Dubourg reached Paris at last. He had taken only a few days more than a month to travel nearly a hundred and eighty leagues; which is not an inordinately long time, when one makes marvellous cures all along the road. As he fled from the farm, where his last miracle had been so ill rewarded, he was careful to throw away his blonde wig with the long pigtail, which tempted all the little ragamuffins to run after him. He arrived in the capital rather travel-stained and muddy and unkempt; but nevertheless he arrived, and went at once to his last lodgings, which no longer belonged to him, but where he had left a pair of trousers in the custody of his concierge, an excellent woman, who was rather partial to ne'er-do-wells, because they are, as a general rule, more open-handed than virtuous and orderly young men.
Together with his trousers, the concierge handed him a bulky sealed package, which Dubourg took with a trembling hand, supposing it to be a bundle of summonses or judgments; of executions and levies he had no fear.
He broke the seal and read a letter which he found inside; an expression of delirious joy stole over his features, but soon he began to make wry faces as if he were trying to weep; however, as he could not manage it, he abandoned the attempt.
"My dear Madame Benoît," he said to the concierge, "you must often have heard me speak of my venerable aunt in Bretagne, who used to send me money sometimes?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"Well, she is dead, Madame Benoît—that venerable woman is no more."
"Ah! mon Dieu! what a misfortune!"
"Indeed, yes. But I am her only heir; her fortune was not large, but there is enough for a man to live on, especially if he is prudent and philosophical."
"What did she die of, monsieur?"
"As to that, I'll tell you some other time. I am expected in Bretagne, and I must start at once."
"During your absence, monsieur, your friend Monsieur Frédéric has sent here several times to inquire about you."
"I will see him when I return; the interests of my inheritance demand my presence, and they are more important; a man should attend to his own business before other people's. Adieu, Madame Benoît, adieu! Here, I'll make you a present of these trousers, for the news you have given me; you can make a blouse out of them for your daughter. As for myself, I go away just as I arrived, except that I shall not go on foot this time."
He ran to the diligence office, having money enough still to pay his fare; to be sure, that left him only five francs to live on during the journey, but he put himself on a strict diet, promising to make up for his abstinence before long.
The old aunt had left all her property to her nephew, believing him to be married and a father. He found himself possessed of sixteen hundred francs a year. A man cannot play the baron with that, but he can live on it in a modest way, when he is orderly in his habits and economical. Those were not among Dubourg's qualities, but, like all men, he made a vow to reform and not to pledge his income.
"Monsieur," said the attorney who was settling the estate, "your worthy aunt instructed me to recommend you to be faithful to your wife, and to give your little triplets a good education."
"Never fear, monsieur; I shall carry out my dear aunt's wishes to the letter. My wife and I are like turtle-doves, and my triplets already love each other like Castor and Pollux."
Dubourg sold the furniture and personal effects of the deceased, in order to obtain a supply of ready money. He was detained two months in Bretagne, at the end of which time he returned to Paris, dressed in black from head to foot. To signalize his return to virtue, he began by paying his creditors, and strove to retain the serene expression and dignified bearing which he had assumed as soon as he learned of his inheritance.
He thought of Frédéric, but was still hesitating whether he should write to him or call on him, when, as he entered a café one evening, he spied Ménard watching a game of dominoes and absorbed in the play. Dubourg touched him lightly on the arm; he turned, recognized his former travelling companion, and could not decide how he ought to receive him.
"Surely I have the pleasure of seeing my dear friend Monsieur Ménard," said Dubourg, with a smile.
"Himself, monsieur le—monsieur du—really, I am not at all sure what I should call you now." And the ex-tutor smiled, delighted by the epigram he had achieved.
"How now, Monsieur Ménard! are we at odds?"
"Really, monsieur, I ought to bear you a grudge, after all the fables you told me. Hereafter, if I ever believe you——"
"Come, come, Monsieur Ménard, let us leave gall and bitterness to atrabilious souls, and let it not be said of us: Nec ipsa mors odium illorum internocinum exstinxit."
"Oh, yes! I know that you are very well read," said the tutor, softening a little; "but that castle of Krapach! And then, to make me act!"
