which he was now for the first time able to examine her at his
leisure,--for in his wife's presence he had hardly dared to look at
her,--seemed to add to her charms and make her more beautiful than ever.
She came toward him, she entered the arbor; he hardly breathed. She sat
on the bench--she was close beside him--only a few branches separated
them; he heard her sighs, he could count the throbs of her heart. How
sad she seemed! Alas! who would console her now? He was the cause of her
woes, and he could do nothing to put an end to them. The child put his
little arms about his mother's neck; it was as if he were already
trying, young as he was, to soothe her grief. She pressed him to her
heart, but her tears continued to flow. Frédéric could control himself
no longer; he heard her sobs, he forgot his promise, he saw nothing but
Sister Anne's tears, which fell upon his heart. He abruptly put aside
the branches that separated them; he fell at her feet and embraced her
knees, crying:
"Forgive me!"
At sight of Frédéric, Sister Anne started to rise and fly, but she had
not the strength; she fell back on the bench and tried to look the other
way, but an irresistible power forced her to turn her eyes upon her
lover. He was at her feet, entreating her forgiveness; she had not the
courage to repel him; she placed her son in his arms, and soon she was
straining him to her heart. At that moment they heard a cry, not far
away. Frédéric, disturbed and alarmed, left the arbor and looked in
every direction; seeing no one, he returned to Sister Anne. But she was
already going back to the pavilion with her son; he tried to detain her;
she slipped from his arms, while her eyes bade him an affectionate
adieu. She had enjoyed a moment's happiness, but she did not propose to
be culpable toward her benefactress by remaining longer with Frédéric.
Sister Anne and the child having returned to the pavilion, Frédéric was
alone in the garden; he was still agitated by the pleasure it had
afforded him to see his former sweetheart, but that pleasure was
mingled with anxiety. The cry he had heard worried him. He searched
every part of the garden, but found no one. He persuaded himself that he
had made a mistake, that the voice came from the fields. For a moment he
thought of his wife. Suppose that Constance had seen him! But he soon
rejected that idea, for Constance was asleep when he left his room. He
returned to the house. The servants were astir. Dubourg and Ménard came
down into the garden. Frédéric dared not go to his wife, but waited till
breakfast before seeing her again.
He strolled about the garden with his friends; but he was thoughtful and
ill at ease.
"Are you grieving over Sister Anne's approaching departure?" said
Dubourg. "I tell you, my dear fellow, it is indispensable. A man can't
live under the same roof with his wife and his mistress, even if the
latter has ceased to be anything to him; for the wife must always stand
in dread of chance meetings and accidents; and if she loves her husband
ever so little, she won't sleep peacefully."
"Unquestionably," said Ménard, "one cannot live with the wolf and the
lamb. It's as if you should put a canary and a parrot in the same cage;
they'll always end by fighting. I don't refer to Madame de Montreville;
she's an angel of gentleness; and certainly the other little woman will
never talk loud. But, after all: _naturam expellas furca, tamen usque
recurret_. Furthermore, a Greek philosopher has said: 'Do you want to
have hell on earth? if so, live with your wife and your mistress.'"
"But, Monsieur Ménard, far from having any such desire, I wish with all
my heart that the poor creature were already far away. I realize too
well that I must not rely on my resolutions."
"There's only one thing in the world you can rely on; and that is
indigestion, if you bathe right after eating."
The breakfast hour arrived; Constance appeared, and, as usual, went to
her husband and kissed him.
"I was mistaken; she knows nothing," said Frédéric to himself.
However, it seemed to him that she was pale, that her eyes were red and
swollen, that her hand trembled in his. He inquired affectionately
concerning her health.
"I am all right," said Constance; "I am not sick; there's nothing the
matter with me."
But her tone seemed to contradict her words.
The day passed, and Frédéric was surprised to see that Constance made no
preparations for Sister Anne's departure and her own. He ventured at
last to mention the subject.
"I have changed my mind," said Constance, struggling to conceal her
emotion; "I don't see why that young woman should leave the house; she
is so happy with us! Her presence cannot be disagreeable to you; on the
other hand, her absence might cause you too much regret."
"What do you say?" cried Frédéric.
"No, she shall not go," continued Constance, coldly; apparently not
noticing her husband's bewilderment. "It is useless now."
