Frédéric still loved his wife—perhaps with a less violent passion than during the first month of their union; but the husband's facility of intercourse with his wife had not diminished his love, for he discovered new qualities, new virtues, in Constance every day. Beauty of feature fascinates, but does not suffice to enslave; happy the husband who finds in his wife attractions over which time has no power!
Constance was chargeable with but one fault—a very lamentable one when one cannot control it, but which she confined sedulously within her own breast. She was jealous; the very excess of her love for Frédéric sometimes caused her a secret alarm. When he seemed dreamy and pensive, Constance became uneasy, and a multitude of apprehensions crowded into her mind. What could it be that engrossed her husband's thoughts, saddened him, and made him sigh?—for he still sighed sometimes. Before their marriage, she attributed to his love for her the melancholy that often darkened his brow. But now that they were united, now that they could give a free rein to their affection, and there was nothing to mar their happiness, why did Frédéric continue to sigh? why was he sometimes preoccupied? That was what Constance asked herself, but the amiable girl was careful not to let her husband see what she felt; she would have been terribly distressed to display the slightest suspicion. Although jealous, she would not annoy her husband; she would continue to be as loving and sweet as always; and if she suffered, she would carefully conceal her suffering, in order not to distress him whom she loved better than her life.
After a year, their happiness was interrupted for a moment by the general's death. Monsieur de Valmont was beloved by all who knew him; he was very dear to his niece, to whom he had been as an affectionate and indulgent father. Her husband's love alone could comfort Constance in her profound grief for her uncle's death. Monsieur de Montreville mingled his regrets with her tears; he had lost a true friend; but in old age we often show more courage than in the springtime of life, in bearing the death of those who are dear to us. Is it because age makes us selfish? Is it because the heart, having become insensible to the flames of love, closes its doors to the transports of friendship; or is it rather because of the reflection that the separation cannot be for long, and that we shall soon join those whom we have lost?
Constance was her uncle's sole heir; the general was very rich, and owned a number of farms and estates in the provinces, with which Frédéric wished to make himself familiar. So he had formed a plan of visiting their new possessions, and Constance was to remain at Paris, in order not to leave Monsieur de Montreville alone with his grief for the loss of his friend. But how could he make up his mind to leave his wife before her grief had begun to subside? As the visit of inspection was not urgent, Frédéric postponed it from month to month; and Constance, who had not as yet been separated from her husband for a single day, could not decide to let him go.
Some time after the general's death, Frédéric learned that Monsieur Ménard, being frequently incapacitated by the gout, had lost all his pupils and was in very reduced circumstances. So he went to see his former tutor, and asked him to come to live with him.
"I need a prudent, clever man," he said, "to take charge of my affairs, overlook my stewards' accounts, and correspond with them. Be that man, my dear Ménard. Remember that it is not as an employé, but as a friend that I ask you to come; and if heaven sends me children, you shall be to them what you were to their father."
Ménard accepted gratefully, and he was installed under Frédéric's roof, where Constance treated him with much consideration and affection; she loved the former tutor, because he was attached to her husband, and Ménard, deeply touched by the young woman's attentions, often exclaimed, as he kissed her hand respectfully:
"Ah! madame, do have children! I will be their tutor, and they'll grow up like their excellent father, who was my pupil and who does me credit."
Constance smiled at that; doubtless she would have asked nothing better, but we do not always obtain what we desire.
Dubourg had not abandoned his friend.
"Come and see me whenever you please," Frédéric had said to him; "your room will always be ready for you."
Dubourg made the most of that permission, not to quarter himself on Frédéric in Paris, but to visit him at his country house. He was particularly apt to appear during the latter half of the quarter; for his income was paid quarterly, and he could never succeed in making it last more than six weeks; then he would take his meals at Frédéric's, if he was in Paris, or would visit him in the country.
"Thanks to you, my friend," he would say, "with my sixteen hundred francs a year, I live as if I had twice that; I spend my income in six months, and you pay my expenses the other half of the year."
Dubourg's merry humor pleased Constance, and Frédéric was always glad to see his friend, for he knew that he would never say a word to his wife that she ought not to hear, and that, despite his easy principles, he would look upon her as a sister. We can overlook some faults in the man who respects friendship. There are so many sincere, virtuous, high-minded friends, who take delight in sowing discord in families!
When Dubourg and Ménard met at Frédéric's board, which always happened toward the end of the quarter, the former tutor never failed to sing the praises of the couple who lived under his eyes.
