acted with so much mystery. He inquired particularly as to the name of
the village and the location of the farm at which they had left the dumb
girl; then, giving Dumont a handsome present, he enjoined upon him
absolute secrecy concerning their interview. Dumont promised not to
mention the subject again, and lost himself in conjectures touching the
conduct of father and son alike.
After Frédéric had learned that Sister Anne had made him a father, he
did not enjoy a moment's repose. The thought haunted him incessantly,
and he was consumed by the desire to see his child. His reveries were
more frequent, his brow was clouded more often than ever before, and
Constance heard him sigh. She dared not question him; but she suffered
torments in secret; she flattered herself that she filled Frédéric's
heart, that she was the sole object of all his thoughts; but she was
always near him, she held his hand in hers, and it could not be she who
made him sigh.
When she ventured to ask him what the matter was, he strove to recover
himself, pressed her to his heart, and said:
"What more can I possibly desire?"
But, even then, Constance detected a trace of sadness in his smile; he
did not seem to her entirely happy.
One day Frédéric told his wife that he was about to undertake the
journey which he had postponed so long, but which had become absolutely
necessary. Constance had flattered herself that Ménard would go in his
stead; indeed, Frédéric himself had suggested it; but he had changed his
mind, and was evidently determined to go. Constance dared not try to
detain him, or to propose to accompany him; she was afraid of annoying
him; she was unwilling to thwart him in the most trivial thing.
Moreover, if Frédéric had wanted her to go with him, he would have had
but to say the word; she would have left everything to go; but he did
not say the word! Constance groaned in secret, but she showed her
husband a cloudless brow and a smiling face.
Frédéric embraced her tenderly; he promised to hasten his return, and to
be with her again within a month. She tried to be brave; and Frédéric
took his departure, commending her to the care of Ménard and Dubourg.
But Constance did not need to be entertained: although absent, Frédéric
was always with her.
It was the month of August, that lovely season when it is so pleasant to
live in the pure air of the country. Constance determined to pass at her
country house near Montmorency all the time that her husband was
absent. As it was much quieter there than in Paris, it seemed to her
that she would be more free to think of him, to count the moments which
must pass before his return. Monsieur de Montreville visited his
daughter-in-law in the country. But at the count's age a man has settled
habits, and amusement becomes a necessity. The count loved Paris, for he
had a great number of acquaintances there; and the never-ceasing life
and animation of the capital had always attracted him. After a week's
stay in the country, he returned to his favorite city and his wonted
amusements.
Constance was left alone with Ménard and the servants. It was still
early in the quarter, and Dubourg was not in the country; but Constance
did not suffer one moment from ennui; when the heart is well occupied,
the head is never empty. The old tutor was always ready to bear her
company; he talked to her of Greek and Roman history, quoted his
favorite Latin authors, and sometimes plunged into Biblical history. It
is not certain that Constance was greatly entertained; but when Ménard
had finished speaking, she would smile at him so amiably that he was
invariably satisfied.
Toward nightfall Constance always went to the summer-house. It was her
favorite spot; there she and Frédéric had begun to understand each
other, there she had felt the first approach of love. Since that time,
she had often visited the summer-house, more often than ever now that
she was awaiting her husband's return. From that eminence she could
overlook the whole valley and the country round about the walls of her
garden.
One fine evening, as she happened to glance at the road which passed the
house, Constance noticed a young woman seated at the foot of a tree,
with an infant in her arms; the unfortunate creature was evidently in
the last stages of destitution; she was gazing mournfully at her child,
and, while covering him with kisses, seemed to be utterly hopeless and
desperate.
Constance was deeply affected. At that moment, Monsieur Ménard joined
her on the platform.
"Look!" she said; "do you see that poor woman? See how frantically she
kisses her child! She seems in terrible distress. Do you see her?"
"One moment, madame," said Ménard; "I can't find my spectacles.--Where
in the devil have I put them?"
At that instant the poor woman raised her eyes, and, when she saw
Constance, her glance became so expressive, so full of entreaty, that it
was impossible not to understand her.
"Oh! she is crying," exclaimed Constance; "wait, wait, my poor woman! I
will come down."
