Let us now return to the dumb girl in the woods, whom we left awaiting Frédéric's coming, and whom we shall find still awaiting him.
But the trees have lost their foliage; the fields no longer offer to the eye the pleasing prospect of luxuriant vegetation; there is no green turf in the valley, no verdure on the banks of the stream. The leaves have fallen, and the villager's steps are deadened by that which shaded him and embellished his garden a few days since. He tramples under foot the beautiful foliage to which the approach of a harsher season has brought death. Thus do all things pass away. Other foliage will be born, only to die in its turn; and the man who tramples upon it must likewise return to the dust whereon future generations will tread. He fancies himself of some account because his allotted time is longer; but when the ages have dispersed his ashes, what more will he have left behind him than those leaves have done which whirl about in the wind at his feet?
The autumn disposes us to melancholy; it brings reverie and reflection, not to him who lives in the city, detained in the vortex of the world by the necessities of business or pleasure, but to the man of the fields who can contemplate each day the successive changes in the face of nature. Not without emotion does he look upon the forest, whose black, skeleton-like trees seem to be in mourning for the spring; if he walks along a path but lately shaded by dense foliage, if he seeks the thicket where he was wont to rest during the heat of the day, he sees naught but dry branches, often broken by the poor man's hand. The forest is less dark than in summer, for the sunlight finds its way in on all sides. But that brightness, far from embellishing it, robs it of all its charm; one regrets the dark, mysterious paths, through which it is so pleasant to wander in the season of love.
As he watches the approach of the frost and snow, as he contemplates the effects of the winter's cold, man, always buoyed up by hope, says to himself:
"The spring will come again; I shall see once more my leafy lanes, my lawns, and my shrubs."
The spring comes again—but many men do not see it!
Sister Anne observed the change in the season only because it emphasized the length of time that had elapsed since Frédéric left her. The unhappy child could no longer count the days; their number was too great. However, hope had not vanished from her heart; she could not believe that her lover intended to abandon her forever; sometimes, she imagined that he had ceased to live, and then the blackest despair took possession of her thoughts. When that idea forced itself upon her, life seemed to be only one long agony. Could she live on, unsustained by the hope of seeing her lover? Often she longed to die. But she was soon to be a mother; that thought made her cling to life once more; something told her that she must live for her child.
It was a very long time since she had been to the village. An old shepherd, who went back and forth through the woods, was in the habit of leaving every day, at the foot of a tree, the loaf of rye bread required by the occupants of the cabin, and always found there, in exchange, a large pitcher filled with milk. This bread, with milk and fresh eggs, was all that the two poor women ate in winter. When Sister Anne had finished preparing the meal, and had given the old woman all that she required, she drove her goats to the hilltop, and seated herself at the foot of her mother's tree. Despite the cold, which was beginning to be severe, the girl did not fail to go thither a single day. Wrapped in a wretched woollen cloak, half worn out, she defied the rigor of the season, although the garment was but little protection to her; her goats, finding nothing on the hill to browse upon, huddled at her feet; and Sister Anne, her features pinched and worn by her condition and her sufferings, presented only too faithfully the image of poverty and sorrow.
More than once, the snow, falling in great flakes, formed an icy cloak about her body, so that the poor girl's form could hardly be distinguished from the ground she lay upon; and often she removed her cloak to cover her shivering companions. The traveller who happened to pass over the hill could make out nothing in that snow-covered group save the dumb girl's head, always turned toward the road to the town. But, unheeding the cold, she did not realize that her whole body shivered, that her teeth chattered, that her limbs stiffened; she was unconscious of physical suffering; a single sentiment absorbed her whole being, and the pain it caused left her no feeling for any other.
When the darkness made it impossible for her to see the road, she rose and looked at herself, amazed to find that she was almost buried in snow. Then she would shake her cloak, caress her goats, and slowly descend the hill to the cabin and old Marguerite. When the old woman was asleep, and she threw herself on her solitary couch, she no longer found love there, nor even rest, to which she had long been a stranger. The memory of her lover was there, as it was everywhere. If only she could express her grief in words, call to him and implore him to return! It seemed to her that her voice would reach his ears.—Poor girl! heaven had deprived you of that priceless organ. Tears! always tears! those were all that remained to you!
