Dubourg had been Madame de Montreville's guest for ten days, and during those ten days he had not ceased his efforts to invent some means of warding off the effect that the sight of Frédéric would surely produce on Sister Anne. He saw that Constance's attachment to her protégée and the latter's gratitude to her benefactress increased from day to day. To separate them seemed more difficult than ever; Constance frequently said that she could not do without Sister Anne and her son, and the young mother seemed to feel her grief less keenly by her side.
Frédéric was expected at any moment; indeed, he was already overdue. Constance was worried by his delay; she was less cheerful than usual, and her eyes were often wet with tears. At such times, Sister Anne strove to comfort her, and to say to her by signs that her husband would soon return.
"Suppose he no longer loves me!" Constance would say sometimes; and the dumb girl would take her hand and lead her before a mirror, as if to say:
"Look at yourself; can anyone help loving you?"
"Alas!" Constance would reply; "someone forgot you very quickly, and you are as pretty as I am!"
The Comte de Montreville, who had promised to pass a few days in the country, was detained by the gout. Dubourg was not sorry; he preferred that he should not be a witness of the recognition he dreaded; he had no idea that the count knew Sister Anne.
At last, Constance received a letter from her husband: he wrote her that unforeseen circumstances had delayed his return, but that he hoped to arrange everything soon. His letter was affectionate and expansive; he seemed to be as much in love as ever. Nevertheless, Constance was not satisfied: to stay away from her so long seemed in itself to indicate less warmth. Frédéric was not there, so she was at liberty to weep; before him, she concealed her tears. As always, it was to Sister Anne that she confided her troubles; on her bosom she poured out her tears and found consolation.
Dubourg saw in this delay so much time gained.
"Let us try to make use of it to prevent an interview between the lovers," he said to Ménard.
"Let's prevent it; I agree with you."
"But I've been trying for ten days to think up some expedient, and I can't find anything."
"Faith! then I'm luckier than you, for I found something the day before yesterday."
"What! if that's so, for heaven's sake tell me what it is!"
"It's my receipt for making milk punch, which I thought I had lost."
On leaving home, Frédéric had gone at once to the farm to ascertain the whereabouts of Sister Anne, and of his son, whom he ardently desired to embrace. But when he arrived there, he learned from the worthy peasants that the lone girl had started for Paris with her child long before. Frédéric did not know what to do, and what caused him the greatest distress was that a messenger from his father followed close on his heels, bringing, as usual, money and divers other things for her whom the count called his liberatress; which fact proved that he was unaware that Sister Anne had left the farm, and that she had failed to find her friend's house in Paris.
Frédéric was distressed beyond words; the people at the farm shared his disappointment. They regretted that they had allowed Sister Anne to go; but how could they have opposed her resolution with success? What had become of her? what was she doing in Paris, without friends or protector? If they had known that the unfortunate girl had been heartlessly robbed of all that she possessed, their grief would have been greater.
Frédéric remained only one day at the farm; he started back toward Paris, and all along the road tried to obtain some information that might put him on Sister Anne's track. On reaching Paris, he did not go home; he did not wish his presence in the city to be known, because he desired his wife to remain in ignorance of it, so that he might have time to institute a search for the dumb girl and her son. For more than a week he searched the vast city, visiting the most deserted as well as the most populous quarters, often going up to rooms under the eaves, and asking everywhere if anyone had seen a young woman who could not speak and who had a child. But his search was fruitless; he did not obtain a shred of information to put him on Sister Anne's track. With an aching heart, he decided at last to return to Constance; he was very far from thinking that he would find there those whom he had been seeking so long.
Every day, Dubourg lay in ambush on one road, and stationed Ménard as a sentry on the other to notify him if he should see Frédéric coming. As the country house could not be reached except by those two roads, he felt certain of not missing him. But one morning, Ménard, having taken his Horace with him, became so interested in an ode he was reading, that the man for whom he was watching passed him unnoticed. Frédéric entered the house and hurried to Constance's room, where she was sitting, alone, thinking of her husband.
She looked up, uttered a joyful cry, and flew into his arms. All the pain of separation was instantly forgotten on her husband's breast. Frédéric responded affectionately to her outbursts of love. After the first transports of joy had subsided, Constance said:
"During your absence, I have taken an unfortunate woman into the house. Oh! I hope that you will love her as I do."
