can't be a quarrel without a dispute; now, when there's no dispute,
there can't be a quarrel; and there can't be a dispute in this case,
because----"
But Dubourg was not listening; he was already in the garden, where he
saw Madame de Montreville in the distance, with a child in her arms, and
beside her a young woman dressed in a simple white gown. He walked
toward them; the young woman saw him and ran, yes, flew to his side,
seized his arm, and gazed at him in anxious suspense; while Dubourg
stood like one petrified, for he had recognized Sister Anne.
"Mon Dieu! what has happened to her?" Constance asked Dubourg, who was
completely bewildered to find the dumb girl, in such a different
costume, walking with Constance, who was carrying her son in her arms.
"What an extraordinary effect your presence has produced on her! See how
she looks at you! She seems to be questioning you with those eloquent
eyes. Do you know this poor child?"
"Why, no--that is, yes, yes, I saw her once; but she was so different
then; in this dress--and with this child--faith, I did not recognize
her!"
Dubourg was confused and embarrassed; he did not know what he ought to
say, and Sister Anne still held his arm, while her eyes implored him to
speak.
"What! you know her?" said Constance, in surprise; "but what does she
want of you now? can't you guess what it is that she seems to want to
know?"
"Oh! I beg your pardon--I begin to understand. I knew this poor girl's
lover, and she is trying to ask me about him."
"Well, answer her, then, at once; see! her eyes are full of tears."
"Faith! I have nothing pleasant to tell her; her seducer has gone
abroad, and, in all probability, she will never see him again.--I don't
know what has become of him," he said to Sister Anne; "I have never seen
him since, any more than you. And so, my dear child, you must try to
forget him."
Sister Anne, who had listened with the closest attention to every word
that fell from Dubourg's lips, dropped her head on her breast when he
had finished; then she went and sat down under a tree, and gave free
vent to her grief and her tears.
"Poor woman!" said Constance; "alas! she still loves the man who
deserted her. Who could have abused her innocence so heartlessly?"
"He was a young painter, madame; he was travelling at the time--for his
instruction. While in search of fine views, he fell in with Sister
Anne--for that is her name. She is, I believe, the child of peasants;
but I can't say so with certainty, for I do not know her family;
however, my friend saw her and fell in love with her. These painters
have flighty imaginations--and a child was the result. That's all that I
know; I never saw this girl but once, when I was riding with my friend."
"In my eyes, he is very blameworthy. You men treat such affairs very
lightly. To seduce a woman, and then abandon her, is, in your eyes, a
mere youthful escapade, of which, indeed, you often boast!"
"Oh! madame, I can flatter myself that I never seduced anybody."
"I am speaking generally; but I am very certain that my Frédéric never
did as so many thoughtless, heedless young men do! He is too sensitive,
too loving, to try to deceive a young and inexperienced heart. See what
horrible results such reckless conduct may have! This poor child,
finding that she was enceinte, must have left her parents and fled from
her native place. Without money, and bereft of that organ which is so
necessary in the world, she travelled through city and country at
random, and exposed to all the horrors of want. The unhappy creature!
how she must have suffered! Oh! if you had seen her when I took her in,
she would have made your heart ache. But she has found a friend now; I
will not desert her, and, if I cannot make her altogether happy, she
will not, at all events, have to dread want while she is with me."
Dubourg made no reply; the sight of Sister Anne gave him too much to
think about.
"Your presence has renewed her grief by recalling her seducer," said
Constance; "go away for a moment, and I will try to comfort her,
although I am well aware that for such griefs there is no comfort. Could
I enjoy a moment's happiness if Frédéric should forget me? But she has
her son at least, and his caresses will allay her sorrow."
Constance carried little Frédéric to his mother and placed him on her
knees, while Dubourg walked quickly back to the house and joined Ménard,
who did not know what to think when he saw his former travelling
companion's horrified expression.
"All is lost, Monsieur Ménard!" cried Dubourg, halting in front of the
tutor.
"What? what is lost? King Stanislas's berlin or the King of Prussia's
snuff-box? You know perfectly well that I am not to be taken in in that
way again."
"Oh! let's hear no more of all that nonsense! This is a very serious
matter, involving the happiness and peace of mind of Frédéric and his
wife."
