence_, _Paris_. There
was nothing else on the paper, and Sister Anne had no suspicion that it
was Frédéric's father's name, for her lover had never mentioned his
family name in her presence. But she was overjoyed when the farmer's
wife read _Paris;_ she tried to make her understand that that was where
she wanted to go; then she carefully replaced the paper in the purse.
"That's the gentleman's address," said her hostess; "I tell you, he
ain't like most men; he's grateful, and he won't ever forget what you
did for him. I'm sure he'd give you a kind reception, if you should go
to Paris; but what would you do in that big city? Take my advice, my
child, and stay with us; you'll be happier here."
Sister Anne was overjoyed to possess that paper with the name of the
city to which she meant to go some day. With it, she could make herself
understood, and she thanked heaven for that gift, which would enable her
to find that wonderful Paris where she hoped to find her lover as well.
After she had been two months at the farm, Sister Anne brought a son
into the world. With what delirious joy did she contemplate her child!
with what transports did she listen to his first cries! One must have
been a mother to understand the perfect bliss of that moment. Already
she fancied that she could recognize Frédéric's features in her child's;
she gazed at him incessantly and covered him with kisses; her son was
never out of her arms; weak as she was, she nursed him herself. The
farmer's wife did not try to thwart her desire, for it is a source of
ever-recurring delight to a mother, and Sister Anne seemed to enjoy it
more keenly than another. She was so proud and happy when she held her
child to her breast, that she forgot her sorrows for the moment. She did
not forget Frédéric, but her heart was no longer oppressed by sombre
melancholy; the sight of her child often brought a smile to her lips;
she felt that for her son a mother can endure everything.
Some weeks after her confinement, Sister Anne manifested a wish to
resume her journey; but the good people at the farm remonstrated with
her.
"Can you think of such a thing," said the farmer's wife, "as starting on
a journey, with a child at the breast? Remember that you don't expose
your own life only, but his too. Do you suppose that if you set out in
search of new dangers and fatigue, he'll be able to get nourishment from
your breast? No, it isn't possible; the child will soon get sick and
die, if you persist in your plan."
Endanger her son's life! that thought made the dumb girl shudder. There
was no sacrifice she would not make for her child; it was a very great
one to postpone her journey; but what the farmer's wife had said
instantly decided her to remain at the farm until her son could no
longer feel the effects of his mother's trials and sorrows.
"Good, good! you are going to stay," said the good woman, reading in
Sister Anne's eyes that she would not insist. "That's right, my child;
you are sensible. In a year, or a year and a half, if your son is strong
enough, then we'll see; but till then you mustn't think of travelling."
Sister Anne had made up her mind, and, although she still thought of
Frédéric, she devoted her whole attention to her child. As the result of
her unremitting care, she had the joy of seeing him grow larger and
stronger every day; his cheeks glowed with health, his lips wore a sweet
smile, and his little arms seemed to embrace with gratitude her who had
given him life.
By writing before her hosts the name of Frédéric, Sister Anne had
succeeded in making them understand that this was the name she wished to
give her son. They called him by no other name, and the young mother
felt a fresh thrill of joy every time that that name fell upon her ear;
how much greater her joy would be when her child should answer to it!
She had been at the farm six months, when a courier arrived with a
package containing twenty-five louis and a note from the Comte de
Montreville to the farmer and his wife. In the note, he once more
commended the young woman to their care, and informed them that he would
send them a like sum for her every six months.
The farmer's wife lost no time in telling Sister Anne what Monsieur de
Montreville had done for her, and the poor girl's eyes filled with tears
of gratitude.
"What an excellent man!" said the farmer's wife. "I was sure he wouldn't
forget you. _Morgué!_ I tell you once more, if the fancy to go to Paris
should take you again by and by, you must go to this gentleman's house
right away. _Dame!_ my child, he's a count, you see, a nobleman, a
powerful man. He seems to be very rich, too; and if your seducer's in
Paris, he'll soon find him for you; and perhaps he'll give him such good
advice that he'll induce him not to leave you again."
Sister Anne signified that she agreed with the farmer's wife, and that
she would do all that she suggested. Then she compelled her to accept
the money sent by the count, and was much happier in the thought that
she was not a burden to the good people who treated her so kindly.
The weeks and months passed. Sister Anne fairly idolized her son. He
filled the place of all that she had lost; in him, she saw once more the
brother who was so dear to her, and whose death caused her such a fatal
shock; she saw Frédéric too; his features were reproduced in his son's.
She sought to anticipate the child's slightest desires; she watched his
glance, his smile; and her touching devotion made the time since she had
seen her lover, and that which was still to pass before she could hope
to see him again, seem less long to her.
