The dumb girl had begun her journey at daybreak; it was a cold but fine morning; a heavy frost had dried up the roads, frozen the streams, and checked the torrents. The fields were deserted; the peasants who were abroad wasted no time, but hastened to return to their cabins and sit down in front of the fireplace, where the stumps they had brought from the forest snapped and crackled. A bright fire enlivens the long winter evening, and the poor beggar, as he passes through a village, stops and gazes enviously at the flame that shines through a cottage window, overjoyed when he finds an opportunity to warm himself on the public square, before a bundle or two of straw which other poor wretches have set on fire.
It was only four hours since Sister Anne had set out, and her eyes were already struck by the novelty of what she saw. Having never seen anything besides her own cabin, her woods, and the village of Vizille, she paused in amazement before a forge, or a mill, or a country house, which seemed to her a very castle. Everything was new to her; but how was she to find her way in this world, which seemed to her so immense, how could she find that city which she could not name, and of which she did not even know the direction? Sometimes these thoughts made her heart sink; she would stop and look sadly about; then she would think of Frédéric, and resume her journey.
Toward midday, she arrived at a small hamlet, and knocked at the door of a peasant's cottage; it was opened by a young woman, who was nursing one child, while four others played about her, and an old woman kindled the fire with an armful of dry branches she had just brought from the woods.
"What do you want, my good woman?" asked the young mother. Sister Anne gazed at the picture before her, and could not take her eyes from the child at its mother's breast. A gleam of joy lighted up her face; one could see that she was thinking at that moment:
"I will nurse my child, too; I will carry him at my bosom and receive his caresses."
"Why don't you say what you want?" said the old woman, without taking her eyes from the fire.
"Oh! see how pale she is, mother!" said the younger woman; "and how she seems to be suffering! To think of such a young thing, and so near her time, travelling about when it's as cold as this!—You are going to join your husband, I suppose?"
Sister Anne sighed; then, seeing that they were waiting for her answer, she explained by signs that she could not speak.
"Mon Dieu! mother, she's dumb! Poor woman!"
"Dumb!" cried the old mother. "What, my dear, can't you talk? How I pity you, poor child! Are you deaf too?"
Sister Anne's pantomime indicated that she could hear them perfectly.
"Well, that's lucky, on my word!" exclaimed the old woman, walking toward the traveller; while all the children stared curiously at her, thinking that a mute was not like other people.
"Was it some accident that made you dumb, my girl? have you been so long? Was it an illness? Can't it be cured?"
"Let us first give the poor creature what she needs, mother," said the young woman; "let her rest and eat something; then you can question her."
They bustled about, and seated Sister Anne in front of the fire; one child took her bundle, another her stick, and the old mother brought her food, for the daughter could not leave the child she was nursing. Sister Anne, touched by their kindness to her, manifested her gratitude by such pathetic gestures, that the occupants of the little cottage were deeply moved.
"So it isn't the same everywhere as it is at my village," thought the young wayfarer; "here, instead of turning me away and looking down on me, they are kind to me, and treat me like their own child. The world isn't so cruel, after all."
This welcome revived her courage; but she could not answer all the old woman's questions. The peasants believed, according to her signs, that she was going to join her husband.
"He's in the city, I suppose?" queried the old woman.
Sister Anne nodded her head; and as Grenoble was the nearest city, they concluded that that was her destination.
After remaining several hours beneath that hospitable roof, she determined to resume her journey; but first she took one of the gold pieces from her little bag and offered it to the young woman.
"Keep it, my dear," said she; "we don't want anything for what we've done. You're so much to be pitied for not being able to talk, that you deserve to be taken in and put up everywhere for nothing; but, unluckily, everybody don't think so; there's some folks with hard, unfeeling hearts. You're going to the city, and you'll need all your money; they won't refuse it there."
Sister Anne expressed her gratitude as best she could. She kissed the young mother and her little nursling affectionately, then left the cottage, after they had pointed out the road to Grenoble, where they supposed that she was going.