She rushed out of the summer-house, while Ménard was still looking for
his spectacles.
Not far away was a small gate by which the road was reached. Constance
opened it, and soon stood beside the unfortunate creature she longed to
assist. As she drew near to her, she was even more touched, for the
wayfarer's every feature was eloquent of suffering and despair; but it
was for her child, above all, that she implored Constance's pity. She
held him out to her, and great tears flowed from her drawn and reddened
eyes.
"Poor child!" said Constance; "how pale and thin he is! but what lovely
features!"--And she took the child in her arms, saying to the mother:
"Come, and I will give you something to restore your strength. Follow
me."
The woman walked a few steps, but soon fell to the ground; her strength
had failed her.
"Great heaven!" said Constance; "what a state the poor creature is
in!--Monsieur Ménard, do come and help me take her to the house."
"Here I am, here I am, madame! They were in my waistcoat pocket," said
Ménard. "Oho! this young person seems sadly in need of help."
"Support her--let us help her to walk. Poor woman! how she distresses
me! Mon Dieu! is it possible that there can be people so unfortunate?"
"Very possible, certainly, madame; but it is important to know the
_causa causarum_."
With the assistance of Ménard and Constance, the latter of whom carried
the child as well as supported the mother, the poor woman succeeded in
reaching the house. There Constance at once gave her whatever she
thought would do her and the child good; and while the mother recovered
her strength, she observed her with interest.
"Just see," she said to Ménard, "she is still a mere girl--and already
so greatly to be pitied! Her features are sweet and pathetic. Poor
mother! where have you come from? what do you mean to do?"
The unfortunate creature did not reply to these questions; the reader
will have divined the cause: it was Sister Anne and her son to whom
Constance had brought succor.
Ten days had passed since the dumb girl left Paris, during which she had
wandered about the country, guided by chance alone. Being forced
constantly to beg for shelter and food, often repulsed, often depriving
herself of sustenance to give it to her son, she had felt her strength
and her courage grow less day by day; despair took possession of her
mind, it sapped all her faculties, and the unhappy mother was embracing
her child in momentary expectation of death, when chance, which had led
her to Madame de Montreville's house, decreed that she should notice her
and fly to her assistance.
Surprised at receiving no reply to her questions, Constance repeated
them; whereupon Sister Anne, putting her hand to her lips and mournfully
shaking her head, succeeded in making her understand her pitiful
condition.
"O heaven! she cannot speak! Poor soul! All alone with her child, and
without money, without a guide, and unable to ask her way! Oh! this is
too much, too many trials at once!"
And Constance stooped over Sister Anne, weeping freely at the sight of
her misery, while the dumb girl, touched by a compassion to which she
had become unaccustomed, took her benefactress's hand, covered it with
kisses, and pressed it to her heart.
"Faith!" said Ménard, drawing his handkerchief,--for the kind-hearted
tutor could not witness this scene without emotion,--"faith! I agree
that she was in a critical position. Indeed, speech is essential
throughout life; and anyone who has no tongue, or can't use it, is like
a fox without a tail, a butterfly without wings, or a fish without
fins."
Constance continued to devote her whole attention to Sister Anne and her
son; already the child was laughing in her arms; he was at the happy age
when grief vanishes at sight of a cake or a toy. It seemed that
Constance could not tire of caressing him.
"See," she said to Ménard, "see how he smiles at me!"
"Of course, for you are giving him bonbons. Men are caught by sugared
words, and children by sugar without words; wherein they show more
sagacity than men."
"What pretty features, what lovely eyes! It may be a delusion, but it
seems to me that he has my husband's eyes."
"My pupil's? I can hardly conceive eyes of two years resembling eyes of
twenty-three."
"Poor little dear! I feel that I love him already. How happy I should be
to have a child like him!"
"That will come, madame: Sarah was ninety years old when she gave birth
to Isaac. You have plenty of time before you."
Sister Anne's heart throbbed with joy when she saw Constance caress her
son. Madame de Montreville did not tire of gazing at him, for she
detected in his features some resemblance to those of her husband.
