A young woman who has never been away from her cabin in the woods until she is sixteen years of age, whose condition makes her peculiarly unfamiliar with the world and its customs, must experience countless novel sensations when she finds herself for the first time surrounded by strangers in one of those rolling houses that bear us through city and country.
Such was the case with Sister Anne, who was not eighteen and a half when she left Lyon for Paris with her little son of twenty-one months. Seated in the inmost corner of the conveyance, with her child on her knees, she dared not look at her fellow travellers, and blushed when she saw that they were scrutinizing her.
Her youth, her beauty, her manifest affection for her son, were certain to make her interesting in the eyes of every sympathetic person. But one finds little of that quality in a diligence, and the people about Sister Anne did not seem abundantly provided with it. At her left was a tradesman who talked incessantly of his business, with another tradesman who sat opposite him. The course of shares, the price of sugar, coffee, and cochineal, the transactions that were carried through at the last market, engrossed these gentlemen so completely that they did not even find time to apologize to their neighbors when, in their gesticulations, they stuck an elbow into their ribs or a snuff-box into their faces. At her right, our young mother had a man of some forty years, with a long, gaunt face and an oblique glance, who talked little, but seemed to be listening and trying to become acquainted with his neighbors. Opposite him was a woman of fifty, in an old, stained silk dress, with a dilapidated velvet hat embellished by feathers which resembled fish bones; her bloated face was daubed with rouge, mouches, and snuff. This lady had told her fellow passengers, within ten minutes after starting, that, having played ingénue parts at Strasbourg, princesses at Caen, amoureuses at Saint-Malo, shepherdesses at Quimper, queens at Nantes, noble mothers at Noisy-le-Sec, and jeunes premières at Troyes, she was on her way to Paris to take the grande coquette parts at the Théâtre des Funambules; and that she expected to obtain at once an order permitting her to make her début at the Comédie-Française, which she had been soliciting for thirty-six years. Lastly, beside the would-be débutante was a stout man, who slept most of the time, waking up now and then only to say:
"Oh! we're going over! I thought we had upset!"
An exceedingly pleasant neighbor in a diligence.
During the first few moments, Sister Anne heard nothing but a confused jumble of words which she could not understand, the tradesmen's talk of indigo and cochineal being inextricably mingled with the adventures of the grande coquette, who paused only to take snuff and say to her neighbor the sleeper:
"Be careful, monsieur; you're rolling over on me. Show me the respect due to my sex!"
"Oh! we're going over!" the stout man would reply, rubbing his eyes.
After attending to our own comfort, we generally end by turning our attention to other people. The party with the sidelong glance had already complimented Sister Anne on the beauty of her son, and had thereby earned a sweet smile from the dumb girl; one is certain to please a mother by praising her child.
The lady in the old hat also scrutinized Sister Anne, and said:
"She's very good-looking, that little woman—a very interesting face. That's just the costume I wore in Annette et Lubin, in 1792; how becoming it was to me! I must play that part at the Funambules."
The two tradesmen glanced at Sister Anne; but as little Frédéric had a lump of sugar in his hand, that naturally brought them back to the recent fluctuations in the price of that staple.
"It's a pretty child," said the actress; "he has a lot of expression already. If he was mine, I'd put him on the stage. In a year he could play Little Joas in Athalie, and in two he could manage the antics of Polichinello as a vampire. Ah! that's the way children are brought up now! It's superb! All who stand it are Foriosos at twelve years of age!"
Sister Anne had no idea what Forioso was, or Little Joas, but she saw that her companions were noticing her child, and her heart throbbed with the pleasure and pride so natural in a mother. Soon, however, they began to question her.
"Are you going to Paris to have him vaccinated?" said the actress. "Has he been vaccinated at home? What are you going to do in Paris? Has your husband gone ahead of you?"
As she received no reply to any of these questions, the lady began to lose patience and to consider the young woman's conduct exceedingly impertinent.
"Don't you hear me, madame?" she continued, ironically. "It seems to me that you might do me the honor to answer, when I speak to you."