The young woman did not travel rapidly; her pregnancy, her lack of practice in walking, and the bundle of clothing she carried, compelled her to stop frequently. She would sit down on a felled tree, a stone, or the bank of a ditch, and wait until her strength had returned and she could go on.
Sometimes other travellers passed her while she was resting. Those in carriages did not look at her; several men on horseback cast a glance at her; but the pedestrians stopped and said a few words to her. Receiving no reply, they went their way, some thinking that she was half-witted, others calling her impertinent because she did not deign to speak to them. Sister Anne gazed at them with an air of surprise, smiled at a peasant who proposed to take her on his horse, and lowered her eyes when another lost his temper because she did not answer him; the most curious ended by doing as the others did, and left her.
Toward nightfall, Sister Anne, having followed the directions given her, reached Grenoble. The sight of a large city was a source of fresh surprise, which increased with every step she took in the streets, where the people were dressed so much more handsomely than in her village. Everything surprised and bewildered her, and she trembled as she walked. The tall houses, the shops, the throng of people moving in every direction, the continual uproar, the strange way in which the passers-by gazed at her—everything tended to increase her confusion. Poor girl! how would it be if you were in Paris?
But it grew dark, and she must seek shelter for the night. She dared not enter any of the houses; they all seemed too fine; she was afraid that she would not be admitted. For a long while, she wandered at random through those unfamiliar streets; but she was tired out at last, and determined to knock somewhere. The poor child did not know what an inn was; she thought that she could obtain a place to sleep anywhere by paying for it.
She knocked at the door of a house of modest appearance. The door opened, and she entered trembling.
"What do you want?" demanded an old tailor, who acted as concierge.
The girl looked sadly at him, and made signs to indicate that she could not speak; but he paid no attention to them, and repeated his question. Receiving no reply, he sprang to his feet in a rage, ran to Sister Anne, took her by the arm, and put her out of the door, saying:
"Oho! so you won't tell where you're going, won't you? Folks don't get in here that way, my girl."
This reception was not encouraging; the poor girl was once more in the street; her eyes filled with tears, but she summoned all her courage and knocked at another door. There, they called her a beggar, and refused to admit her. She could stand it no longer; her sobs choked her; she sat down on a stone bench beside a door and wept bitterly. In a moment the door opened, and an old couple came out, wrapped in furs and comforters, followed by a servant carrying a lantern. As they passed, they ordered Sister Anne to leave the bench, which belonged to their house, calling her an idler and a beggar, and threatening to have her put in prison if she did not move on. Sister Anne rose, trembling in every limb, and dragged her sorrow and weariness elsewhere; and the old couple went their way, chuckling over what they had done, and promising to hold forth concerning the audacity of the lower classes at the party where they were to pass the evening.
The dumb girl, utterly worn out, could hardly stand erect, and did not know which way to turn. The treatment she had met with gave her a very depressing idea of life in cities. But she must find a shelter for the night. She spied a house more brightly lighted than the others; the front door was open, and many persons were going in and out. She took one of her gold pieces in her hand, afraid to enter unless she exhibited it. This time she had made a more fortunate selection: the house in question was an inn, and the sight of the gold piece procured her a cordial reception.
When the landlady found that the young traveller could not answer her questions, she felt called upon to talk for two, and, while she led the way to a small bedroom, extolled the advantages of her house and the way in which it was kept, asked her where she came from and where she was going, then interrupted herself by exclaiming:
"Mon Dieu! what a fool I am! I ask that just as if you could answer."
A moment later, she resumed her chatter, saying:
"It's very hard! I don't understand your signs, I don't understand 'em at all. Never mind, my child; you shall be served on the dot. If my nephew was only here! he knows mathematics, and he'd soon explain your signs. But he's gone away, poor boy! he's a clerk in the telegraph office at Lyon, now."
At last she left Sister Anne, who, having eaten sparingly, was able to enjoy the rest she needed so sorely. Sleep, poor girl, and may happy dreams bring momentary oblivion of your sufferings!
