Frederic rode toward the little, willow-lined path; there he dismounted, tied his horse to a tree, and plunged into the woods. He looked for the maid on the bank of the stream, but she was not at the place where he had seen her the night before. So he went farther into the woods, recalled what his guide had told him, and took the path to the left.

Everything was peaceful and calm; the dark foliage of the firs almost excluded the daylight. At last he came to a clearing, descended a hill, and saw a wretched cabin before him. The wood of which it was built had rotted in several places, and the thatched roof threatened to fall in.

There was a small garden at the right, surrounded by a picket fence, a part of which had fallen.

Frederic's heart ached at the aspect of the place, which was eloquent of utter poverty and of a lack of the prime necessities of life.

"And this is where she lives," he said to himself; "where she has lived, in poverty and solitude, ever since she was seven years old! Poor child!

When your sublime self-sacrifice, when the catastrophe which resulted from it, deserved the homage of all mankind, you had only this wretched hut in which to weep for your brother and parents, and were fortunate not to be left without a shelter and without bread!"

He leaned against a tree and gazed at the cabin; his heart was so full that he could not go forward; he could only sigh and say to himself:

"She is there!"

Several minutes pa.s.sed. Suddenly, the door of the cabin was thrown open, and a girl appeared in the doorway and looked out into the woods. It was she! The depressing aspect of that wild spot, the gloomy woods, the dilapidated cabin, all vanished! The girl's presence instantly made her surroundings beautiful.--The woman we love wields a tremendous power; she communicates her fascination to everything about her: by her side, the darkest cavern causes no fear, the wildest spot on earth seems a paradise.

Sister Anne went back into the cabin, and soon came out again with four goats, her whole flock. There was a cow in the little garden; she patted her as she pa.s.sed, as if promising to return soon. Then, driving her goats toward a hillside where there was an abundance of gra.s.s, the dumb girl walked slowly behind them, with her head bent forward, raising it only to see that her goats did not go astray.

Frederic had retained his position against the tree, which concealed him almost entirely, and watched every movement of Sister Anne. When she went toward the hill, he followed her noiselessly; he longed to be by her side, to speak to her; but he was afraid of startling her if he appeared too abruptly. She seemed so shy and timid: suppose she should run away from him again!

But she seated herself on a green mound, and took from her little basket a piece of bread and some figs; she was about to breakfast. Frederic drew nearer and nearer, until he stood close beside her; and when she turned her head to look after one of her goats, she saw before her again the young man of the previous evening.

The girl made a movement which seemed to be due rather to surprise than alarm; indeed, there was nothing about Frederic to inspire fear; as he stood before her, himself anxious and trembling, his glance was gentle and timid; his whole aspect and manner bore witness to the tender interest she aroused in him.

As she seemed disposed to rise and go away, Frederic said to her:

"Do not fly from me, I entreat you, sweet girl; I should be very unhappy if I caused you the slightest fear."

The child smiled, and gave him to understand, by shaking her head gently, that she had no such feeling.

"I saw you last night by the brook," said Frederic, walking toward her.

Sister Anne looked at him, then lowered her eyes, smiling again, as if to say that she remembered him.

"What! you remember me? And you, sweet girl, have not been out of my thoughts for one moment. How could I fail to be impressed by the sight of such lovely features and such charms of person and of manner?"

The girl listened in surprise; all that he said was entirely strange to her ears. He sat down on the turf, a few feet away from her. This action seemed to surprise her still more; she looked at him again, with something like alarm, but the sentiment expressed in his eyes soon set her heart at rest. She looked at the ground, but it was easy to read on her ingenuous features that she was waiting curiously for him to speak again.

"When I saw you yesterday, I felt the deepest interest in you. But how that interest has grown since I learned---- Poor child! Ah! I know of your sad plight! I know all the misfortunes that have been heaped upon you."

The dumb girl's features became more expressive than ever; a heartrending memory seemed to agitate her. She groaned, raised her eyes to heaven, then turned them on the ground once more as a flood of tears poured from them.

Frederic went to her side; he put one arm lightly about her, and took her hand, which he placed upon his heart.

"I have revived your grief," he said; "pray forgive me. Would to heaven that I could, on the contrary, help you to forget it by making you happy! Poor child! let me wipe away your tears. From this moment, you are no longer alone on earth; you have a friend, there is a heart that beats in answer to yours, a heart that will beat for you alone, so long as it lives. Anne, dear friend, give me leave to love you, to share your grief, your suffering, to think constantly of you, to see you every day--oh! do not deny me this favor, or I shall be much unhappier than you are!"

Frederic spoke with great animation; love excited him and made his voice sweeter than ever, his glance more seductive. The dumb girl listened to him at first with surprise; an unfamiliar sentiment disturbed her; she tried to withdraw her hand, but she had not the strength. Frederic had ceased to speak, and she continued to listen.

But soon the remembrance of her condition, of her misfortune, destroyed the spell that was upon her. She looked at Frederic with a melancholy expression, and, with a much bitterer glance at herself, withdrew her hand and pushed him away, shaking her head as if to say:

"No, you cannot love me; I am too unfortunate."