"Whatever you do is well done, my dear Constance; your heart could never lead you astray; I am certain beforehand that your benefactions have been well bestowed."
"Oh! she is such an interesting young thing! a victim of love, and we women are always sympathetic with that sort of unhappiness. Her seducer deserted her, with a charming child, whom I am perfectly wild over. His name is Frédéric, like yours.—Why, what's the matter, dear? you are as pale as a ghost, and all of a tremble!"
"Oh!—fatigue, I fancy—I was in such a hurry to get home!"
Frédéric sat down, for his legs were giving way: what Constance had told him caused him an emotion that he could not control. He looked about him, shuddering involuntarily.
"And this woman—this child—where are they?" he asked, in a trembling voice.
"She has a room in the pavilion in the garden. But I see her now.—Come here, my dear, come quickly," Constance called, running to meet Sister Anne, who was coming through the hall with her son. "My husband has returned; oh! I am so happy! Now my happiness is complete!"
She took the dumb girl's hand and drew her into the room, where her husband was still sitting. At sight of Frédéric, Sister Anne uttered a heartrending shriek; she ran to him, threw herself into his arms, pointed to her son, and lost consciousness.
With one hand Frédéric supported Sister Anne, whose lifeless head lay against his breast; with the other he covered his eyes, as if he were afraid to look about him. His son was at his feet, still holding his mother's hand, and Constance, speechless with amazement and trembling from head to foot, stood before them.
In an instant a thousand conflicting sensations seemed to be at work in Constance's breast. She changed color her eyes expressed surprise and apprehension; she shuddered, and seemed to be trying to banish the thought that had forced itself upon her mind. But her glance, resting alternately on Sister Anne and her husband, strove to discover the truth. Her first impulse was to run to Sister Anne and take her from Frédéric's arms.
"What is the matter? Why did the sight of you put her in such a condition?" she faltered, looking at Frédéric. "Answer me, dear; do you know this young woman?"
Frédéric had not the courage to reply, or even to look at Constance. But his eye fell upon his son, and he took him in his arms and covered him with kisses; thereupon Constance's heart received a terrible shock, for the whole truth was laid bare before her.
Dubourg appeared upon the scene, followed by Ménard; at sight of Frédéric, he divined all that had happened, and he instantly ran to the assistance of Sister Anne, crying:
"Fainted again! an attack of madness, I'll wager! I told you before, this poor creature has times when she loses her reason."
Constance made no reply; she left Sister Anne to the ministrations of Dubourg and Ménard, and returned to her husband, who still held the child in his arms.
"He is lovely—is he not?" she asked, in a trembling voice, with her eyes still fastened on Frédéric. He did not speak, whereupon Constance roughly snatched the child from his arms; but soon, repenting of that impulsive movement, which she could not control, she covered the child with kisses, crying in a heart-broken tone:
"Poor child! you are not guilty!"
Dubourg and Ménard carried Sister Anne away to the pavilion, leaving Frédéric and Constance with the child. Frédéric's eyes were fixed on the floor, as if he were afraid to meet those of Constance, who had seated herself a few steps away and had taken little Frédéric on her knees. She tried to restrain her tears, but she had not the courage to speak. For some minutes neither of them broke the silence. At last, Frédéric raised his eyes and saw his wife caressing Sister Anne's son. At that sight he was on the point of throwing himself at her feet and confessing all, when Dubourg rushed into the room.
"It's all right! I don't think it will amount to anything," he said, motioning to Frédéric not to betray himself. "That young woman is subject to attacks of insanity; then she thinks that she sees her lover everywhere. I have already advised madame more than once not to keep her in the house."
"Really," faltered Frédéric, trying to recover his self-possession, "I am utterly unable to understand what has happened. I was so agitated by that poor creature's condition—that I didn't realize what I was doing."
Constance said nothing; she simply looked from her husband to Dubourg.
"I'll take her son to her," said the latter, walking toward Constance to take the child.
"Let him stay," said Constance; "Frédéric will do that."
Frédéric was thrown into confusion again; he could not support his wife's glance. In vain did Dubourg whisper:
"Come, come, morbleu! have your wits about you. Remember that, for her own happiness, you must deceive her."
