pleasures.

What grief, what possible cause, could keep that pretty girl away from those scenes of merrymaking? Although her charming features wore an expression of gentle melancholy, she did not seem to be agitated by any recent sorrow; on the contrary, she seemed placid and calm; she smiled at the brook which rippled at her feet, and her soul was evidently as pure as the water in which her face was reflected.

The girl was, as it were, wrapped in mystery, and Frederic longed to solve that mystery. Anything that concerned Sister Anne was no longer a matter of indifference to him. He walked toward her very softly; he was close beside her, and she did not raise her eyes.

"How is this?" said Frederic, in a trembling voice; "you do not imitate your companions? They are dancing within a few yards, and you stay by yourself in this lonely spot?"

At the sound of Frederic's voice, the girl turned her head and started back in alarm; but, in a moment, rea.s.sured by his gentle tone, she became calm again, and simply rose and moved away from the brook.

"Have you some trouble, some profound sorrow? Can it be that you, young as you are, are already acquainted with unhappiness? If it were in my power to lighten your burden, I should consider myself very fortunate."

The girl glanced at him with an expression in which melancholy resignation was blended with grat.i.tude. She fastened her lovely eyes on his for a moment, then, with a graceful courtesy, started to walk away.

He took her hand and gently detained her. She seemed surprised, yes, frightened, and withdrew her hand from the young man's, who was already pressing it.

"You are going away," said Frederic, "without answering me, without deigning to say a word to me?"

The girl's eyes became even more expressive, as if animated by indescribable pain; in a moment, they were filled with tears, which trickled down her almost colorless cheeks.

"Great heaven! you weep! can it be that I am the cause?" cried Frederic, seizing the poor child's hand again. She made a sign, as if to say that it was not his fault. A faint smile broke through her tears; but she withdrew her hand again, and, darting into the thickest part of the wood, as light of foot as a fawn, she speedily disappeared.

He took a few steps in the same direction; but it was quite dark, and he could not see where she went. So he returned to the stream and stopped at the place where she had been sitting.

Frederic could not as yet fully realize his feelings, but he was conscious of a sentiment for that girl more tender, more intense, and at the same time much more delicious to his heart, than any of his previous pa.s.sions. When he lost sight of her, his heart beat violently; it seemed to him already that she was something to him. What grace, what charms!

But why that melancholy and that silence? They called her Sister Anne: what was the significance of that t.i.tle of _Sister_? Did she belong to some religious order? But, no; her costume did not indicate anything of that kind, and she was free to go where she chose. But there was an air of mystery about her.

"Lovely girl!" thought Frederic, looking toward the forest in which she had vanished; "I propose to find out all about you; I propose to see you again and to allay your grief. I feel that I love you already; yes, I love you; not as I loved all those coquettes who deceived me, but as you deserve to be loved; for I read sincerity and innocence in your eyes.

Ah! how happy I should be, if you should come to love me some day!"

But it had grown quite dark; it was time for him to join his companions.

Frederic regretfully left the willow-bordered path where he had seen Sister Anne; but as he returned to the valley, he said to himself:

"I will see her again; I absolutely must! I won't mention her to Dubourg; he would laugh at me; he believes that all women are alike; he has no conception of love.--Poor child! I will soon find out why you don't take part in your comrades' sports."

The dancing had become very spirited; the villagers abandoned themselves with zest to the pastime; joy and happiness were depicted on every face.

The songs of the drinkers blended with the music of the bagpipe and tambourine. The young men squeezed their sweethearts' hands as they danced, the maidens smiled sweetly at their lovers, the mothers at their little ones, and the old men at their bottles. Each smiled at what he loved best, as if in grat.i.tude for the pleasure it afforded him.

Menard, who had seated himself between two st.u.r.dy drinkers, listened calmly to the gossip of the neighborhood, eating a salad the while, and clinking gla.s.ses with his neighbors; for pride is unknown in the village, and Menard never exhibited that sentiment inopportunely--that is to say, he knew enough to make it subordinate to his appet.i.te.

