On waking the next morning, Sister Anne feared for a moment that all that she saw was an illusion of her eyesight. After suffering the most horrible tortures of destitution; after wandering so long, often unable to obtain a place to lay her head and her son's; after going through all that a mother can go through who trembles every moment for her child's life—to find herself in a handsome and comfortable apartment, lying in a soft bed, and with her mind at rest concerning her future; instead of the cold contempt of pity, to receive the loving attentions of a noble-hearted woman, who added tenfold to the value of her kind acts by the grace with which she did them—was to pass abruptly into a situation so entirely different, that her softened heart feared to give way to the enjoyment of a happiness in which it could not as yet believe.
Sister Anne embraced little Frédéric; then rose and took him into the garden, which surrounded on all sides the building in which she was lodged. What a lovely spot! what bliss to live there, and guide her child's first hesitating steps! He tried to run about alone among the paths bordered by roses and lilacs; when he fell, the soft gravel deadened his fall, and the child waited, smiling, for his mother to come and help him to start afresh.
Constance was awake very early; she had thought all night of the dumb girl and her son; her determination to be their benefactress made it impossible for her to sleep; for pleasure has its insomnia, and women display in all their decisions more ardor and more sentiment than men. If they sometimes seem to be unduly engrossed by a piece of jewelry or some other trivial object, with what energy and what heartfelt sympathy do they perform a good deed!
Madame de Montreville hurried down into the garden to see her protégée. She found Sister Anne and the child under an arbor of honeysuckle. The boy was playing by his mother, who, when she saw Constance, flew to meet her, and seized one of her hands, which she held for a long time to her heart.
"Up so early!" said Constance, as she kissed little Frédéric; "how did you pass the night? Well? I am glad. After so much trouble and fatigue, you needed a long rest. The dear boy! see how he smiles at me; one would think that he recognizes me already. But you must not continue to wear those clothes; come with me and I will give you one of my dresses. It will fit you, for we're very nearly of the same size. Oh! I won't allow you to refuse; remember that you must obey me, or I shall be angry."
Constance took Sister Anne and little Frédéric to her own room, where she selected one of her simplest gowns and compelled her protégée to put it on. In that new costume the dumb girl seemed to acquire new charms, and her timidity and embarrassment were entirely free from the awkwardness which characterizes so many people in clothes that were not made for them.
"She is charming," said Constance, when she had summoned her maid and had caused her to arrange the young woman's hair, quite simply, but with excellent taste. "How lovely she is so! And in a few days, when she has entirely recovered from her fatigue, when her cheeks have a little color, she'll be lovelier still.—Come, come and look at yourself, and don't lower your eyes. Is it anything to be ashamed of that one is pretty?"
Constance led Sister Anne in front of a mirror. The dumb girl looked at her own image, hesitatingly at first; but she soon recovered her self-possession to some extent, and her face flushed with modest pleasure. Is it possible for a woman to be insensible to anything that beautifies her? Sister Anne, after looking at herself for several minutes, fell at Madame de Montreville's knees.
"Oh! I don't want you to do this any more," said Constance, raising her; "I want you to love me and to be happy, that's all. As for your son, I propose to make him handsome, too, and I will send to Paris for whatever is necessary."
Monsieur Ménard, whose sleep had not been interfered with by thoughts of the wayfarer, came down at last, and was thunderstruck when he saw Sister Anne in such different guise.
"Well, Monsieur Ménard, what do you think of her?"
"Faith! madame, she is so much improved that I should not recognize her."
"Because in her other clothes you saw nothing but her misery, and overlooked the refinement of her features."
"It is an undeniable fact that misery is a great disfigurement. Indeed, a handsome setting adds to the charm of everything. We cannot dine so satisfactorily when the cloth is soiled, and the commonest wine tastes much better in a dainty glass."
