women are always sympathetic with that sort of unhappiness. Her seducer
deserted her, with a charming child, whom I am perfectly wild over. His
name is Frédéric, like yours.--Why, what's the matter, dear? you are as
pale as a ghost, and all of a tremble!"
"Oh!--fatigue, I fancy--I was in such a hurry to get home!"
Frédéric sat down, for his legs were giving way: what Constance had told
him caused him an emotion that he could not control. He looked about
him, shuddering involuntarily.
"And this woman--this child--where are they?" he asked, in a trembling
voice.
"She has a room in the pavilion in the garden. But I see her now.--Come
here, my dear, come quickly," Constance called, running to meet Sister
Anne, who was coming through the hall with her son. "My husband has
returned; oh! I am so happy! Now my happiness is complete!"
She took the dumb girl's hand and drew her into the room, where her
husband was still sitting. At sight of Frédéric, Sister Anne uttered a
heartrending shriek; she ran to him, threw herself into his arms,
pointed to her son, and lost consciousness.
With one hand Frédéric supported Sister Anne, whose lifeless head lay
against his breast; with the other he covered his eyes, as if he were
afraid to look about him. His son was at his feet, still holding his
mother's hand, and Constance, speechless with amazement and trembling
from head to foot, stood before them.
In an instant a thousand conflicting sensations seemed to be at work in
Constance's breast. She changed color her eyes expressed surprise and
apprehension; she shuddered, and seemed to be trying to banish the
thought that had forced itself upon her mind. But her glance, resting
alternately on Sister Anne and her husband, strove to discover the
truth. Her first impulse was to run to Sister Anne and take her from
Frédéric's arms.
"What is the matter? Why did the sight of you put her in such a
condition?" she faltered, looking at Frédéric. "Answer me, dear; do you
know this young woman?"
Frédéric had not the courage to reply, or even to look at Constance. But
his eye fell upon his son, and he took him in his arms and covered him
with kisses; thereupon Constance's heart received a terrible shock, for
the whole truth was laid bare before her.
Dubourg appeared upon the scene, followed by Ménard; at sight of
Frédéric, he divined all that had happened, and he instantly ran to the
assistance of Sister Anne, crying:
"Fainted again! an attack of madness, I'll wager! I told you before,
this poor creature has times when she loses her reason."
Constance made no reply; she left Sister Anne to the ministrations of
Dubourg and Ménard, and returned to her husband, who still held the
child in his arms.
"He is lovely--is he not?" she asked, in a trembling voice, with her
eyes still fastened on Frédéric. He did not speak, whereupon Constance
roughly snatched the child from his arms; but soon, repenting of that
impulsive movement, which she could not control, she covered the child
with kisses, crying in a heart-broken tone:
"Poor child! you are not guilty!"
Dubourg and Ménard carried Sister Anne away to the pavilion, leaving
Frédéric and Constance with the child. Frédéric's eyes were fixed on the
floor, as if he were afraid to meet those of Constance, who had seated
herself a few steps away and had taken little Frédéric on her knees. She
tried to restrain her tears, but she had not the courage to speak. For
some minutes neither of them broke the silence. At last, Frédéric raised
his eyes and saw his wife caressing Sister Anne's son. At that sight he
was on the point of throwing himself at her feet and confessing all,
when Dubourg rushed into the room.
"It's all right! I don't think it will amount to anything," he said,
motioning to Frédéric not to betray himself. "That young woman is
subject to attacks of insanity; then she thinks that she sees her lover
everywhere. I have already advised madame more than once not to keep
her in the house."
"Really," faltered Frédéric, trying to recover his self-possession, "I
am utterly unable to understand what has happened. I was so agitated by
that poor creature's condition--that I didn't realize what I was doing."
Constance said nothing; she simply looked from her husband to Dubourg.
"I'll take her son to her," said the latter, walking toward Constance to
take the child.
"Let him stay," said Constance; "Frédéric will do that."
Frédéric was thrown into confusion again; he could not support his
wife's glance. In vain did Dubourg whisper:
"Come, come, morbleu! have your wits about you. Remember that, for her
own happiness, you must deceive her."