As she had heard the hostess say more than once: "You are in the best hotel in Grenoble," she knew the name of the city, and remembered that Frédéric had mentioned that name. That recollection led her to resolve not to leave that place until she had sought him there; and the next morning, after she had succeeded in making her hostess understand that she proposed to pass that day also at Grenoble, she left the inn and set out to search the city, which seemed to her enormously large.
As she walked along, she looked at every window in every house. If Frédéric were there, she thought that he would see her pass, and would either call to her or run after her. Sometimes she stopped, thinking that she recognized his figure; but she soon discovered her error. She passed the whole day thus, and did not return to the inn until it was so dark that she could see nothing.
"Have you been looking about our city?" inquired the landlady; "it's a very pretty place, I tell you, a very pretty place, our city of Grenoble. But it isn't as big as Lyon, and even Lyon don't come near Paris."
At the word Paris, the young traveller made a joyful movement, and, grasping the hostess's arm, signified that that was where she wanted to go. But she did not make her meaning clear.
"You are going to Lyon, I'll wager," said the hostess; "that isn't so far; fifteen leagues, that's all. To be sure, in your condition you can't walk very fast; but in three or four days at most, you ought to do it."
Sister Anne went sadly to her room. How could she find the road to Paris, if she could not make people understand that that was where she wanted to go? That thought disheartened her; but she had implored her mother to guide her on her journey; she prayed to her again, and hope was born anew in her heart; without hope, what would be left for the unhappy?
The next day, the girl prepared to leave the inn; the landlady presented a bill to her, of which she could make nothing; but she tendered a gold piece and received very little change. In cities, one has to pay for every reverence, every attention. Sister Anne had been treated with great courtesy, so that her stay at the inn cost her rather dear.
They pointed out the road to Lyon, and she set forth once more, with her little bundle and her stick. But how easy it is to lose one's way in the hilly, wooded paths between Grenoble and Lyon! She abandoned herself to Providence for guidance. She walked most of the day, and at night, thoroughly exhausted, went to a farmhouse, where they consented to let her sleep in a barn. But, provided that she could pass the night where she was sheltered from the cold, she slept as well on straw as on feathers; fatigue enabled her at last to sleep several hours.
Her accommodation at the farm helped to exhaust her little store, and the young traveller began to realize that she must be sparing of it, for it was almost the only talisman by means of which she could obtain shelter. Hospitable folk are rare. The most humane think that they are doing much for the poor wayfarer when they give him a trifling sum of money and a crust of bread; but they will not receive him under their roof. Far distant are the days when men deemed it an honor to give shelter to a stranger, without inquiring as to his rank and his means; when they shared their fire and their repast and their bed with him. Other times, other manners! We have become very proud, we are no longer inclined to share anything. By way of compensation, we have excellent friends, who come to our house and eat our bread, drink our wine, and sometimes make love to our wives, and who, when they leave, go elsewhere and say countless cruel things about us; but they do it from excess of affection, and because they are afraid that we may have other friends than themselves.
Toward noon of the second day after she left Grenoble, Sister Anne, absorbed by her recollections, did not notice that she had strayed from the road that had been pointed out to her. Not until she began to feel the need of rest did she look about for the village, which, according to the directions she had received in the morning, could not be far away.
The place where she was at that moment was wild and deserted; there was no house in sight. She climbed a hill, and could see nothing in front of her but an extensive forest of firs. On her left, a mountain stream, with ice floating on the surface, plunged into a deep and winding ravine; on her right was a bare mountain side, with steep cliffs, but no human habitation.
She began to fear that she had lost her way, and hesitated for some time as to the best course for her to pursue. The roads to the right and left had a most unpromising look; she was reluctant to retrace her steps; so she decided to take the road leading to the forest. After walking about half an hour, she found herself among the stately firs, which time had not bent, and whose branches, although partly despoiled of their foliage, seemed to rise no less proudly toward the clouds and to defy wind and frost.