At that moment Ménard appeared, in a comical state of dismay.
"She has recovered her senses," he said to Dubourg, in an undertone; "but it's impossible to make her stay quietly in her room! She's a perfect devil! She insists on seeing him. She's running about the garden like a madwoman."
"Why did you leave her?"
And Dubourg hurried from the room.
"What is the matter?" said Constance; "is she worse?"
"No, madame," replied Ménard, who had no idea what he ought to say or do; "but, I'm afraid—her head—these women—love—quid femina possit."
"I will go and look after her," said Constance; "I will take her her son, and perhaps, when she sees him—— Aren't you coming with me, Frédéric; won't you add your efforts to mine to pacify the poor, unhappy creature?"
Frédéric hesitated; he did not know what it was best for him to do. He longed to see Sister Anne, whose terrible plight had torn his heart; but he was afraid of betraying himself when he saw her. At that moment, they heard cries in the garden; they looked out and saw Sister Anne running hither and thither, pursued by the servants and Dubourg. The former, when they saw how intensely excited she was, rushing in all directions, with her hair flying in the wind, had no doubt that she had lost her reason; and Dubourg confirmed them in that idea, which might prevent their guessing the truth.
But Sister Anne spied Frédéric at one of the windows on the ground floor; instantly she rushed in that direction, entered the room, and, in the twinkling of an eye, threw herself into Frédéric's arms, pushing away Constance, who stood beside him, and looking at her with a jealous and at the same time anxious expression, as if to say:
"I alone have the right to be here."
The servants halted in the doorway and gazed at the picture before them. Constance felt a terrible sinking at the heart when she saw Sister Anne in her husband's arms; but she retained sufficient strength to walk toward the servants and say in a trembling voice:
"Go, my friends; this unhappy woman is not in her right mind, but we shall be able to pacify her."
The servants retired; Ménard had gone in search of Dubourg, to whom he always had recourse at difficult crises; Sister Anne was left alone with her son and Frédéric and Constance.
The dumb girl seemed as if she would attach herself inseparably to Frédéric, who had not the courage to push her away. She smiled at him, she took his hands and held them to her heart, then pointed to their son. At the same time, she glanced uneasily at Constance, who was seated a few steps away, with her face hidden in her hands, unable to endure that scene. But her tears were suffocating her; they burst forth at last, and she sobbed as if her heart would break. Sister Anne shuddered. Constance's grief seemed to touch her to the quick. Frédéric could contain himself no longer; he ran and threw himself at his wife's feet; but she, without looking at him, gently repulsed him.
"Go, go," she said; "this unhappy girl has more claim to your love than I; this child is your son. Console her for all she has suffered since you deserted her. I know the whole truth now. No; she has not lost her reason; she has found her seducer, the father of her child!"
Frédéric was thunderstruck. Pale and trembling, he remained at Constance's feet; and Sister Anne, with her eyes fixed upon his face, seemed to be waiting to hear what he would say. But Frédéric seized his wife's hand and covered it with tears and kisses; at that sight a plaintive moan escaped the dumb girl, and again she fell unconscious to the floor.
Constance hastened to her assistance.
"Leave us," she said to Frédéric; "your presence is too painful to her. Oh! you can trust her to me; I shall be no different to her from what I have always been."
Frédéric made no reply, but left the room, in a state of complete bewilderment. He met Dubourg and Ménard hurrying toward him.
"The pretence is of no avail," he said; "Constance has divined the truth; she knows all."
"As she knows all," said Ménard, "we mustn't conceal anything more from her."
Constance lavished upon Sister Anne the most zealous attention. At last, the dumb girl opened her eyes. When they fell upon Frédéric's wife, her first impulse was to push her away; then she looked about in search of Frédéric. Constance beckoned to the child, who held out his little arms to his mother. Sister Anne seemed touched by Constance's conduct; she looked at her with less jealousy, but she shuddered from head to foot, her teeth chattered violently, her eyes closed again, and a ghastly pallor overspread her cheeks.
Constance ordered the servants to carry her to the pavilion, where she was put to bed. She was in a raging fever, and was really delirious. Her eyes rolled from side to side with an expression of intense anxiety; she recognized nobody, and even repulsed her son.