Constance was busy all day with her plans for Sister Anne. The room on the first floor of the pavilion was arranged, and supplied with everything that could make it more attractive. By Madame de Montreville's orders a pretty cradle was procured, and placed beside the young mother's bed. The windows were embellished with flowers in boxes.
"She is debarred from other enjoyments," said Constance; "books and music are useless to her; as yet, the poor child doesn't know how to do anything, so we must surround her with things that are pleasing to the eye."
Sister Anne was at a loss to express her gratitude for such overwhelming kindness. Constance was much amused by the astonishment which each new thing caused her. Above all, when she heard for the first time the notes of a piano, blended with Constance's sweet voice, was she conscious of a fascination, an intoxicating pleasure, which moved her to tears. The charm of music was keenly appreciated by that ardent soul, which knew not the art of concealing its sensations.
As she watched Constance sew and embroider, Sister Anne sighed and revealed her grief at her inability to do as much. But Constance undertook to teach her; and the dumb girl was so anxious to make herself useful, that in a very short time she did all that she saw others do.
A week had passed since Constance had taken Sister Anne and the child into her family, and every hour seemed to increase her affection for them. The child very soon learned to love her, for she lavished caresses upon him; and Sister Anne, always gentle, attentive, and grateful, proved to her that her benefactions were well bestowed.
One morning, while the dumb girl was walking with her son in the garden, Dubourg appeared at his friend's house; the quarter was more than half gone, and Constance, who knew something of Dubourg's habits from her husband, was not at all surprised at his arrival.
"Welcome!" she said; "you promised my husband that you would come to see me while he was away, and I was beginning to be offended with you."
"Madame," said Dubourg, with a smile, "I am not one of those friends who undertake to make a wife forget her husband; but if I have it in my power to entertain you, I am entirely at your service until next quarter-day; or the whole year, if I can be of any use to you."
"Oh! you will find a change here; I have someone with me. I have made a new acquaintance since Frédéric went away."
"Indeed! I am sure that it is an acquaintance which will be agreeable to your husband too."
"Why, I hope so."
"My dear Dubourg," said Ménard, "madame does not tell you that she has taken into her family an unfortunate woman and her son; she doesn't boast of her good deeds."
"Hush, Monsieur Ménard! as if that young woman did not deserve all that I have done for her! Could I have placed my benefactions more wisely?"
"I agree that she has learned to work beautifully; I expect very soon to teach her to read."
"You will see, Monsieur Dubourg, how pretty and how interesting she is. And then, her child, a boy of two, is a charming little fellow."
"Ah! she has a son, has she?"
"Yes; and I am sure that you will agree with me that he looks like—— But I want you to see for yourself; I will go and find her."
Constance was already in the garden.
"The dear soul!" said Dubourg; "what a happy mortal Frédéric ought to be! And yet, here he is travelling already!"
"Business before everything, my dear Dubourg.—A pinch of snuff, if you please. My pupil has come into extensive estates, through his wife, and a man ought to be familiar with his estates."
"But why not take his wife with him? Don't you think that she would have been very glad to go along?"
"I don't say she wouldn't, but—— What a fellow you are! always harping on the same subject!"
"Hum! I trust that this journey doesn't conceal some scheme! I know that Frédéric would be terribly sorry to cause his wife the slightest pain; but I know also that such sentimental fellows as he take fire when they hear a woman sigh!"
"I tell you that my pupil is visiting his estates, deuce take it!—What about dominoes? are you beginning to be strong at it?"
"Much stronger than you, who can never guess where the double-six is. But let us join Madame de Montreville; I am curious to see this woman she has taken under her wing."
"She's a woman whom you will find it hard not to agree with, for there can't be a quarrel without a dispute; now, when there's no dispute, there can't be a quarrel; and there can't be a dispute in this case, because——"
But Dubourg was not listening; he was already in the garden, where he saw Madame de Montreville in the distance, with a child in her arms, and beside her a young woman dressed in a simple white gown. He walked toward them; the young woman saw him and ran, yes, flew to his side, seized his arm, and gazed at him in anxious suspense; while Dubourg stood like one petrified, for he had recognized Sister Anne.