An excellent road led directly into the forest, and Sister Anne did not hesitate to take it. She could see the marks of wheels and of horses' feet, and she hoped that it would lead her to the village or to some nearby city. She surmounted her fatigue, in order that she might reach a place of shelter before dark. As she walked on, she did not meet a human being, and there was a sombreness and gloom about that road, hemmed in by the forest on both sides, that depressed her beyond words. Her eyes, straining to discover the end of the interminable road, saw naught save the dark firs, and there was no indication that she was approaching the village. Her heart sank; night was beginning to envelop the earth in its dark folds; she could no longer distinguish anything in the paths that led to right and left; and soon Sister Anne, her strength giving way before her courage, felt that it was impossible for her to go farther. So she was forced to make up her mind to pass the night in the forest. It was not fear that made the poor child's heart beat fast; she did not know what robbers were, for there had never been any in her woods. But the thought of passing a whole night in the forest, without shelter, in such cold weather, and in her condition! However, it must be done. She seated herself at the foot of a large tree. She was always careful, when she passed through a town or a village, to supply herself with provisions; so she ate some bread and dried nuts; then, wrapping herself as well as she could in her clothes, and placing her bundle under her head, she waited for sleep to come. Thanks to the fatigue of that long day's journey, she had not long to wait.
It was midnight when the dumb girl opened her eyes, and the moon, shining directly over the road on the edge of which she had fallen asleep, lighted the strange picture which awaited her at her awakening.
Four men stood about her, all dressed like poor woodcutters, in jackets and loose trousers held in place by broad belts; they wore broad-brimmed hats, some with the brims turned down, while the others, being turned up in front, revealed faces that bore no trace of gentleness or humanity. Their long, uncombed hair and beards intensified the sinister expression of their features; each of them carried a gun, on which he leaned; and each had a hunting-knife and a pair of pistols in his belt.
Two of these men were stooping over Sister Anne; another held a dark lantern near her face; while the fourth, who also had his eyes upon her, seemed to be listening, to make sure that everything was quiet on the road.
The sight of those four faces fixed upon hers caused Sister Anne an involuntary shock; and, although she did not appreciate the danger that threatened her, she was conscious of a feeling of terror which she could not understand, and closed her eyes to avoid those searching glances.
"What in the devil have we got here?" said one of the two who were leaning over her; "I'm very much afraid that it don't amount to much, and I doubt if it's worth while to stop."
"Eh? why not?" said the man with the lantern; "it's better'n nothing, anyway. Look, Pierre, she's got a bundle under her head."
"A lot of worthless rags; don't you see that she's a woman as works in the fields?"
"I say! is she dead or asleep?" said a third. "Come, Leroux, just push her a bit! Are we going to spend the night staring at this drudge?"
"Death of my life! I don't know as we've got anything better to do. All's quiet on the road—eh, Jacques?"
Jacques was the man who stood a few steps away, apparently listening. When his comrades addressed him, he approached the group about the girl, saying:
"Damnation! another bad night!"
"Not so bad as it might be!" rejoined Leroux, still gazing at Sister Anne; "morbleu! that's a pretty woman!"
It was at that moment that Sister Anne opened her eyes, resolved to appeal to the compassion of the men who surrounded her, and whose language she did not comprehend, having no suspicion of their profession.
"I say, look!" cried Leroux; "she's waking up. She's got a fine pair of eyes, on my word! I'm curious to hear what she'll say."
Sister Anne cast a glance of entreaty upon them, one after another, clasping her hands as if to implore their pity.
"Oh! don't you be afraid," said Pierre; "we ain't going to hurt you. Where did you come from? where you going? what put it into your head to sleep in our forest?"
The dumb girl, taking the robbers for woodcutters, tried to make them understand that she had lost her way.
"What's this! a woman, and she won't speak!" cried Jacques; "what does this mean? Is it fear that makes her dumb? Come, speak—damnation!"
Sister Anne rose, and indicated by signs that she could not speak.