"Poor dear! I will not abandon you," said Constance; and she passed the whole day beside Sister Anne's bed. Not until evening, when she found that she was a little calmer, did she decide to leave her; but she left her in charge of faithful and willing servants, intending to return frequently to ascertain her condition.
She returned to her own apartment, where Frédéric awaited her. How different was that day, which reunited them, from those that they had previously passed together! Constance said nothing; her heart was drawn hither and thither by a multitude of conflicting emotions; her bosom rose and fell convulsively, but she tried to conceal her suffering and to appear calm before her husband. Frédéric stood before her, motionless, like a criminal awaiting his doom; her kindness made him keenly alive to his wrong-doing. At last he approached her, not daring to speak, and fell at her feet.
"What are you doing?" said Constance, gently; "why do you kneel at my feet? You are not guilty toward me. Ah! it would be more just for you to kneel at the feet of her whom you have betrayed and deserted! I have no right to complain: your fault is only too common among men. You knew this poor girl before your marriage. She has become a mother. But, in the world, your conduct would be considered perfectly natural and proper. Far from blaming you, society would perhaps applaud you for forgetting a woman who could not be your wife. But, I confess, I thought that you were different from the heedless rakes who pride themselves on the tears of which they are the cause. What lamentable results your fault has had! If you only knew all that the unhappy creature has suffered! She was in the last stages of destitution, actually dying of starvation, when I took her in; yes, dying of starvation—with your son in her arms. Oh! Frédéric! do you realize what your remorse would have been? You weep? Ah! my dear, let your tears flow; I would rather lose your heart than believe that it was capable of utter lack of feeling. Listen: you have found your child's mother; you must not abandon her again. If you will leave everything to me, I will assure her future; she shall live in a house which I will buy for her in some pleasant place in the country; she shall want nothing. Her son is a dear boy; I would have liked to be a mother to him, but it would be a horrible thing to separate her from her child. He shall have a good education. When he has grown up, you shall decide his fate; and be assured that I shall never consider anything that you do for him more than you ought to do. That is what I propose to do for the woman you once loved. But it may be that this plan does not satisfy you. Perhaps, on seeing the poor girl again, the love that she formerly inspired in you has revived. Perhaps you love her still. Oh! Frédéric, I entreat you to be sincere with me; let me read in the bottom of your heart. There is no sacrifice of which I am not capable to make you happy. Yes, my dear; I shall be able to endure anything—except the sight of your regret for another. If you love her—if you still feel drawn to her—I will go away, I will bury myself on one of our estates; you will not see me again, and you will be at liberty to keep the mother of your child with you."
Constance could no longer hold back the tears that were suffocating her. She had made a prolonged effort to restrain her feelings, but her courage gave way when she proposed to Frédéric that they should part.
"I, leave you!" he cried, throwing his arms about her. "Oh! Constance, can you believe that I have ceased for one instant to love you? No, I swear to you, you alone possess my heart! I realize the wrong I have done; I propose to assure Sister Anne's future; I must do it. Could I help feeling profoundly moved when I saw her again? And the child—I love him, and I propose to see to his future welfare and happiness; for that you cannot blame me. I approve all your plans; I know the goodness of your heart, the nobility of your soul. How few wives would have acted as you have done! Command me: send Sister Anne away; let her go to-morrow."
"To-morrow! oh! no, dear. The poor child is ill—very ill! she shall not leave this place until she has fully recovered. So long as she is here—you must avoid seeing her; your presence can do her nothing but harm. Promise me that you will not see her; that is the only sacrifice I ask of you."
"I will do whatever you say."
"When she has recovered, I will go with her myself to her new home, and I will not leave her until I am certain that she lacks nothing."
Frédéric embraced Constance with profound affection; her kindness of heart made her even dearer to him. A wife ought never to employ any other weapons; reproaches and complaints repel a husband; gentleness and indulgence always end by winning back his heart.
In her husband's arms, Constance found happiness once more; he swore to her that he loved no one but her, and she believed his oaths: could she live without his love?
Early the next morning, Constance went to the pavilion; and Frédéric sought Dubourg and Ménard, to tell them of his wife's noble conduct.