"Allow me to offer you a cup of coffee, and a glass of Liqueur des Iles."
"Very well, if you insist."—And the tutor said to himself, as he followed Dubourg to a table: "This devil of a fellow has a persuasive way that seduces you and carries you away; it's impossible to remain angry with him."
"Where are you from?" he asked; "my pupil has been looking for you a long while; he's very anxious to see you."
"I have just arrived from my province—Bretagne."
"Ah! so you are from Bretagne? I am not surprised, then, that you were constantly bringing it into your descriptions of Poland; and then, the milk and butter that you were always boasting about."
"Excellent they are, Monsieur Ménard."
"And what have you been doing in Bretagne?"
"I have just inherited a very pretty little fortune from my aunt."
"I'll wager that that isn't true!"
"O Monsieur Ménard! don't you see that I am in mourning?"
"That proves nothing; you were dressed as a Polish nobleman when we walked arm in arm through the streets of Lyon. Oh! when I think of that——"
"Do you think also of the delicious dinners I ordered for you?"
"Of course, of course! Oh! you order a dinner perfectly. But that poor Monsieur Chambertin! To make him believe that he was entertaining an illustrious character!"
"Look you, Monsieur Ménard, I don't see why I'm not as good as another man——"
"And to make him give parties and fireworks and magnificent dinners!"
"Where you did your part wonderfully well."
"I acted in perfect good faith, myself; I was your accomplice, without suspecting it. Do you know that you compromised me, and that that was very ill done of you?"
"Have a glass of punch; what do you say?"
"Oh! I am afraid——"
"It shall be very mild."
"All right, if it's mild——"
"Waiter, two glasses of punch."
"For, you see, my friend, I am not as young as you are, and the follies which are overlooked in the young admit of no excuse in those of mature years."
"You talk like Cicero; but I reply that Cato learned to dance at sixty."
"Are you quite sure of that?"
"I didn't see it; but our follies were very reasonable ones.—Let us take a drink."
"I admit that we didn't injure anybody, after all. This punch is good, very good. But when you made me run across fields on account of that imaginary Turk——"
"Faith! I'll admit that he was a creditor; but aren't they Turks to their unfortunate debtors?—Another drink."
"It is true that creditors—— Look you, my dear Dubourg, you have all the qualities of a charming companion: you know all the good authors, you know history; take my advice, reform, settle down——"
"I have done it; it's all over now: no more gambling, no more escapades, no more drunkenness.—But we aren't drinking."
"Your health, my dear friend!"
"No more fairy tales, no more lies."
"Ah, yes! no more lies, above all; for lying destroys confidence; and then, you made me look like an idiot."
"Oh! not altogether."
"That's a very handsome seal ring of yours."
"It's an emerald that was worn by Ali Pacha."
"It's magnificent."
"Another glass."
"Dear Dubourg! My friend, I am extremely glad to have renewed my acquaintance with you."
The liqueur and the punch had completely melted Ménard, who, when he parted from Dubourg, called him his loving friend, and assured him that he might safely go to the Hôtel de Montreville, that monsieur le comte bore him no ill-will and would receive him cordially.
On the day following this meeting, Dubourg did, in fact, call upon Frédéric, who had just returned from the general's country house. He passed all his time with Mademoiselle de Valmont. As it was no longer necessary that he should be accompanied by his father, for the general treated him like his own son, he made the most of the liberty accorded him. Every day, he invented some pretext for going to see Constance; for he persisted in deluding himself, in excusing himself in his own eyes, and strove to persuade himself that there was no trace of love in the feeling that drew him to the general's niece. He still thought of Sister Anne, but no longer with the same ardor and affection, and that was what he refused to acknowledge to himself; perhaps, if he should see her again, it would still be inexpressibly sweet to him to hold her in his arms. But it was not she whom he saw, it was Constance; Constance, who was more amiable, more tender, more sentimental with him, day by day; who felt such unbounded pleasure in seeing him and made no attempt to conceal it. Already there was the closest intimacy between them. When she passed two or three days without seeing him, she would reproach him good-naturedly, and avow that she was vexed at his absence; and she said it with such perfect candor and sincerity that Frédéric was deeply touched. However, he had never breathed a word of love to her; but is it necessary to speak to make one's self understood? and what woman, in Constance's place, would not have believed that she was loved?