Sister Anne shook her head and sadly lowered her eyes.
"Well! what does that mean?" cried the old débutante; "I verily believe that she means to imply that she won't answer me! Let me tell you, you little hussy, that I can find a way to make you speak, and that Primerose Bérénice de Follencourt is not of a temper to put up with an insult! I've fought on the stage more than once. I've played men's parts, and I know how to use a sword—do you hear, little saucebox?"
Sister Anne, alarmed by the old woman's tone and by her wrathful glance, looked imploringly at her right-hand neighbor; and he, after gazing at her with interest, said to the actress:
"You do wrong to be angry, madame."
"What do you say? I do wrong?"
"Surely; for this young woman's silence is not natural. She has not spoken a word, even to her child, since she has been in the diligence; I think that she is dumb."
"Dumb! a dumb woman! that's impossible, monsieur."
But Sister Anne eagerly nodded her head to confirm the supposition; whereupon the old actress voiced her amazement so emphatically that her neighbor woke up.
"Dumb! can it be possible? Do you hear, monsieur? she's dumb!"
"Oh! I thought we had upset!"
"What an insufferable creature you are! He'll give me the hysterics with his upsets. Poor angel! dear love! are you really dumb, my sweet child? Oh! how I pity you! how you must suffer! I should much rather be blind and deaf. Poor little thing! how interesting she is! what a charming face! And to be unable to talk! How did it happen, my child?"
Sister Anne, almost as surprised by the actress's sudden outpouring of friendliness as she had been by her anger, took her purse from her bosom, took out the paper which she always carried about her, and handed it to her neighbor, who read it to himself and simply said:
"It's the address of the house she's going to."
"To be a wet-nurse, no doubt. Ah! how beautifully she would act in pantomime! Such a pretty face! how lovely she'd be in Philomèle et Térée!"
Sister Anne's right-hand neighbor paid no further heed to the old actress; he seemed preoccupied since he had seen the well-filled purse which the young mother took from her breast in order to show him the count's address. From that moment, he redoubled his attentions to her; he caressed little Frédéric, and carried his gallantry so far as to buy him barley candy and gingerbread at the first stopping-place. Sister Anne, whose pure and guileless mind saw only friends and protectors everywhere, did not notice the shiftiness of her neighbor's expression, but, on the contrary, felt disposed to give him her full confidence. Poor child! what will you do in Paris?
During the second day, Sister Anne's neighbor said to her:
"I'm well acquainted with the Comte de Montreville, to whose house you are going. He's a friend of mine. If you like, I'll take you there myself."
The dumb girl signified that she accepted his offer with gratitude; and the old actress, seeing that Sister Anne smiled at her neighbor, pursed up her lips and cast a contemptuous glance at her, muttering between her teeth:
"They're doing well; acquaintance is soon made in a diligence."
Which shows how quick one is to suspect evil, especially when one has done it all one's life. As for Sister Anne, she stared at the actress in amazement; she was utterly unable to understand why, within twenty-four hours, she should treat her with indignation, friendliness, and scorn.
At last the diligence reached the great city: Sister Anne was dazed and bewildered by all that she saw and heard; she felt as if she were in a new world; for having arrived at Lyon after dark and left early in the morning, she had seen nothing of that city, whose great size, wealth, and populousness would have given her some idea of Paris.
The thin, shifty-eyed gentleman, who was persistent in his attentions to the dumb girl and her son, helped them to alight from the diligence; and while the grande coquette of the Funambules rearranged her hat and crumpled feathers, while the two tradesmen hurried to the Bourse, and the stout man walked away congratulating himself that the diligence had not been overturned, the gallant man called a cab, and, having put Sister Anne's bundles inside, he got in with her and the child.
The stranger spoke to the driver, then said to the young mother:
"We will go at once to Monsieur le Comte de Montreville's; I am delighted to take you there myself, for, being a stranger in Paris, you might be seriously embarrassed, as you can't make yourself understood."