At that moment Ménard appeared, in a comical state of dismay.
"She has recovered her senses," he said to Dubourg, in an undertone;
"but it's impossible to make her stay quietly in her room! She's a
perfect devil! She insists on seeing him. She's running about the garden
like a madwoman."
"Why did you leave her?"
And Dubourg hurried from the room.
"What is the matter?" said Constance; "is she worse?"
"No, madame," replied Ménard, who had no idea what he ought to say or
do; "but, I'm afraid--her head--these women--love--_quid femina
possit_."
"I will go and look after her," said Constance; "I will take her her
son, and perhaps, when she sees him---- Aren't you coming with me,
Frédéric; won't you add your efforts to mine to pacify the poor,
unhappy creature?"
Frédéric hesitated; he did not know what it was best for him to do. He
longed to see Sister Anne, whose terrible plight had torn his heart; but
he was afraid of betraying himself when he saw her. At that moment, they
heard cries in the garden; they looked out and saw Sister Anne running
hither and thither, pursued by the servants and Dubourg. The former,
when they saw how intensely excited she was, rushing in all directions,
with her hair flying in the wind, had no doubt that she had lost her
reason; and Dubourg confirmed them in that idea, which might prevent
their guessing the truth.
But Sister Anne spied Frédéric at one of the windows on the ground
floor; instantly she rushed in that direction, entered the room, and, in
the twinkling of an eye, threw herself into Frédéric's arms, pushing
away Constance, who stood beside him, and looking at her with a jealous
and at the same time anxious expression, as if to say:
"I alone have the right to be here."
The servants halted in the doorway and gazed at the picture before them.
Constance felt a terrible sinking at the heart when she saw Sister Anne
in her husband's arms; but she retained sufficient strength to walk
toward the servants and say in a trembling voice:
"Go, my friends; this unhappy woman is not in her right mind, but we
shall be able to pacify her."
The servants retired; Ménard had gone in search of Dubourg, to whom he
always had recourse at difficult crises; Sister Anne was left alone with
her son and Frédéric and Constance.
The dumb girl seemed as if she would attach herself inseparably to
Frédéric, who had not the courage to push her away. She smiled at him,
she took his hands and held them to her heart, then pointed to their
son. At the same time, she glanced uneasily at Constance, who was seated
a few steps away, with her face hidden in her hands, unable to endure
that scene. But her tears were suffocating her; they burst forth at
last, and she sobbed as if her heart would break. Sister Anne shuddered.
Constance's grief seemed to touch her to the quick. Frédéric could
contain himself no longer; he ran and threw himself at his wife's feet;
but she, without looking at him, gently repulsed him.
"Go, go," she said; "this unhappy girl has more claim to your love than
I; this child is your son. Console her for all she has suffered since
you deserted her. I know the whole truth now. No; she has not lost her
reason; she has found her seducer, the father of her child!"
Frédéric was thunderstruck. Pale and trembling, he remained at
Constance's feet; and Sister Anne, with her eyes fixed upon his face,
seemed to be waiting to hear what he would say. But Frédéric seized his
wife's hand and covered it with tears and kisses; at that sight a
plaintive moan escaped the dumb girl, and again she fell unconscious to
the floor.
Constance hastened to her assistance.
"Leave us," she said to Frédéric; "your presence is too painful to her.
Oh! you can trust her to me; I shall be no different to her from what I
have always been."
Frédéric made no reply, but left the room, in a state of complete
bewilderment. He met Dubourg and Ménard hurrying toward him.
"The pretence is of no avail," he said; "Constance has divined the
truth; she knows all."
"As she knows all," said Ménard, "we mustn't conceal anything more from
her."
Constance lavished upon Sister Anne the most zealous attention. At last,
the dumb girl opened her eyes. When they fell upon Frédéric's wife, her
first impulse was to push her away; then she looked about in search of
Frédéric. Constance beckoned to the child, who held out his little arms
to his mother. Sister Anne seemed touched by Constance's conduct; she
looked at her with less jealousy, but she shuddered from head to foot,
her teeth chattered violently, her eyes closed again, and a ghastly
pallor overspread her cheeks.