"There aren't many women like her," said Dubourg; "guard her carefully; you cannot love her too dearly; you have a veritable treasure in her!"
"Madame de Montreville's conduct," said Ménard, "is certainly worthy of one of Plutarch's heroines; and I know of nothing finer in history save that of Cunegunde, wife of the Emperor Henry II, who grasped a red-hot iron to prove her chastity."
Sister Anne was still in an alarming condition; she recognized nobody, but she seemed to be constantly looking for somebody and holding out her arms to him. Constance looked to it that she wanted nothing; she herself brought a doctor to her, and installed at her bedside an old maid-servant, who did not leave her for an instant. Then Constance took little Frédéric and carried him to her husband.
"Love him dearly," she said, as she placed him in his arms; "by making the child happy, you can best atone for the wrong you have done the mother. I feel that I, too, love him as if he were my own son. When I first saw him, a secret presentiment seemed to tell me that he belonged to you; and that thought made me love him more rather than less."
Frédéric embraced his son, who thenceforth passed a large part of the time with him; for the poor child no longer received the caresses of his mother, who was still in a raging fever, and delirious, and, for nearly a fortnight, lay at the gates of death. During that time, Constance passed whole days and often whole nights in the pavilion, refusing to leave to another the nursing that the young patient required; she hung over her pillow, and held her in the most violent paroxysms of her delirium; she triumphed over fatigue, she was unconscious of suffering, she devoted her whole attention to Sister Anne; in vain did Frédéric, day after day, urge her to be careful of her own health and to take some rest.
"Let me nurse her," said Constance; "by devoting myself to her, it seems to me that I repair a part of the wrong that you have done her."
Frédéric had not a moment's peace of mind so long as he knew that Sister Anne was in danger. He was consumed with the longing to see her again, but he had promised his wife not to enter her presence; and how could he break his promise, after all that Constance had done for him? He often hovered about the pavilion where the poor girl lay, and waited impatiently for someone to come out from whom he could obtain news of her condition. But when it was Constance who came out, he concealed a part of what he felt, afraid to reveal the extent of his interest in the dumb girl.
Thanks to the unremitting care of Frédéric's wife, the patient returned to life; her delirium ceased, she recognized her child, strained him to her heart, and refused to be separated from him. When she first saw Constance again, her whole body quivered; but in a moment she seemed to recover herself, and seized her benefactress's hand, which she covered with tears and kisses; it was as if she were trying to ask her forgiveness for the wrong she had done her.
"Poor girl!" said Constance, affectionately pressing her hand; "I shall always be the same to you; it is my place to try to make up for your misfortunes. I am your friend; your child is mine; henceforth his fate and yours are assured. Oh! don't shake your head—I am simply paying a debt. Your son is a sweet, lovely boy; his happiness will enable you to forget your own sorrows some day. Courage! you may yet be happy!"
Sister Anne sighed, and her eyes seemed to say that it was impossible. Constance herself did not believe that it was possible to forget Frédéric; but it is lawful to lie a little in order to comfort others. The dumb girl looked about the room, but, in a moment, turned her eyes again upon her benefactress, as if resigned to her fate.
"I will do what you order me to do," she seemed to say.
Constance informed her husband that Sister Anne was saved, although her convalescence would be long and slow; the doctor had said that the invalid would not be able to travel for a long time, but that the proximity of the garden would afford her an excellent opportunity to test without injury the return of her strength.
Frédéric was overjoyed to learn that his victim was restored to life; every day the longing to see her, though but for a moment, tormented him more. Nor was that his only longing: while the dumb girl was very ill, they had brought his son to him, and he had passed a great part of the time with him. He had become accustomed to his presence, he had learned to know the pleasures of a father's love; and that sentiment is not one of those which time or separation impairs. Frédéric, who dared not let his wife know of his longing to see Sister Anne, had no hesitation in asking for his son.
"He is his mother's sole consolation now, my dear; do you want to deprive her of him? Later, when time has allayed her suffering somewhat, I have no doubt that she will consent to send him to you now and then; but just at this time she wants him with her every moment."
Frédéric said no more, but tried to conceal his feelings; for Constance was gazing at him as if she would read his inmost thoughts.