"I'll bet that it's not true; you're going to tell me some new fairy
tale to lead me into a trap; but _non me ludit amabilis insania_."
"Will you listen to me, Monsieur Ménard? Morbleu! how could a man of
your years fail to anticipate what has happened?"
"What do you mean by that? a man of my years! I beg that you will
explain yourself, Monsieur Dubourg."
"You allow Madame de Montreville to take into her house, to install
there----"
"Whom, in heaven's name?"
"Whom! morbleu! the girl for whom Frédéric made a fool of himself; the
girl who turned his head, and with whom he lived six weeks in the woods;
the girl whom he adored then, and whom, for all I know, he loves still;
for a man's heart is beyond comprehension! In short, Sister Anne, the
dumb girl of the woods, of Vizille, is the one whom Madame de
Montreville now has in her house!"
"Mon Dieu! what do I hear?"
"Do you mean to say you didn't recognize her?"
"Recognize her! a girl I never saw but once, and then at a distance? I
don't scrutinize young women as you do, monsieur; and could I suspect,
did I know, that she was dumb? did anyone tell me so? No; no one tells
me anything, and then they expect me to know everything by divination!
You young men are inconceivable! do you suppose I should know Latin if I
had never learned it?"
"Well! you know it now."
"Parbleu! I was thrashed often enough to know it! Gad! how many stripes
I got for the _Epitome_, and how many _pensums_ for Phædrus's fables!"
"Great heaven! Monsieur Ménard, I am talking about Sister Anne, who is
here in this house, with Frédéric's wife."
"I understand, I understand perfectly."
"When Frédéric returns, she will see him; her excitement, her tears, and
her caresses will betray the truth. Just think of Madame de
Montreville's feelings, when the husband whom she adores and believes to
be a model of fidelity finds in his house a mistress and a child--a
child, above all!"
"Yes, yes; I realize all that."
"Well, then, speak! what are we to do?"
"I have no idea."
"It is impossible to let Sister Anne live under the same roof as
Frédéric."
"Of course; it's most embarrassing! But she was so wretched!"
"Do you think that I mean to abandon her? I've only sixteen hundred
francs a year, but I would gladly sacrifice it all to prevent her
presence from disturbing the happiness of this young couple. Yes; I will
work for my living, if necessary, or I'll pass the whole of every
quarter with Frédéric; but that young woman and her child shall be
placed beyond the reach of want."
"That is very noble, my dear Dubourg, and if I had any property--but I
have nothing save my old classics, which wouldn't be of any use to her,
because she can't read."
"But how are we to set about inducing Sister Anne to leave this house?"
"That would be a very hard task: Madame de Montreville is very fond of
her, and is wild over the child; she thinks that he looks like my
pupil--Frédéric. By the way, I can conceive a reason for that
resemblance now."
"I don't know what to do; I can think of nothing. When does Frédéric
return?"
"In a week; we have plenty of time."
"Time! a week will soon be gone; and if he finds Sister Anne here!"
"Why, it seems to me that we might tell the girl not to speak."
"Of course she won't speak; but her gestures, the expression of her
face, will say enough."
"Indeed! well, I give you my word that I often can't understand her at
all."
Dubourg tortured his brain to find some method of sending away Sister
Anne and her son. Ménard sat with his eyes fixed on his snuff-box, and
pretended to be equally engrossed by that subject, but in reality his
thoughts were full of a pâté of hare which had arrived from Paris the
night before, and which they were to attack at dinner.
Constance returned to the house with the dumb girl and the child; Sister
Anne's face still bore traces of suffering, but she was calmer and more
resigned; when she saw Dubourg, she smiled sadly at him, and presented
her son, at whom he gazed with interest, dismayed by the striking
resemblance between his features and his father's.
"Don't you think he's a lovely boy?" said Constance.
"Yes, madame," Dubourg replied, as he kissed the child; "he's very
pretty."
"Does he look like his father?"
"Very much."
"And don't you think he has a look of my husband?"
"Oh! not the slightest!"
"That's strange; it impressed me at once. His name is Frédéric, too, the
dear child; I believe that I love him the more for that."
As she spoke, Constance took the child in her arms; Sister Anne watched
her, deeply moved, and Dubourg turned his face away to conceal the
sensations aroused by that scene.