With that, she turned away and shut herself up in her own apartment.
Frédéric did not know what to think of that sudden change of plan; but
that evening Constance's maid went to the pavilion, at her bidding, and
informed Sister Anne that she was to live on at the pavilion; that
there was no further question of her going away.
The dumb girl was greatly surprised; but her heart could not be
indifferent to the bliss of remaining near Frédéric. She was astonished,
however, that her benefactress, who had been so unvaryingly kind to her,
did not come to her and explain her change of plan. Several days passed,
and she did not see Madame de Montreville. The same attention was paid
to her comfort and her son's, but her benefactress had ceased to visit
the occupants of the pavilion.
Constance passed all her time in her own room; she did not say a word to
Frédéric; but her face was drawn and haggard; it was evident that she
was suffering and that she was doing her utmost to conceal it. Frédéric
hardly dared to question her, and when he did she always answered
gently:
"Nothing is the matter with me."
"Morbleu!" said Dubourg; "this isn't natural! That young woman has
something on her mind. She insists now that the other one shall stay; I
can't make anything out of it."
"Nor I," said Ménard; "but I think, with you, that there's some mystery
about it. Tertullian says that the devil isn't as mischievous as woman,
and I agree with Tertullian."
XXXI
THE CATASTROPHE
Sister Anne and her son continued to occupy the pavilion in the garden.
She went out very rarely, and then only to walk in the paths that were
near by. She did not go near the house; she was afraid of meeting
Frédéric again, although her heart still burned for him with the same
ardent flame.
Nor did Frédéric dare to go near the pavilion; his wife's conduct, ever
since the day that he embraced the dumb girl, had left no doubt in his
mind that it was she who had uttered that cry of which he had
unavailingly sought the author. If Constance had seen him at Sister
Anne's feet, what could she think of his promises? Of course, she
believed now that she was not the sole object of his love. He was often
tempted to throw himself at her feet, to assure her that he adored her
still; but, in that case, he must confess that he had broken his word;
and suppose his wife did not know it, after all! In his uncertainty,
Frédéric held his peace, hoping, by keeping a close watch upon himself,
to dispel the suspicions which were devouring Constance's heart in
secret.
Constance did not leave the house; she did not even go into the garden.
Her face was careworn, her cheeks had lost their color; she tried in
vain to smile; the melancholy that was eating her heart away betrayed
itself in every act. She was still as sweet and amiable as ever; she
seemed to appreciate her husband's attentions, and, noticing that he
never went into the garden, she often urged him to do so.
"Why do you wish me to leave you?" said Frédéric; "can I be as happy
elsewhere as I am with you?"
Whereupon Constance lovingly pressed his hand and turned away to conceal
a tear. She had the scene in the arbor constantly before her eyes; she
saw her husband pressing Sister Anne to his heart; she believed that she
no longer possessed his love, and persuaded herself that he was unhappy
because he no longer saw the dumb girl, but that he was sacrificing
himself for her peace of mind. That cruel thought was the source of the
keenest torture to her heart,--torture the more painful because she
strove to conceal it.
"Things can't go on like this," Dubourg often said to Frédéric. "Your
wife is changing perceptibly, and the poor dumb girl's melancholy is
enough to break one's heart. Morbleu! if these two women remain
together, both of them will very soon die of consumption."
"What can I do? Is not Sister Anne's fate absolutely in Constance's
hands? When I attempt to speak to her about it, she closes my mouth, or
else declares again that she doesn't choose to send her away."
"It's very embarrassing, on my word," said Ménard; "and if I were in my
pupil's place, I know what I would do."
"Well, what would you do?" queried Dubourg.
"Pardieu! I would do as he does--not know what to do."
A very simple occurrence was destined to effect a revolution in
Frédéric's household: one morning, the Comte de Montreville, having at
last shaken off the gout, arrived at his son's country house.
Dubourg, although he had no idea that the count knew Sister Anne, was
pleased by his arrival, because he felt sure that his presence would
compel Frédéric to take some decisive step. Frédéric was terribly
disturbed when his father appeared, having as yet had no explanation
with him. Should he tell him the truth--that the dumb girl was under his
roof? But, before he was left alone with the count, Constance made him
promise that he would not mention Sister Anne; for she thought that the
count was ignorant of his son's wrong-doing, and she did not want him to
know of it at all.