"What devilish kind of a woman is this?" cried Pierre; while Leroux, holding his lantern still nearer to her, exclaimed, with a roar of laughter:
"My eyes, comrades! Dumb or not, the hen has found her rooster, and the egg won't be long coming!"
This jest was welcomed with a savage laugh by the other three robbers; and all four kept their eyes fixed on the poor girl, who, not divining the cause of their merriment, but unable to endure their glances, timidly lowered her eyes and stood trembling in the midst of them.
"Come on, let's leave the woman," said Pierre; "she's a poor deaf mute; we mustn't take her on our shoulders."
"Deaf?" rejoined Leroux, whose eyes gleamed with a terrifying expression; "why, such a woman as that's a downright treasure. She's so pretty! she takes my eye, and I'll make her my moll as soon as she gets rid of her load."
"Nonsense, Leroux! you're joking."
"No! ten thousand thunders! a deaf mute—think how useful she'll be to us in our business."
Sister Anne, trembling like a leaf, did not fully understand the conversation of the miscreants; but, observing their indecision, and fearing that they would refuse to give her the shelter of which she felt more in need than ever, for the cold had benumbed all her limbs, she took her little store from her bosom. She knew that the sight of money smooths all obstacles; so she took a coin from her little bag, and offered it with an air of entreaty to one of the ruffians.
"Oho! she's got money, and she offers it to us; that's good! Parbleu! give it here, give it here, girl!"
As he spoke, Pierre snatched the bag from Sister Anne, who was stupefied at being thus forcibly despoiled of her treasure; while the robbers greedily counted its contents.
"Three gold pieces, as I'm alive!" cried Jacques; and the brigands' faces gleamed with savage joy. "That's more'n we've made in five days!"
"Didn't I tell you this wasn't a bad find?" rejoined Leroux. "Come, comrades, let's take this girl to our hole, and have a good time."
With that, the fellow seized Sister Anne's arm and dragged her into the forest; Jacques took charge of the bundle, Pierre followed him, and Franck, the fourth man, taking the lantern from Leroux's hand, went ahead to light his companions.
The dumb girl walked unresistingly in the midst of the robbers, still not realizing the horror of her position; she thought they were taking her to their home, to their wives and children. But their brutal features, their abrupt and insolent manners, the weapons they carried, and the strangeness of their language, inspired her with a terror she could not control. She glanced timidly at them again and again, hoping to find, for her comfort, a look of sympathy or pity on their faces; but whenever she raised her eyes, they met Leroux's fastened upon her and blazing with brutal passion. That ruffian's features intensified the fear caused by his manners: his curly hair corresponded in color with his name, which his companions had given him on that account; his pale, gray eyes rolled this way and that with amazing rapidity; his mouth, about which a ferocious smile always lurked, was surmounted by heavy moustaches of the color of his hair; and a broad scar, extending from the top of the nose to the bottom of the left ear, put the finishing touch to his sinister countenance. He had one arm about the girl's body, supporting her as they walked rapidly along the forest paths, while the other bandits, by their actions and their speech, momentarily added to Sister Anne's alarm.
The robbers lived in a wretched hovel in the heart of the forest; by day, they passed for poor woodcutters, being careful to keep their weapons out of sight in a cellar under their den. But at night they armed themselves to the teeth and betook themselves to the highroad, where, when they considered that they were sufficiently numerous, they attacked belated travellers.
Sister Anne was surprised that they had to go so far to reach their home, and even more surprised by the almost impassable paths they chose. At last, after walking more than an hour, they led her down into a ravine, amid dense underbrush. Soon she made out a flickering light in the window of a hut, and a woman opened the door after the robbers had whistled several times.
The appearance of one of her own sex cheered Sister Anne for a moment; but when she looked closely at the woman who appeared in the doorway, her short-lived hope vanished. In truth, the aspect of the robbers' companion was not calculated to restore tranquillity to the unhappy girl's mind: she was a tall woman, shockingly thin, and her strongly marked features wore an expression of calm, cold cruelty which pointed to absolute lack of sensibility; her face was of a livid pallor; a red silk handkerchief covered her head, and a handful of rags barely concealed her emaciated body.
