"Have you been in Dauphine?" said Frederic; "did you go to Vizille?"

"Yes," said the count; "I visited the neighborhood of that village, including the wood where you lived so long."

"And did you see that--girl?"

"No, I did not see her; she had left her cabin only a few days before, and there was n.o.body there but an old shepherd."

"What! Sister Anne not at her old home? Is it possible? And what of Marguerite?"

"The old woman died some months ago."

"And Sister Anne has gone away? Poor child! what can have become of her?

In her plight, how could she find her way, make herself understood? Ah!

unfortunate girl!"

"What do you mean?" cried the count, gazing at his son with an expression of the most intense interest; "what is this girl's plight, which makes her such an object of pity? Answer me, Frederic!"

"When she was seven years old, father, Sister Anne lost the power of speech; a shocking calamity and a horrible fright deprived the poor child of the possibility of making herself understood."

"Great G.o.d!" said the count, thunderstruck by what his son had said; "it is she! I had divined it!"

But Frederic did not hear his father's last words. He was engrossed by the thought of Sister Anne, fancying that he saw her wandering through the woods and fields, helpless and without shelter, turned away from most public-houses, and everywhere exposed to want and misfortune. He reflected that that was all his work, that, if he had not tried to arouse in her heart a violent pa.s.sion, she would have lived quietly in her solitude, with no thirst for pleasures of which she knew nothing, and with no dreams of happiness and of a different existence. At that moment, Frederic was overwhelmed by remorse, and he reproached himself bitterly for his conduct to a woman of whom he was no longer enamored, but who was still dear to him.

For a long time, the count and his son were buried in thought. The count broke the silence at last, saying in a voice that shook with emotion:

"Have no concern as to that young woman's present lot. I have found her."

"You have found her, father? is it possible?"

"Yes; on a farm near Gren.o.ble. I left her there, and I provided against her ever being in want."

"But how did you find her? You could not recognize her."

"Her misfortune, her youth--she interested me deeply; something told me that she was the person I sought, and I have no doubt of it now, since you have told me that she is dumb. I tell you again that you need not be alarmed concerning her future; I left her with excellent people, who are fond of her, and she will be very comfortable there; moreover, I shall not fail to have an eye to her welfare."

The count was careful not to mention his adventure in the forest and his indebtedness to Sister Anne; he was afraid that Frederic's love would blaze up anew if he should learn that she had saved his father's life.

He was especially solicitous that Frederic should not know that the dumb girl was on the point of becoming a mother; that intelligence might disarrange the plans he had formed. For the count, although he was interested now in Sister Anne, and proposed to take care of her and her child, was none the less desirous for his son's marriage to his old friend's niece; and to that end he considered it most essential to conceal everything relating to the unhappy mute.

On arriving in Paris, he had expressly forbidden his servant to mention the adventure in the forest or the young woman they had left at the farm.

His father's a.s.surance that Sister Anne was living among kindly people, and was amply provided against want, allayed Frederic's remorse. That sentiment rarely lasts long in love, and the new pa.s.sion is always at hand to dispel the memories of the old one. By Constance's side the young man entirely forgot the poor maid of the woods; and while renewing his oaths and protestations of love to Constance, he lost the memory of those he had laid at another woman's feet.

The Comte de Montreville's return was soon to be followed by the marriage of the young people. Frederic longed for it, Constance hoped for it, and the general made no objection, because he did not believe in making lovers sigh too long.

Thus everybody was agreed; there was no obstacle to delay their happiness. The wedding day was fixed. The general vowed that he would dance at his niece's wedding, although he had never danced in his life; the count was anxious to greet Constance by the sweet name of daughter, and the lovers--oh! you know what their desires were; it may be guessed, but must not be said.

Engrossed by his approaching happiness, Frederic was rarely disturbed by the memories which brought a sad expression to his face; if by chance a sigh escaped him, a glance from Constance speedily put to flight the thoughts of other times. Constance was so sweet-tempered, and the near approach of happiness made her so beautiful, that it was impossible not to adore her.

At last the day arrived which was to witness the union of Frederic and Constance. The Comte de Montreville was so overjoyed that he allowed his son to invite everyone he chose. Frederic knew no better friend than Dubourg, who, with all his follies, had often given him proofs of a genuine attachment. Moreover, since Dubourg had inherited his aunt's property, he had become much more sensible. To be sure, he was always hard up about the middle of the month, but he had not pledged his income, and he had taken up dominoes instead of ecarte, that being a game at which one gets much less excited.