"They are like Orpheus and Eurydice, Deucalion and Pyrrha, Philemon and Baucis, Pyramus and Thisbe!"
"Morbleu! yes," Dubourg would reply; "Frédéric has a charming wife, who has every estimable quality—a perfect treasure, in short. It would be infernally strange if he were not content."
"True enough! But if I had not inculcated in my pupil excellent principles of virtue and morality, perhaps he wouldn't lead so decorous a life as he does, although loving his wife none the less. Peter the Great adored Catherine, but that didn't interfere with his having mistresses; many princes have had concubines; and I have known some excellent husbands who slept with their maid-servants, probably from a sense of ownership."
"Don't extol Frédéric's virtue so highly, my dear Monsieur Ménard! if he had had nobody but you to guide him——"
"Perhaps you would have done it better; for instance, when you travelled with us as Baron Potoski——"
"Hush, hush, Monsieur Ménard! Let that journey be forgotten; there was nothing to choose between us. I trust that you have never spoken of that little adventure in the woods—that love affair of Frédéric's—before Madame de Montreville?"
"Oh! what do you take me for? I am well aware that it would be a great mistake now: non est hic locus; and yet, Madame de Montreville could not take offence; anything that happened before her marriage doesn't concern her; she has too much good sense not to laugh at her husband's little escapades as a bachelor."
"Despite her good sense, there are some things a woman never likes to hear about; we should always avoid saying anything to make her think that another has possessed her husband's heart. Although when she marries a young man, a woman is well aware that he has already known love, she persuades herself that he has never loved anyone as dearly as he loves her; she desires to be the one who has inspired the most ardent passion, and it is a great affliction to her to lose that illusion."
"I understand; it's like telling a cook that one has never eaten a better dish of macaroni."
"Precisely. You're an amazing fellow for similes. Besides, I believe that the young woman is capable of being jealous, she loves her husband so passionately!"
"Indeed, I believe you are right. I noticed one day that she didn't seem in such good spirits as usual; I suppose that it was because her husband had amused himself for some time patting a cat."
"The devil take you and your cats! the idea of suspecting Constance of such folly!"
"Folly? Why, there are men who prefer their dog to their wives, just as there are women who prefer their canary to their husband. I don't refer to my pupil; but——"
"But has Madame de Montreville ever asked you, as she has me, whether Frédéric has always been subject to fits of depression, of melancholy?"
"Yes, yes; I remember that only the other evening she said to me in an undertone: 'See how Frédéric sighs! Do you know whether anything is troubling him? Can you guess the reason?'"
"Well! what was your answer?"
"Parbleu! I answered: 'I suppose it's because he has indigestion, madame; that interferes with the breathing; it is often the case.'—Since then, she hasn't asked me any questions on that subject."
"I can well believe it!"
Although Frédéric was happy, he had not forgotten the dumb girl of the woods, and it was the thought of her that caused his frequent fits of abstraction. He longed to know Sister Anne's fate, but he dared not mention her to his father. The count had told him that he would take care of her, and Frédéric knew that he could rely on his promise; but to have no idea where she was or what she was doing—not even to know whether she still loved him!—The ingrate dared to doubt it, for he had done all that he could to kill her love! Meanwhile, as his love for Constance became more calm and placid, the memory of Sister Anne obtruded itself more frequently upon his mind; a smile or a caress from his wife quickly made him forget the dumb girl, but a little later her image returned again; it would seem that the heart of man always craves memories or hopes.
For more than two years, Frédéric had been Constance's husband. Their only sorrow was their failure to have children. Frédéric longed for a son, Constance would have been overjoyed to present her husband with a pledge of her affection, and Monsieur Ménard ardently desired the arrival of some little pupils.
The Comte de Montreville did not live with his children; but he came often to their house; he still had in his service the man who was with him when he was attacked in the forest, and whom he had forbidden to mention that adventure. But one evening, when he was talking with the other servants, he forgot his master's injunction; and as the others told stories about robbers, he did not fail to tell of the risk he had run in company with monsieur le comte, who had been saved, almost miraculously, by a young dumb woman. Frédéric's valet was present; and the next day, while dressing his master, he asked him if what Dumont had said was true; because he believed that Dumont was a liar, and that monsieur le comte had never mentioned being attacked by robbers and saved by a dumb woman.