Little Frédéric promised to have the beauty and the sweet temper of her
who gave him life; he had already learned to lisp that name which is so
sweet to a mother's ear, and Sister Anne realized how essential it was
that he should not be deprived of the care and thought that were so
freely bestowed on him at the farm. If he knew no one but her, the poor
child would never speak; for speech is an art in which a teacher is
necessary.
The count sent a second remittance at the time he had fixed. His
messenger inquired concerning the dumb girl's condition and the health
of her child, and urged Sister Anne not to leave the farm, where she led
a peaceful life and could devote all her care to her son.
But Sister Anne did not renounce her desire to go to Paris. Despite the
remonstrances of the farmer's wife, she was determined to resort to
every means of finding Frédéric. Her love for her son did not lessen her
regret at her separation from her lover; on the contrary, it seemed
that, as she contemplated the child's beauty, she felt a most intense
longing to present him to his father.
"If he should see him," she thought, "could he help loving him? No; and
then he would not dream of parting from me again."
Little Frédéric was twenty months old. He had long since ceased to
receive nourishment at his mother's breast. He was beginning to take his
first steps; every day he walked more steadily. Sister Anne guided him
and held him up; she watched the growth of his strength and his
faculties. Like the gardener, who observes the changes that the night
has wrought in his young plants, a mother observes each day with delight
the changes that denote her child's progress.
Being at ease in her mind concerning the boy's health, and ensured
against want by the sum the count had given her when he went away;
moreover, having no doubt that on her arrival in Paris she would find in
him a protector and a friend--Sister Anne determined to undertake the
journey, and one morning she showed the farmer's wife the paper the
count had left with her. That was to announce her purpose.
Again her hosts tried to induce her to change her resolution, but this
time Sister Anne was immovable; she was determined to leave them and go
to Paris; her heart told her that she would find Frédéric there.
"Why do you take your child?" said the farmer's wife; "leave him with
us; you know how dearly we love him."
But Sister Anne could not comprehend a mother's parting from her child
for a single instant; she pressed him to her heart, and signified that
she would never leave him.
"At least," said the good woman, "as you're bent on going to Paris, you
won't go on foot, like a beggar. I'll take you in my wagon to Lyon, and
there I'll put you into a diligence that will take you and your child to
the end of your journey. When you get there, just show the address
you've got, and they'll show you the way to the Comte de Montreville's.
That gentleman won't turn you away; and when you want to come back to
us, he'll find a way to send you back."
Sister Anne expressed as best she could her gratitude for all the
kindness she had received. The journey being determined on, they turned
their attention to the preparations. The villagers bought the young
mother linen and clothes and everything that her son needed; they even
tried to force money on her; but her purse contained fifty louis; that
seemed an enormous sum to her, and much more than sufficient to live on
for an indefinite time in Paris, even if the Comte de Montreville should
not help her. She refused to accept any more, and the clothes in which
she was dressed seemed magnificent to her in comparison with those she
had worn in her woods. Her heart throbbed joyfully when she looked at
her simple and tasteful costume, which was that of a young farmer's wife
of Dauphiné.
"He'll think me prettier than before," she thought; "perhaps he'll love
me more."
All the preparations were completed; the farmer's wife had her horse
hitched to the wagon, in which she took her place beside Sister Anne,
who held her son in her lap. They started early in the morning, and
arrived at Lyon the same evening. The farmer's wife engaged a seat for
the young mother in the diligence which was to start for Paris the next
day, and recommended her to the conductor, so that he would keep an eye
on her during the journey.
The hour for their departure arrived: not without abundant tears did the
kind-hearted peasant part from the dumb girl and little Frédéric.
"You would leave us, my child," she said; "I'm very much afraid you're
making a mistake. You're going to an enormous city. People there won't
be so much interested in you as the folks in our village are. But don't
forget us. Send us word how you're getting along, through Monsieur de
Montreville, who seems to be very fond of you; and if the time should
ever come when you're miserable and unhappy, why, come right back to us;
you'll always be as welcome as a child of our own."
Sister Anne kissed the good woman affectionately; then, with her son in
her arms, she entered the carriage that was to take her to Paris.
XXVII
THE DILIGENCE.--SISTER ANNE IN PARIS
A young woman who has never been away from her cabin in the woods until
she is sixteen years of age, whose condition makes her peculiarly
unfamiliar with the world and its customs, must experience countless
novel sensations when she finds herself for the first time surrounded by
strangers in one of those rolling houses that bear us through city and
country.
Such was the case with Sister Anne, who was not eighteen and a half when
she left Lyon for Paris with her little son of twenty-one months. Seated
in the inmost corner of the conveyance, with her child on her knees, she
dared not look at her fellow travellers, and blushed when she saw that
they were scrutinizing her.
