there is one little formality to be attended to: when you hire lodgings
in Paris, you must make a statement of what money you have about you.
This is a rule made by the police, so that nothing can ever be lost in
the city; for if you declare to-day that you have forty louis, and one
of them is stolen from you to-morrow, then they go about and count the
contents of the purses of everybody in the capital, and the man who has
one louis too many is the thief. What do you say to that? it's a bright
idea, isn't it?"
Sister Anne did not clearly understand what he said; she looked at him
as if awaiting a further explanation, and he continued:
"Will you go to settle the matter with the mistress of the house? or
would you like me to go for you? That will be better. Give me your
purse; it's the quickest way."
The poor child drew her purse from her bosom; and the obliging gentleman
took it, saying:
"Don't be impatient; I'll go and count what there is in it."
Then he left the room, and as he went downstairs he gave the mistress of
the house a gold piece, saying:
"This is to pay for that young woman's lodging; she's a mute."
With that, he hurried away, flattering himself that he had performed a
very neat trick; he went to the Palais-Royal, where he found other
blacklegs of his stamp, and soon lost the money he had stolen from a
helpless woman; then, as he was unable to find other dupes who would
give him their purses, he filched one from the pocket of a stout English
milord; the Englishman, having detected him in the act, caused his
arrest; he was taken to the Préfecture, then to Bicêtre, then to the
galleys, where he kept his hand in by stealing from his fellow convicts.
There we will leave him.
Sister Anne waited and waited for the return of the kind friend who had
gone out with her purse; the poor child had no suspicion, she was not at
all anxious, and played quietly with her son, glancing out of the window
now and then, but instantly drawing back in alarm, because the room was
on the third floor, and she had never been so far above the ground.
But her friend did not return, and Sister Anne was beginning to wonder
at his long absence, when the landlady appeared.
The young mother put out her hand for her purse, but the woman simply
asked what she could do for her.
"I'll take good care of you," said she; "for the gentleman, when he went
away, paid for your board and lodging and whatever you might want during
the two days that he said you would stay here."
He had gone away! A horrible presentiment enlightened Sister Anne at
last; she tried to make herself understood, constantly holding out her
hand and going through the motion of counting money.
"I am paid, I tell you," said the landlady; "I don't want anything, my
child, and I'll send up your dinner."
Sister Anne was overwhelmed; it was not the money simply that she
regretted, for she did not realize its value; but the Comte de
Montreville's address was in her purse, and the villain had carried that
away with all that she possessed. What would become of her? how could
she find her protector's house now?
During the day, the young woman still retained a little hope, trying to
convince herself that the stranger would return; but night came, and he
did not appear. Sister Anne strained her child to her breast, weeping
bitterly; it was not for herself alone that she trembled, and her terror
was all the more intense on that account. Already she imagined her child
deprived of the sustenance he required; she shuddered as the whole
horror of their situation dawned upon her, and she was sorry now that
she had left the farm, for the thought that her son would suffer
destroyed her courage.
She passed in her room the second day after her arrival in Paris; the
villain who had robbed her had told her that the count was absent for
two days, so she waited until the third day before trying to find him.
She flattered herself that she could recognize the house in front of
which the cab had stopped. The poor child thought that she could find
her way in that immense city, where she had never been before! she did
not know that the wretch who had deceived her had caused the cab to stop
in front of a house which was not the count's.
The next day, she took her son in her arms, and, with the bundle that
contained her effects, left the lodging-house, whose mistress made no
attempt to keep her, because she had been paid for two days only. Sister
Anne commended herself to Providence, and tried to revive her courage as
she ventured forth into that city which was entirely unknown to her.
Every minute the horses and carriages frightened her, and the cries of
the street peddlers deafened her; the sight of all those people, going
and coming in every direction, and often jostling and crowding her, so
confused her that she had no idea where she was. The poor child went
under a porte cochère and began to cry. The concierge asked her what the
trouble was, but Sister Anne was unable to reply except with more tears;
whereupon the concierge turned away in a pet, saying:
"What's the use of sympathizing with people who won't tell you what's
the matter!"
