Frédéric did not pass a day without seeing Constance; since the lovers had mutually avowed their love, that sentiment seemed to grow stronger hourly in both their hearts. Mademoiselle de Valmont loved with the unrestrained ardor of a heart that no longer seeks to conceal its feelings. She was proud of Frédéric's love for her, and her happiness consisted in returning it.
Frédéric, even more passionate and impulsive, yielded to the sentiment that swept him off his feet; but, while he loved as dearly, he could not be so happy; he needed to forget himself, to banish recollections which disturbed his bliss. Like those persons who never look behind, for fear of seeing something to frighten them, Frédéric tried to drive away the thoughts that carried him back to a still recent period. He desired to think solely of Constance, he knew that thenceforth she ought to prevail over all other women; of what use, then, was an occasional sigh which would bring no comfort to her whom he had abandoned? A man may argue thus, but, none the less, even in the very bosom of happiness, there is something in the bottom of his heart that reproves him for the wrong he has done—unless, indeed, he has no heart, and there are many people in whom we should seek for it in vain.
The Comte de Montreville had been absent a fortnight. Frédéric was not certain as to the purpose of his father's journey, although he suspected it; but he had no desire to take advantage of his absence to go away himself. Could he leave Constance for a single day? Although she had set his mind at rest as to the marriage that had frightened him, Frédéric was not altogether satisfied. He begged his betrothed to question her uncle on that subject. Constance dared not mention it to the general; but at last, vanquished by Frédéric's entreaties, she made up her mind to question him, and one morning she went to him in his study.
"Uncle," she began, blushing, and lowering her eyes, "I have been told that you have been making plans for me."
The general smiled as he looked at her, then tried to assume a serious tone, with which, however, his expression did not harmonize.
"Who told you, mademoiselle, that I had made plans concerning you?"
"Monsieur Frédéric, uncle, who learned it from his father."
"The devil! so Monsieur Frédéric interests himself in it, does he? What might these plans be, mademoiselle?"
"You should know better than I, uncle."
"Gad! that's true, you're right. Well, yes, I have a plan of my own."
"For my future, uncle?" asked Constance, in a trembling voice.
"Yes, for your marriage, in fact."
"Marriage! can it be possible? Oh! uncle——"
And the sweet girl looked up at the general, with appealing eyes already filled with tears.
"Come, come, calm yourself, morbleu!" exclaimed the general, taking her hand. "Here you are up in arms, as if I proposed to make you unhappy. Don't you want to marry?"
"Oh! I don't say that, uncle."
"Well, then, why this terror when I tell you that I think of giving you a husband?"
"Why, because I want—I don't want——"
"Because you want and don't want! Deuce take it! why can't a woman ever say what she means! Why don't you tell me at once that you don't want to marry anyone but Frédéric?"
"Oh! uncle, did you know——"
"I should have to be as blind as a bat not to know that; and this fine gentleman, who presumes to love my niece—and who sighs and is melancholy and tears his hair, instead of just coming to me and asking for her hand——"
"Oh! my dear uncle—are you really willing?"
"Parbleu! am I in the habit of not being willing to do anything you want?"
"But this marriage with some colonel?"
"That was a fable invented by my old friend—I don't quite know why; but he came to me and begged me to let him say that; I couldn't refuse to let him do as he chose, although I don't understand all this mystery; for it seems to me that when two young people love each other and are suited to each other, there's no need of marching and countermarching to marry them. But, no matter; Montreville has his tactics, and he's bound to follow them. Don't think of telling Frédéric this, for his father would be angry with me; but when he comes back, which will be soon, I'll put an end to all this prevarication, and give you to your lover, or he'll end by making himself ill with his sighing."
Constance kissed her uncle and left him; the certainty of happiness made her more beautiful than ever. Frédéric soon returned, and inquired anxiously what her uncle had said to her. Constance tried to dissemble her joy; the most loving woman is not sorry to tease her lover a little now and then, for in his torments she sees fresh proofs of his love.
"Well!" said Frédéric, impatiently; "why don't you answer me? You have spoken to your uncle about this proposed marriage—has he formed such a plan?"
"Why, yes; he is thinking of marrying me."