Sister Anne recovered her strength very slowly; it was several days before she was able to go down into the garden with her son, leaning on Constance's arm. As she supported the convalescent's tottering steps, Constance glanced anxiously about, dreading to see Frédéric, although she had told him that Sister Anne was coming into the garden, which was equivalent to asking him not to appear there. Frédéric knew that his presence would certainly cause an agitation that would be dangerous to the invalid, and he remained in his apartment.
Sister Anne was calmer, but her calmness seemed to be the result of complete prostration rather than of resignation; she kept her eyes fixed on the ground, except when she turned them on her son; she did not weep, but the expression of her face indicated her mental suffering; meanwhile, her strength constantly increased, and soon she was able to go out alone with her son, to stroll about the pavilion.
A few days more, and Madame de Montreville was to set out with Sister Anne and her son for the estate on which she proposed that they should make their home. Frédéric approved his wife's plan, but he was consumed by the desire to see once more the woman he had loved so dearly, and whom he was not certain that he did not love still.
He knew that Sister Anne and her son went every morning at daybreak to sit in an arbor near the pavilion. One morning he rose softly, while Constance was still asleep; it was almost dawn; he could not resist the craving to see the dumb girl and her son; he did not mean to speak to her, or to show himself to her, but only to see her once more. She was to go away the next day, so that that day was the last on which it would be possible for him to satisfy the desire that beset him.
He dressed noiselessly and walked to the bed where Constance lay; she was not resting quietly, but her eyes were closed, she was asleep; he determined to seize the opportunity, and he stole quickly from the room and into the garden. The first rays of dawn were just beginning to dispel the mists of the night; he walked rapidly toward Sister Anne's favorite arbor; his heart beat fast; it seemed to him that he was living anew those moments of his first love when he arrived at the wood of Vizille and looked for the dumb girl on the bank of the stream where they were wont to meet.
She was not yet in the arbor; she probably would not be there for at least a quarter of an hour; he sat down on the bench where she usually sat, from which he could see the pavilion where she and her son lived. He fastened his eyes upon that building; his heart was full, he felt again the delicious emotion that he used to feel as he gazed at old Marguerite's miserable hovel. At that moment, he forgot all that had happened since; he waited impatiently for her to come out; it seemed to him that he would see her come running toward him, driving her goats.
Time passes very quickly when one is engrossed by such memories. Suddenly the door of the pavilion opened and a child appeared—it was his son. Frédéric was on the point of running forward to embrace him, but he remembered the promise he had given Constance. If he went nearer to the pavilion, Sister Anne would see him, for she could not be far behind her child. He must keep out of her sight; so he crept behind the shrubbery, and there, hidden by a thick clump of hornbeams, he waited tremblingly for her to appear.
He had hardly left the arbor, when the dumb girl came out of the pavilion and took her son by the hand. Frédéric could not take his eyes from her. She was dressed in a plain white gown; her hair, gathered carelessly on top of her head, fell over her forehead, whereon sadness and suffering were written. She smiled, however, as she looked at her child; then paused, glanced about the garden, and heaved a profound sigh.
Frédéric did not tire of gazing at her; that unfamiliar costume, in which he was now for the first time able to examine her at his leisure,—for in his wife's presence he had hardly dared to look at her,—seemed to add to her charms and make her more beautiful than ever. She came toward him, she entered the arbor; he hardly breathed. She sat on the bench—she was close beside him—only a few branches separated them; he heard her sighs, he could count the throbs of her heart. How sad she seemed! Alas! who would console her now? He was the cause of her woes, and he could do nothing to put an end to them. The child put his little arms about his mother's neck; it was as if he were already trying, young as he was, to soothe her grief. She pressed him to her heart, but her tears continued to flow. Frédéric could control himself no longer; he heard her sobs, he forgot his promise, he saw nothing but Sister Anne's tears, which fell upon his heart. He abruptly put aside the branches that separated them; he fell at her feet and embraced her knees, crying:
"Forgive me!"