"Mon Dieu! what has happened to her?" Constance asked Dubourg, who was completely bewildered to find the dumb girl, in such a different costume, walking with Constance, who was carrying her son in her arms. "What an extraordinary effect your presence has produced on her! See how she looks at you! She seems to be questioning you with those eloquent eyes. Do you know this poor child?"
"Why, no—that is, yes, yes, I saw her once; but she was so different then; in this dress—and with this child—faith, I did not recognize her!"
Dubourg was confused and embarrassed; he did not know what he ought to say, and Sister Anne still held his arm, while her eyes implored him to speak.
"What! you know her?" said Constance, in surprise; "but what does she want of you now? can't you guess what it is that she seems to want to know?"
"Oh! I beg your pardon—I begin to understand. I knew this poor girl's lover, and she is trying to ask me about him."
"Well, answer her, then, at once; see! her eyes are full of tears."
"Faith! I have nothing pleasant to tell her; her seducer has gone abroad, and, in all probability, she will never see him again.—I don't know what has become of him," he said to Sister Anne; "I have never seen him since, any more than you. And so, my dear child, you must try to forget him."
Sister Anne, who had listened with the closest attention to every word that fell from Dubourg's lips, dropped her head on her breast when he had finished; then she went and sat down under a tree, and gave free vent to her grief and her tears.
"Poor woman!" said Constance; "alas! she still loves the man who deserted her. Who could have abused her innocence so heartlessly?"
"He was a young painter, madame; he was travelling at the time—for his instruction. While in search of fine views, he fell in with Sister Anne—for that is her name. She is, I believe, the child of peasants; but I can't say so with certainty, for I do not know her family; however, my friend saw her and fell in love with her. These painters have flighty imaginations—and a child was the result. That's all that I know; I never saw this girl but once, when I was riding with my friend."
"In my eyes, he is very blameworthy. You men treat such affairs very lightly. To seduce a woman, and then abandon her, is, in your eyes, a mere youthful escapade, of which, indeed, you often boast!"
"Oh! madame, I can flatter myself that I never seduced anybody."
"I am speaking generally; but I am very certain that my Frédéric never did as so many thoughtless, heedless young men do! He is too sensitive, too loving, to try to deceive a young and inexperienced heart. See what horrible results such reckless conduct may have! This poor child, finding that she was enceinte, must have left her parents and fled from her native place. Without money, and bereft of that organ which is so necessary in the world, she travelled through city and country at random, and exposed to all the horrors of want. The unhappy creature! how she must have suffered! Oh! if you had seen her when I took her in, she would have made your heart ache. But she has found a friend now; I will not desert her, and, if I cannot make her altogether happy, she will not, at all events, have to dread want while she is with me."
Dubourg made no reply; the sight of Sister Anne gave him too much to think about.
"Your presence has renewed her grief by recalling her seducer," said Constance; "go away for a moment, and I will try to comfort her, although I am well aware that for such griefs there is no comfort. Could I enjoy a moment's happiness if Frédéric should forget me? But she has her son at least, and his caresses will allay her sorrow."
Constance carried little Frédéric to his mother and placed him on her knees, while Dubourg walked quickly back to the house and joined Ménard, who did not know what to think when he saw his former travelling companion's horrified expression.
"All is lost, Monsieur Ménard!" cried Dubourg, halting in front of the tutor.
"What? what is lost? King Stanislas's berlin or the King of Prussia's snuff-box? You know perfectly well that I am not to be taken in in that way again."
"Oh! let's hear no more of all that nonsense! This is a very serious matter, involving the happiness and peace of mind of Frédéric and his wife."
"I'll bet that it's not true; you're going to tell me some new fairy tale to lead me into a trap; but non me ludit amabilis insania."
"Will you listen to me, Monsieur Ménard? Morbleu! how could a man of your years fail to anticipate what has happened?"