The Comte de Montreville had been anxious for a long while concerning
the fate of the young woman who had saved his life. His last messenger
had brought him the intelligence that she had left the farm, intending
to go to Paris. As she did not appear at his house, he had caused a
search to be made for her, but to no purpose; he had no idea what could
have become of her.
On arriving at his son's house, the count was at once impressed by
Constance's melancholy and dejection. He inquired anxiously concerning
the cause of the change; the young woman tried to evade his questions,
on the pretext that she was slightly indisposed; but the old man was
sharp-eyed: he saw that some mystery was being hidden from him, and he
determined to fathom it. His son was embarrassed in his presence. Ménard
avoided him as if he were afraid of being reprimanded for something.
Dubourg alone appeared delighted by his arrival. Everything seemed to
indicate that something extraordinary was taking place in the house.
As Constance knew that Monsieur de Montreville was accustomed, when he
was at Montmorency, to go to the pavilion in the garden to read, she
lost no time in informing him that a young woman and her son, of whom
she had taken charge, were quartered there. The count asked no
questions; he was far from suspecting that that young woman was the one
he had been seeking so long: he certainly did not expect to find her
under his son's roof.
On the day after his arrival, the count rose early, as usual, and went
into the garden. He walked toward the pavilion, and not until he was
about to enter did he remember what Constance had told him the day
before. He turned away, and was walking in another direction, when a
child came out of the pavilion and ran toward him; in a moment, another
person had seized his hand and pressed it to her heart. The Comte de
Montreville was surprised beyond expression when he found himself in the
presence of the dumb girl and her son.
Sister Anne had seen the count from her window as he came toward the
pavilion; she recognized him instantly; her protector's features were
engraved on her memory. When he turned away, she at once ran after him.
The poor girl did her best to express the pleasure she felt at seeing
him again; and he was a long while recovering from his amazement.
"You here!" he said, at last; "who took you in? Do you know that the
young woman who has given you shelter is Frédéric's wife--your seducer's
wife?"
Sister Anne explained by signs that she did know it, that she had seen
Frédéric, and that it was Constance who insisted that she should live in
that pavilion.
Every instant added to the count's bewilderment. As he could not obtain
from the dumb girl all the information he desired, he was intensely
anxious to see his son.
"Go back to the pavilion," he said to Sister Anne; "you will soon leave
it. You have been here only too long. Go, my poor child; I will see you
again soon."
Sister Anne obeyed; she returned to the pavilion with her son, whom the
count could not refrain from embracing tenderly.
Frédéric dreaded just what had happened; he trembled lest his father
should meet Sister Anne, and was on the point of going to him to tell
him the truth, when the count appeared before him; his stern expression
announced that it was too late to warn him.
"I have just seen the person who is living in the pavilion in the
garden," said the count, watching his son closely; "and I am no longer
surprised at the depression, the great change, which I have noticed in
your wife's whole appearance. Unhappy man! so this is the recompense of
her love! of her virtues! You permit the woman you seduced to live under
the same roof as your wife!"
"I am not to blame in this," said Frédéric; and he told his father how
his wife had taken in the dumb girl and her child during his absence;
how she had become attached to the unfortunate creature; and everything
that had happened on his return.
The count listened in silence to Frédéric's story.
"So your wife knows all!" he said; "she knows that you are that girl's
seducer, the father of her child; and she insists that she shall
continue to live in your house?"
"Her purpose at first was to send her away, to take her and the child to
one of our estates, where she would have everything that her comfort and
welfare required; the day for their departure was fixed. I have no idea
why she changed her mind, but now she insists that Sister Anne shall not
go."
"And you can't divine the reason? My son, such conduct is too
extraordinary not to have some secret cause. It is not natural that a
wife who loves, yes, adores her husband, should want to keep by her side
her rival, or, at all events, the woman he once loved and may love
again. But Constance has a soul capable of sacrificing everything, of
immolating itself for your happiness! Ought you to allow that? Don't you
see how she has changed? She conceals her tears from you, but she can't
conceal her pallor, the suffering that is working havoc on her lovely
features. There is not a minute in the day when she is not thinking that
you are under the same roof as the mother of your son; that you can see
her, speak to her."