At sight of Frédéric, Sister Anne started to rise and fly, but she had not the strength; she fell back on the bench and tried to look the other way, but an irresistible power forced her to turn her eyes upon her lover. He was at her feet, entreating her forgiveness; she had not the courage to repel him; she placed her son in his arms, and soon she was straining him to her heart. At that moment they heard a cry, not far away. Frédéric, disturbed and alarmed, left the arbor and looked in every direction; seeing no one, he returned to Sister Anne. But she was already going back to the pavilion with her son; he tried to detain her; she slipped from his arms, while her eyes bade him an affectionate adieu. She had enjoyed a moment's happiness, but she did not propose to be culpable toward her benefactress by remaining longer with Frédéric.
Sister Anne and the child having returned to the pavilion, Frédéric was alone in the garden; he was still agitated by the pleasure it had afforded him to see his former sweetheart, but that pleasure was mingled with anxiety. The cry he had heard worried him. He searched every part of the garden, but found no one. He persuaded himself that he had made a mistake, that the voice came from the fields. For a moment he thought of his wife. Suppose that Constance had seen him! But he soon rejected that idea, for Constance was asleep when he left his room. He returned to the house. The servants were astir. Dubourg and Ménard came down into the garden. Frédéric dared not go to his wife, but waited till breakfast before seeing her again.
He strolled about the garden with his friends; but he was thoughtful and ill at ease.
"Are you grieving over Sister Anne's approaching departure?" said Dubourg. "I tell you, my dear fellow, it is indispensable. A man can't live under the same roof with his wife and his mistress, even if the latter has ceased to be anything to him; for the wife must always stand in dread of chance meetings and accidents; and if she loves her husband ever so little, she won't sleep peacefully."
"Unquestionably," said Ménard, "one cannot live with the wolf and the lamb. It's as if you should put a canary and a parrot in the same cage; they'll always end by fighting. I don't refer to Madame de Montreville; she's an angel of gentleness; and certainly the other little woman will never talk loud. But, after all: naturam expellas furca, tamen usque recurret. Furthermore, a Greek philosopher has said: 'Do you want to have hell on earth? if so, live with your wife and your mistress.'"
"But, Monsieur Ménard, far from having any such desire, I wish with all my heart that the poor creature were already far away. I realize too well that I must not rely on my resolutions."
"There's only one thing in the world you can rely on; and that is indigestion, if you bathe right after eating."
The breakfast hour arrived; Constance appeared, and, as usual, went to her husband and kissed him.
"I was mistaken; she knows nothing," said Frédéric to himself.
However, it seemed to him that she was pale, that her eyes were red and swollen, that her hand trembled in his. He inquired affectionately concerning her health.
"I am all right," said Constance; "I am not sick; there's nothing the matter with me."
But her tone seemed to contradict her words.
The day passed, and Frédéric was surprised to see that Constance made no preparations for Sister Anne's departure and her own. He ventured at last to mention the subject.
"I have changed my mind," said Constance, struggling to conceal her emotion; "I don't see why that young woman should leave the house; she is so happy with us! Her presence cannot be disagreeable to you; on the other hand, her absence might cause you too much regret."
"What do you say?" cried Frédéric.
"No, she shall not go," continued Constance, coldly; apparently not noticing her husband's bewilderment. "It is useless now."
With that, she turned away and shut herself up in her own apartment. Frédéric did not know what to think of that sudden change of plan; but that evening Constance's maid went to the pavilion, at her bidding, and informed Sister Anne that she was to live on at the pavilion; that there was no further question of her going away.
The dumb girl was greatly surprised; but her heart could not be indifferent to the bliss of remaining near Frédéric. She was astonished, however, that her benefactress, who had been so unvaryingly kind to her, did not come to her and explain her change of plan. Several days passed, and she did not see Madame de Montreville. The same attention was paid to her comfort and her son's, but her benefactress had ceased to visit the occupants of the pavilion.
Constance passed all her time in her own room; she did not say a word to Frédéric; but her face was drawn and haggard; it was evident that she was suffering and that she was doing her utmost to conceal it. Frédéric hardly dared to question her, and when he did she always answered gently:
"Nothing is the matter with me."
"Morbleu!" said Dubourg; "this isn't natural! That young woman has something on her mind. She insists now that the other one shall stay; I can't make anything out of it."
"Nor I," said Ménard; "but I think, with you, that there's some mystery about it. Tertullian says that the devil isn't as mischievous as woman, and I agree with Tertullian."