remove her eyes from the room in which she knew him to be, Sister Anne
abandoned herself to her love, her regret, her despair. It was a long
while since she had left the pavilion; the minutes were passing rapidly,
but she could not tear herself away from that spot. But it must be done.
The unhappy girl made a final effort; she rose and walked away,
broken-hearted; she staggered along the paths, hardly able to restrain
her sobs.
Suddenly she became conscious of a bright light in the garden; she
raised her eyes; she could not conceive where it came from. As she
walked on, the light became brighter and brighter; the darkness of the
night was succeeded by a terrifying glare; it was fire, which lighted up
every nook and corner of the garden. As that certainty burst upon her
mind, Sister Anne, seized by an indescribable fear, no longer walked,
but ran, aye, flew toward the pavilion; the flames were pouring forth in
clouds from the windows of the first floor.
A heartrending shriek burst from the young mother's lips; she could see
nothing but her son, whom she had left in that room, her son, whom the
flames were perhaps already consuming!
In her desperation, she recovered her strength; she rushed into the
pavilion; the hall was filled with dense smoke; but a mother knows no
danger, she must have her child. She groped her way upstairs, felt for
the door, which the smoke concealed and which her trembling hands sought
in vain. At last the flames guided her; she entered the room; everything
was ablaze. A bundle of clothes had fallen against the candle, and the
flames had spread rapidly to all parts of the room. Sister Anne ran to
the cradle, which the fire had just reached; she held her son in her
arms; she tried to go out, but she could not see what direction to take.
Already the flames surrounded her; her limbs were badly burned; she
tried to call, for she felt that she was dying. At that moment, her
voice, yielding to a mighty effort of nature, broke the bonds that held
it; and the unfortunate girl, as she fell, exclaimed distinctly:
"Frédéric, come and save your son!"
The flames rising from the pavilion had been seen by the people at the
house, several of whom were unable to sleep. Frédéric rushed from his
room in dismay, shouting as he ran. Everyone rose and dressed in haste.
"The pavilion's on fire!" was the general cry.
Frédéric arrived there ahead of all the rest; he defied death, to make
his way to Sister Anne; he entered the room a few seconds after she had
lost consciousness; he took her on one arm and his son on the other; he
passed through the flames into the garden; he had saved them both.
On learning what had happened, everybody had followed Frédéric.
Constance was not the last to fly upon her husband's footsteps. It was
she who received Sister Anne in her arms, who hung over her with loving
solicitude, and ordered the unconscious girl to be carried to her
apartment. They all gathered about the young woman, whose body bore the
marks of the flames; but her son was uninjured, and they waited
impatiently for her to open her eyes, so that they might show him to her
safe and sound.
At last, she drew a long, quivering breath; her eyes opened. Constance
led her child to her side.
"My son!" cried Sister Anne, covering the child with kisses.
Those words caused the greatest surprise to all who heard them. They
stared at Sister Anne, listening intently, as if they doubted whether
they had heard aright.
"O my God!" continued the young mother; "it is not a dream; Thou hast
given me back the use of my tongue.--Ah! Frédéric! I can tell you now
how I loved you--how I love you still! Forgive me, madame; I feel that I
shall not long enjoy this voice which has been restored to me. All that
I have suffered to-day has exhausted my strength; I am going to die, but
my son is saved. Oh! don't pity me!"
The unfortunate woman had made a mighty effort to say thus much; her
eyes lost their expression, her hand became like ice, a ghastly pallor
overspread her face. Frédéric fell on his knees beside her; he bathed
with his tears the hand she abandoned to him. The count was overcome by
grief. Constance tried to recall the dying girl to life by holding up
her son before her. Even Dubourg, the man who had never shed a tear,
could not restrain his sobs as he supported Sister Anne's head.
"Why do you weep for me?" she said, making a final effort; "I could not
be happy, but I die less wretched. Keep my son, madame; he is so happy
in your arms! you will be a mother to him. Adieu, Frédéric--and you--his
father--oh! forgive me for loving him so much!"
Sister Anne cast a last glance at Constance, who held little Frédéric in
her arms; then she closed her eyes, still smiling at her son.