After she had wept a long while, Sister Anne walked on; but she had been
on her feet four hours and had made no progress; she saw nothing but
endless streets, and shops; she had no idea in which direction she
should go, and often walked a long distance only to find herself at the
point she had started from. How was she to recognize that house of the
count's? she began to think that it was impossible. She was sinking with
fatigue, for she had had her child in her arms all the time; and soon
hunger made itself felt, and added to the horror of her plight.
She sat down on a stone bench; the passers-by glanced at her, but went
on; they would have stopped if, instead of a woman weeping over a child,
they had seen a cat fighting with Polichinello.
Luckily, it was midsummer; the weather was beautiful, and the approach
of night did not drive people indoors. The dumb girl entered a
pastry-cook's shop and bought cakes for her child, offering a garment
from her bundle in payment; but they gave it back, looking at her with
compassion and surprise; for her appearance did not denote poverty, and
they could not understand her having no money.
She tried to walk on, but the darkness increased her terror tenfold,
and, despite the lamps in the streets, the clatter of the horses' feet
seemed to her more terrifying than ever; she was in mortal dread of
being run over with her son by the carriages which often surrounded her
on every side; so she sat down again on a bench.
At this time she was on Rue Montmartre; several times during the day,
she had walked through Rue de Provence and had passed Monsieur de
Montreville's house; but the poor child did not know it. It was
impossible now for her to find her lodging-house, and she was on the
point of giving way to despair; but she pressed her son to her heart,
and tried to recover her strength by covering him with kisses. The child
smiled at her and played with her hair; he was at the age at which a
child does not know what unhappiness is when he is in his mother's arms.
The night advanced; the shops were closing, the pedestrians becoming
less numerous, the carriages passed at longer intervals. Sister Anne
raised her eyes and looked about her with a little more confidence.
Where should she ask shelter for the night? She felt lost amid all those
buildings; she dared not apply anywhere. She gazed imploringly at those
who passed her, and several men stopped to look at her.
"She's very pretty!" they said; but as soon as she held out her child,
they walked on.
"Great God!" thought the unhappy girl; "don't the people of Paris love
children? they walk away very fast as soon as I show them mine."
About midnight, a patrol passed through the street. As they drew near,
she shuddered; one of the soldiers went up to her, and said:
"Come, come! what are you doing here with your child? Go home, or we'll
take you to the guard-house!"
The man's harsh tone made her tremble; she rose hastily and hurried
away, with her child in her arms. But before she had gone a hundred
yards, she discovered that she had left her bundle of clothes on the
bench. She went back to look for it, and found the place where she had
been sitting; but, alas! her clothes had already disappeared. They were
the unfortunate creature's last resource.
She shed no tears over this last catastrophe; an enormous weight seemed
to have settled on her chest. She moved away with her child, afraid to
think. She walked more rapidly, with no idea where she was going; she
embraced her son convulsively; a sort of nervous contraction stiffened
her limbs; she had almost lost consciousness of her sufferings. She
descended Rue Montmartre to the boulevard, where the trees caught her
eye, and her heart dilated. The poor child thought that she had reached
the outskirts of that city where fate pursued her so pitilessly; she
fancied that she was once more approaching her fields and her woods; and
running wildly to the nearest tree, she stood close against it, touched
it with rapture, and the tears came at last.
She sat down beneath the foliage, the sight of which had given her fresh
courage; she covered her child with her apron and determined to wait
there for the dawn.
The day came at last, but the dumb girl had not enjoyed one moment's
rest; she thought of the future, and saw that she must needs appeal to
public charity for herself and her son. If she had been alone, she would
have preferred death; but for him she could endure everything. She had
been so comfortable at the farm, surrounded by people who were attached
to her and who loved her son, and now she was reduced to beg for bread!
How bitterly she repented having left that peaceful abode! When she
looked at her son, she reproached herself even more severely.
"Poor little fellow!" she thought; "all your sufferings will be caused
by me. But am I so guilty, after all, for longing to give you a father?