Her youth, her beauty, her manifest affection for her son, were certain
to make her interesting in the eyes of every sympathetic person. But one
finds little of that quality in a diligence, and the people about Sister
Anne did not seem abundantly provided with it. At her left was a
tradesman who talked incessantly of his business, with another tradesman
who sat opposite him. The course of shares, the price of sugar, coffee,
and cochineal, the transactions that were carried through at the last
market, engrossed these gentlemen so completely that they did not even
find time to apologize to their neighbors when, in their gesticulations,
they stuck an elbow into their ribs or a snuff-box into their faces. At
her right, our young mother had a man of some forty years, with a long,
gaunt face and an oblique glance, who talked little, but seemed to be
listening and trying to become acquainted with his neighbors. Opposite
him was a woman of fifty, in an old, stained silk dress, with a
dilapidated velvet hat embellished by feathers which resembled fish
bones; her bloated face was daubed with rouge, _mouches_, and snuff.
This lady had told her fellow passengers, within ten minutes after
starting, that, having played _ingénue_ parts at Strasbourg, princesses
at Caen, _amoureuses_ at Saint-Malo, shepherdesses at Quimper, queens at
Nantes, noble mothers at Noisy-le-Sec, and _jeunes premières_ at Troyes,
she was on her way to Paris to take the _grande coquette_ parts at the
Théâtre des Funambules; and that she expected to obtain at once an order
permitting her to make her début at the Comédie-Française, which she had
been soliciting for thirty-six years. Lastly, beside the would-be
débutante was a stout man, who slept most of the time, waking up now and
then only to say:
"Oh! we're going over! I thought we had upset!"
An exceedingly pleasant neighbor in a diligence.
During the first few moments, Sister Anne heard nothing but a confused
jumble of words which she could not understand, the tradesmen's talk of
indigo and cochineal being inextricably mingled with the adventures of
the _grande coquette_, who paused only to take snuff and say to her
neighbor the sleeper:
"Be careful, monsieur; you're rolling over on me. Show me the respect
due to my sex!"
"Oh! we're going over!" the stout man would reply, rubbing his eyes.
After attending to our own comfort, we generally end by turning our
attention to other people. The party with the sidelong glance had
already complimented Sister Anne on the beauty of her son, and had
thereby earned a sweet smile from the dumb girl; one is certain to
please a mother by praising her child.
The lady in the old hat also scrutinized Sister Anne, and said:
"She's very good-looking, that little woman--a very interesting face.
That's just the costume I wore in _Annette et Lubin_, in 1792; how
becoming it was to me! I must play that part at the Funambules."
The two tradesmen glanced at Sister Anne; but as little Frédéric had a
lump of sugar in his hand, that naturally brought them back to the
recent fluctuations in the price of that staple.
"It's a pretty child," said the actress; "he has a lot of expression
already. If he was mine, I'd put him on the stage. In a year he could
play Little Joas in _Athalie_, and in two he could manage the antics of
Polichinello as a vampire. Ah! that's the way children are brought up
now! It's superb! All who stand it are Foriosos at twelve years of age!"
Sister Anne had no idea what Forioso was, or Little Joas, but she saw
that her companions were noticing her child, and her heart throbbed with
the pleasure and pride so natural in a mother. Soon, however, they began
to question her.
"Are you going to Paris to have him vaccinated?" said the actress. "Has
he been vaccinated at home? What are you going to do in Paris? Has your
husband gone ahead of you?"
As she received no reply to any of these questions, the lady began to
lose patience and to consider the young woman's conduct exceedingly
impertinent.
"Don't you hear me, madame?" she continued, ironically. "It seems to me
that you might do me the honor to answer, when I speak to you."
Sister Anne shook her head and sadly lowered her eyes.
"Well! what does that mean?" cried the old débutante; "I verily believe
that she means to imply that she won't answer me! Let me tell you, you
little hussy, that I can find a way to make you speak, and that
Primerose Bérénice de Follencourt is not of a temper to put up with an
insult! I've fought on the stage more than once. I've played men's
parts, and I know how to use a sword--do you hear, little saucebox?"
Sister Anne, alarmed by the old woman's tone and by her wrathful glance,
looked imploringly at her right-hand neighbor; and he, after gazing at
her with interest, said to the actress:
"You do wrong to be angry, madame."
"What do you say? I do wrong?"
"Surely; for this young woman's silence is not natural. She has not
spoken a word, even to her child, since she has been in the diligence; I
think that she is dumb."
"Dumb! a dumb woman! that's impossible, monsieur."
But Sister Anne eagerly nodded her head to confirm the supposition;
whereupon the old actress voiced her amazement so emphatically that her
neighbor woke up.
"Dumb! can it be possible? Do you hear, monsieur? she's dumb!"
"Oh! I thought we had upset!"
"What an insufferable creature you are! He'll give me the hysterics with
his upsets. Poor angel! dear love! are you really dumb, my sweet child?
Oh! how I pity you! how you must suffer! I should much rather be blind
and deaf. Poor little thing! how interesting she is! what a charming
face! And to be unable to talk! How did it happen, my child?"