"Then I was right!" cried the young man, with an agitation that made Constance tremble; "he is thinking of it; my father told me the truth. But you shall not be stolen from my love——"
"My dear, don't get excited."
"How can I help it, when you tell me that you are to be married? Constance, if your uncle is a tyrant, I will carry you off. We will fly together to the ends of the earth! You, you alone, will suffice for my happiness! This very night, if you agree, we will start. What, mademoiselle, you laugh at sight of my despair!"
"Oh! Frédéric, what a hot-headed boy you are!"
"Ah! mademoiselle is pleased to give me lessons in self-restraint! It seems to me that this projected marriage doesn't disturb you much. Is this how you love me?"
"Naughty boy! what a savage reproof! Ah! my dear, because my love is more placid than yours, don't think that it is less strong and deep."
"But this marriage that your uncle has in mind?"
"Suppose it were you, monsieur, to whom he thinks of marrying me?"
"Me!"
Frédéric's features lightened up with a new expression; and Constance put her finger on his lips, saying:
"Hush! not a word, my dear; uncle forbade me to speak—but how can I let you suffer long?"
"What, Constance, can it really be true? Oh! what bliss! your uncle is the best of men! Let me go and throw myself at his feet!"
"No, indeed! do you want him to scold me? shall I never be able to make you amenable to reason? Sit down here, monsieur, by my side."
"But when may I tell him that I love you?"
"When your father returns—he won't be away much longer, I am sure. Do you know whether he went very far?"
"Why—no—I don't think so; I am not certain."
"Well, my dear, now you are pensive."
"No, indeed I'm not!"
"So long as we were not certain of our happiness, I overlooked these dreamy airs, these fits of melancholy that seize you sometimes when you are with me; but understand, monsieur, that I won't have any more of such nonsense. You have no trouble, dear, no secret sorrow, that you can't confide to Constance, have you?"
"Of course not!"
"Promise me that you will tell me everything, absolutely everything; that I shall have your entire confidence. Ought a husband and wife to conceal anything from each other?"
"Yes, Constance, I promise; I will tell you all my thoughts."
Frédéric was not absolutely truthful at that moment, but his falsehood was excusable, for his entire confidence just then would not have afforded great pleasure to Constance, who was convinced that her lover thought of no one but her, and who, despite her tranquil air, her gentleness, and her confidence, loved Frédéric too ardently not to be susceptible to jealousy, a sentiment which, in women, is almost always inseparably connected with love.
The Comte de Montreville returned to Paris after an absence of nearly a month. Under any other circumstances, Frédéric would have been surprised at the length of a journey which might have been completed in a fortnight, but in Constance's company he had given little thought to it. When he saw his father again, however, all his memories of Dauphiné rushed back into his mind; he was embarrassed in his presence, longing to question him, but shrinking from it.
The count himself did not seem the same as before his departure; he was often pensive and abstracted, as if his thoughts were engrossed by some subject; and when he looked at his son, he, too, seemed to desire and dread an explanation. At last, Frédéric ventured to question him, and, contrary to his expectation, his father replied with no trace of the stern, cold manner which he was wont to assume on approaching that subject.
"Have you been in Dauphiné?" said Frédéric; "did you go to Vizille?"
"Yes," said the count; "I visited the neighborhood of that village, including the wood where you lived so long."
"And did you see that—girl?"
"No, I did not see her; she had left her cabin only a few days before, and there was nobody there but an old shepherd."
"What! Sister Anne not at her old home? Is it possible? And what of Marguerite?"
"The old woman died some months ago."
"And Sister Anne has gone away? Poor child! what can have become of her? In her plight, how could she find her way, make herself understood? Ah! unfortunate girl!"
"What do you mean?" cried the count, gazing at his son with an expression of the most intense interest; "what is this girl's plight, which makes her such an object of pity? Answer me, Frédéric!"
"When she was seven years old, father, Sister Anne lost the power of speech; a shocking calamity and a horrible fright deprived the poor child of the possibility of making herself understood."
"Great God!" said the count, thunderstruck by what his son had said; "it is she! I had divined it!"