At sight of Dubourg, Frédéric made a gesture of surprise; a keen observer might even have detected a trace of embarrassment.
"Here I am," said Dubourg; "I have been in Paris only a week."
"Yes, I supposed that you were away. But why this mourning?"
"Ah! my friend, my poor aunt—she is no more!"
At this point, Dubourg drew his handkerchief and blew his nose three or four times.
"Come, come, Dubourg, stop blowing your nose; you know perfectly well that you're not crying."
"Never mind; she was a most respectable old lady: she has left me sixteen hundred francs a year."
"That is something; try not to gamble it away."
"What do you say? Why, écarté is like an emetic to me. But tell me about your love affairs. Do you know, you don't seem to me to look any too wretched for an unhappy lover."
"But I—— Since my father suddenly appeared at Grenoble, where I had gone to find out something about you, I have not been able to see that poor girl, we started for Paris so hurriedly! Since then, he hardly leaves my side. I could write—but who would read my letters? we can't use that method; and I don't know how to communicate with her."
"Well, I can tell you something."
"Have you seen her?"
"Yes; but it was a long while ago—about a fortnight after you left."
"Well! where was she? what was she doing?"
"Where was she? in the woods, returning from the road, where she had been watching for you, no doubt. What was she doing?—weeping; that is her only resource now, I fancy."
"She was weeping!"
"Yes; and I confess that she made my heart ache."
"Poor child! but you spoke to her, I suppose—she saw you? Tell me about it."
"She saw me; indeed, she recognized me, although she had seen me only once. You didn't tell me that she was dumb, but I very soon understood her pantomime. She counted off the days you had been away, and asked me if you would return soon. I told her yes."
"Ah! you did well."
"But that was three months ago."
"True: but I haven't been able——"
"I left her at last, after giving her a little hope; I could do nothing more for her; but in three months that hope must have vanished."
Dubourg said no more, and Frédéric sat for some moments buried in melancholy reflections.
"If you knew, Dubourg," he said at last, "what a most surprising thing has happened to me!"
"I should know, if you told me."
"It is really inconceivable; it is a stroke of fate. On returning to Paris, I found Sister Anne."
"You found her here?"
"Yes; I saw her again—in another woman, the niece of Général de Valmont, a former comrade in arms of my father. Why, my friend, it is an astonishing thing—I never saw such a perfect resemblance."
"Ah! I begin to understand."
"If you should see Constance,—that is the name of the general's niece,—you would be as surprised as I was—not at once, but on a close examination."
"Ah! you were surprised after some time, eh?"
"It's her eyes—their sweet expression. Constance's are a little darker, to be sure. The hair is the same color; the forehead as high and noble; the same complexion—but Constance isn't as pale as Sister Anne. The same expression in the features."
"I am surprised that a general's niece should have all the features of a goatherd."
"Of course, there's the difference due to rank and education and social customs. In the first place, Constance is much taller; she has a beautiful, well-proportioned figure; but so has Sister Anne. Constance has the grace, the dignified carriage which no one can attain who lives in the woods."
"Ah! you have discovered that now."
"And she has a charming voice, an enchanting voice, that goes to the very bottom of your heart. Well, my friend, when I listen to her, I persuade myself that the poor orphan is no longer dumb; I imagine that I am listening to her; her voice, I am sure, would have the same sweet quality, the same fascination. So that I am deeply moved when I listen to that other voice."
"I doubt whether that emotion would make Sister Anne very happy."
"But it is impossible for me not to feel it. Tell me, isn't it strange that there should be such a resemblance?"
"Exceedingly strange, no doubt; but I fancy that it would be less striking to my eyes. I am no longer surprised at your leaving the little one in her woods. You have found her here, you see her, and listen to her—a pleasure that you did not enjoy when you were with her. You are privileged to gaze upon her every day, at your leisure; here, she has graces and talents which she did not have down yonder. It is extremely convenient. I congratulate you. I can understand that you don't need to bother your head about the one who is far away, in her cabin or on the hilltop, watching for you to come, since you can still be with her, without putting yourself out, and since she is more lovely and fascinating here than there."