Sister Anne, almost as surprised by the actress's sudden outpouring of
friendliness as she had been by her anger, took her purse from her
bosom, took out the paper which she always carried about her, and handed
it to her neighbor, who read it to himself and simply said:
"It's the address of the house she's going to."
"To be a wet-nurse, no doubt. Ah! how beautifully she would act in
pantomime! Such a pretty face! how lovely she'd be in _Philomèle et
Térée_!"
Sister Anne's right-hand neighbor paid no further heed to the old
actress; he seemed preoccupied since he had seen the well-filled purse
which the young mother took from her breast in order to show him the
count's address. From that moment, he redoubled his attentions to her;
he caressed little Frédéric, and carried his gallantry so far as to buy
him barley candy and gingerbread at the first stopping-place. Sister
Anne, whose pure and guileless mind saw only friends and protectors
everywhere, did not notice the shiftiness of her neighbor's expression,
but, on the contrary, felt disposed to give him her full confidence.
Poor child! what will you do in Paris?
During the second day, Sister Anne's neighbor said to her:
"I'm well acquainted with the Comte de Montreville, to whose house you
are going. He's a friend of mine. If you like, I'll take you there
myself."
The dumb girl signified that she accepted his offer with gratitude; and
the old actress, seeing that Sister Anne smiled at her neighbor, pursed
up her lips and cast a contemptuous glance at her, muttering between her
teeth:
"They're doing well; acquaintance is soon made in a diligence."
Which shows how quick one is to suspect evil, especially when one has
done it all one's life. As for Sister Anne, she stared at the actress in
amazement; she was utterly unable to understand why, within twenty-four
hours, she should treat her with indignation, friendliness, and scorn.
At last the diligence reached the great city: Sister Anne was dazed and
bewildered by all that she saw and heard; she felt as if she were in a
new world; for having arrived at Lyon after dark and left early in the
morning, she had seen nothing of that city, whose great size, wealth,
and populousness would have given her some idea of Paris.
The thin, shifty-eyed gentleman, who was persistent in his attentions to
the dumb girl and her son, helped them to alight from the diligence; and
while the _grande coquette_ of the Funambules rearranged her hat and
crumpled feathers, while the two tradesmen hurried to the Bourse, and
the stout man walked away congratulating himself that the diligence had
not been overturned, the gallant man called a cab, and, having put
Sister Anne's bundles inside, he got in with her and the child.
The stranger spoke to the driver, then said to the young mother:
"We will go at once to Monsieur le Comte de Montreville's; I am
delighted to take you there myself, for, being a stranger in Paris, you
might be seriously embarrassed, as you can't make yourself understood."
Sister Anne thanked him with a glance; the poor child had no suspicion
that she had fallen into the hands of a sharper, a vile blackleg, who,
after exhibiting his talents in all the larger cities, by divers little
exploits which had compelled him to fly from one after another, was now
returning to Paris in the hope that an absence of eight years would have
caused his former dupes to forget him, and that he would be able to make
new ones. But it was inevitable that the dumb girl should fall into the
first trap that was set for her. Meek, trusting, unacquainted with craft
in any form, she never suspected evil. Her adventure in the forest would
have made her afraid of robbers under similar circumstances; but it had
not taught her to distrust those robbers whom she met in the world, and
whom it is much more difficult to recognize, because they cover
themselves with the mask of probity, which often makes them more
dangerous than those who attack us on the highroad.
The cab stopped in front of a handsome house. Sister Anne's escort at
once alighted, saying to her:
"Wait a moment; this is the count's house, but we must make sure that he
is at home."
With that, he went in, but returned in a few moments with a disappointed
air.
"My dear lady, what I was afraid of has happened: the Comte de
Montreville is in the country; he won't return for two days."
The girl's expression seemed to say:
"What shall I do meanwhile? where am I to go?"
"Don't be alarmed," said the obliging man; "I will not leave you in
embarrassment; I will take you to a respectable house, where you will be
well cared for. Two days are soon passed; then you can return to
monsieur le comte's."
Sister Anne again expressed her gratitude; she was touched by all the
trouble he took for her, although she was not surprised by it: she
imagined that that was the way everybody acted in the large cities. The
cab started again. The movement delighted little Frédéric; he crowed,
and jumped about on his mother's lap; and she, as she gazed at the tall
houses, the shops, and the crowds of people, artlessly manifested her
amazement.
"Oh! you'll see much more than this," said her friend; "you'll be
surprised in a thousand different ways; this journey will be very useful
to you."
The cab stopped in front of a wretched furnished lodging-house in
Faubourg Saint-Jacques; and Sister Anne, on going in, found that that
respectable abode was very dirty and very gloomy; but she followed her
escort, who ordered her bundles carried to the room assigned to them,
and was soon left alone there with the young mother and her child.