"What do you mean by that? a man of my years! I beg that you will explain yourself, Monsieur Dubourg."
"You allow Madame de Montreville to take into her house, to install there——"
"Whom, in heaven's name?"
"Whom! morbleu! the girl for whom Frédéric made a fool of himself; the girl who turned his head, and with whom he lived six weeks in the woods; the girl whom he adored then, and whom, for all I know, he loves still; for a man's heart is beyond comprehension! In short, Sister Anne, the dumb girl of the woods, of Vizille, is the one whom Madame de Montreville now has in her house!"
"Mon Dieu! what do I hear?"
"Do you mean to say you didn't recognize her?"
"Recognize her! a girl I never saw but once, and then at a distance? I don't scrutinize young women as you do, monsieur; and could I suspect, did I know, that she was dumb? did anyone tell me so? No; no one tells me anything, and then they expect me to know everything by divination! You young men are inconceivable! do you suppose I should know Latin if I had never learned it?"
"Well! you know it now."
"Parbleu! I was thrashed often enough to know it! Gad! how many stripes I got for the Epitome, and how many pensums for Phædrus's fables!"
"Great heaven! Monsieur Ménard, I am talking about Sister Anne, who is here in this house, with Frédéric's wife."
"I understand, I understand perfectly."
"When Frédéric returns, she will see him; her excitement, her tears, and her caresses will betray the truth. Just think of Madame de Montreville's feelings, when the husband whom she adores and believes to be a model of fidelity finds in his house a mistress and a child—a child, above all!"
"Yes, yes; I realize all that."
"Well, then, speak! what are we to do?"
"I have no idea."
"It is impossible to let Sister Anne live under the same roof as Frédéric."
"Of course; it's most embarrassing! But she was so wretched!"
"Do you think that I mean to abandon her? I've only sixteen hundred francs a year, but I would gladly sacrifice it all to prevent her presence from disturbing the happiness of this young couple. Yes; I will work for my living, if necessary, or I'll pass the whole of every quarter with Frédéric; but that young woman and her child shall be placed beyond the reach of want."
"That is very noble, my dear Dubourg, and if I had any property—but I have nothing save my old classics, which wouldn't be of any use to her, because she can't read."
"But how are we to set about inducing Sister Anne to leave this house?"
"That would be a very hard task: Madame de Montreville is very fond of her, and is wild over the child; she thinks that he looks like my pupil—Frédéric. By the way, I can conceive a reason for that resemblance now."
"I don't know what to do; I can think of nothing. When does Frédéric return?"
"In a week; we have plenty of time."
"Time! a week will soon be gone; and if he finds Sister Anne here!"
"Why, it seems to me that we might tell the girl not to speak."
"Of course she won't speak; but her gestures, the expression of her face, will say enough."
"Indeed! well, I give you my word that I often can't understand her at all."
Dubourg tortured his brain to find some method of sending away Sister Anne and her son. Ménard sat with his eyes fixed on his snuff-box, and pretended to be equally engrossed by that subject, but in reality his thoughts were full of a pâté of hare which had arrived from Paris the night before, and which they were to attack at dinner.
Constance returned to the house with the dumb girl and the child; Sister Anne's face still bore traces of suffering, but she was calmer and more resigned; when she saw Dubourg, she smiled sadly at him, and presented her son, at whom he gazed with interest, dismayed by the striking resemblance between his features and his father's.
"Don't you think he's a lovely boy?" said Constance.
"Yes, madame," Dubourg replied, as he kissed the child; "he's very pretty."
"Does he look like his father?"
"Very much."
"And don't you think he has a look of my husband?"
"Oh! not the slightest!"
"That's strange; it impressed me at once. His name is Frédéric, too, the dear child; I believe that I love him the more for that."
As she spoke, Constance took the child in her arms; Sister Anne watched her, deeply moved, and Dubourg turned his face away to conceal the sensations aroused by that scene.