There was an undercurrent of satire, of reproach, in Dubourg's tone that made Frédéric lower his eyes.
"No," he said, with evident embarrassment, "no, I will not desert Sister Anne. I shall certainly go to see her—I haven't forgotten her, for I think of her every day. Is it my fault that I find all her features in another woman's? On the contrary, isn't it a proof that I am always thinking of her? But really it is surprising; Mademoiselle de Valmont resembles her so closely—in spite of some slight differences—she is so sweet and kind! her voice moves me so deeply! Ah! I would like you to see Constance!"
Dubourg did not reply at once, and for some minutes there was silence between them. Dubourg broke it at last.
"Look you, Frédéric, I confess that I am sorry that I saw that girl—that I saw her waiting for you and weeping."
"Why so?"
"Why? Because I imagine that I still see her, and, despite my heedlessness, I feel—it makes me unhappy. I am nothing more than a reckless chap, a libertine, a ne'er-do-well, if you please; but, after all, I prefer my way of loving to yours. With your great passions, which are destined never to end, but which do end just like others, you wheedle inexperienced young hearts, sentimental women, who allow themselves to be touched by your sighs, your noble sentiments; they give themselves to you, and then—why, they weep and tear their hair over your inconstancy. Faith! I know none but women of easy virtue, grisettes or coquettes, who, if they're no better, are at least more lively. They deceive me, I deceive them, we deceive each other; it's all understood and accepted beforehand. But we don't rave about it; we weep only for sport; and when we fall out altogether, it doesn't make us melancholy. I agree that the ladies I speak of are not absolutely virtuous; but for an amourette, a caprice, should we seek that flower of pure sentiment, an inexperienced heart that knows love only from romantic novels in which it is always painted in colors that, while they may be very seductive, are altogether false? No; on the contrary, I think that it's barbarous to try to win a girl's whole heart, to inspire a great passion, and then to leave your victim to waste her best days in tears and despair."
"Why do you say this to me? I still love Sister Anne; I am not unfaithful to her. Is it my fault that my father dragged me back to Paris all of a sudden? and that it has been impossible for me to absent myself since then? Most certainly I shall see her again, I shall not abandon her; she is still dear to me."
"Pshaw! Frédéric, don't talk that humbug to me! Do you want to make me believe that my nose is crooked? I tell you, I'm an old hand, and I am not to be hoodwinked; indeed, I may have read your heart better than you have yourself. You no longer love Sister Anne, or at least you are no longer enamored of her; for you are burning now for this fascinating Constance, who is a perfect image of the poor dumb girl, except that she is taller and stouter, has darker eyes and a different complexion, and——"
"No, no, Dubourg! I swear that I am not in love with Constance; I love her—like a brother—but no word of love has ever passed my lips."
"Well, I give you my word that that will soon come. Oh! it's of no use for you to look up at the sky; I tell you that you are in love with Mademoiselle Constance. I don't charge you with it as a crime; it's perfectly natural: she is pretty, she attracts you—and why not? But what I do blame is your prowling about in the woods after that poor little creature who has no knowledge of the world or men, and who yielded to your seductions and believed all your oaths, because they were the first oaths she had ever heard. What was wrong was your inspiring in her heart an exalted passion, which will ruin her life, because she has nothing there in the woods to divert her thoughts. If, yielding to a sudden temptation, you had seduced her and then left her at once, the pain would have been sharp, but it wouldn't have lasted so long; she wouldn't have had time to love you so dearly; but you always have to run things into the ground. You abandon everything to live in the woods—in order not to be separated from her; for six weeks, you don't leave her for a single moment; you eat nuts together and lie on the grass; you would live on roots, if need be, in order to speak of love to her. How in the devil do you think that that can fail to turn her head? The girl has reached a point where she cannot do without you; she lives and breathes for you alone; she imagines that that sort of life will last forever; and then—presto! my gentleman vanishes; good-evening, it's all over! Weep, and tear your hair! you won't see him again.—But I have seen her, and I'm almighty sorry; for I fancy that I see her still, pale, dishevelled, walking without seeing, listening without hearing, and, absorbed by a single thought, keeping her tear-dimmed eyes fixed on the road by which he went away; then returning to her poor cabin, to weep on; and so again the next day, and forever! And remember that she has not even the one poor consolation of the unhappy, the power to complain and pour her sorrows into a friend's bosom. That is what you have caused, and it isn't the noblest chapter in your history. That is what you would have avoided if you had not followed the guidance of your romantic ideas, or if you had paid your addresses to women of the world only."
