At that moment, Sister Anne, hearing footsteps, looked up and saw that someone was approaching. She ran forward like a flash; when she reached Dubourg's side, she stopped, and her features, which hope had brightened for a moment, resumed their grief-stricken expression; sadly she shook her head--it was not he!

But Dubourg spoke; recognizing his voice, she looked at him more carefully, and again her heart beat fast with joy. It was one of Frederic's friends, who had come once before to seek him; doubtless he came now to announce his return. She walked closer to him, questioning him with her eyes, and waiting impatiently for him to explain his presence; whereupon Dubourg, much surprised, asked her what had become of Frederic.

The name of Frederic made her quiver; she pointed to the road he had taken, counted on her fingers the number of days he had been gone, and seemed to be trying to ask him why he did not bring him back.

This pantomime revealed to Dubourg Sister Anne's unhappy condition, and he devoted all his efforts to consoling her. But for Sister Anne there was no consolation, no happiness, without Frederic.

"Poor girl!" thought Dubourg; "he was quite right to a.s.sure me that she did not resemble any woman he had ever known! But to leave her in these woods--that was an outrage! for such grace and charm to live in a wretched hovel is downright murder! Upon my word, I have a mind to take her to Paris!"

"Why didn't you go with him?" he asked her; "what detains you here in the woods? Come with me, my child, and we will find Frederic; or, if we don't find him, there are thousands of others who will be only too happy to fill his place."

Sister Anne stared at him in amazement; she seemed not to understand him; but when he waved his hand in the direction of the town, she hastily drew back, and, pointing to the cabin, made him understand by signs that there was someone there whom she could not leave. Ah! had it not been for Marguerite, how willingly she would have gone with Dubourg!

for she believed that he would lead her at once to her lover's arms. But as for abandoning the one who had taken charge of her in her childhood, who had been a second mother to her,--now, when she was advanced in years and was most in need of her a.s.sistance!--such a thought did not enter the dumb girl's mind; ingrat.i.tude was a vice to which her heart was a stranger.

"Very good," said Dubourg; "then remain here in these woods, my child; and may you recover your happiness and peace of mind!"

Sister Anne's eyes questioned him anew.

"Yes, yes," he said; "he will come back; you will see him again, I have no doubt. Dry your tears. He will surely come soon and comfort you."

These words brought a gleam of hope to the dumb girl's pale, sorrowful face. She smiled at him who had given her that a.s.surance, and, bidding him adieu with a motion of her head, left him, to return to Marguerite.

Dubourg left the woods, and, despite his heedless nature, he did not sing as he walked back through the valley to the highroad. Like a heavy weight upon his heart lay the image of that unhappy child, to whom he had held out a hope which he thought would never be realized. He had never been so moved. For several leagues, he thought constantly of Sister Anne, saying to himself:

"Poor girl! she was well worth the trouble!"

But, at last, the thought of his own plight brought him back to his natural frame of mind. He sold his jacket and hat to a second-hand dealer, and for a few crowns obtained a more fitting costume; then he started for Lyon, whence he proposed to return to Paris, in the hope of finding his former travelling companions.

XIX

ILLUSIONS OF THE HEART.--INCONSTANCY AND LOYALTY

The post chaise which bore Frederic Parisward went like the wind. The Comte de Montreville was in haste to deaden the intensity of his son's memories, and seemed impatient to arrive at the capital.

They exchanged very few words: Frederic thought exclusively of Sister Anne, his father of the best means of bringing his son to his senses, and Menard of all the lies the false Polish baron had told him.

The count did not address a word of reproach to Frederic; he seemed to have forgotten all his grounds of dissatisfaction; and Menard, who was mortally afraid of Monsieur de Montreville's stern glance, because he realized that his conduct had been far from exemplary, began to breathe more freely, and ventured to hold up his head.

They arrived at Paris. Before Menard took leave of the count, Frederic found an opportunity to speak with him in private, and asked him about Dubourg. Menard did not answer for a moment; he bit his lips, as if he were not quite sure whether he ought to take offence, and said at last, with what he intended for a sly look:

"Is it Monsieur le Baron Potoski that you wish to know about?"