"Here we are, Christine," cried the brigands, as they approached. "We've got a prize; we've brought you a companion you can't quarrel with."
At that, Christine stepped out of the house, and, snatching the lantern from Franck's hand, held it close to Sister Anne's face. After examining her closely for several minutes, she said, in a harsh voice:
"What's all this?"
"A woman, can't you see? And a rare woman, too! a deaf mute!"
"A deaf mute! A fine capture, I swear! What do you expect to do with her?"
"That's none of your business," said Leroux, in a voice that echoed through the forest; "I took this woman for myself; I like her, she suits me just as she is. Don't you dare to look crooked at her, or I'll hang you up to the tallest fir in the forest!"
Christine did not seem alarmed by the threat; she continued to stare at the girl, and, when she noticed her condition, a sarcastic smile lighted up her face, and she muttered between her teeth:
"You'll be sure of having a brat, anyway."
A blow which sent her reeling against the wall of the cabin was Leroux's only reply to this remark of the repellent Christine; she rushed at him with a threatening air, but Pierre stepped between them.
"Come, come, comrades," he said, "that's enough of such fooling; we mustn't let the new-comer raise a row here. Go in, Christine, and see about giving us some supper, quick; we're as hungry as wolves!"
During this altercation between the robbers and their housekeeper, the unfortunate dumb girl felt a sensation of fear, of absolute terror, such as she had never known before. The aspect of the woman, the language of the men, whose brutal character she began to divine, the appearance of that horrible lair—everything combined to give her some conception of the perils that encompassed her. But what could she do? what would become of her? She would have been only too glad, at that moment, to be far away from that spot, even though she had to endure the severe cold, unsheltered, in the forest. But there was no means of escape, and they did not return her money; they had taken her treasure and her clothes; was it for a moment only? she dared not hope so, and she discovered some new cause of alarm every minute. She shuddered from head to foot, her teeth chattered, her knees gave way under her.
"See!" said Leroux, holding her up; "that fury has frightened my pretty bird.—Come, don't be afraid, little one, and let's go in and get warm."
The robbers entered the hovel, which was divided into two rooms: the outer one was that in which the occupants of that horrible den passed most of their time; there they ate, and slept on bundles of straw in one corner. There was a fireplace, where a huge fire was blazing, which warmed the room, the larger and better of the two. The other, which had no fireplace, and but a single window looking into the forest, was Christine's bedroom; they kept their provisions and firewood there.
When she entered that dirty, smoke-begrimed room, and saw the heap of straw in a corner, the weapons standing against the wall, and the great fire, at which several huge joints of meat were cooking for the robbers' supper, Sister Anne's strength gave way, and Leroux carried her to the fire, saying:
"Sit down there and warm yourself; the supper'll bring back your strength."
"What a damned fool you are, to talk to her as if she could hear you!"
"That's so, but I keep forgetting it."
"How do you know she's deaf, anyway?" said Franck; "perhaps she's making believe. She might be just dumb."
"Then someone must have cut her tongue out," said Leroux; "but anyone can see that she's got one like anybody else; so, as she can't speak, it must be because she's deaf. You fellows don't understand about that; but I've travelled in my time, I know more'n you do, and I know that deaf mutes are mute because they can't hear. All you've got to do is look at the woman; anybody can see that she don't hear a word we're saying."
In truth, Sister Anne, since she had entered the cabin, being completely prostrated by fatigue, pain, and fear, had seemed to be insensible to everything that was taking place. However, she heard every word that the brigands said; but, on learning that they believed her to be deaf, a secret presentiment warned her not to correct their error. If they felt sure that she could not hear them, they would not hesitate to discuss their plans before her; thus she would learn what she must fear or hope; and perhaps they might unwittingly suggest a means of escape. That ray of hope sustained the poor girl's courage, and she strove to conceal the emotion caused by the conversation of the cutthroats.