But, meanwhile, Sister Anne saw that old Marguerite was failing from day to day. For a long while she had not left the house; she was hardly able to totter to her great armchair. Marguerite was seventy-six years of age; she had led an active, laborious life, and her old age was placid; she had no disease and did not suffer; age alone was wearing out her strength, which was daily diminishing. She was going out like a lamp whose light has been soft and mellow; she had not shone with great brilliancy, but she had been useful, which is far preferable.
The hour fixed by nature drew near; Marguerite was destined not to see another spring. Sister Anne redoubled her loving attentions to her adopted mother; observing the gradual weakening of her faculties, she gave up going to the hilltop, in order to be always with her. She could have made no greater sacrifice. Good Marguerite, touched by her devotion, smiled at her affectionately, and called her her dear child.
But one morning, when Sister Anne went as usual to her mother's bed to ask how she had passed the night, Marguerite did not answer, or, as her custom was, hold out her trembling hand. Her eyes were closed, never to open again. Sister Anne was terrified; she seized the old woman's hand—it was cold and inert, and she tried in vain to warm it in her own. She stooped and kissed Marguerite's forehead, but no smile rewarded her.
The girl stood by her aged companion's bedside, overwhelmed with grief; she gazed at the venerable features of her who had taken care of her from childhood, of her only friend, who had been taken from her!—Marguerite seemed like one asleep; the serenity of her face indicated the serenity of her mind in its last moments. Sister Anne, standing beside the bed, with one hand resting upon it, could not tire of gazing at her adopted mother. Her grief was calm, but none the less profound; her eyes were dry, but their expression was none the less heartrending.
She passed a large part of the day beside the good woman's lifeless remains; not without difficulty did she succeed in tearing herself away; but she knew that she must perform the last duties for Marguerite, that she must consign her to her last resting-place; and she realized that she was incapable of doing it alone, without assistance. She must go to the village, therefore, where she had not been seen for a long while.
She left her cabin and went out of the woods on her way to Vizille. As she passed, she bowed, as usual, to those of the village women whom she knew; but she could not understand why they turned their heads away, or stared at her with contempt. Instead of stopping, as their custom was, to bid her good-day, they walked quickly away, and seemed desirous to avoid meeting her. The young men looked at her with mocking smiles; some pointed at her, whispering to one another; and not upon a single face did she observe the marks of interest which they were accustomed to manifest.
"What can be the matter?" thought the poor child; "everybody seems to avoid me; is it because I am more unhappy than ever, because I have lost my kind mother, and Frédéric has abandoned me?"
She forgot that she bore the testimony of her weakness; that pledge of love, of which she was so proud, was, in the eyes of the peasants, a proof of her shame. In villages, people are more severe than in cities; they set great store by innocence, because it is often the only treasure they possess. The good people of Vizille held very austere views on the subject of such falls from virtue: a girl who had been seduced became an object of general contempt, so long as her seducer did not repair her fault before the altar. Perhaps they should have been more indulgent to the dumb girl, who, living in the woods, did not know that she was culpable in yielding to the promptings of her heart. But peasants do not reason; they act in obedience to habit, and often mechanically. They had shown deep interest, so long as she was innocent as well as unfortunate; now that she bore manifest proofs of her weakness, they spurned her, without waiting to inquire whether she was not more unfortunate than before.
At last she reached the village, unable to understand the conduct of the people, having no idea why the young girls fled at her approach without deigning to answer her signs, or why their parents stared at her with a stern, disdainful air.
She knocked at the door of a cottage, the owners of which were friends of Marguerite. The woman who opened the door made a gesture of surprise when she saw her, then drove her away from the house. Sister Anne tried to insist and to make her understand the loss she had met with; but, refusing to notice her signs, the woman pushed her into the street, where a number of peasants had assembled and stood staring at her.
"How do you dare to come to the village in that state?" asked an old man; "to show your face here and try to get into our houses? You're carrying the token of your shame; you'd do better to hide it in your woods. And you come here and show yourself to our daughters! Do you do it to let them admire your pretty behavior, and set them an example? Off with you, Clotilde's child! you ought to die of shame! Go back to your cabin, clear out with your seducer, but don't come here again among our wives and children!"