Frederic understood her; he put her hand to his heart again, and said, pointing to the cabin:

"With you, I should be happy living here in these woods."

At that moment, they heard the sound of a little bell. It was a signal which notified Anne that old Marguerite had risen. She hastily called her goats together and prepared to return to the cabin.

"Will you come back?" asked Frederic; "oh! do let me see you again to-day!"

She pointed to the sun, whose beams were just beginning to shine through the foliage, then rested her head on the back of her hand.

"When the sun goes to rest, you will go to the brook?"

Sister Anne made an affirmative gesture, then hastened back to the cabin, driving her goats before her. But she turned her head before she went in, and looked back to the place where she had left Frederic, smiled at him, and disappeared. That glance and smile enraptured the young lover; he had already ceased to be a stranger to Sister Anne; that thought filled his heart with joy. It needs so little to make one happy, in love!

Frederic went back to the place where he had left his horse; but, on the way, he asked himself whether he should go to Gren.o.ble and return at night. It seemed to him more natural to remain in the village, to take a light lunch there, and then to wander about in the neighborhood of the cabin, which, even now, he found it so hard to leave. He cared little what his fellow travellers might think or say. They must end by accustoming themselves to his absences, for Frederic had a feeling that he would come often to Vizille, or, rather, that he would rarely go to Gren.o.ble. She whom he loved dwelt in those woods; Sister Anne was all in all to him; he no longer thought of the future, his station in life, or his father's plans; he saw only her, he had no wish to live except for her. To be sure, his love dated only from the night before, and he was only twenty-one.

In the village, whither he went to rest and breakfast, he talked about Sister Anne; and everyone seemed to take pleasure in praising her virtue, her sweet nature, her tender heart; but they generally added:

"The poor girl is greatly to be pitied; she stands a good chance of spending her life in that miserable hut; for what man would ever marry an unfortunate mute?"

Frederic smiled and held his peace; but he was thinking that he had seen in Paris many women resplendent with beauty, charm, and talents, and that he preferred the dumb girl of the forest to them all.

He found in the village such refreshment as he required; he saw that his horse was bountifully fed; then, mounting him again, he rode back to the woods, where he fastened him to a tree near the stream, then bent his steps toward the lonely cabin.

The sun had performed but half his journey; but Frederic hoped that, if he prowled about the little house, he might see Sister Anne, which would make it easier for him to wait patiently until evening.

As he approached the garden fence, which was only four feet high, he had no difficulty in taking in at a glance the whole extent of the garden.

It was small, but they had made the most that could be made of it.

Several fruit trees, a few grapevines, vegetables, and flowers, were growing together in that contracted s.p.a.ce, where nature was at liberty to follow all her caprices.

As he looked about, Frederic saw an old woman seated under a fig-tree.

She was evidently very old, but her venerable face was the mirror of a calm and peaceful soul. He gazed at her for some time with profound respect; it was she who had adopted Anne, who had filled her mother's place.

The good old woman's face lighted up as the dumb girl approached her, carrying a wooden bowl filled with milk, which she placed on Marguerite's knees. The old woman patted her cheek, saying:

"That is nice, my girl, my dear child. Sit down here by my side. You know how I like to look at you while I am eating."

The girl at once sat down in front of Marguerite; she seemed to be on the alert to antic.i.p.ate her lightest wish, and more than once she raised her withered hand and kissed it respectfully.

Frederic did not stir; he could have pa.s.sed hours watching that picture.

The old woman, after she had finished her meal of milk and fruit, rose, and with Sister Anne's a.s.sistance walked two or three times about the garden. Frederic concealed himself when they pa.s.sed, but he noticed that the girl glanced into the woods, as if looking for someone. Could that glance be for him! Ah! if so, how fortunate he would be! his heart dared to conceive the hope. He was tempted to enter the garden, to throw himself at the dumb girl's feet; but Marguerite's presence held him back.

At last they returned to the cabin, and Frederic left the spot from which he could look into the garden. He wandered about the woods for some time. Everything brought the orphan's face before him; every tree, every bush spoke of her. Had she not lived in those woods nine long years? Her feet had trodden every foot of turf, and doubtless her eyes had rested on everything that surrounded her.

He walked slowly back to the brook, and sat down on the spot where he had first seen Sister Anne. It might be a long while before she came.

Frederic took his notebook and pencil from his pocket, and wrote--what?

Poetry for Sister Anne; for is not every lover a poet? and are not poets more eloquent when they are lovers? We have the lines Tibullus wrote for Delia; Ovid immortalized Julia; Orpheus enchanted the Shades while seeking Eurydice; it was love that tuned Anacreon's lyre, love that inspired Sappho; Lesbia's charms aroused Catullus's poetic ardor, and Cynthia's imparted delicacy and pa.s.sion to the flowing verses of Propertius. Does not Petrarch owe a large part of his renown to Laura?

without her, he might have been a poet; but would he have sung of love?