These last words attracted Frédéric's attention; a secret presentiment told him that Sister Anne was concerned in the adventure. He made no reply to his servant, but hastened to his father's house. The count was absent, but Dumont was there; Frédéric was able to speak to him alone, which was just what he desired. At his first question, Dumont blushed, remembering his master's orders; but it was too late for him to keep silent. Moreover, it did not seem to him that he was committing any great sin in telling his master's son the whole story, and he could not understand why Monsieur de Montreville wished to make a mystery of the adventure.
Frédéric made him describe the girl his father had taken to the farm; from the beginning, he had no doubt that it was Sister Anne. He asked Dumont innumerable questions, and the valet told him all that he knew.
"Do you think that she remained at the farm?" Frédéric asked.
"Oh! yes, monsieur; she wasn't well enough to continue her journey; and then, I forgot to tell you that she was on the point of becoming a mother."
"What do you say, Dumont?—that girl——"
"Girl or wife, I don't know which; but I can swear she was enceinte."
Sister Anne had a child! Frédéric understood now why his father had acted with so much mystery. He inquired particularly as to the name of the village and the location of the farm at which they had left the dumb girl; then, giving Dumont a handsome present, he enjoined upon him absolute secrecy concerning their interview. Dumont promised not to mention the subject again, and lost himself in conjectures touching the conduct of father and son alike.
After Frédéric had learned that Sister Anne had made him a father, he did not enjoy a moment's repose. The thought haunted him incessantly, and he was consumed by the desire to see his child. His reveries were more frequent, his brow was clouded more often than ever before, and Constance heard him sigh. She dared not question him; but she suffered torments in secret; she flattered herself that she filled Frédéric's heart, that she was the sole object of all his thoughts; but she was always near him, she held his hand in hers, and it could not be she who made him sigh.
When she ventured to ask him what the matter was, he strove to recover himself, pressed her to his heart, and said:
"What more can I possibly desire?"
But, even then, Constance detected a trace of sadness in his smile; he did not seem to her entirely happy.
One day Frédéric told his wife that he was about to undertake the journey which he had postponed so long, but which had become absolutely necessary. Constance had flattered herself that Ménard would go in his stead; indeed, Frédéric himself had suggested it; but he had changed his mind, and was evidently determined to go. Constance dared not try to detain him, or to propose to accompany him; she was afraid of annoying him; she was unwilling to thwart him in the most trivial thing. Moreover, if Frédéric had wanted her to go with him, he would have had but to say the word; she would have left everything to go; but he did not say the word! Constance groaned in secret, but she showed her husband a cloudless brow and a smiling face.
Frédéric embraced her tenderly; he promised to hasten his return, and to be with her again within a month. She tried to be brave; and Frédéric took his departure, commending her to the care of Ménard and Dubourg. But Constance did not need to be entertained: although absent, Frédéric was always with her.
It was the month of August, that lovely season when it is so pleasant to live in the pure air of the country. Constance determined to pass at her country house near Montmorency all the time that her husband was absent. As it was much quieter there than in Paris, it seemed to her that she would be more free to think of him, to count the moments which must pass before his return. Monsieur de Montreville visited his daughter-in-law in the country. But at the count's age a man has settled habits, and amusement becomes a necessity. The count loved Paris, for he had a great number of acquaintances there; and the never-ceasing life and animation of the capital had always attracted him. After a week's stay in the country, he returned to his favorite city and his wonted amusements.
Constance was left alone with Ménard and the servants. It was still early in the quarter, and Dubourg was not in the country; but Constance did not suffer one moment from ennui; when the heart is well occupied, the head is never empty. The old tutor was always ready to bear her company; he talked to her of Greek and Roman history, quoted his favorite Latin authors, and sometimes plunged into Biblical history. It is not certain that Constance was greatly entertained; but when Ménard had finished speaking, she would smile at him so amiably that he was invariably satisfied.
Toward nightfall Constance always went to the summer-house. It was her favorite spot; there she and Frédéric had begun to understand each other, there she had felt the first approach of love. Since that time, she had often visited the summer-house, more often than ever now that she was awaiting her husband's return. From that eminence she could overlook the whole valley and the country round about the walls of her garden.
One fine evening, as she happened to glance at the road which passed the house, Constance noticed a young woman seated at the foot of a tree, with an infant in her arms; the unfortunate creature was evidently in the last stages of destitution; she was gazing mournfully at her child, and, while covering him with kisses, seemed to be utterly hopeless and desperate.
Constance was deeply affected. At that moment, Monsieur Ménard joined her on the platform.
"Look!" she said; "do you see that poor woman? See how frantically she kisses her child! She seems in terrible distress. Do you see her?"