Ah, me! if only I could find my way back there! if only I could return
to those kind-hearted peasants who treated me like their own daughter! I
feel that I must abandon all hope of finding Frédéric; but if my grief
kills me, what will become of my son in this great city?"
The poor mother wept as she gazed at little Frédéric, who was still
asleep. Some peasants on their way to market offered her bread and
fruit; a milkwoman gave her and the child some milk to drink; all hearts
are not insensible to pity, and even the Parisians give freely to the
poor; if they do not do it more frequently, it is only because they
dread to make themselves melancholy by the contemplation of misfortune.
During a large part of the day, Sister Anne continued to wander about
the city in search of her protector's abode; she met many men who had
Frédéric's figure and were dressed like him; she quickened her pace to
overtake them; but when she was near enough to see their faces,
recognized her error. Some looked at her in amazement, others with a
sneer; whereupon she would turn away, shamefaced and broken-hearted.
"O God!" she thought; "I shall never meet him again!"
By the end of the day, the food that had been given her in the morning
was exhausted, and it became necessary to hold out her hand to the
passers-by, in quest of charity. In order to obtain courage to beg for
bread, Sister Anne had to gaze upon her boy. If those who give alms
always did so with a gracious manner, the unfortunate would be less to
be pitied; but many persons accompany their charity with a harsh or
disdainful air; in fact, they almost grumble at those they relieve.
"Alas!" thought the poor girl, as she wept; "why do they consider it a
crime that I am poor?"
She longed to leave Paris, for the country people seemed to her to be
more humane and gentle; with them, she felt less abashed. But in what
direction must she go to return to the hospitable farm? She could only
trust in Providence, which had not thus far been very propitious to her.
Poor child! may it guide thee at last to the end of thy woes!
Having no idea what road she should take, but absolutely determined to
leave the city, she decided to follow a man who was walking beside a
small canvas-covered wagon. As it happened, this man went through one of
the faubourgs, and in due time passed the barrier. Thus, by dint of
following the wagon, which went always at a walk, the young mother found
herself at last in the country; she breathed more freely; she kissed her
son, and, beseeching the mercy of heaven for him, bent her steps toward
the nearest village to ask hospitality.
XXVIII
CHANCE BRINGS THEM TOGETHER
Frédéric still loved his wife--perhaps with a less violent passion than
during the first month of their union; but the husband's facility of
intercourse with his wife had not diminished his love, for he discovered
new qualities, new virtues, in Constance every day. Beauty of feature
fascinates, but does not suffice to enslave; happy the husband who finds
in his wife attractions over which time has no power!
Constance was chargeable with but one fault--a very lamentable one when
one cannot control it, but which she confined sedulously within her own
breast. She was jealous; the very excess of her love for Frédéric
sometimes caused her a secret alarm. When he seemed dreamy and pensive,
Constance became uneasy, and a multitude of apprehensions crowded into
her mind. What could it be that engrossed her husband's thoughts,
saddened him, and made him sigh?--for he still sighed sometimes. Before
their marriage, she attributed to his love for her the melancholy that
often darkened his brow. But now that they were united, now that they
could give a free rein to their affection, and there was nothing to mar
their happiness, why did Frédéric continue to sigh? why was he sometimes
preoccupied? That was what Constance asked herself, but the amiable girl
was careful not to let her husband see what she felt; she would have
been terribly distressed to display the slightest suspicion. Although
jealous, she would not annoy her husband; she would continue to be as
loving and sweet as always; and if she suffered, she would carefully
conceal her suffering, in order not to distress him whom she loved
better than her life.
After a year, their happiness was interrupted for a moment by the
general's death. Monsieur de Valmont was beloved by all who knew him; he
was very dear to his niece, to whom he had been as an affectionate and
indulgent father. Her husband's love alone could comfort Constance in
her profound grief for her uncle's death. Monsieur de Montreville
mingled his regrets with her tears; he had lost a true friend; but in
old age we often show more courage than in the springtime of life, in
bearing the death of those who are dear to us. Is it because age makes
us selfish? Is it because the heart, having become insensible to the
flames of love, closes its doors to the transports of friendship; or is
it rather because of the reflection that the separation cannot be for
long, and that we shall soon join those whom we have lost?