Constance ordered the servants to carry her to the pavilion, where she
was put to bed. She was in a raging fever, and was really delirious. Her
eyes rolled from side to side with an expression of intense anxiety; she
recognized nobody, and even repulsed her son.
"Poor dear! I will not abandon you," said Constance; and she passed the
whole day beside Sister Anne's bed. Not until evening, when she found
that she was a little calmer, did she decide to leave her; but she left
her in charge of faithful and willing servants, intending to return
frequently to ascertain her condition.
She returned to her own apartment, where Frédéric awaited her. How
different was that day, which reunited them, from those that they had
previously passed together! Constance said nothing; her heart was drawn
hither and thither by a multitude of conflicting emotions; her bosom
rose and fell convulsively, but she tried to conceal her suffering and
to appear calm before her husband. Frédéric stood before her,
motionless, like a criminal awaiting his doom; her kindness made him
keenly alive to his wrong-doing. At last he approached her, not daring
to speak, and fell at her feet.
"What are you doing?" said Constance, gently; "why do you kneel at my
feet? You are not guilty toward me. Ah! it would be more just for you to
kneel at the feet of her whom you have betrayed and deserted! I have no
right to complain: your fault is only too common among men. You knew
this poor girl before your marriage. She has become a mother. But, in
the world, your conduct would be considered perfectly natural and
proper. Far from blaming you, society would perhaps applaud you for
forgetting a woman who could not be your wife. But, I confess, I thought
that you were different from the heedless rakes who pride themselves on
the tears of which they are the cause. What lamentable results your
fault has had! If you only knew all that the unhappy creature has
suffered! She was in the last stages of destitution, actually dying of
starvation, when I took her in; yes, dying of starvation--with your son
in her arms. Oh! Frédéric! do you realize what your remorse would have
been? You weep? Ah! my dear, let your tears flow; I would rather lose
your heart than believe that it was capable of utter lack of feeling.
Listen: you have found your child's mother; you must not abandon her
again. If you will leave everything to me, I will assure her future; she
shall live in a house which I will buy for her in some pleasant place in
the country; she shall want nothing. Her son is a dear boy; I would have
liked to be a mother to him, but it would be a horrible thing to
separate her from her child. He shall have a good education. When he has
grown up, you shall decide his fate; and be assured that I shall never
consider anything that you do for him more than you ought to do. That is
what I propose to do for the woman you once loved. But it may be that
this plan does not satisfy you. Perhaps, on seeing the poor girl again,
the love that she formerly inspired in you has revived. Perhaps you love
her still. Oh! Frédéric, I entreat you to be sincere with me; let me
read in the bottom of your heart. There is no sacrifice of which I am
not capable to make you happy. Yes, my dear; I shall be able to endure
anything--except the sight of your regret for another. If you love
her--if you still feel drawn to her--I will go away, I will bury myself
on one of our estates; you will not see me again, and you will be at
liberty to keep the mother of your child with you."
Constance could no longer hold back the tears that were suffocating her.
She had made a prolonged effort to restrain her feelings, but her
courage gave way when she proposed to Frédéric that they should part.
"I, leave you!" he cried, throwing his arms about her. "Oh! Constance,
can you believe that I have ceased for one instant to love you? No, I
swear to you, you alone possess my heart! I realize the wrong I have
done; I propose to assure Sister Anne's future; I must do it. Could I
help feeling profoundly moved when I saw her again? And the child--I
love him, and I propose to see to his future welfare and happiness; for
that you cannot blame me. I approve all your plans; I know the goodness
of your heart, the nobility of your soul. How few wives would have acted
as you have done! Command me: send Sister Anne away; let her go
to-morrow."
"To-morrow! oh! no, dear. The poor child is ill--very ill! she shall not
leave this place until she has fully recovered. So long as she is
here--you must avoid seeing her; your presence can do her nothing but
harm. Promise me that you will not see her; that is the only sacrifice I
ask of you."
"I will do whatever you say."