"One moment, madame," said Ménard; "I can't find my spectacles.—Where in the devil have I put them?"
At that instant the poor woman raised her eyes, and, when she saw Constance, her glance became so expressive, so full of entreaty, that it was impossible not to understand her.
"Oh! she is crying," exclaimed Constance; "wait, wait, my poor woman! I will come down."
She rushed out of the summer-house, while Ménard was still looking for his spectacles.
Not far away was a small gate by which the road was reached. Constance opened it, and soon stood beside the unfortunate creature she longed to assist. As she drew near to her, she was even more touched, for the wayfarer's every feature was eloquent of suffering and despair; but it was for her child, above all, that she implored Constance's pity. She held him out to her, and great tears flowed from her drawn and reddened eyes.
"Poor child!" said Constance; "how pale and thin he is! but what lovely features!"—And she took the child in her arms, saying to the mother: "Come, and I will give you something to restore your strength. Follow me."
The woman walked a few steps, but soon fell to the ground; her strength had failed her.
"Great heaven!" said Constance; "what a state the poor creature is in!—Monsieur Ménard, do come and help me take her to the house."
"Here I am, here I am, madame! They were in my waistcoat pocket," said Ménard. "Oho! this young person seems sadly in need of help."
"Support her—let us help her to walk. Poor woman! how she distresses me! Mon Dieu! is it possible that there can be people so unfortunate?"
"Very possible, certainly, madame; but it is important to know the causa causarum."
With the assistance of Ménard and Constance, the latter of whom carried the child as well as supported the mother, the poor woman succeeded in reaching the house. There Constance at once gave her whatever she thought would do her and the child good; and while the mother recovered her strength, she observed her with interest.
"Just see," she said to Ménard, "she is still a mere girl—and already so greatly to be pitied! Her features are sweet and pathetic. Poor mother! where have you come from? what do you mean to do?"
The unfortunate creature did not reply to these questions; the reader will have divined the cause: it was Sister Anne and her son to whom Constance had brought succor.
Ten days had passed since the dumb girl left Paris, during which she had wandered about the country, guided by chance alone. Being forced constantly to beg for shelter and food, often repulsed, often depriving herself of sustenance to give it to her son, she had felt her strength and her courage grow less day by day; despair took possession of her mind, it sapped all her faculties, and the unhappy mother was embracing her child in momentary expectation of death, when chance, which had led her to Madame de Montreville's house, decreed that she should notice her and fly to her assistance.
Surprised at receiving no reply to her questions, Constance repeated them; whereupon Sister Anne, putting her hand to her lips and mournfully shaking her head, succeeded in making her understand her pitiful condition.
"O heaven! she cannot speak! Poor soul! All alone with her child, and without money, without a guide, and unable to ask her way! Oh! this is too much, too many trials at once!"
And Constance stooped over Sister Anne, weeping freely at the sight of her misery, while the dumb girl, touched by a compassion to which she had become unaccustomed, took her benefactress's hand, covered it with kisses, and pressed it to her heart.
"Faith!" said Ménard, drawing his handkerchief,—for the kind-hearted tutor could not witness this scene without emotion,—"faith! I agree that she was in a critical position. Indeed, speech is essential throughout life; and anyone who has no tongue, or can't use it, is like a fox without a tail, a butterfly without wings, or a fish without fins."
Constance continued to devote her whole attention to Sister Anne and her son; already the child was laughing in her arms; he was at the happy age when grief vanishes at sight of a cake or a toy. It seemed that Constance could not tire of caressing him.
"See," she said to Ménard, "see how he smiles at me!"
"Of course, for you are giving him bonbons. Men are caught by sugared words, and children by sugar without words; wherein they show more sagacity than men."
"What pretty features, what lovely eyes! It may be a delusion, but it seems to me that he has my husband's eyes."
"My pupil's? I can hardly conceive eyes of two years resembling eyes of twenty-three."
"Poor little dear! I feel that I love him already. How happy I should be to have a child like him!"
"That will come, madame: Sarah was ninety years old when she gave birth to Isaac. You have plenty of time before you."
Sister Anne's heart throbbed with joy when she saw Constance caress her son. Madame de Montreville did not tire of gazing at him, for she detected in his features some resemblance to those of her husband. Ménard gazed compassionately at Sister Anne; he was very far from suspecting that that poor mendicant was the young girl he had seen seated beside Frédéric in the woods at Vizille. How could he have recognized her! He had seen her only a moment, and then she was radiant with happiness and love; her lovely features were not worn by tears and sorrow; the fatigue of a long and toilsome journey, and of incessant suffering, had not made her body weak and her steps tottering. And, lastly, Ménard did not know that that girl was dumb; so that it was impossible for him to suspect that she was before him at that moment.
