"But, monsieur le baron, when you have received answers from Rava and Krapach?"

"Oh! then it will be different; but I fear we shall not have them for a long time. As to the funds, I think that we had better let Frederic take charge of them. He is calm and cool, and that is what we need in a cashier."

"It's a great pity," muttered Menard; "we lived so handsomely when monsieur le baron paid the bills!"

All their plans being made, they paid their hotel bill; it amounted to eight hundred and fifty francs for the three weeks they had pa.s.sed there, so that the count's remittance was seriously impaired at the outset; but meanwhile they had been lodged and fed like lords. Dubourg's only sentiment was regret at their inability to continue the same mode of life; Menard sighed as he thought of the delicious repasts they had enjoyed; and Frederic observed to Dubourg, in an undertone:

"My friend, if we had continued to go so fast, we shouldn't have gone very far."

Monsieur le comte's horses were sold, and they arranged with a stable-keeper to journey from Lyon.

"These two halts have cost you dear, monsieur le baron," said Menard; "a berlin and fifty thousand francs the first time, and fifteen thousand the second! A man could not travel long at that price!"

"My mind is at rest now, Monsieur Menard; I defy anyone to rob me.

Socrates found his house large enough to receive his friends, and I shall find my purse full enough so long as Frederic pays for me."

Menard had no reply to make to that; the comparison did not seem to him a happy one.

Instead of taking the road to Turin, Frederic gave orders to drive toward Gren.o.ble; he desired to visit that city and its suburbs, especially the Carthusian monastery, whose wild aspect astounds and almost terrifies the traveller. Dubourg was in no hurry to reach Italy; it mattered little to him in which direction they went. Moreover, since his last misadventure, he did not presume to offer his advice. As for Menard, he was always ready to yield to Frederic's wishes, but the name of the Carthusian monastery made him shudder; he was afraid that his former pupil would want to take up his quarters in some hermitage, and he felt no sort of inclination for a frugal life.

As they drew near the banks of the Isere, the country became more picturesque, more mountainous, and more impressive. The fields were interspersed with thickets; the brooks, after trickling across a plain, plunged in foamy cascades over steep cliffs. How different the scene from the noisy suburbs of Paris and the lovely landscapes of the Rhone valley! The picture was more serious, more majestic perhaps, disposing the mind to pleasant reverie, and wafting one's thoughts far from the turmoil of great cities.

"What a beautiful country this is!" said Frederic; "I find here an indefinable charm which fascinates my heart as well as my eyes. How pleasant it is to drive along these shady roads!"

"And dream of Madame Dernange, I suppose?"

"Oh! no, Dubourg; she has been out of my thoughts for a long while, I a.s.sure you, as have all the rest of the coquettes I knew in Paris."

"Well, what do you dream about, then, in your long, solitary walks?"

"Alas! I don't know; I dream of a being I have never seen, a woman who is lovely, sweet-tempered, loving, and, above all, faithful!"

"And you look for her on the banks of a brook?"

"I don't look for her; I am waiting for chance to bring us together."

"If chance should wait for thirty years or so, you would both be a trifle mature."

"Oh! Dubourg, how irritating you are! you have no idea of love!"

"Love, my friend, is a doll that everyone dresses according to his own fancy;--isn't that so, Monsieur Menard?"

"I cannot answer from experience, monsieur le baron."

In due time they arrived at Gren.o.ble, where they dismissed their driver.

Their arrangements there were not the same as at Lyon; but although the hotel was less palatial, they had an excellent table; poultry was abundant, and the wine very good. Monsieur Menard and Dubourg made the best of it.

On the day following their arrival, Frederic and his companions started off to visit the Carthusian monastery. Dubourg, having ceased to play the grand seigneur, was quite as willing to accompany his friend as to remain with Menard, and the latter decided to go along, although he was a poor walker, and Frederic, the better to enjoy the country, proposed to go on foot.

The monastery, which they reached after half a day's walk, first appears to the visitor surrounded by mountains covered with firs, by fertile valleys and rich pasture lands. Approaching by Fourvoyerie, you follow a road hewn out of the solid rock, with a rushing mountain stream on the left, and a perpendicular cliff sixty feet high on the right. One inevitably feels an unfamiliar sensation, a blending of wonder and alarm, at sight of that wild landscape.