"When she has recovered, I will go with her myself to her new home, and
I will not leave her until I am certain that she lacks nothing."
Frédéric embraced Constance with profound affection; her kindness of
heart made her even dearer to him. A wife ought never to employ any
other weapons; reproaches and complaints repel a husband; gentleness and
indulgence always end by winning back his heart.
In her husband's arms, Constance found happiness once more; he swore to
her that he loved no one but her, and she believed his oaths: could she
live without his love?
Early the next morning, Constance went to the pavilion; and Frédéric
sought Dubourg and Ménard, to tell them of his wife's noble conduct.
"There aren't many women like her," said Dubourg; "guard her carefully;
you cannot love her too dearly; you have a veritable treasure in her!"
"Madame de Montreville's conduct," said Ménard, "is certainly worthy of
one of Plutarch's heroines; and I know of nothing finer in history save
that of Cunegunde, wife of the Emperor Henry II, who grasped a red-hot
iron to prove her chastity."
Sister Anne was still in an alarming condition; she recognized nobody,
but she seemed to be constantly looking for somebody and holding out her
arms to him. Constance looked to it that she wanted nothing; she herself
brought a doctor to her, and installed at her bedside an old
maid-servant, who did not leave her for an instant. Then Constance took
little Frédéric and carried him to her husband.
"Love him dearly," she said, as she placed him in his arms; "by making
the child happy, you can best atone for the wrong you have done the
mother. I feel that I, too, love him as if he were my own son. When I
first saw him, a secret presentiment seemed to tell me that he belonged
to you; and that thought made me love him more rather than less."
Frédéric embraced his son, who thenceforth passed a large part of the
time with him; for the poor child no longer received the caresses of his
mother, who was still in a raging fever, and delirious, and, for nearly
a fortnight, lay at the gates of death. During that time, Constance
passed whole days and often whole nights in the pavilion, refusing to
leave to another the nursing that the young patient required; she hung
over her pillow, and held her in the most violent paroxysms of her
delirium; she triumphed over fatigue, she was unconscious of suffering,
she devoted her whole attention to Sister Anne; in vain did Frédéric,
day after day, urge her to be careful of her own health and to take some
rest.
"Let me nurse her," said Constance; "by devoting myself to her, it seems
to me that I repair a part of the wrong that you have done her."
Frédéric had not a moment's peace of mind so long as he knew that Sister
Anne was in danger. He was consumed with the longing to see her again,
but he had promised his wife not to enter her presence; and how could he
break his promise, after all that Constance had done for him? He often
hovered about the pavilion where the poor girl lay, and waited
impatiently for someone to come out from whom he could obtain news of
her condition. But when it was Constance who came out, he concealed a
part of what he felt, afraid to reveal the extent of his interest in the
dumb girl.
Thanks to the unremitting care of Frédéric's wife, the patient returned
to life; her delirium ceased, she recognized her child, strained him to
her heart, and refused to be separated from him. When she first saw
Constance again, her whole body quivered; but in a moment she seemed to
recover herself, and seized her benefactress's hand, which she covered
with tears and kisses; it was as if she were trying to ask her
forgiveness for the wrong she had done her.
"Poor girl!" said Constance, affectionately pressing her hand; "I shall
always be the same to you; it is my place to try to make up for your
misfortunes. I am your friend; your child is mine; henceforth his fate
and yours are assured. Oh! don't shake your head--I am simply paying a
debt. Your son is a sweet, lovely boy; his happiness will enable you to
forget your own sorrows some day. Courage! you may yet be happy!"
Sister Anne sighed, and her eyes seemed to say that it was impossible.
Constance herself did not believe that it was possible to forget
Frédéric; but it is lawful to lie a little in order to comfort others.
The dumb girl looked about the room, but, in a moment, turned her eyes
again upon her benefactress, as if resigned to her fate.
"I will do what you order me to do," she seemed to say.
Constance informed her husband that Sister Anne was saved, although her
convalescence would be long and slow; the doctor had said that the
invalid would not be able to travel for a long time, but that the
proximity of the garden would afford her an excellent opportunity to
test without injury the return of her strength.