During the rest of the day, Dubourg cudgelled his brain to think how he
could bring about Sister Anne's departure from Madame de Montreville's
house, but he could not decide upon any plan. How was he to remove her
from a luxurious home, where the most affectionate attentions were
lavished upon her, and where her son was overwhelmed with caresses?
Would not Sister Anne, far from consenting to such a plan, refuse to see
therein anything more than shocking ingratitude, of which her loving,
grateful heart was utterly incapable? To tell her that Constance's
husband was her seducer would not avail to induce her to go away, for
her intense longing to see Frédéric would prevail in her heart over
every other consideration. She conceived herself to be united to her
lover by the oaths they had exchanged; could she imagine that another
woman had rights, more sacred at least, if not more equitable, than her
own?
Dubourg dared not risk that method, and he tormented himself in vain to
find another. At last he went to Ménard, and said to him:
"Well, have you thought of any expedient to induce Sister Anne to leave
this house?"
And Ménard, after taking a pinch of snuff and reflecting for five
minutes, led Dubourg into a corner and replied in an undertone:
"I can't think of anything at all."
While talking with Constance, Dubourg tried to persuade her to send the
dumb girl to live on one of her estates at some distance from Paris; but
Madame de Montreville scouted the suggestion with much earnestness.
"Why," she said, "should I deprive myself of this young woman's company,
and of the presence of her son, whom I love as if he belonged to me? If
the unhappy creature were not under my eyes, would she receive all the
attentions that tend to alleviate her position? No; I shall never part
with her; every day I feel that I become more and more attached to her.
If you knew how grateful she is to me for everything I do for her! Ah! I
have read to the very bottom of her heart; I have not misplaced my
benefactions, and I am certain that Frédéric will not blame me."
"Well," said Dubourg to himself, "I have done all I could; and even if I
should give myself the jaundice trying to separate these two women, I
fancy that I shouldn't succeed; I'll just let things take their course,
and see what happens. The most that I can do will be to warn Frédéric
when he comes home."
On the evening after Dubourg's arrival, Constance said to him:
"I want you to see what pleasure my unfortunate companion derives from
music; when she hears me play and sing, it always seems to me as if she
were going to speak."
She took Sister Anne's hand and led her to a seat near the piano; the
dumb girl was more melancholy than usual; Dubourg's presence had revived
all her sorrows; however, she smiled at her benefactress, and did her
utmost to appear less downcast.
Constance had played several pieces, when she said:
"I believe I have never sung her that pretty little thing that my
husband likes so much."
She played the prelude to the air. Dubourg paid little attention to the
music; he was still thinking of the strange chance that had brought
Sister Anne and Frédéric's wife together. Ménard was sitting in a corner
of the salon, doing all that he could to understand the music; and
little Frédéric was playing near his mother, who listened intently to
her benefactress.
Constance had no sooner sung the first words of the ballad than Sister
Anne manifested an emotion which seemed to increase with every measure;
she leaned toward the singer, listening with all her ears, and hardly
breathing; her whole body shook, all her faculties were absorbed by an
overpowering memory; and before Constance had finished the first stanza,
a deadly pallor overspread the dumb girl's features; she uttered a
plaintive moan, and fainted.
Intent upon her music as she was, Constance had not observed Sister
Anne's agitation; but when she heard her groan, she sprang to her feet
and flew to her side.
"Great God!" she exclaimed; "what is the matter with her? She is
unconscious!"
Dubourg hastened to her assistance, while Ménard ran to fetch salts and
call the servants.
"Can you imagine what upset her? She was listening to me with evident
pleasure, and suddenly she fainted."
"Madame," said Dubourg, attempting to take advantage of this incident,
"haven't you noticed that this young woman is not always in her right
mind; that there are moments when she seems--rather light-headed?"
"Why, no; I have never noticed anything of the sort. Since she has been
here, she has always been very reasonable, and her depression seems
perfectly natural to me. Poor dear! she doesn't open her eyes."
"Oh! this will amount to nothing; probably her emotion when she saw me
this morning is the cause of her swoon."
"I am inclined to think so."
Ménard returned, armed with a dozen bottles of salts. For a long while,
all their efforts were unavailing: Sister Anne did not recover
consciousness, and Constance was in despair; at last, a long-drawn sigh
announced that the sufferer was returning to life, and she soon opened
her eyes. Her first thought was for her son; he was too young to realize
his mother's danger, and had not interrupted his play. Sister Anne took
him in her arms and kissed him, then looked at all those who stood about
her, as if to thank them for their kindness.