Dubourg, forgetting his t.i.tles of n.o.bility, had joined in the dance. He was capering about with a pretty brunette, with bright eyes, a retrousse nose, and an exceedingly shapely leg. The peasant girl was not at all intimidated by her elegant partner; on the contrary, she kept saying to him:

"Come, why don't you dance? you don't move at all!"

Dubourg performed his dainty little Parisian steps, which are so highly esteemed in the salons of the capital; but to the villagers that was nothing more than walking, and the girl said again and again:

"Can't you dance better'n that? What kind of dancing do you call that?

Come, you must kick up your heels, or I'll take another partner!"

Thereupon Dubourg, who did not want her to take another partner, made a telegraph of his arms and legs, and kept them in motion incessantly.

Menard, watching his performance from his table, said to his neighbors:

"There's monsieur le baron dancing a polonaise with your young women!

Look, my boys, that's the way they dance at Cracow, and on the Krapach Mountains! How dignified it is! how graceful! What pretty steps he takes _per fas et nefas_!"

Menard's neighbors opened their eyes to their fullest extent, understanding nothing of what he said. But Dubourg's partner was content, and he, seeing that she was inclined to look favorably on him, ventured to steal a kiss; but she instantly retorted by boxing his ears, for the village damsels of the suburbs of Gren.o.ble do not resemble the Gotons of the suburbs of Paris.

Frederic stood near the dancers, but paid no heed to the animated picture before his eyes. He fancied himself still in the lonely path, and saw, in his imagination, the girl sitting beside the stream.

Dubourg joined him, having left his partner because he saw that he would have nothing but his capers and prancing for his pains, and because the cuffing the peasant had given him had cooled his ardor for the dance.

"Where on earth have you been?" he asked; "you left us at just the wrong time."

"I have been taking a walk."

"What a tireless walker you are! But it seems to me that it's time for us to walk to Gren.o.ble, which is still four leagues away."

They joined Menard, who complimented Dubourg on his dancing. Frederic inquired the shortest way to Gren.o.ble, and a young villager offered to guide them part of the way; but Menard did not seem capable of walking four leagues, and even Dubourg was dismayed by the distance. The villager suggested his farm horse, on condition that they should ride him at a footpace. The suggestion was gratefully accepted by Dubourg and Menard; the latter rode behind, clinging fast to the baron. Frederic went on foot with their guide.

The weather was superb, and the fields were bathed in moonlight. The forests of fir rose majestically on their left hand, and the smith's hammer alone broke the silence of the night. As they pa.s.sed a forge, a bright glare would efface for a moment the moon's bluish light, and cast a reddish gleam over the landscape. The voices of the workmen blending with the clang of the hammer inspired Dubourg to say to Menard:

"Do you hear the Cyclops forging Jupiter's thunderbolts?"

And Menard replied:

"Not for all the gold of Peru would I venture among those people alone, at night."

And he dug his heels into their charger, which did not quicken its pace.

Dubourg and the tutor were a little behind the others, because the road was very stony and the horse could make but slow progress. The guide was a boy of twelve, ingenuous and frank like most mountaineers.

"What is this village we are leaving?" Frederic asked him.

"Vizille, monsieur; it's the prettiest village round Gren.o.ble."

"Do you live here?"

"Yes, monsieur; I was born here."

"Do you know----"

Before completing his question, Frederic turned to see if his companions could hear him; but they were more than fifty yards behind. Dubourg was talking about Bretagne, and describing to Menard how the people lived there. Frederic saw that he could talk with their guide without any fear of being overheard.

"Do you know a young girl in the village, who is called Sister Anne?"

"Sister Anne? oh! yes, monsieur; of course I know her. She don't live just in the village, but her cottage ain't far away. Poor Sister Anne!

who is there that don't know her, hereabouts?"

"Why, you, too, seem to pity her? Is she so very unfortunate, pray?"

"_Dam'_! of course I pity her; her story is very sad."