Sister Anne thanked him with a glance; the poor child had no suspicion that she had fallen into the hands of a sharper, a vile blackleg, who, after exhibiting his talents in all the larger cities, by divers little exploits which had compelled him to fly from one after another, was now returning to Paris in the hope that an absence of eight years would have caused his former dupes to forget him, and that he would be able to make new ones. But it was inevitable that the dumb girl should fall into the first trap that was set for her. Meek, trusting, unacquainted with craft in any form, she never suspected evil. Her adventure in the forest would have made her afraid of robbers under similar circumstances; but it had not taught her to distrust those robbers whom she met in the world, and whom it is much more difficult to recognize, because they cover themselves with the mask of probity, which often makes them more dangerous than those who attack us on the highroad.
The cab stopped in front of a handsome house. Sister Anne's escort at once alighted, saying to her:
"Wait a moment; this is the count's house, but we must make sure that he is at home."
With that, he went in, but returned in a few moments with a disappointed air.
"My dear lady, what I was afraid of has happened: the Comte de Montreville is in the country; he won't return for two days."
The girl's expression seemed to say:
"What shall I do meanwhile? where am I to go?"
"Don't be alarmed," said the obliging man; "I will not leave you in embarrassment; I will take you to a respectable house, where you will be well cared for. Two days are soon passed; then you can return to monsieur le comte's."
Sister Anne again expressed her gratitude; she was touched by all the trouble he took for her, although she was not surprised by it: she imagined that that was the way everybody acted in the large cities. The cab started again. The movement delighted little Frédéric; he crowed, and jumped about on his mother's lap; and she, as she gazed at the tall houses, the shops, and the crowds of people, artlessly manifested her amazement.
"Oh! you'll see much more than this," said her friend; "you'll be surprised in a thousand different ways; this journey will be very useful to you."
The cab stopped in front of a wretched furnished lodging-house in Faubourg Saint-Jacques; and Sister Anne, on going in, found that that respectable abode was very dirty and very gloomy; but she followed her escort, who ordered her bundles carried to the room assigned to them, and was soon left alone there with the young mother and her child.
"Before I leave you," he said to Sister Anne, "I must tell you that there is one little formality to be attended to: when you hire lodgings in Paris, you must make a statement of what money you have about you. This is a rule made by the police, so that nothing can ever be lost in the city; for if you declare to-day that you have forty louis, and one of them is stolen from you to-morrow, then they go about and count the contents of the purses of everybody in the capital, and the man who has one louis too many is the thief. What do you say to that? it's a bright idea, isn't it?"
Sister Anne did not clearly understand what he said; she looked at him as if awaiting a further explanation, and he continued:
"Will you go to settle the matter with the mistress of the house? or would you like me to go for you? That will be better. Give me your purse; it's the quickest way."
The poor child drew her purse from her bosom; and the obliging gentleman took it, saying:
"Don't be impatient; I'll go and count what there is in it."
Then he left the room, and as he went downstairs he gave the mistress of the house a gold piece, saying:
"This is to pay for that young woman's lodging; she's a mute."
With that, he hurried away, flattering himself that he had performed a very neat trick; he went to the Palais-Royal, where he found other blacklegs of his stamp, and soon lost the money he had stolen from a helpless woman; then, as he was unable to find other dupes who would give him their purses, he filched one from the pocket of a stout English milord; the Englishman, having detected him in the act, caused his arrest; he was taken to the Préfecture, then to Bicêtre, then to the galleys, where he kept his hand in by stealing from his fellow convicts. There we will leave him.
Sister Anne waited and waited for the return of the kind friend who had gone out with her purse; the poor child had no suspicion, she was not at all anxious, and played quietly with her son, glancing out of the window now and then, but instantly drawing back in alarm, because the room was on the third floor, and she had never been so far above the ground.
But her friend did not return, and Sister Anne was beginning to wonder at his long absence, when the landlady appeared.
The young mother put out her hand for her purse, but the woman simply asked what she could do for her.