"Come with me, and go to bed," said Madame de Montreville; "all your
sorrow has been revived to-day, and you must forget it in sleep."
But, instead of following her, Sister Anne took her hand, led her to the
piano, and motioned to her to sit down again.
"No, to-morrow," said Constance; "the music excites you too much. I will
sing to you to-morrow."
Sister Anne clasped her hands, and her glance was so expressive, it
besought her so earnestly to do what she desired, that Constance had not
the heart to refuse; she seated herself at the piano, while Ménard
observed _sotto voce_:
"That young woman is passionately fond of music; it would be a good idea
to teach her to play."
Constance began an air, but Sister Anne stopped her and shook her head
emphatically, as if to say: "Not that."--Thereupon she played another,
but still the dumb girl was not satisfied. At last, Constance remembered
that she was singing a ballad when she was interrupted; she sang it
again, and had no sooner begun it than Sister Anne's emotion and the
strained attention with which she listened showed plainly enough that
that was what she wanted to hear.
"Just see how this ballad excites her!" said Constance; "it's the one
Frédéric always liked so much!"
The words were hardly out of her mouth, when Sister Anne seized her
hand, pressed it with all her strength, and nodded her head. Madame de
Montreville did not understand her pantomime; she looked at Dubourg, who
said in an undertone:
"I assure you that there are times when she doesn't know what she is
doing. She thinks that she sees her lover everywhere; love has turned
her brain."
Sister Anne's agitation partially subsided; the tears forced their way
to the surface and relieved the strain. Constance gazed at her with
emotion, repeating again and again:
"Poor child! what a guilty wretch he was to desert you!"
For several minutes everybody was silent. Constance resorted to her
usual method of allaying the young mother's suffering: she took little
Frédéric in her arms and carried him to her. She looked up gratefully at
her benefactress, and, having covered her son with kisses, rose and
prepared to go to her room.
Constance insisted on accompanying her to the pavilion; there she left
her, after urging her anew to be brave.
"Your troubles will come to an end before long, I hope," she said. "Yes,
your seducer will certainly return to sentiments more worthy of the man
you love; he cannot have forgotten you entirely. Dubourg may not be
accurately informed. Dry your tears; some day you will see him again;
and how can he ever leave you after you put this darling boy in his
arms?"
These comforting words went to Sister Anne's heart; she welcomed the
soothing hope that Constance held out to her, and parted from her
somewhat less unhappy. Madame de Montreville returned slowly to her
apartment; the sight of the suffering of the woman she had saved from
want made her sad; Frédéric was not there to divert her thoughts and
make her forget everything but her own happiness; she had never been
separated from him for so long a time, and his absence tended to
increase her melancholy.
Ménard had retired, after saying to Dubourg:
"This has been rather a tempestuous day."
"Ah!" was the reply; "I apprehend a much more violent storm! If that
young woman fainted simply because she heard the ballad that Frédéric
used to sing to her, what will happen to her when she sees him again,
and when she learns that he is another woman's husband? I tell you,
Monsieur Ménard, I can't think of anything else!"
"I can well believe it; it has taken away my appetite!"
"Let us try to ward off that catastrophe."
"Let us ward it off; I ask nothing better."
"Remember that the repose, the happiness, yes, even the honor, of your
pupil are at stake, and that his sins will rebound on you."
"I beg your pardon: a mistake in syntax, or in Latin verses, I agree;
but I never taught him to seduce innocent girls; it was rather your evil
counsels that perverted him."
"Monsieur Ménard!"
"Monsieur Dubourg!"
"Let's go to bed."
"_Recte dicis._"
XXX
FRÉDÉRIC'S RETURN.--CONSTANCE AND SISTER ANNE
Dubourg had been Madame de Montreville's guest for ten days, and during
those ten days he had not ceased his efforts to invent some means of
warding off the effect that the sight of Frédéric would surely produce
on Sister Anne. He saw that Constance's attachment to her protégée and
the latter's gratitude to her benefactress increased from day to day. To
separate them seemed more difficult than ever; Constance frequently said
that she could not do without Sister Anne and her son, and the young
mother seemed to feel her grief less keenly by her side.