Frédéric was overjoyed to learn that his victim was restored to life;
every day the longing to see her, though but for a moment, tormented him
more. Nor was that his only longing: while the dumb girl was very ill,
they had brought his son to him, and he had passed a great part of the
time with him. He had become accustomed to his presence, he had learned
to know the pleasures of a father's love; and that sentiment is not one
of those which time or separation impairs. Frédéric, who dared not let
his wife know of his longing to see Sister Anne, had no hesitation in
asking for his son.
"He is his mother's sole consolation now, my dear; do you want to
deprive her of him? Later, when time has allayed her suffering somewhat,
I have no doubt that she will consent to send him to you now and then;
but just at this time she wants him with her every moment."
Frédéric said no more, but tried to conceal his feelings; for Constance
was gazing at him as if she would read his inmost thoughts.
Sister Anne recovered her strength very slowly; it was several days
before she was able to go down into the garden with her son, leaning on
Constance's arm. As she supported the convalescent's tottering steps,
Constance glanced anxiously about, dreading to see Frédéric, although
she had told him that Sister Anne was coming into the garden, which was
equivalent to asking him not to appear there. Frédéric knew that his
presence would certainly cause an agitation that would be dangerous to
the invalid, and he remained in his apartment.
Sister Anne was calmer, but her calmness seemed to be the result of
complete prostration rather than of resignation; she kept her eyes fixed
on the ground, except when she turned them on her son; she did not weep,
but the expression of her face indicated her mental suffering;
meanwhile, her strength constantly increased, and soon she was able to
go out alone with her son, to stroll about the pavilion.
A few days more, and Madame de Montreville was to set out with Sister
Anne and her son for the estate on which she proposed that they should
make their home. Frédéric approved his wife's plan, but he was consumed
by the desire to see once more the woman he had loved so dearly, and
whom he was not certain that he did not love still.
He knew that Sister Anne and her son went every morning at daybreak to
sit in an arbor near the pavilion. One morning he rose softly, while
Constance was still asleep; it was almost dawn; he could not resist the
craving to see the dumb girl and her son; he did not mean to speak to
her, or to show himself to her, but only to see her once more. She was
to go away the next day, so that that day was the last on which it would
be possible for him to satisfy the desire that beset him.
He dressed noiselessly and walked to the bed where Constance lay; she
was not resting quietly, but her eyes were closed, she was asleep; he
determined to seize the opportunity, and he stole quickly from the room
and into the garden. The first rays of dawn were just beginning to
dispel the mists of the night; he walked rapidly toward Sister Anne's
favorite arbor; his heart beat fast; it seemed to him that he was living
anew those moments of his first love when he arrived at the wood of
Vizille and looked for the dumb girl on the bank of the stream where
they were wont to meet.
She was not yet in the arbor; she probably would not be there for at
least a quarter of an hour; he sat down on the bench where she usually
sat, from which he could see the pavilion where she and her son lived.
He fastened his eyes upon that building; his heart was full, he felt
again the delicious emotion that he used to feel as he gazed at old
Marguerite's miserable hovel. At that moment, he forgot all that had
happened since; he waited impatiently for her to come out; it seemed to
him that he would see her come running toward him, driving her goats.
Time passes very quickly when one is engrossed by such memories.
Suddenly the door of the pavilion opened and a child appeared--it was
his son. Frédéric was on the point of running forward to embrace him,
but he remembered the promise he had given Constance. If he went nearer
to the pavilion, Sister Anne would see him, for she could not be far
behind her child. He must keep out of her sight; so he crept behind the
shrubbery, and there, hidden by a thick clump of hornbeams, he waited
tremblingly for her to appear.
He had hardly left the arbor, when the dumb girl came out of the
pavilion and took her son by the hand. Frédéric could not take his eyes
from her. She was dressed in a plain white gown; her hair, gathered
carelessly on top of her head, fell over her forehead, whereon sadness
and suffering were written. She smiled, however, as she looked at her
child; then paused, glanced about the garden, and heaved a profound
sigh.