Ménard gazed compassionately at Sister Anne; he was very far from
suspecting that that poor mendicant was the young girl he had seen
seated beside Frédéric in the woods at Vizille. How could he have
recognized her! He had seen her only a moment, and then she was radiant
with happiness and love; her lovely features were not worn by tears and
sorrow; the fatigue of a long and toilsome journey, and of incessant
suffering, had not made her body weak and her steps tottering. And,
lastly, Ménard did not know that that girl was dumb; so that it was
impossible for him to suspect that she was before him at that moment.
"Do you know how to write, poor woman?" Constance asked her.
She shook her head.
"What a pity! I would like to know this pretty boy's name."
The dumb girl looked eagerly about. They had taken her to a room on the
ground floor, looking on the garden. She went out, motioning to
Constance to follow her. She broke a branch from the first shrub she
came to; then, stooping over, she traced on the gravel path her son's
name.
"Frédéric!" cried Constance, after reading the name; "what! your child's
name is Frédéric? Ah! that will make him all the dearer to me. Frédéric!
why, that is my husband's name.--What do you think of this, Monsieur
Ménard? isn't it strange?"
"I don't see anything so extraordinary in it," said the tutor. "As there
are great numbers of Martins, Pierres, and Pauls, there may very well be
as many Frédérics. I know of no name but _Thesaurochrysonicochrysides_,
which Plautus invented, that has never become common. So, if I had had a
son, I should have insisted on giving him that name, although it isn't
very easy to say."
Constance took the child in her arms again. She called him Frédéric; and
he, answering to that name, by which he had been called at the farm,
lisped the word _mamma_, and looked about as if in search of the good
peasants who used to call him so.
"I am determined that my husband shall see this dear child," said
Constance; then, after a moment's reflection, she went up to Sister
Anne, took her hand, and said, following her signs closely so that she
might understand her answers:
"Where were you going with your child?--She doesn't know.--Unfortunate
creature! have you no father or mother?--Ah! they are dead!--And your
child's father, your husband--why isn't he with you?--She weeps! Poor
dear! He has deserted her! The idea of deserting such a pretty child!
and such a sweet, unfortunate mother! Why, it's perfectly ghastly! he
must have a terribly hard heart.--But cheer up, and dry your tears; I
will not abandon you! No, my mind is made up; I will take care of you
and your child. You shall not leave me. You shall live with me; I will
give you needlework to do; I will teach you to work, and I will have
your child educated under your eyes. My husband is kind, tender-hearted,
and generous; I am perfectly certain that he won't blame me for what I
am doing. He will love you, too, and you shall end your days with us. Do
you understand, poor dear? Don't cry any more, don't worry about your
child. Hereafter you shall be out of reach of want.--Why, look, Monsieur
Ménard! she actually throws herself at my feet and kisses my hand, as if
I were a god! What would be the use of wealth, if we could not do a
little good with it?"
"To be charitable, madame, is one of the precepts of the Gospel;
unfortunately, everybody doesn't put it in practice as you do!"
"But it's high time to think about arranging a room for this young
woman," said Constance, leading Sister Anne back to the house. "After
all the fatigue she has undergone, she must feel the need of rest. Where
shall we put her? Oh! I know; in that little building adjoining the
greenhouse in the garden. My husband intended to make a study of it; but
he can work in his own room. Yes, that is what we'll do. Be kind enough
to give orders accordingly, Monsieur Ménard. Have a bed taken there, and
everything she needs for the night; to-morrow, I will have it properly
arranged. She will be quiet there, and she will have her son with her
and can take him to walk in the garden in the morning."
Ménard went to tell the servants to prepare a room in the pavilion in
the garden. Meanwhile, Constance remained with Sister Anne, who was
unable to express her boundless gratitude; her features were beginning
already to lose their haggard, hopeless look. As she looked at her,
Constance found her face more and more interesting; the dumb girl in no
respect resembled those beggars who seem determined to extort alms by
lamentations and importunities, and who receive it without gratitude.
Sister Anne was meek and shrinking; she was amazed at the interest she
inspired; her gratitude could be read in her eyes; and in her whole
bearing, her whole aspect, there was something which seemed to indicate
that she was not born in the lowest rank of society.