"Do you know how to write, poor woman?" Constance asked her.
She shook her head.
"What a pity! I would like to know this pretty boy's name."
The dumb girl looked eagerly about. They had taken her to a room on the ground floor, looking on the garden. She went out, motioning to Constance to follow her. She broke a branch from the first shrub she came to; then, stooping over, she traced on the gravel path her son's name.
"Frédéric!" cried Constance, after reading the name; "what! your child's name is Frédéric? Ah! that will make him all the dearer to me. Frédéric! why, that is my husband's name.—What do you think of this, Monsieur Ménard? isn't it strange?"
"I don't see anything so extraordinary in it," said the tutor. "As there are great numbers of Martins, Pierres, and Pauls, there may very well be as many Frédérics. I know of no name but Thesaurochrysonicochrysides, which Plautus invented, that has never become common. So, if I had had a son, I should have insisted on giving him that name, although it isn't very easy to say."
Constance took the child in her arms again. She called him Frédéric; and he, answering to that name, by which he had been called at the farm, lisped the word mamma, and looked about as if in search of the good peasants who used to call him so.
"I am determined that my husband shall see this dear child," said Constance; then, after a moment's reflection, she went up to Sister Anne, took her hand, and said, following her signs closely so that she might understand her answers:
"Where were you going with your child?—She doesn't know.—Unfortunate creature! have you no father or mother?—Ah! they are dead!—And your child's father, your husband—why isn't he with you?—She weeps! Poor dear! He has deserted her! The idea of deserting such a pretty child! and such a sweet, unfortunate mother! Why, it's perfectly ghastly! he must have a terribly hard heart.—But cheer up, and dry your tears; I will not abandon you! No, my mind is made up; I will take care of you and your child. You shall not leave me. You shall live with me; I will give you needlework to do; I will teach you to work, and I will have your child educated under your eyes. My husband is kind, tender-hearted, and generous; I am perfectly certain that he won't blame me for what I am doing. He will love you, too, and you shall end your days with us. Do you understand, poor dear? Don't cry any more, don't worry about your child. Hereafter you shall be out of reach of want.—Why, look, Monsieur Ménard! she actually throws herself at my feet and kisses my hand, as if I were a god! What would be the use of wealth, if we could not do a little good with it?"
"To be charitable, madame, is one of the precepts of the Gospel; unfortunately, everybody doesn't put it in practice as you do!"
"But it's high time to think about arranging a room for this young woman," said Constance, leading Sister Anne back to the house. "After all the fatigue she has undergone, she must feel the need of rest. Where shall we put her? Oh! I know; in that little building adjoining the greenhouse in the garden. My husband intended to make a study of it; but he can work in his own room. Yes, that is what we'll do. Be kind enough to give orders accordingly, Monsieur Ménard. Have a bed taken there, and everything she needs for the night; to-morrow, I will have it properly arranged. She will be quiet there, and she will have her son with her and can take him to walk in the garden in the morning."
Ménard went to tell the servants to prepare a room in the pavilion in the garden. Meanwhile, Constance remained with Sister Anne, who was unable to express her boundless gratitude; her features were beginning already to lose their haggard, hopeless look. As she looked at her, Constance found her face more and more interesting; the dumb girl in no respect resembled those beggars who seem determined to extort alms by lamentations and importunities, and who receive it without gratitude. Sister Anne was meek and shrinking; she was amazed at the interest she inspired; her gratitude could be read in her eyes; and in her whole bearing, her whole aspect, there was something which seemed to indicate that she was not born in the lowest rank of society.
"The more I look at her," thought Constance, "the more surprised I am that anyone could have deserted her. Her features are refined, her eyes sweet and full of charm. How lovely she will be in other clothes!—And you, dear love, ah! I will take good care of you!"
Ménard announced that everything was ready in the pavilion for the reception of the poor woman and her son. Constance took Sister Anne's arm and led her thither, made sure that she had everything that she needed for the night, and left her, urging her not to grieve any more, but to go to bed and sleep.
Sister Anne pressed her hand to her heart, and Constance said to Ménard as they walked away:
"Now the time won't seem so long while Frédéric is away! I realize that the best way to divert one's thoughts from one's own troubles is to relieve those of other people."