Menard was not forgotten, either. The worthy man was much attached to Frederic; he had been a little too indulgent on the journey, but the count had forgiven that; moreover, he had always acted with the best intentions. As for his fondness for the table, that is often considered in society an estimable quality.

Constance was dressed with taste and elegance; but one could pay no heed to her toilet, in presence of her beauty and her charms; for happiness, which embellishes everything, adds to the fascination of a pretty face.

The men can only admire that; as for the women, they see at a glance every detail of the costume, and can, at need, tell us how every pin was put in, and how many pleats there were in the gown, in front and behind; our perspicacity will never go so far as that.

Frederic was radiant with love; he did not lose sight of Constance, which is the surest means of having no unpleasant recollections.

Frederic was very comely, too; his face was n.o.ble and winning; and if the men admired Constance, the women were not inclined to pity her for marrying Frederic.

The general and the count felt the keenest satisfaction in the union of their children. In his joy, Monsieur de Valmont was more hilarious and effusive than the Comte de Montreville; but the latter smiled benignly upon everybody, and, for the first time, embraced his son tenderly.

Monsieur Menard was dressed with care and maintained a very sedate bearing until the dinner. As for Dubourg, he was overjoyed to be invited to his friend's wedding, and, as he desired to obtain the count's good graces, he a.s.sumed throughout the day such a dignified air, that he looked as if he had a fit of the _spleen_; and he tried so hard to be staid and respectable, that he might well have been taken for a man of sixty. Whenever the count approached him, he discoursed upon the illusive pleasures of the world, of the bliss of retirement, and of the joys that await the just man after death. He carried it so far, that the general said to Frederic:

"What a devil of a fellow your friend Dubourg is! Does he pa.s.s his time in graveyards? I have been to him once or twice to talk, and he at once quotes a pa.s.sage from Young's _Night Thoughts_ or Ma.s.sillon's _Pet.i.t Careme_. He's a very cheerful guest for a wedding party."

Frederic went to Dubourg and urged him to act as he naturally would; but, convinced that his conversation, his tone, and his bearing delighted Monsieur de Montreville, it was impossible to induce Dubourg to change them.

A magnificent dinner was served at the Hotel de Montreville, whence the young people were to return in the evening to the general's house, where they were to live. As the general was often absent, he required only a small suite, and gave up three-fourths of the house to the newly married pair.

Marriages in the first society have not the hilarity of bourgeois marriages; which fact is some compensation to the bourgeoisie for not belonging to the first society. However, the repast was rather merry in a mild way. Monsieur Menard devoted himself to the good cheer, as he did at Monsieur Chambertin's; but Dubourg ate little; he refused almost every dish, because he thought it much more _comme il faut_. Nor was it possible to induce him to accept a gla.s.s of champagne or liqueur.

"I never take it," he said, with imperturbable phlegm.

The Comte de Montreville stared at him in amazement, while Menard, who sat next to him, said again and again:

"You used to take it, though; I've seen you take it often enough! Say you're sick, and I'll believe you."

"Your friend is wonderfully sober," said the general to Frederic; "you have brought us an anchorite."

After the dinner, dancing engaged the attention of the guests for the rest of the evening. The new husband and wife indulged in that pastime, which enabled them to wait with more patience for the greater pleasures to come; dancing is always essential to bring a wedding party to a cheerful termination.

But Dubourg did not dance; he walked stiffly through the salons, holding his head as if he had a stiff neck, and never stopping near an ecarte table.

"Don't you play, Monsieur Dubourg?" asked the count, with a smile.

"No, monsieur le comte; I have altogether renounced all games for money; I care for nothing but chess; that is the only sensible game, and the only one suited to me."

"Don't you dance, either?"

"Never; I care for nothing but the minuet, which is a sedate and dignified dance. It's a great pity that it isn't danced nowadays."

"The deuce! Monsieur Dubourg, you are tremendously changed. You used to be a little giddy, I think."

"Ah! monsieur le comte, other times, other cares; with advancing years, one grows wiser."

"Advancing years! why, it's not one year yet since you played Hippolyte, and would have made poor Menard play Thesee."

"Oh! monsieur le comte, a very great revolution has taken place in me since then. I care for nothing now but study and science--science above all things; for, as Cato says: _Sine doctrina vita est quasi mortis imago_."

The count walked away with a smile on his face, and Dubourg was convinced that he was greatly pleased with him. The day was at an end.