Sister Anne could not understand how a person could be guilty for having known love. She gazed at the peasants in surprise; she held out her hands, clasped in entreaty: she tried to make them understand that she had not come to seek their aid for herself. But they did not choose to understand; they turned their backs on her and went into their houses; some escorted her to the outskirts of the village, and did not leave her until they had ordered her never to return.
The poor child was suffocated by the sobs that convulsed her whole body. To be treated so for having loved Frédéric! That thought sustained her courage; it was for him that she was subjected to such humiliation; she would endure everything rather than cease to love him. She returned to her cabin, weeping bitterly. It was dark. Absolute solitude reigned in her poor home, thenceforth the abode of silence. She was utterly alone on earth. Proof against idle terrors, against the childish fear which even the greatest geniuses sometimes feel at sight of death, Sister Anne went to the bed on which Marguerite lay, and, falling on her knees beside it, held out her arms to her protectress, as if to say:
"You would not have spurned me, mother, if I had come before you even guiltier than I am! You would have had pity on me. Your great age, your enfeebled sight, did not permit you to notice my condition; but you would have forgiven me; and they turned me away! Is it by heaping obloquy on the unfortunate that the path of repentance should be pointed out to them?"
She passed the whole night by Marguerite's bed. She prayed with all her heart for her who had been a mother to her; she implored her to protect her still, and during that mournful night Frédéric's image did not disturb her pious occupation.
The next morning, at daybreak, Sister Anne went to the woods to wait for the old shepherd who supplied her with bread in exchange for milk. He soon appeared. He was a man of some sixty years, still strong and well, who had passed most of his life in the forest, and, like Sister Anne, knew almost nothing of what happened in the village, which is the whole world to a woodsman. The girl took him by the hand and seemed to urge him to go with her to the cabin. The old shepherd complied with her entreaty, and she led him to Marguerite's bedside. He shook his head, but did not seem moved: the habit of living the life of a savage sometimes makes men indifferent to the suffering of others. But Sister Anne appealed to him by signs which he could not fail to understand, and the old fellow consented to perform the service she asked at his hands.
She led him into the garden, to the fig-tree under which Marguerite loved to sit, and pointed to the ground: that was where she wished that her adopted mother should rest. The old shepherd soon dug the grave, then carried the old woman's remains thither and covered them with earth. Sister Anne planted a cross by the spot. It was the only monument she could erect to her benefactress's memory; but she would come often to water it with her tears. How many magnificent mausoleums there are whereon no tear was ever shed!
The shepherd went his way, and Sister Anne was once more alone—and forever! At that moment, she felt more keenly than ever the loss she had sustained. Marguerite talked little; for some time past, she had dozed constantly; but she was always there, and the poor child felt that she was not altogether alone in the world. There was one person who could comfort her; but he did not come, and each succeeding day helped to destroy the little hope that still sustained her. She would not have had the courage to endure her torments, but for the feeling that heaven would soon give her someone to lighten them. She was now fully aware of the existence of the being in whom she was to live again. She had already suffered much for its sake: people shunned and despised her; she could no longer seek help or shelter in the village; but the mere sight of that little creature would bring forgetfulness of all her agony; is it not just that we should find in the cause of our sorrows their compensation?
As the days passed, Sister Anne's profound grief for the loss of Marguerite changed into a tender, grateful memory; but time, which soothes the regrets of friendship, does not allay the sufferings of a lover. The memory of Frédéric was more constantly in her mind than ever, for there was nothing to divert her thoughts from it. She saw no one; and if the movements within her reminded her that she was soon to be a mother, that fact made her desire more ardently the presence of her child's father.
While Frédéric was with Sister Anne, he had talked to her sometimes of the outside world, of his father, and very often of Paris, his birthplace. During the day, while they sat together by the brook, it amused him to draw a picture of the great city for the wondering girl, to describe the pleasures, the plays, the splendid avenues, which make it a place of enchantment. She did not always comprehend what he said, but she listened with wide-open eyes, manifesting her amazement by artless gestures, by curious tokens of surprise; and it amused Frédéric, who was often obliged to tell her stories to satisfy her, for one cannot be always making love. Some people maintain that it is a great pity; they forget that those things which one can do all the time end by losing their value.