They had laid aside their arms, and while waiting for supper discoursed of their exploits. The dumb girl learned with dismay that she was among villains capable of any crime. But in the very excess of her despair she found a source of courage; and realizing at last the full extent of the perils which encompassed her, she felt that her only hope of escaping them was by craft and adroitness. If she alone were threatened with death, she would not fear it, but she wished to save the life of the being she carried within her. Mother-love has inspired many acts of heroism; it was that sentiment which sustained Sister Anne and gave her strength to endure her horrible situation.
Christine placed a table in the middle of the room, and covered it with food, bottles, and glasses; the robbers seated themselves about the table, and fell to with a sort of brutal satisfaction. Sister Anne remained in front of the fire. Leroux placed bread, wine, and roast meat before her; she thanked him with an inclination of the head, and forced herself to eat a little, in order to keep up her strength and to dissemble her terror.
"You see that woman?" said Leroux to his companions; "well, I'll bet she's as meek as a lamb; I'll do whatever I choose with her."
"Don't trust to looks," said Christine, as she joined the robbers at the table; "a woman can take a man in with those airs and graces; but faces are deceitful."
"Yours isn't, for you're the picture of Lucifer's sister!"
This jest made them all laugh, they filled and emptied their glasses with startling rapidity; the more they drank, the more they talked. The hideous Christine kept pace with them, and only Leroux, whose thoughts were fixed on Sister Anne, retained some show of reason.
"Where could this woman have come from?" queried one of the thieves; "she don't look as if she worked in the fields."
"Bah! it's some girl that's gone wrong; her lover's left her, and she's travelling about looking for him. That's the way with all the girls that listen to lovers!"
Sister Anne wiped away the tears that trembled on her eyelids, for her heart told her that the man was right.
"Morgué!" said Christine; "if I had a daughter, and she was unlucky enough to go wrong, I'd strangle her with my own hands."
"Hear that!" said Jacques; "it's a blasted shame that you haven't got some children; they'd be a handsome lot!"
"I don't care who the woman is," said Leroux; "she shan't leave this house.—And you, Christine, treat her well, or remember what I promised you!"
"I snap my fingers at your hussy. Look, you'd do much better to comfort her; I believe she's squalling now; go and give her a kiss."
"What about us?" said the other robbers, heated by the fumes of the wine; "we'll comfort her, too. Let's go and kiss the pretty mute; we must cheer her up a bit."
With that, Leroux's three comrades rose to go to Sister Anne; but he planted himself in front of them, and, taking a pistol in each hand, shouted to them in stentorian tones:
"Not another step, corbleu! or I'll kill you! That woman's mine; I found her on the road, when you were going by like fools without seeing her; I insisted on bringing her here; I swore I'd make her my wife; and, damn your eyes! the first man who touches her dies by my hand!"
This harangue checked the ardor of his fellows; they knew their companion, they knew that the act would follow close on the heels of the threat; so they contented themselves with laughing at Leroux's jealousy, while Sister Anne, frozen with terror by the scene, retreated into a corner of the room and fell on her knees before her captors.
Leroux went to her and tried to soothe her; but, fearing some new enterprise on the part of his companions, he led her into the other room, and, pointing to a wretched pallet, motioned to her to lie down upon it; then he went out, locking the door on her.
Sister Anne was alone in the little room, where there was no light except that which shone through the interstices of the partition, and which enabled her to make out her surroundings. Having made a pretence of lying down on the pallet, she soon rose and listened intently to what the robbers said. They continued to drink, and began to sing. If only she could escape while they were thus engaged! She felt along the wall until she came to a window; it must open into the forest, and the room was level with the ground, so that it would be easy to escape that way. But a moment later her hand came in contact with stout bars, which prevented her passing through. Poor girl! the pangs of disappointment were more cruel than all the sufferings she had endured hitherto. When she believed that she was on the point of recovering her liberty, to lose that last hope! to be unable to conceive any possible means of escaping from that horrible den! It was like dying twice over. She fell, utterly disheartened, on the bed, and tried to stifle with her hands the groans that escaped from her breast.