Frédéric was expected at any moment; indeed, he was already overdue.
Constance was worried by his delay; she was less cheerful than usual,
and her eyes were often wet with tears. At such times, Sister Anne
strove to comfort her, and to say to her by signs that her husband would
soon return.
"Suppose he no longer loves me!" Constance would say sometimes; and the
dumb girl would take her hand and lead her before a mirror, as if to
say:
"Look at yourself; can anyone help loving you?"
"Alas!" Constance would reply; "someone forgot you very quickly, and you
are as pretty as I am!"
The Comte de Montreville, who had promised to pass a few days in the
country, was detained by the gout. Dubourg was not sorry; he preferred
that he should not be a witness of the recognition he dreaded; he had no
idea that the count knew Sister Anne.
At last, Constance received a letter from her husband: he wrote her that
unforeseen circumstances had delayed his return, but that he hoped to
arrange everything soon. His letter was affectionate and expansive; he
seemed to be as much in love as ever. Nevertheless, Constance was not
satisfied: to stay away from her so long seemed in itself to indicate
less warmth. Frédéric was not there, so she was at liberty to weep;
before him, she concealed her tears. As always, it was to Sister Anne
that she confided her troubles; on her bosom she poured out her tears
and found consolation.
Dubourg saw in this delay so much time gained.
"Let us try to make use of it to prevent an interview between the
lovers," he said to Ménard.
"Let's prevent it; I agree with you."
"But I've been trying for ten days to think up some expedient, and I
can't find anything."
"Faith! then I'm luckier than you, for I found something the day before
yesterday."
"What! if that's so, for heaven's sake tell me what it is!"
"It's my receipt for making milk punch, which I thought I had lost."
On leaving home, Frédéric had gone at once to the farm to ascertain the
whereabouts of Sister Anne, and of his son, whom he ardently desired to
embrace. But when he arrived there, he learned from the worthy peasants
that the lone girl had started for Paris with her child long before.
Frédéric did not know what to do, and what caused him the greatest
distress was that a messenger from his father followed close on his
heels, bringing, as usual, money and divers other things for her whom
the count called his liberatress; which fact proved that he was unaware
that Sister Anne had left the farm, and that she had failed to find her
friend's house in Paris.
Frédéric was distressed beyond words; the people at the farm shared his
disappointment. They regretted that they had allowed Sister Anne to go;
but how could they have opposed her resolution with success? What had
become of her? what was she doing in Paris, without friends or
protector? If they had known that the unfortunate girl had been
heartlessly robbed of all that she possessed, their grief would have
been greater.
Frédéric remained only one day at the farm; he started back toward
Paris, and all along the road tried to obtain some information that
might put him on Sister Anne's track. On reaching Paris, he did not go
home; he did not wish his presence in the city to be known, because he
desired his wife to remain in ignorance of it, so that he might have
time to institute a search for the dumb girl and her son. For more than
a week he searched the vast city, visiting the most deserted as well as
the most populous quarters, often going up to rooms under the eaves, and
asking everywhere if anyone had seen a young woman who could not speak
and who had a child. But his search was fruitless; he did not obtain a
shred of information to put him on Sister Anne's track. With an aching
heart, he decided at last to return to Constance; he was very far from
thinking that he would find there those whom he had been seeking so
long.
Every day, Dubourg lay in ambush on one road, and stationed Ménard as a
sentry on the other to notify him if he should see Frédéric coming. As
the country house could not be reached except by those two roads, he
felt certain of not missing him. But one morning, Ménard, having taken
his Horace with him, became so interested in an ode he was reading, that
the man for whom he was watching passed him unnoticed. Frédéric entered
the house and hurried to Constance's room, where she was sitting, alone,
thinking of her husband.
She looked up, uttered a joyful cry, and flew into his arms. All the
pain of separation was instantly forgotten on her husband's breast.
Frédéric responded affectionately to her outbursts of love. After the
first transports of joy had subsided, Constance said:
"During your absence, I have taken an unfortunate woman into the house.
Oh! I hope that you will love her as I do."
"Whatever you do is well done, my dear Constance; your heart could never
lead you astray; I am certain beforehand that your benefactions have
been well bestowed."