"The more I look at her," thought Constance, "the more surprised I am
that anyone could have deserted her. Her features are refined, her eyes
sweet and full of charm. How lovely she will be in other clothes!--And
you, dear love, ah! I will take good care of you!"
Ménard announced that everything was ready in the pavilion for the
reception of the poor woman and her son. Constance took Sister Anne's
arm and led her thither, made sure that she had everything that she
needed for the night, and left her, urging her not to grieve any more,
but to go to bed and sleep.
Sister Anne pressed her hand to her heart, and Constance said to Ménard
as they walked away:
"Now the time won't seem so long while Frédéric is away! I realize that
the best way to divert one's thoughts from one's own troubles is to
relieve those of other people."
XXIX
ARRIVAL OF DUBOURG.--THE STORM GATHERS
On waking the next morning, Sister Anne feared for a moment that all
that she saw was an illusion of her eyesight. After suffering the most
horrible tortures of destitution; after wandering so long, often unable
to obtain a place to lay her head and her son's; after going through all
that a mother can go through who trembles every moment for her child's
life--to find herself in a handsome and comfortable apartment, lying in
a soft bed, and with her mind at rest concerning her future; instead of
the cold contempt of pity, to receive the loving attentions of a
noble-hearted woman, who added tenfold to the value of her kind acts by
the grace with which she did them--was to pass abruptly into a situation
so entirely different, that her softened heart feared to give way to the
enjoyment of a happiness in which it could not as yet believe.
Sister Anne embraced little Frédéric; then rose and took him into the
garden, which surrounded on all sides the building in which she was
lodged. What a lovely spot! what bliss to live there, and guide her
child's first hesitating steps! He tried to run about alone among the
paths bordered by roses and lilacs; when he fell, the soft gravel
deadened his fall, and the child waited, smiling, for his mother to come
and help him to start afresh.
Constance was awake very early; she had thought all night of the dumb
girl and her son; her determination to be their benefactress made it
impossible for her to sleep; for pleasure has its insomnia, and women
display in all their decisions more ardor and more sentiment than men.
If they sometimes seem to be unduly engrossed by a piece of jewelry or
some other trivial object, with what energy and what heartfelt sympathy
do they perform a good deed!
Madame de Montreville hurried down into the garden to see her protégée.
She found Sister Anne and the child under an arbor of honeysuckle. The
boy was playing by his mother, who, when she saw Constance, flew to meet
her, and seized one of her hands, which she held for a long time to her
heart.
"Up so early!" said Constance, as she kissed little Frédéric; "how did
you pass the night? Well? I am glad. After so much trouble and fatigue,
you needed a long rest. The dear boy! see how he smiles at me; one would
think that he recognizes me already. But you must not continue to wear
those clothes; come with me and I will give you one of my dresses. It
will fit you, for we're very nearly of the same size. Oh! I won't allow
you to refuse; remember that you must obey me, or I shall be angry."
Constance took Sister Anne and little Frédéric to her own room, where
she selected one of her simplest gowns and compelled her protégée to put
it on. In that new costume the dumb girl seemed to acquire new charms,
and her timidity and embarrassment were entirely free from the
awkwardness which characterizes so many people in clothes that were not
made for them.
"She is charming," said Constance, when she had summoned her maid and
had caused her to arrange the young woman's hair, quite simply, but with
excellent taste. "How lovely she is so! And in a few days, when she has
entirely recovered from her fatigue, when her cheeks have a little
color, she'll be lovelier still.--Come, come and look at yourself, and
don't lower your eyes. Is it anything to be ashamed of that one is
pretty?"
Constance led Sister Anne in front of a mirror. The dumb girl looked at
her own image, hesitatingly at first; but she soon recovered her
self-possession to some extent, and her face flushed with modest
pleasure. Is it possible for a woman to be insensible to anything that
beautifies her? Sister Anne, after looking at herself for several
minutes, fell at Madame de Montreville's knees.
"Oh! I don't want you to do this any more," said Constance, raising her;
"I want you to love me and to be happy, that's all. As for your son, I
propose to make him handsome, too, and I will send to Paris for whatever
is necessary."
Monsieur Ménard, whose sleep had not been interfered with by thoughts of
the wayfarer, came down at last, and was thunderstruck when he saw
Sister Anne in such different guise.