Frédéric made no response; he seemed to be lost in thought.
"My friend," continued Dubourg, taking his hand, "I have told you just what I think; you ought not to be angry. Moreover, all that one can say to a lover never makes any difference; he always follows his own impulses solely. I know, too, that you cannot marry Sister Anne. Parbleu! if a man had to marry all the charmers he has loved, I should have as many wives as King Solomon. I tell you simply that it gave me great pain to—— But, enough of that! I am none the less your friend, do with me as you will. Adieu! I am going to dine at a thirty-two-sou ordinary, because when a man has an income of sixteen hundred francs a year and wants to keep it, he doesn't go to Beauvilliers."
Long after Dubourg had gone, Frédéric remained where he had left him, absorbed in his reflections. Argue as he would, Dubourg had opened his eyes to the state of his heart, and, although he still tried to delude himself, he knew that he was no longer the dumb girl's devoted, ardent, faithful lover, who was ready to sacrifice everything in order to pass his days with her.
It is hard for a man to admit his faults to himself, and even when he does he always finds some excuse to palliate his conduct, and says to himself that he could not have done otherwise. Especially in love do we reason thus, and the last passion, being always the strongest, speedily vanquishes its predecessor.
Frédéric, cudgelling his brains for some means of repairing the wrong he had done, said to himself:
"I will see Sister Anne again, I will not leave her to pass her life in a wretched hovel, cut off from all intercourse with society; I will buy her a pretty cottage, with a lovely garden, and some cows and sheep; I will surround her with everything that will make her life pleasant and happy; I will find some village girl, of her own age, to wait upon her, whose presence will enliven her; she will live there with old Marguerite, and she shall have everything that she needs; the sight of her neighbors, of the passers-by, and of the people at work in the fields, with her own household cares, will drive away her melancholy; I will go to see her sometimes, and she will be happy."
Happy, without Frédéric! No; to Sister Anne, that was impossible. Comfort, even wealth, would not compensate her for the loss of her love; for Sister Anne was not brought up in Paris; she could not conceive that anyone could prefer diamonds and fine clothes to joys of the heart, or that a wrong could be atoned for with gold. Nor, five months earlier, could Frédéric have conceived it; but as he could readily do so now, it was natural that he should believe that Sister Anne could do the same: we judge others' hearts by our own.
For several days, Frédéric, tormented by what Dubourg had said to him, had the dumb girl's image constantly before his eyes; even when he was with Constance, his melancholy, which had at one time almost disappeared, seemed to weigh upon him more heavily than ever. The general and his niece had returned to Paris. Frédéric was able to see Constance every day. But he trembled when he entered her presence, and she, though surprised by his dejection, dared not ask him the cause of it; but her eyes, when they met Frédéric's, spoke for her, and revealed all the concern she felt for his secret sorrow, and often, too, her longing to know its cause.
In his desire to be relieved from his anxiety, and to have news of Sister Anne, Frédéric several times urged Dubourg to go to Vizille, to see the poor girl and try to comfort her. But on that point Dubourg was immovable.
"I will not go," he said; "I saw her once, and that was quite enough. I have no desire to see her again, and then have unpleasant thoughts for six weeks—I, who never knew what such thoughts were. Besides, my presence would not comfort her; she wouldn't believe anything that I could say to her, because I lied to her once; so my journey would do no good and would not change her plight at all."