But Frédéric did not hear his father's last words. He was engrossed by the thought of Sister Anne, fancying that he saw her wandering through the woods and fields, helpless and without shelter, turned away from most public-houses, and everywhere exposed to want and misfortune. He reflected that that was all his work, that, if he had not tried to arouse in her heart a violent passion, she would have lived quietly in her solitude, with no thirst for pleasures of which she knew nothing, and with no dreams of happiness and of a different existence. At that moment, Frédéric was overwhelmed by remorse, and he reproached himself bitterly for his conduct to a woman of whom he was no longer enamored, but who was still dear to him.
For a long time, the count and his son were buried in thought. The count broke the silence at last, saying in a voice that shook with emotion:
"Have no concern as to that young woman's present lot. I have found her."
"You have found her, father? is it possible?"
"Yes; on a farm near Grenoble. I left her there, and I provided against her ever being in want."
"But how did you find her? You could not recognize her."
"Her misfortune, her youth—she interested me deeply; something told me that she was the person I sought, and I have no doubt of it now, since you have told me that she is dumb. I tell you again that you need not be alarmed concerning her future; I left her with excellent people, who are fond of her, and she will be very comfortable there; moreover, I shall not fail to have an eye to her welfare."
The count was careful not to mention his adventure in the forest and his indebtedness to Sister Anne; he was afraid that Frédéric's love would blaze up anew if he should learn that she had saved his father's life. He was especially solicitous that Frédéric should not know that the dumb girl was on the point of becoming a mother; that intelligence might disarrange the plans he had formed. For the count, although he was interested now in Sister Anne, and proposed to take care of her and her child, was none the less desirous for his son's marriage to his old friend's niece; and to that end he considered it most essential to conceal everything relating to the unhappy mute.
On arriving in Paris, he had expressly forbidden his servant to mention the adventure in the forest or the young woman they had left at the farm.
His father's assurance that Sister Anne was living among kindly people, and was amply provided against want, allayed Frédéric's remorse. That sentiment rarely lasts long in love, and the new passion is always at hand to dispel the memories of the old one. By Constance's side the young man entirely forgot the poor maid of the woods; and while renewing his oaths and protestations of love to Constance, he lost the memory of those he had laid at another woman's feet.
The Comte de Montreville's return was soon to be followed by the marriage of the young people. Frédéric longed for it, Constance hoped for it, and the general made no objection, because he did not believe in making lovers sigh too long.
Thus everybody was agreed; there was no obstacle to delay their happiness. The wedding day was fixed. The general vowed that he would dance at his niece's wedding, although he had never danced in his life; the count was anxious to greet Constance by the sweet name of daughter, and the lovers—oh! you know what their desires were; it may be guessed, but must not be said.
Engrossed by his approaching happiness, Frédéric was rarely disturbed by the memories which brought a sad expression to his face; if by chance a sigh escaped him, a glance from Constance speedily put to flight the thoughts of other times. Constance was so sweet-tempered, and the near approach of happiness made her so beautiful, that it was impossible not to adore her.
At last the day arrived which was to witness the union of Frédéric and Constance. The Comte de Montreville was so overjoyed that he allowed his son to invite everyone he chose. Frédéric knew no better friend than Dubourg, who, with all his follies, had often given him proofs of a genuine attachment. Moreover, since Dubourg had inherited his aunt's property, he had become much more sensible. To be sure, he was always hard up about the middle of the month, but he had not pledged his income, and he had taken up dominoes instead of écarté, that being a game at which one gets much less excited.
Ménard was not forgotten, either. The worthy man was much attached to Frédéric; he had been a little too indulgent on the journey, but the count had forgiven that; moreover, he had always acted with the best intentions. As for his fondness for the table, that is often considered in society an estimable quality.
Constance was dressed with taste and elegance; but one could pay no heed to her toilet, in presence of her beauty and her charms; for happiness, which embellishes everything, adds to the fascination of a pretty face. The men can only admire that; as for the women, they see at a glance every detail of the costume, and can, at need, tell us how every pin was put in, and how many pleats there were in the gown, in front and behind; our perspicacity will never go so far as that.