During the rest of the day, Dubourg cudgelled his brain to think how he could bring about Sister Anne's departure from Madame de Montreville's house, but he could not decide upon any plan. How was he to remove her from a luxurious home, where the most affectionate attentions were lavished upon her, and where her son was overwhelmed with caresses? Would not Sister Anne, far from consenting to such a plan, refuse to see therein anything more than shocking ingratitude, of which her loving, grateful heart was utterly incapable? To tell her that Constance's husband was her seducer would not avail to induce her to go away, for her intense longing to see Frédéric would prevail in her heart over every other consideration. She conceived herself to be united to her lover by the oaths they had exchanged; could she imagine that another woman had rights, more sacred at least, if not more equitable, than her own?
Dubourg dared not risk that method, and he tormented himself in vain to find another. At last he went to Ménard, and said to him:
"Well, have you thought of any expedient to induce Sister Anne to leave this house?"
And Ménard, after taking a pinch of snuff and reflecting for five minutes, led Dubourg into a corner and replied in an undertone:
"I can't think of anything at all."
While talking with Constance, Dubourg tried to persuade her to send the dumb girl to live on one of her estates at some distance from Paris; but Madame de Montreville scouted the suggestion with much earnestness.
"Why," she said, "should I deprive myself of this young woman's company, and of the presence of her son, whom I love as if he belonged to me? If the unhappy creature were not under my eyes, would she receive all the attentions that tend to alleviate her position? No; I shall never part with her; every day I feel that I become more and more attached to her. If you knew how grateful she is to me for everything I do for her! Ah! I have read to the very bottom of her heart; I have not misplaced my benefactions, and I am certain that Frédéric will not blame me."
"Well," said Dubourg to himself, "I have done all I could; and even if I should give myself the jaundice trying to separate these two women, I fancy that I shouldn't succeed; I'll just let things take their course, and see what happens. The most that I can do will be to warn Frédéric when he comes home."
On the evening after Dubourg's arrival, Constance said to him:
"I want you to see what pleasure my unfortunate companion derives from music; when she hears me play and sing, it always seems to me as if she were going to speak."
She took Sister Anne's hand and led her to a seat near the piano; the dumb girl was more melancholy than usual; Dubourg's presence had revived all her sorrows; however, she smiled at her benefactress, and did her utmost to appear less downcast.
Constance had played several pieces, when she said:
"I believe I have never sung her that pretty little thing that my husband likes so much."
She played the prelude to the air. Dubourg paid little attention to the music; he was still thinking of the strange chance that had brought Sister Anne and Frédéric's wife together. Ménard was sitting in a corner of the salon, doing all that he could to understand the music; and little Frédéric was playing near his mother, who listened intently to her benefactress.
Constance had no sooner sung the first words of the ballad than Sister Anne manifested an emotion which seemed to increase with every measure; she leaned toward the singer, listening with all her ears, and hardly breathing; her whole body shook, all her faculties were absorbed by an overpowering memory; and before Constance had finished the first stanza, a deadly pallor overspread the dumb girl's features; she uttered a plaintive moan, and fainted.
Intent upon her music as she was, Constance had not observed Sister Anne's agitation; but when she heard her groan, she sprang to her feet and flew to her side.
"Great God!" she exclaimed; "what is the matter with her? She is unconscious!"
Dubourg hastened to her assistance, while Ménard ran to fetch salts and call the servants.
"Can you imagine what upset her? She was listening to me with evident pleasure, and suddenly she fainted."
"Madame," said Dubourg, attempting to take advantage of this incident, "haven't you noticed that this young woman is not always in her right mind; that there are moments when she seems—rather light-headed?"
"Why, no; I have never noticed anything of the sort. Since she has been here, she has always been very reasonable, and her depression seems perfectly natural to me. Poor dear! she doesn't open her eyes."
"Oh! this will amount to nothing; probably her emotion when she saw me this morning is the cause of her swoon."