"Well, Monsieur Ménard, what do you think of her?"
"Faith! madame, she is so much improved that I should not recognize
her."
"Because in her other clothes you saw nothing but her misery, and
overlooked the refinement of her features."
"It is an undeniable fact that misery is a great disfigurement. Indeed,
a handsome setting adds to the charm of everything. We cannot dine so
satisfactorily when the cloth is soiled, and the commonest wine tastes
much better in a dainty glass."
Constance was busy all day with her plans for Sister Anne. The room on
the first floor of the pavilion was arranged, and supplied with
everything that could make it more attractive. By Madame de
Montreville's orders a pretty cradle was procured, and placed beside the
young mother's bed. The windows were embellished with flowers in boxes.
"She is debarred from other enjoyments," said Constance; "books and
music are useless to her; as yet, the poor child doesn't know how to do
anything, so we must surround her with things that are pleasing to the
eye."
Sister Anne was at a loss to express her gratitude for such overwhelming
kindness. Constance was much amused by the astonishment which each new
thing caused her. Above all, when she heard for the first time the notes
of a piano, blended with Constance's sweet voice, was she conscious of a
fascination, an intoxicating pleasure, which moved her to tears. The
charm of music was keenly appreciated by that ardent soul, which knew
not the art of concealing its sensations.
As she watched Constance sew and embroider, Sister Anne sighed and
revealed her grief at her inability to do as much. But Constance
undertook to teach her; and the dumb girl was so anxious to make herself
useful, that in a very short time she did all that she saw others do.
A week had passed since Constance had taken Sister Anne and the child
into her family, and every hour seemed to increase her affection for
them. The child very soon learned to love her, for she lavished caresses
upon him; and Sister Anne, always gentle, attentive, and grateful,
proved to her that her benefactions were well bestowed.
One morning, while the dumb girl was walking with her son in the garden,
Dubourg appeared at his friend's house; the quarter was more than half
gone, and Constance, who knew something of Dubourg's habits from her
husband, was not at all surprised at his arrival.
"Welcome!" she said; "you promised my husband that you would come to see
me while he was away, and I was beginning to be offended with you."
"Madame," said Dubourg, with a smile, "I am not one of those friends who
undertake to make a wife forget her husband; but if I have it in my
power to entertain you, I am entirely at your service until next
quarter-day; or the whole year, if I can be of any use to you."
"Oh! you will find a change here; I have someone with me. I have made a
new acquaintance since Frédéric went away."
"Indeed! I am sure that it is an acquaintance which will be agreeable to
your husband too."
"Why, I hope so."
"My dear Dubourg," said Ménard, "madame does not tell you that she has
taken into her family an unfortunate woman and her son; she doesn't
boast of her good deeds."
"Hush, Monsieur Ménard! as if that young woman did not deserve all that
I have done for her! Could I have placed my benefactions more wisely?"
"I agree that she has learned to work beautifully; I expect very soon to
teach her to read."
"You will see, Monsieur Dubourg, how pretty and how interesting she is.
And then, her child, a boy of two, is a charming little fellow."
"Ah! she has a son, has she?"
"Yes; and I am sure that you will agree with me that he looks like----
But I want you to see for yourself; I will go and find her."
Constance was already in the garden.
"The dear soul!" said Dubourg; "what a happy mortal Frédéric ought to
be! And yet, here he is travelling already!"
"Business before everything, my dear Dubourg.--A pinch of snuff, if you
please. My pupil has come into extensive estates, through his wife, and
a man ought to be familiar with his estates."
"But why not take his wife with him? Don't you think that she would have
been very glad to go along?"
"I don't say she wouldn't, but---- What a fellow you are! always harping
on the same subject!"
"Hum! I trust that this journey doesn't conceal some scheme! I know that
Frédéric would be terribly sorry to cause his wife the slightest pain;
but I know also that such sentimental fellows as he take fire when they
hear a woman sigh!"
"I tell you that my pupil is visiting his estates, deuce take it!--What
about dominoes? are you beginning to be strong at it?"
"Much stronger than you, who can never guess where the double-six is.
But let us join Madame de Montreville; I am curious to see this woman
she has taken under her wing."