"Oh! I swear to you, father, that I never----"
"I am glad to believe you; but your wife is in a cruel position.
To-morrow, your victim will no longer be under your eyes."
"What! father!"
"Do you disapprove of my determination?"
"I? oh, no! far from it. No; I realize all that I owe you. Surely I do
not need to commend that poor creature--and my son--to your care!"
"No, monsieur; I know what my duty is; your wife's beneficent intentions
shall be carried out. Indeed, do you suppose that that young woman is
indifferent to me, or that her son has no claim upon my heart? Because
it is no longer subject to the ardent passions of youth, do you think
that it is closed to all sentiment? Let me restore peace of mind and
repose to your wife; and do you restore her happiness, if possible, by
redoubling your devotion and your love. That is the way to atone for
your wrong-doing, Frédéric, and to pay me for all that I propose to do
for Sister Anne and her son."
Frédéric shed tears upon his father's hand. The count left him, to go to
Constance; he did not mention the dumb girl to her, but, as he looked
into her face, he felt that he admired her and loved her more than ever.
Constance did not know to what she should attribute the marks of
affection which the count, usually so cold, took pleasure in lavishing
upon her; she could not divine the explanation of them. She believed
that he was ignorant of his son's fault.
The count sent his servant to Paris, with orders to have a post chaise
with two good horses at the garden gate the next morning at daybreak. He
proposed to accompany Sister Anne, and he went to the pavilion to tell
her what he had determined upon.
His frequent going and coming led Dubourg to conclude that the count had
some project in contemplation.
"We shall have a change here," he said to Ménard; "God grant that it may
restore happiness and pleasure to this house!"
"It certainly hasn't been very gay here of late," said Ménard; "madame
la comtesse sighs, my pupil is preoccupied, the dumb girl says nothing;
and I can hardly recognize you yourself, my dear Dubourg."
"Well! how do you expect me to be in high spirits, when I see that all
the people I love are unhappy? In spite of my philosophy, I am not
insensible to my friends' suffering."
"You're like me; I think of it all day long."
"Indeed! but it doesn't take away your appetite."
"Would you have me make myself ill, to cheer them up?"
"You're not likely to; you're getting to be a regular ball!"
"That fool of a cook gives us beefsteak every day; how can I help
growing fat?"
"I expect great things from the arrival of Frédéric's father; he has
been to the pavilion and seen Sister Anne, and a change is coming, I am
sure of it."
"Ah! do you think that we shan't have any more beefsteaks?"
"Really, Monsieur Ménard, you weren't born to live in France; you ought
to take up your abode in Switzerland, where they eat all day."
"I was born, monsieur, to live anywhere; and when you called yourself
Baron Potoski, you had a pretty knack of squandering our funds with your
three-course dinners; but I won't say of you: _Quantum mutatus ab illo_,
because I noticed you at table yesterday; you ate all the tunny, and
when I wanted some more it was all gone."
"Tunny is very indigestible, Monsieur Ménard; it isn't good for you."
"I beg you, monsieur, not to worry about my health, and to leave some
tunny for me at the next opportunity. You will see that, old as I am, I
can steer clear of indigestion if I choose!"
While those whom he left in the house lost themselves in conjectures,
the count walked through the garden to the pavilion. It was dark when he
was ready to tell Sister Anne what he proposed to do. Her room was on
the first floor; he hesitated a moment before he went upstairs to the
woman who had saved his life.
"Poor child!" he said to himself; "I am going to deal her a heavy blow.
I must take her away from Frédéric; I must separate them forever; but I
am simply doing my duty, and her heart is too pure not to feel that she
must think first of all of the peace of mind, yes, the life, of the
woman who saved her and her son from the horrors of starvation, and who
has taken pleasure in heaping kindnesses upon her."
The old man entered the dumb girl's room; at sight of him, she rose and
ran to meet him; one could read in her eyes the respect and affection
that she felt for him. The count was touched to the heart; he looked at
her for several minutes in silence; but he felt that he must say at once
what he had to say, so that she might be ready at dawn.
"My child," he said, "I told you this morning that you cannot, you must
not, remain any longer in this house; your presence here will in the end
be fatal to her who rescued you. Constance loves her husband dearly; do
you wish to rob her of repose and happiness forever? She conceals the
torments she is suffering; but I have read her inmost thoughts. You
surely do not wish to cause the death of the woman who saved your son?"