"I'll take good care of you," said she; "for the gentleman, when he went away, paid for your board and lodging and whatever you might want during the two days that he said you would stay here."
He had gone away! A horrible presentiment enlightened Sister Anne at last; she tried to make herself understood, constantly holding out her hand and going through the motion of counting money.
"I am paid, I tell you," said the landlady; "I don't want anything, my child, and I'll send up your dinner."
Sister Anne was overwhelmed; it was not the money simply that she regretted, for she did not realize its value; but the Comte de Montreville's address was in her purse, and the villain had carried that away with all that she possessed. What would become of her? how could she find her protector's house now?
During the day, the young woman still retained a little hope, trying to convince herself that the stranger would return; but night came, and he did not appear. Sister Anne strained her child to her breast, weeping bitterly; it was not for herself alone that she trembled, and her terror was all the more intense on that account. Already she imagined her child deprived of the sustenance he required; she shuddered as the whole horror of their situation dawned upon her, and she was sorry now that she had left the farm, for the thought that her son would suffer destroyed her courage.
She passed in her room the second day after her arrival in Paris; the villain who had robbed her had told her that the count was absent for two days, so she waited until the third day before trying to find him. She flattered herself that she could recognize the house in front of which the cab had stopped. The poor child thought that she could find her way in that immense city, where she had never been before! she did not know that the wretch who had deceived her had caused the cab to stop in front of a house which was not the count's.
The next day, she took her son in her arms, and, with the bundle that contained her effects, left the lodging-house, whose mistress made no attempt to keep her, because she had been paid for two days only. Sister Anne commended herself to Providence, and tried to revive her courage as she ventured forth into that city which was entirely unknown to her. Every minute the horses and carriages frightened her, and the cries of the street peddlers deafened her; the sight of all those people, going and coming in every direction, and often jostling and crowding her, so confused her that she had no idea where she was. The poor child went under a porte cochère and began to cry. The concierge asked her what the trouble was, but Sister Anne was unable to reply except with more tears; whereupon the concierge turned away in a pet, saying:
"What's the use of sympathizing with people who won't tell you what's the matter!"
After she had wept a long while, Sister Anne walked on; but she had been on her feet four hours and had made no progress; she saw nothing but endless streets, and shops; she had no idea in which direction she should go, and often walked a long distance only to find herself at the point she had started from. How was she to recognize that house of the count's? she began to think that it was impossible. She was sinking with fatigue, for she had had her child in her arms all the time; and soon hunger made itself felt, and added to the horror of her plight.
She sat down on a stone bench; the passers-by glanced at her, but went on; they would have stopped if, instead of a woman weeping over a child, they had seen a cat fighting with Polichinello.
Luckily, it was midsummer; the weather was beautiful, and the approach of night did not drive people indoors. The dumb girl entered a pastry-cook's shop and bought cakes for her child, offering a garment from her bundle in payment; but they gave it back, looking at her with compassion and surprise; for her appearance did not denote poverty, and they could not understand her having no money.
She tried to walk on, but the darkness increased her terror tenfold, and, despite the lamps in the streets, the clatter of the horses' feet seemed to her more terrifying than ever; she was in mortal dread of being run over with her son by the carriages which often surrounded her on every side; so she sat down again on a bench.
At this time she was on Rue Montmartre; several times during the day, she had walked through Rue de Provence and had passed Monsieur de Montreville's house; but the poor child did not know it. It was impossible now for her to find her lodging-house, and she was on the point of giving way to despair; but she pressed her son to her heart, and tried to recover her strength by covering him with kisses. The child smiled at her and played with her hair; he was at the age at which a child does not know what unhappiness is when he is in his mother's arms.
The night advanced; the shops were closing, the pedestrians becoming less numerous, the carriages passed at longer intervals. Sister Anne raised her eyes and looked about her with a little more confidence. Where should she ask shelter for the night? She felt lost amid all those buildings; she dared not apply anywhere. She gazed imploringly at those who passed her, and several men stopped to look at her.
"She's very pretty!" they said; but as soon as she held out her child, they walked on.