"Potoski, Dubourg--call him what you please."

"Faith! monsieur, I might well call him rather impertinent, considering all the fables he told me. The idea of claiming to be a palatine----"

"Come, come, my dear Menard, forget all that."

"And his snuff-box that belonged to the King of Prussia!"

"That was a joke!"

"But I thought more of that tokay from Tekely's cellar than of anything else."

"Remember that I am as much to blame as he, for giving him permission to deceive you."

"That closes my mouth, monsieur le comte; besides, if it weren't for his recklessness and his pa.s.sion for gambling, he would be a man of great merit. He is well informed, he knows his cla.s.sics."

"But what has become of him? where did you leave him?"

"I left him acting Hippolyte, and coming to get me to make my _entree_ on the stage."

As Frederic was entirely in the dark, Menard described their adventures in the little town, at which anybody but the young count would have laughed heartily. But he heard only this, that Dubourg had been left in a very embarra.s.sing position. He could form no idea when he would see him again, which was a grievous disappointment; for he had proposed to send Dubourg to Sister Anne, to allay the poor girl's apprehensions and explain his failure to return.

The Comte de Montreville dismissed Menard with a reasonable compensation, not for the way he had looked after his son during their journey, but for the time he had lost. Menard bade adieu to his dear pupil, expressing the hope that he would remember him in case he should ever propose to start around the world again.

Several days had pa.s.sed since Frederic's return to Paris, and the dumb girl's image was constantly in his thoughts. He imagined her in the woods, awaiting his return, watching the road by which he was to come, and in despair at his desertion of her. Every moment added to his remorse and his longing to see Sister Anne again. But what could he do?

He dared not leave his father; he had no money, and, for the first time in his life, the steward, at the count's bidding, had refused to supply him. Monsieur de Montreville feared that his son would use it to resume his travels, and he did not propose to let him go away again.

Every day, Frederic formed the most extravagant projects. He determined to leave Paris on foot, to join his young sweetheart and conceal himself with her in the heart of some forest. But Sister Anne could not leave Marguerite; so that they must remain near the cabin, where his father could easily find him; for Menard had told him everything.

Then what was he to do?--write? Alas! the poor child did not know how to read--she knew how to do nothing, except love; and that is very little in these days.

Frederic rarely went into society, for he did not enjoy himself. In vain did pretty little Madame Dernange renew her provocations; he paid no heed to them; and she, piqued by his indifference, employed all the resources of coquetry to bring him to her feet. But Frederic did not fall into the trap, for he had learned what true love is; he realized the worthlessness of all those promptings of self-esteem, those caprices of the senses, which one mistakes for love until he has learned to know the real thing.

The count treated his son coldly, but never alluded to his adventures in Dauphine. On the contrary, he avoided the subject; and when Frederic, desirous to obtain some idea of his father's feelings, ventured to mention his stay at Gren.o.ble, to speak of the country in that neighborhood, and of the pretty village of Vizille, a stern glance from the count closed his mouth and forbade him to continue.

Frederic called again and again at the various lodgings which Dubourg had occupied in Paris; but he could not find him at any of them. He went to Menard, and urged him to do his utmost to unearth Dubourg, who, he said, had perhaps returned to the capital, but was afraid to call upon him, Frederic, for fear of meeting Monsieur de Montreville.

"Suppose I find him?" said Menard.

"Send him to me at once."

"Send him to you! G.o.d forbid! Monsieur le comte your father spoke very harshly to him when he saw him in the costume of Hippolyte. To be sure, the costume was unbecoming."

"Tell him to write to me; what is there to prevent his meeting me somewhere else, if he's afraid to come to the house? Am I watched? Ah!

Monsieur Menard, I can't stand it any longer. Every day adds to my torture! I must see her again, or at least hear something from her."

"Hear from whom?"

"From the woman I adore, the woman whom--I was compelled to desert, in order to return to Paris with you."

"Ah! I understand--the little maid of the forest. Monsieur Dubourg told me that you had furnished a lodging for her and had taken her away with you."