Sister Anne, by a most eloquent gesture, signified that she was prepared
to sacrifice herself for Constance.
"Very well," continued the count; "then you must go away, you must leave
this place--to-morrow at daybreak--without seeing your benefactress. I
will undertake to tell her all that your heart would impel you to say to
her. You must not see any of this household again; it is unnecessary.
There is one person in particular--but I need not urge upon you the
necessity of taking every precaution to avoid meeting him."
Sister Anne was overwhelmed with grief. To go away so suddenly, without
any preparation! to go without seeing him, and forever! Her courage
failed her, and the tears gushed from her eyes.
The count went to her and took her hand.
"Poor child!" he said; "this sudden departure grieves you, but it must
be; under such circumstances, every minute's delay is a crime. I tear
you away from this house, but I have a right to be harsh. Courage, dear
child! It is Frédéric's father, whom you saved from the knives of the
brigands, it is he who asks you to sacrifice yourself once more, for his
son's good."
These words produced upon the dumb girl all the effect that the count
anticipated; on learning that he was her lover's father, she fell at his
knees, and with clasped hands seemed to implore his forgiveness.
"Rise, rise," he said, kissing her on the forehead; "unfortunate girl!
would to God that I could give you back your happiness! At all events,
you may be assured of a comfortable home, and your son's future is
provided for. I am going to take you to a farm, which I propose to give
you; there is a pretty little cottage connected with it, where you will
live, attended by faithful servants who will love you dearly. There you
will bring up your son; I will come often to share your retirement, and
before long, I hope, peace and tranquillity will have returned to your
heart."
Sister Anne listened, and was ready to obey; she had no hope of being
happy again, but her eyes seemed to say:
"Do with me as you will; I am ready to abide by your slightest wish."
"Until to-morrow, then," said the count; "I will come for you at
daybreak; I want to be away before anybody in the house is astir. A
comfortable carriage will be ready for us at the garden gate. Make all
your preparations to-night; they need not be long, for you will find in
your new home everything that you and your son will require. Au revoir,
dear child; be brave! At daybreak I shall be with you."
The count took his leave, and Sister Anne was alone; her son was asleep;
it was night, the last night that she was to pass near Frédéric. She
must go away from him--fly from him forever. That thought overwhelmed
her. She sat, perfectly motionless, on a chair beside her son's cradle;
a single thought absorbed all her faculties: she must go away from him
whom her heart had ached to find, whom she idolized, and who, in the
arbor, had acted as if he loved her still; she must go away from him;
the peace of mind, the existence, of her benefactress demanded that
terrible sacrifice.
The last hours that she was to pass in the house seemed to fly with
unexampled rapidity. Engrossed by these thoughts, she had done nothing
toward preparing for her departure. The village clock struck twelve, and
the dumb girl still sat beside her son's cradle, in the same position in
which the count had left her.
The mournful clang of the bell roused her from her reverie; she rose,
and made a small bundle of her clothes; her preparations were soon
completed, and there were still several hours before the dawn. Should
she try to sleep? no; she knew that it would be in vain! But what
thought is this that makes her heart beat fast? Everybody in the house
is asleep; suppose she should take advantage of her last remaining
moments to go a little nearer to him! She did not propose to see him,
for she knew that that would be a breach of her promise to the count and
of her duty to her benefactress. But she could go, without Frédéric's
knowledge, to bid him a last farewell; she knew which were the windows
of his room; it seemed to her that she should go away a little less
unhappy, and that Frédéric might perhaps hear her whispered farewell in
his sleep.
She hesitated no longer; she put her bundles on a chair and placed her
candle on the hearth. Her son was sleeping soundly; she leaned over and
looked at him, and shed tears upon his pillow at the thought that she
was soon to take him away from his father.
Everything was perfectly quiet, as she stole noiselessly from the
pavilion. It was a dark night, but she was familiar with the garden.
Like a shadow, her feet barely touching the earth, she glided swiftly
along the paths, until at last she reached the house. Frédéric's
apartment was on the first floor, at the right; she knelt under his
windows, she held out her arms to him, and bade him a last farewell.