Constance was her uncle's sole heir; the general was very rich, and
owned a number of farms and estates in the provinces, with which
Frédéric wished to make himself familiar. So he had formed a plan of
visiting their new possessions, and Constance was to remain at Paris, in
order not to leave Monsieur de Montreville alone with his grief for the
loss of his friend. But how could he make up his mind to leave his wife
before her grief had begun to subside? As the visit of inspection was
not urgent, Frédéric postponed it from month to month; and Constance,
who had not as yet been separated from her husband for a single day,
could not decide to let him go.
Some time after the general's death, Frédéric learned that Monsieur
Ménard, being frequently incapacitated by the gout, had lost all his
pupils and was in very reduced circumstances. So he went to see his
former tutor, and asked him to come to live with him.
"I need a prudent, clever man," he said, "to take charge of my affairs,
overlook my stewards' accounts, and correspond with them. Be that man,
my dear Ménard. Remember that it is not as an employé, but as a friend
that I ask you to come; and if heaven sends me children, you shall be to
them what you were to their father."
Ménard accepted gratefully, and he was installed under Frédéric's roof,
where Constance treated him with much consideration and affection; she
loved the former tutor, because he was attached to her husband, and
Ménard, deeply touched by the young woman's attentions, often exclaimed,
as he kissed her hand respectfully:
"Ah! madame, do have children! I will be their tutor, and they'll grow
up like their excellent father, who was my pupil and who does me
credit."
Constance smiled at that; doubtless she would have asked nothing better,
but we do not always obtain what we desire.
Dubourg had not abandoned his friend.
"Come and see me whenever you please," Frédéric had said to him; "your
room will always be ready for you."
Dubourg made the most of that permission, not to quarter himself on
Frédéric in Paris, but to visit him at his country house. He was
particularly apt to appear during the latter half of the quarter; for
his income was paid quarterly, and he could never succeed in making it
last more than six weeks; then he would take his meals at Frédéric's, if
he was in Paris, or would visit him in the country.
"Thanks to you, my friend," he would say, "with my sixteen hundred
francs a year, I live as if I had twice that; I spend my income in six
months, and you pay my expenses the other half of the year."
Dubourg's merry humor pleased Constance, and Frédéric was always glad to
see his friend, for he knew that he would never say a word to his wife
that she ought not to hear, and that, despite his easy principles, he
would look upon her as a sister. We can overlook some faults in the man
who respects friendship. There are so many sincere, virtuous,
high-minded friends, who take delight in sowing discord in families!
When Dubourg and Ménard met at Frédéric's board, which always happened
toward the end of the quarter, the former tutor never failed to sing the
praises of the couple who lived under his eyes.
"They are like Orpheus and Eurydice, Deucalion and Pyrrha, Philemon and
Baucis, Pyramus and Thisbe!"
"Morbleu! yes," Dubourg would reply; "Frédéric has a charming wife, who
has every estimable quality--a perfect treasure, in short. It would be
infernally strange if he were not content."
"True enough! But if I had not inculcated in my pupil excellent
principles of virtue and morality, perhaps he wouldn't lead so decorous
a life as he does, although loving his wife none the less. Peter the
Great adored Catherine, but that didn't interfere with his having
mistresses; many princes have had concubines; and I have known some
excellent husbands who slept with their maid-servants, probably from a
sense of ownership."
"Don't extol Frédéric's virtue so highly, my dear Monsieur Ménard! if he
had had nobody but you to guide him----"
"Perhaps you would have done it better; for instance, when you travelled
with us as Baron Potoski----"
"Hush, hush, Monsieur Ménard! Let that journey be forgotten; there was
nothing to choose between us. I trust that you have never spoken of that
little adventure in the woods--that love affair of Frédéric's--before
Madame de Montreville?"
"Oh! what do you take me for? I am well aware that it would be a great
mistake now: _non est hic locus_; and yet, Madame de Montreville could
not take offence; anything that happened before her marriage doesn't
concern her; she has too much good sense not to laugh at her husband's
little escapades as a bachelor."