Frédéric was radiant with love; he did not lose sight of Constance, which is the surest means of having no unpleasant recollections. Frédéric was very comely, too; his face was noble and winning; and if the men admired Constance, the women were not inclined to pity her for marrying Frédéric.
The general and the count felt the keenest satisfaction in the union of their children. In his joy, Monsieur de Valmont was more hilarious and effusive than the Comte de Montreville; but the latter smiled benignly upon everybody, and, for the first time, embraced his son tenderly.
Monsieur Ménard was dressed with care and maintained a very sedate bearing until the dinner. As for Dubourg, he was overjoyed to be invited to his friend's wedding, and, as he desired to obtain the count's good graces, he assumed throughout the day such a dignified air, that he looked as if he had a fit of the spleen; and he tried so hard to be staid and respectable, that he might well have been taken for a man of sixty. Whenever the count approached him, he discoursed upon the illusive pleasures of the world, of the bliss of retirement, and of the joys that await the just man after death. He carried it so far, that the general said to Frédéric:
"What a devil of a fellow your friend Dubourg is! Does he pass his time in graveyards? I have been to him once or twice to talk, and he at once quotes a passage from Young's Night Thoughts or Massillon's Petit Carême. He's a very cheerful guest for a wedding party."
Frédéric went to Dubourg and urged him to act as he naturally would; but, convinced that his conversation, his tone, and his bearing delighted Monsieur de Montreville, it was impossible to induce Dubourg to change them.
A magnificent dinner was served at the Hôtel de Montreville, whence the young people were to return in the evening to the general's house, where they were to live. As the general was often absent, he required only a small suite, and gave up three-fourths of the house to the newly married pair.
Marriages in the first society have not the hilarity of bourgeois marriages; which fact is some compensation to the bourgeoisie for not belonging to the first society. However, the repast was rather merry in a mild way. Monsieur Ménard devoted himself to the good cheer, as he did at Monsieur Chambertin's; but Dubourg ate little; he refused almost every dish, because he thought it much more comme il faut. Nor was it possible to induce him to accept a glass of champagne or liqueur.
"I never take it," he said, with imperturbable phlegm.
The Comte de Montreville stared at him in amazement, while Ménard, who sat next to him, said again and again:
"You used to take it, though; I've seen you take it often enough! Say you're sick, and I'll believe you."
"Your friend is wonderfully sober," said the general to Frédéric; "you have brought us an anchorite."
After the dinner, dancing engaged the attention of the guests for the rest of the evening. The new husband and wife indulged in that pastime, which enabled them to wait with more patience for the greater pleasures to come; dancing is always essential to bring a wedding party to a cheerful termination.
But Dubourg did not dance; he walked stiffly through the salons, holding his head as if he had a stiff neck, and never stopping near an écarté table.
"Don't you play, Monsieur Dubourg?" asked the count, with a smile.
"No, monsieur le comte; I have altogether renounced all games for money; I care for nothing but chess; that is the only sensible game, and the only one suited to me."
"Don't you dance, either?"
"Never; I care for nothing but the minuet, which is a sedate and dignified dance. It's a great pity that it isn't danced nowadays."
"The deuce! Monsieur Dubourg, you are tremendously changed. You used to be a little giddy, I think."
"Ah! monsieur le comte, other times, other cares; with advancing years, one grows wiser."
"Advancing years! why, it's not one year yet since you played Hippolyte, and would have made poor Ménard play Thésée."
"Oh! monsieur le comte, a very great revolution has taken place in me since then. I care for nothing now but study and science—science above all things; for, as Cato says: Sine doctrina vita est quasi mortis imago."
The count walked away with a smile on his face, and Dubourg was convinced that he was greatly pleased with him. The day was at an end. Ménard returned to his tiny lodging, reviewing in his mind all the delicious dishes he had eaten. Dubourg was no sooner outside the house than he began to jump and run like a schoolboy who is no longer under the master's eye. Frédéric and Constance were happy. Annoying witnesses were no longer present to curb the transports of their affection. Company is a burden to lovers, and they await impatiently solitude and mystery. At last, Frédéric was permitted to take his wife away; on the wedding night, a husband is a lover who abducts his mistress.