As he could not induce Dubourg to take the journey, Frédéric decided to ask his father's permission to leave Paris for a fortnight. Not until after long hesitation did he determine upon that step; but his remorse was troublesome, he was constantly tormented by the memory of the poor mute, and he was persuaded that he would be calmer and less conscience-stricken after he had seen her.
For some time past, the count had treated his son most affectionately; convinced that he had entirely forgotten the person who had fascinated him during his stay in Dauphiné, and having no doubt of his love for Mademoiselle de Valmont, the count had entirely laid aside his former sternness of manner with Frédéric; he hoped soon to see the plan he had formed successfully carried out, being confident in advance of the general's consent; so that he was greatly surprised when his son asked his permission to leave Paris for a few days.
The Comte de Montreville's brow became clouded and severe, and Frédéric, who was accustomed to tremble before his father, anxiously awaited his reply.
"Where do you want to go?" asked the count, after a brief silence.
Frédéric attempted to stammer some pretext, but the count did not give him time.
"Don't try to beat about the bush; I don't like it. You are still thinking of a woman who interested you during your journey, and for whom, I know, you committed a thousand follies. I thought, I confess, that you had become reasonable; I thought that the memory of that fancy had long since vanished from your mind—I do not say from your heart, for the heart has no concern in such affairs."
"Ah! father, if you knew her!"
"Enough, monsieur! You do not propose to marry your conquest, I presume? Still, it is possible that you have some wrongs to undo. I do not know this girl. Perhaps you are more culpable than I think; perhaps she whom you seduced, or led astray, is now cast off and abandoned through your fault, and is living in want. If her misfortunes can be mended with money, you may be sure that I will not spare it, monsieur; but I will attend to the business, not you."
"You, father?"
"Yes, monsieur, I; I shall be better able to arrange it than anyone else. So you need not leave Paris now. Besides," the count continued, after a moment's thought, "your presence here is indispensable. The general expects to marry his niece to a young colonel, who will probably arrive in Paris very soon."
"The general expects to marry his niece!" echoed Frédéric. Already his features had assumed a different expression: sadness and melancholy were succeeded by violent emotion, a jealous perturbation which was manifest in his excited glance, and which made it impossible for him to remain seated. His voice trembled, and, as he questioned his father, it seemed as if his life or death hung upon the answer he was to receive.
"Yes," said the count, in an indifferent tone, pretending not to notice Frédéric's state of mind, "yes; and, for my part, I see nothing surprising about it."
"And—this colonel is coming to Paris? Do you know him, father? Is he young? Is he supposed to be handsome? Mademoiselle de Valmont loves him, of course?"
"You don't think that I am in Mademoiselle de Valmont's confidence, do you? She met the colonel in society, I presume. I believe he's a young man of twenty-eight or thirty."
"Good-looking?"
"Oh! whether he's good-looking or ugly, isn't an honorable man always attractive?"
"And this marriage is all arranged?"
"So it seems."
"And Mademoiselle Constance has never mentioned it to me!"
"Why on earth should she have told you beforehand of something that a well-bred young woman never mentions?"
"Oh! of course—I had no claim—there was no reason why I should know—and still, I should have thought——"
"Besides, it is possible that the general hasn't mentioned his plans to his niece as yet."
"And this is the reason why I must stay in Paris?"
"To be sure; at such times, there are innumerable details to be attended to—clothes and presents and wedding festivities; the general, being accustomed to camp life, knows nothing about such things; a bachelor always needs advice, and he relies on you to help him."
"Indeed! that's very kind of him; I am highly flattered that he considers me good enough for that."
"So, Frédéric, I say again that you must not think of leaving Paris now."
This argument was no longer necessary. The count left the house to call upon his old friend, to whom he had something to say privately; and Frédéric, long after his father's departure, was completely crushed by what he had learned. Poor Sister Anne! your image had vanished.
Pale and excited, hardly able to breathe, Frédéric paced the floor of his apartment, now throwing himself into a chair for a moment, then springing abruptly to his feet, sighing, and clenching his fists convulsively. It was in that frame of mind that Dubourg found him when he came to bid him good-bye, for Frédéric had told him of his projected journey.