"Despite her good sense, there are some things a woman never likes to
hear about; we should always avoid saying anything to make her think
that another has possessed her husband's heart. Although when she
marries a young man, a woman is well aware that he has already known
love, she persuades herself that he has never loved anyone as dearly as
he loves her; she desires to be the one who has inspired the most ardent
passion, and it is a great affliction to her to lose that illusion."
"I understand; it's like telling a cook that one has never eaten a
better dish of macaroni."
"Precisely. You're an amazing fellow for similes. Besides, I believe
that the young woman is capable of being jealous, she loves her husband
so passionately!"
"Indeed, I believe you are right. I noticed one day that she didn't seem
in such good spirits as usual; I suppose that it was because her
husband had amused himself for some time patting a cat."
"The devil take you and your cats! the idea of suspecting Constance of
such folly!"
"Folly? Why, there are men who prefer their dog to their wives, just as
there are women who prefer their canary to their husband. I don't refer
to my pupil; but----"
"But has Madame de Montreville ever asked you, as she has me, whether
Frédéric has always been subject to fits of depression, of melancholy?"
"Yes, yes; I remember that only the other evening she said to me in an
undertone: 'See how Frédéric sighs! Do you know whether anything is
troubling him? Can you guess the reason?'"
"Well! what was your answer?"
"Parbleu! I answered: 'I suppose it's because he has indigestion,
madame; that interferes with the breathing; it is often the
case.'--Since then, she hasn't asked me any questions on that subject."
"I can well believe it!"
Although Frédéric was happy, he had not forgotten the dumb girl of the
woods, and it was the thought of her that caused his frequent fits of
abstraction. He longed to know Sister Anne's fate, but he dared not
mention her to his father. The count had told him that he would take
care of her, and Frédéric knew that he could rely on his promise; but to
have no idea where she was or what she was doing--not even to know
whether she still loved him!--The ingrate dared to doubt it, for he had
done all that he could to kill her love! Meanwhile, as his love for
Constance became more calm and placid, the memory of Sister Anne
obtruded itself more frequently upon his mind; a smile or a caress from
his wife quickly made him forget the dumb girl, but a little later her
image returned again; it would seem that the heart of man always craves
memories or hopes.
For more than two years, Frédéric had been Constance's husband. Their
only sorrow was their failure to have children. Frédéric longed for a
son, Constance would have been overjoyed to present her husband with a
pledge of her affection, and Monsieur Ménard ardently desired the
arrival of some little pupils.
The Comte de Montreville did not live with his children; but he came
often to their house; he still had in his service the man who was with
him when he was attacked in the forest, and whom he had forbidden to
mention that adventure. But one evening, when he was talking with the
other servants, he forgot his master's injunction; and as the others
told stories about robbers, he did not fail to tell of the risk he had
run in company with monsieur le comte, who had been saved, almost
miraculously, by a young dumb woman. Frédéric's valet was present; and
the next day, while dressing his master, he asked him if what Dumont had
said was true; because he believed that Dumont was a liar, and that
monsieur le comte had never mentioned being attacked by robbers and
saved by a dumb woman.
These last words attracted Frédéric's attention; a secret presentiment
told him that Sister Anne was concerned in the adventure. He made no
reply to his servant, but hastened to his father's house. The count was
absent, but Dumont was there; Frédéric was able to speak to him alone,
which was just what he desired. At his first question, Dumont blushed,
remembering his master's orders; but it was too late for him to keep
silent. Moreover, it did not seem to him that he was committing any
great sin in telling his master's son the whole story, and he could not
understand why Monsieur de Montreville wished to make a mystery of the
adventure.
Frédéric made him describe the girl his father had taken to the farm;
from the beginning, he had no doubt that it was Sister Anne. He asked
Dumont innumerable questions, and the valet told him all that he knew.
"Do you think that she remained at the farm?" Frédéric asked.
"Oh! yes, monsieur; she wasn't well enough to continue her journey; and
then, I forgot to tell you that she was on the point of becoming a
mother."
"What do you say, Dumont?--that girl----"
"Girl or wife, I don't know which; but I can swear she was enceinte."