"Great God!" thought the unhappy girl; "don't the people of Paris love children? they walk away very fast as soon as I show them mine."
About midnight, a patrol passed through the street. As they drew near, she shuddered; one of the soldiers went up to her, and said:
"Come, come! what are you doing here with your child? Go home, or we'll take you to the guard-house!"
The man's harsh tone made her tremble; she rose hastily and hurried away, with her child in her arms. But before she had gone a hundred yards, she discovered that she had left her bundle of clothes on the bench. She went back to look for it, and found the place where she had been sitting; but, alas! her clothes had already disappeared. They were the unfortunate creature's last resource.
She shed no tears over this last catastrophe; an enormous weight seemed to have settled on her chest. She moved away with her child, afraid to think. She walked more rapidly, with no idea where she was going; she embraced her son convulsively; a sort of nervous contraction stiffened her limbs; she had almost lost consciousness of her sufferings. She descended Rue Montmartre to the boulevard, where the trees caught her eye, and her heart dilated. The poor child thought that she had reached the outskirts of that city where fate pursued her so pitilessly; she fancied that she was once more approaching her fields and her woods; and running wildly to the nearest tree, she stood close against it, touched it with rapture, and the tears came at last.
She sat down beneath the foliage, the sight of which had given her fresh courage; she covered her child with her apron and determined to wait there for the dawn.
The day came at last, but the dumb girl had not enjoyed one moment's rest; she thought of the future, and saw that she must needs appeal to public charity for herself and her son. If she had been alone, she would have preferred death; but for him she could endure everything. She had been so comfortable at the farm, surrounded by people who were attached to her and who loved her son, and now she was reduced to beg for bread! How bitterly she repented having left that peaceful abode! When she looked at her son, she reproached herself even more severely.
"Poor little fellow!" she thought; "all your sufferings will be caused by me. But am I so guilty, after all, for longing to give you a father? Ah, me! if only I could find my way back there! if only I could return to those kind-hearted peasants who treated me like their own daughter! I feel that I must abandon all hope of finding Frédéric; but if my grief kills me, what will become of my son in this great city?"
The poor mother wept as she gazed at little Frédéric, who was still asleep. Some peasants on their way to market offered her bread and fruit; a milkwoman gave her and the child some milk to drink; all hearts are not insensible to pity, and even the Parisians give freely to the poor; if they do not do it more frequently, it is only because they dread to make themselves melancholy by the contemplation of misfortune.
During a large part of the day, Sister Anne continued to wander about the city in search of her protector's abode; she met many men who had Frédéric's figure and were dressed like him; she quickened her pace to overtake them; but when she was near enough to see their faces, recognized her error. Some looked at her in amazement, others with a sneer; whereupon she would turn away, shamefaced and broken-hearted.
"O God!" she thought; "I shall never meet him again!"
By the end of the day, the food that had been given her in the morning was exhausted, and it became necessary to hold out her hand to the passers-by, in quest of charity. In order to obtain courage to beg for bread, Sister Anne had to gaze upon her boy. If those who give alms always did so with a gracious manner, the unfortunate would be less to be pitied; but many persons accompany their charity with a harsh or disdainful air; in fact, they almost grumble at those they relieve.
"Alas!" thought the poor girl, as she wept; "why do they consider it a crime that I am poor?"
She longed to leave Paris, for the country people seemed to her to be more humane and gentle; with them, she felt less abashed. But in what direction must she go to return to the hospitable farm? She could only trust in Providence, which had not thus far been very propitious to her. Poor child! may it guide thee at last to the end of thy woes!
Having no idea what road she should take, but absolutely determined to leave the city, she decided to follow a man who was walking beside a small canvas-covered wagon. As it happened, this man went through one of the faubourgs, and in due time passed the barrier. Thus, by dint of following the wagon, which went always at a walk, the young mother found herself at last in the country; she breathed more freely; she kissed her son, and, beseeching the mercy of heaven for him, bent her steps toward the nearest village to ask hospitality.