What Frédéric had told Sister Anne was engraved in her memory. Each day she thought about it more and more, and said to herself:
"He is probably in that great city, Paris, that he used to tell me so much about, where he was born. Perhaps his father won't let him come back to me. But if I could go there and find him, if I could once throw myself into his arms, I'm very sure he would be glad to see me. Then he would keep me with him, I would never leave him again, and I should be, oh! so happy! But how can I find my way to Paris?"
Every day, the longing to set out in search of her lover became stronger in that loving heart, which could not persuade itself that Frédéric had forgotten her, but believed that the reason he did not return was that someone was keeping him away from her. Marguerite being dead, there was nothing to detain Sister Anne in the woods. In her condition, and bereft as she was of so essential an organ, she ought doubtless to have felt that her cabin was preferable to the dangers, the suffering, and the fatigue that would be her portion in the journey she contemplated; but a woman who loves truly sees neither danger nor suffering; she dares everything, sustained by the hope of seeing once more the object of her affection. Sister Anne, unacquainted with the world, unable to speak, and bearing within her the fruit of her love, determined to leave her home to go in search of her lover; to face every danger, to endure poverty and privations of every sort; and even though she should have to employ years in her search, it seemed to her that every step would bring her nearer to her lover.
Having formed her decision, she devoted all her thought to its execution; but she did not wish to leave her cabin and Marguerite's grave to be utterly neglected. Again it was the old shepherd to whom she addressed herself: she led him into the house one morning, and pointed to a small bundle containing her clothing, which she slung over her shoulders, to indicate that she was going away; then she motioned to him to sit down, as if to say:
"This cabin is yours, stay here; I ask you only to take care of the fig-tree that shades my mother's tomb, and these poor creatures who have been my only companions so long."
The old man readily understood her; but, although the hovel was a palace in his eyes, and Sister Anne's cession of it to him made him richer than he had ever been, he tried to induce the girl to abandon a plan which seemed to him insane.
"Where do you propose to go, my child?" he asked; "can you think of leaving home in the condition you are in? Within two months you will be a mother, and you propose to go on a journey; and you a poor, dumb girl! Who will take you in, who will help you, how will you ask the way? Come, my girl, you are going to do a very foolish thing. Wait a little while, at least."
But Sister Anne had made up her mind, and nothing could move her; she shook her head as she looked at the old shepherd; then raised her eyes to heaven, as if to say:
"God will take pity on me and guide my steps."
He tried once more to keep her.
"What about money?" he said; "you need money in the world, my girl; I know that, although I haven't lived much in the world. I haven't got any myself, and I can't give you anything for your house and what there is in it, although it's well worth something."
Sister Anne smiled, then took from her bosom a small canvas bag, and showed the old man four gold pieces: it was Marguerite's little hoard. Some time before she died, the good woman had told her to look in the corner of the cabin, under her bed; there she had found the little bag securely tied, and Marguerite had said to her:
"Take it, my child; it's for you; it's the fruit of my savings in sixty years of toil. I have always meant it for you; perhaps it will help you to buy some more goats."
At sight of the four gold pieces, the old shepherd ceased his efforts to detain her, for he believed that with that amount of money she could go round the world.
"Go, my child," he said; "I will keep your cabin; remember that it still belongs to you, if ever you want to come back to it."
Sister Anne smiled sadly; then, with a last glance at her home, she went forth, with her light bundle in one hand, and in the other a stick on which she leaned as she walked. She saluted Marguerite's grave in the garden; her goats ran after her, as if they expected her to drive them to the hill as usual. She caressed them, weeping, for they had come to be her only friends, and something told her that she would never see them again.
What memories stirred her heart as she walked through the woods! There was the place where they had sat so often! yonder the brook, by which she first saw him, and where he told her that he loved her! Those familiar spots seemed alive with his presence, and she found it hard to make up her mind to leave them. But she said to herself, to sustain her courage:
"I am going to join him; and perhaps we shall return together."
She climbed the hill, and knelt at the foot of the tree where Clotilde died. She prayed to her mother to watch over her from on high, and to guide her in her journey. Then she descended the hill, in the direction of the town; she followed the road that he had taken, and wished that she could discover his footprints.