They stopped to examine the peak called L'Aiguille, which towers above the gate of the Grande Chartreuse. Frederic was lost in admiration, Dubourg looked calmly at the rock, and Menard sighed; but the hospitable welcome they received at the Chartreuse revived the poor tutor's spirits; while he agreed that there were many superb views in that region, he felt that he preferred his little fourth-floor room on Rue Betisy to the most picturesque cell in the monastery, where, moreover, fast-days were very numerous. It is not given to everybody to appreciate the beauties of nature; and it was with extreme delight that Menard started to return to Gren.o.ble, although Frederic proposed that they should sleep at the Chartreuse to avoid overtiring themselves. Menard declared that he was not tired, and that the walk of five leagues had no terrors for him; so they set out, after dinner.

The sun was just setting and our travellers were still four leagues from Gren.o.ble, because Frederic paused every instant to call his friends'

attention to a valley, a windmill, or a lovely view. Every time that Frederic stopped, Menard sat down on the turf, and they had much difficulty in inducing him to rise again. The worthy man was not a great walker, but he summoned all his courage and took the liberty of clinging to the arm of monsieur le baron, who was the most good-natured fellow in the world when he was not putting on the airs of a palatine.

Frederic's attention was attracted by strains of rustic music.

"Come," he said, "let us go down in this direction; I see some villagers dancing below; let us enjoy the picture of their merrymaking."

"Come on," said Dubourg; "there are probably some pretty girls among the dancers."

"Let us go," said Menard; "we shall have a chance to rest and refresh ourselves."

They descended a hill into a valley bordered by oaks and firs, where there were a.s.sembled the people of a small village which could be seen farther up the valley. It was the local saint's day, and the peasants were celebrating it by dancing. The orchestra consisted of a bagpipe and tambourine, but that was quite enough for their purpose. Happiness shone on every face; the girls wore their best gowns, and the coquettish costume of the village maidens of that province makes them most attractive, as a general rule. The older people were seated a little apart, chatting together and drinking, while their children danced.

Menard seated himself at a table, and called for refreshments. Dubourg prowled about the dancers, making sweet speeches to the prettiest peasants; while Frederic, after watching the picture for some time, walked away from the dance, along the bank of a stream which wound in and out among the willows on the edge of a dense forest.

He had walked so far that the notes of the bagpipe hardly reached his ears, and was about to return to his companions, when, on turning his head, he espied, within a few paces, a young girl seated on the bank, looking toward the valley with a bewitchingly sweet expression, and smiling at the dance, which she could see in the distance; but there was in her smile a tinge of melancholy which seemed to be a natural part of it. She was apparently fifteen or sixteen years of age. Her garments indicated poverty, but her charms made one overlook them. Beautiful fair hair played in curls about her innocent brow, her features were refined and delicate, her mouth graceful and smiling, and her soft blue eyes wore a pathetic expression of gentle melancholy which harmonized with the pallor of her complexion.

Frederic stopped and gazed at the young woman; he could not tire of contemplating her. Why was she there, alone by the brook, while her companions were making merry and dancing? Why that melancholy expression? It was only a moment since Frederic's eyes had fallen upon her, and his interest was already awakened; he longed to know all about her; it seemed to him that his heart already shared her sorrows.

At that moment, several couples pa.s.sed along the path on their way to the dance. Frederic accosted a peasant woman, and said, pointing to the girl sitting by the brook:

"Pray, who is that pretty child, and why doesn't she join in your sports?"

The villagers stopped and replied, with a compa.s.sionate glance at the girl:

"Oh! monsieur, the poor dear don't dance! That's Sister Anne."

Frederic, surprised, expected some further explanation; but they went on toward the dance, repeating sadly:

"That's Sister Anne."

IX

WHAT WAS SHE DOING THERE?--THE VILLAGE DANCE

The peasants had gone, but Frederic remained on the path among the willows, where the last rays of the sun cast but a feeble light. He was still gazing at the girl, who did not see him because, being no longer able to see the dance, she had let her head fall on her breast, and her eyes were fixed on the water flowing at her feet.

What did those women mean by those words: "Poor dear, she don't dance.

That's Sister Anne"?

Frederic was deeply impressed by the tone of commiseration in which this was said. The villagers seemed to pity the lovely child, and to consider it perfectly natural that she should take no part in her companions'