"What in God's name is the matter, Frédéric?" he said, pausing in the doorway, alarmed to see him in that condition. "Come, won't you speak, instead of rushing about like this and banging the furniture?"
"Who would have believed it? who would have thought it?" said Frédéric, dropping into a chair. "Ah! these women!"
"Oho! so it's a question of women, is it? I begin to feel less alarmed."
"With such an honest face, such lovely eyes, to conceal such perfidy! for it is perfidy! she ought to have told me that she loved another. To welcome me so cordially! to seem so pleased to see me! Oh! it's horrible!"
"There's no doubt of that. Whom are you talking about?"
"Mademoiselle de Valmont—Constance. She is so lovely! so sweet!"
"Oh, yes! and she looks so much like Sister Anne!"
"Would you believe, my friend, that she is going to be married—to a young colonel whom I don't know, but whom she loves—that goes without saying; whom I have never seen, and who is coming to Paris very soon to marry her?"
"Mademoiselle de Valmont is going to be married?"
"Yes, Dubourg."
"Well, what difference does that make to you? you don't love her; you're not in love with her; no word of love has ever passed your lips; you are her brother, her friend, nothing more. You told me this yourself, within a month."
"No, I certainly do not love her; but one owes some regard, some mark of confidence, to a friend; and when you see a person every day——"
"Oho! you see her every day, do you?"
"She might have told me, have let fall a hint. Ah! I never would have believed it, Constance!"
"By the way, have you given up going to Dauphiné? I say—Frédéric! Frédéric!"
But he was already far away, running like a madman to Mademoiselle de Valmont; and Dubourg left the house, saying to himself:
"He's a good one to accuse women of perfidy! Ah! these men!—I must go and dine. I don't know how it has happened, but I am already in debt at my restaurant, and the month has only half gone!"
When Frédéric reached the general's house, he had formed no plan of action, and had no idea what he was going to say or do. He entered the house, where his was a familiar presence, and walked rapidly through several rooms to the salon where Constance usually sat. She was there, seated at her piano. Seeing that she was intent upon her music and as placid as ever, Frédéric stood for a moment, gazing at her.
Constance turned her head when she heard footsteps. She smiled when she recognized her visitor, whose excitement she did not notice at once.
"Is it you, monsieur," she said; "I am glad you have come; you are a good musician and can help me decipher this piece."
The young man did not reply, but continued to gaze at Constance, who, being accustomed to his peculiar and often taciturn humor, did not at first observe that anything was wrong; but, finding that he did not approach, she turned again, and then his evident excitement did not escape her notice.
"What is the matter, monsieur?" she asked, with manifest concern; "you seem excited."
"Oh! nothing's the matter, mademoiselle; what could be the matter?"
"I am sure I don't know; you are not in the habit of telling me your troubles."
There was a faint tinge of reproach in the tone in which Constance made this remark. Frédéric sat down beside her, and seemed to try to read in her eyes; never before had he looked at her with such an expression, and Constance, in her surprise, felt that she was blushing, and averted her lovely eyes.
"You are afraid that I shall guess what is taking place in your heart," said Frédéric, affecting an ironical tone to dissemble his suffering.
"I, monsieur! on my word, I don't know what you mean; I don't understand you. Why should I fear to allow my thoughts to be read? I am conscious of no guilt; and if it were otherwise, you are not the one to reprove me."
"Oh! certainly not! you are entirely free as to your feelings, mademoiselle; I know that I have no claim to your heart."
"Mon Dieu! what is the matter, Monsieur Frédéric? really, you alarm me; your agitation is not natural."
"What is the matter! Ah! Constance, you love another, and you ask me that question!"
Mademoiselle de Valmont was speechless with surprise; Frédéric had never called her by that name before, and are not the words: "You love another" equivalent to: "You should love no one but me"? A wave of blissful emotion surged in Constance's heart, which beat faster and with greater force; joy and happiness shone in her eyes, and her voice was softer than ever, as she said:
"I, love another! Mon Dieu! what does he mean? Explain yourself, Frédéric: I don't understand."