"I am inclined to think so."
Ménard returned, armed with a dozen bottles of salts. For a long while, all their efforts were unavailing: Sister Anne did not recover consciousness, and Constance was in despair; at last, a long-drawn sigh announced that the sufferer was returning to life, and she soon opened her eyes. Her first thought was for her son; he was too young to realize his mother's danger, and had not interrupted his play. Sister Anne took him in her arms and kissed him, then looked at all those who stood about her, as if to thank them for their kindness.
"Come with me, and go to bed," said Madame de Montreville; "all your sorrow has been revived to-day, and you must forget it in sleep."
But, instead of following her, Sister Anne took her hand, led her to the piano, and motioned to her to sit down again.
"No, to-morrow," said Constance; "the music excites you too much. I will sing to you to-morrow."
Sister Anne clasped her hands, and her glance was so expressive, it besought her so earnestly to do what she desired, that Constance had not the heart to refuse; she seated herself at the piano, while Ménard observed sotto voce:
"That young woman is passionately fond of music; it would be a good idea to teach her to play."
Constance began an air, but Sister Anne stopped her and shook her head emphatically, as if to say: "Not that."—Thereupon she played another, but still the dumb girl was not satisfied. At last, Constance remembered that she was singing a ballad when she was interrupted; she sang it again, and had no sooner begun it than Sister Anne's emotion and the strained attention with which she listened showed plainly enough that that was what she wanted to hear.
"Just see how this ballad excites her!" said Constance; "it's the one Frédéric always liked so much!"
The words were hardly out of her mouth, when Sister Anne seized her hand, pressed it with all her strength, and nodded her head. Madame de Montreville did not understand her pantomime; she looked at Dubourg, who said in an undertone:
"I assure you that there are times when she doesn't know what she is doing. She thinks that she sees her lover everywhere; love has turned her brain."
Sister Anne's agitation partially subsided; the tears forced their way to the surface and relieved the strain. Constance gazed at her with emotion, repeating again and again:
"Poor child! what a guilty wretch he was to desert you!"
For several minutes everybody was silent. Constance resorted to her usual method of allaying the young mother's suffering: she took little Frédéric in her arms and carried him to her. She looked up gratefully at her benefactress, and, having covered her son with kisses, rose and prepared to go to her room.
Constance insisted on accompanying her to the pavilion; there she left her, after urging her anew to be brave.
"Your troubles will come to an end before long, I hope," she said. "Yes, your seducer will certainly return to sentiments more worthy of the man you love; he cannot have forgotten you entirely. Dubourg may not be accurately informed. Dry your tears; some day you will see him again; and how can he ever leave you after you put this darling boy in his arms?"
These comforting words went to Sister Anne's heart; she welcomed the soothing hope that Constance held out to her, and parted from her somewhat less unhappy. Madame de Montreville returned slowly to her apartment; the sight of the suffering of the woman she had saved from want made her sad; Frédéric was not there to divert her thoughts and make her forget everything but her own happiness; she had never been separated from him for so long a time, and his absence tended to increase her melancholy.
Ménard had retired, after saying to Dubourg:
"This has been rather a tempestuous day."
"Ah!" was the reply; "I apprehend a much more violent storm! If that young woman fainted simply because she heard the ballad that Frédéric used to sing to her, what will happen to her when she sees him again, and when she learns that he is another woman's husband? I tell you, Monsieur Ménard, I can't think of anything else!"
"I can well believe it; it has taken away my appetite!"
"Let us try to ward off that catastrophe."
"Let us ward it off; I ask nothing better."
"Remember that the repose, the happiness, yes, even the honor, of your pupil are at stake, and that his sins will rebound on you."
"I beg your pardon: a mistake in syntax, or in Latin verses, I agree; but I never taught him to seduce innocent girls; it was rather your evil counsels that perverted him."
"Monsieur Ménard!"
"Monsieur Dubourg!"
"Let's go to bed."
"Recte dicis."