The dear girl had understood but one thing, and that was that Frédéric did not want her to love another; and that was enough to make her understand that he loved her. For a long time, she had hoped that she had inspired the sweetest of sentiments in Frédéric's heart; but he had never said a word to her on the subject, nothing that signified: "I love you;" and even when everything tends to that conclusion, a woman longs none the less to hear the words.
Again Frédéric was silent; he sighed long and loud, but said nothing.
"Will you speak, monsieur? what has happened to disturb you so to-day?—what have I done to deserve your reproaches? Explain yourself clearly; I insist upon it—do you hear, monsieur? I insist upon it."
The expression of her voice was so tender that Frédéric could not resist the temptation to look at her again, and doubtless her eyes were in accord with her voice, for he gazed at them several minutes in a sort of ecstasy; but suddenly he cried again:
"What an unhappy wretch I am!"
"You unhappy, Frédéric? Why so?"
"You are going to be married."
"Married! This is the first I've heard of it."
"Oh! it's useless for you to try to conceal it from me; I know all, mademoiselle: I know that your future husband will be here in a few days, that he's a colonel, and that you love him."
"What do you say? a colonel? and I love him? Upon my word, this is rather strong! What is the name of this colonel I am going to marry, if you please?"
"His name! Faith! I forgot to ask that. But you must know perfectly well whom I mean. Will you say that you don't know a colonel?"
"Several colonels have called on my uncle, but——"
"Ah! several of them—you admit it now."
"Who told you, monsieur, that I am going to be married?"
"Someone who is absolutely certain of it: my father, who learned it from your uncle."
"From my uncle? Why, I can't understand this at all."
"You pretend not to understand; but, I doubt not, you are impatiently waiting for your future husband's arrival."
Constance reflected for some little time, then replied in a tone which she struggled to make indifferent:
"Really, monsieur, I am very much surprised by what you have told me; but, after all, suppose it to be true that I am to be married—how does it concern you? I imagine that it is a matter of the utmost indifference to you."
"Ah! you think that, do you? You are quite right, mademoiselle; of course, it cannot make any difference to me."
"Very well! then why do you ask me all these questions, monsieur?"
"Why? O Constance! are you going to be married? and this colonel—do you really love him?"
"And if I did love anyone—would that cause you any grief?"
She was determined to force him to the wall and make him avow his sentiments. Frédéric could contain himself no longer; his heart could not keep its secret.
"Yes," he cried, "I love you, I adore you! I shall die if you marry another man!"
"He loves me!—Ah! it's very lucky that I have extorted that from you! I thought you would never say it."
And the blushing girl gave her hand to Frédéric, who had fallen at her feet; and he covered that hand with kisses, while she said to him with deep earnestness:
"Ah! Frédéric, I love you, too. I shall never love anyone else. Why, my dear, did you not long ago say those words, which make me so happy, and which I have been expecting so long? My uncle is very fond of me; he will never do anything to make me unhappy. If it be true that he has planned a marriage for me—he has never mentioned the subject—why, he must abandon it, for I will tell him that I will marry no one but you, that you alone can obtain my heart and hand; and he will consent, I am certain of it. He is fond of you too, Frédéric; indeed, who would not be? You see, you do wrong to be sad and depressed, and to conceal your sorrows from me. My dear, I read your heart long ago; should you not have been able to read mine?"
Frédéric replied only by protestations of love; he was beside himself with joy; Mademoiselle de Valmont's avowal had disturbed his reason; not without difficulty did she succeed in calming him, and he did not leave her until she had repeated her solemn promise that she would never give her hand to another.
Frédéric left the house in a very different frame of mind from that in which he had entered it. The certainty that Constance loved him had revolutionized all his ideas in an instant: in his delirious joy, Sister Anne was entirely forgotten; he did not even feel a pang of remorse. Like those sick persons who, when the fever is at its height, are unconscious of pain, he said to himself again and again:
"Dubourg was quite right: I do love Constance, I adore her! I can never again love anybody else."
Two days after this declaration, the Comte de Montreville, well assured that his son no longer thought of leaving Constance, set out for Dauphiné, in his own carriage, attended by a single servant and a postilion.