"What shall I do meanwhile? where am I to go?"

"Don't be alarmed," said the obliging man; "I will not leave you in embarra.s.sment; I will take you to a respectable house, where you will be well cared for. Two days are soon pa.s.sed; then you can return to monsieur le comte's."

Sister Anne again expressed her grat.i.tude; she was touched by all the trouble he took for her, although she was not surprised by it: she imagined that that was the way everybody acted in the large cities. The cab started again. The movement delighted little Frederic; he crowed, and jumped about on his mother's lap; and she, as she gazed at the tall houses, the shops, and the crowds of people, artlessly manifested her amazement.

"Oh! you'll see much more than this," said her friend; "you'll be surprised in a thousand different ways; this journey will be very useful to you."

The cab stopped in front of a wretched furnished lodging-house in Faubourg Saint-Jacques; and Sister Anne, on going in, found that that respectable abode was very dirty and very gloomy; but she followed her escort, who ordered her bundles carried to the room a.s.signed to them, and was soon left alone there with the young mother and her child.

"Before I leave you," he said to Sister Anne, "I must tell you that there is one little formality to be attended to: when you hire lodgings in Paris, you must make a statement of what money you have about you.

This is a rule made by the police, so that nothing can ever be lost in the city; for if you declare to-day that you have forty louis, and one of them is stolen from you to-morrow, then they go about and count the contents of the purses of everybody in the capital, and the man who has one louis too many is the thief. What do you say to that? it's a bright idea, isn't it?"

Sister Anne did not clearly understand what he said; she looked at him as if awaiting a further explanation, and he continued:

"Will you go to settle the matter with the mistress of the house? or would you like me to go for you? That will be better. Give me your purse; it's the quickest way."

The poor child drew her purse from her bosom; and the obliging gentleman took it, saying:

"Don't be impatient; I'll go and count what there is in it."

Then he left the room, and as he went downstairs he gave the mistress of the house a gold piece, saying:

"This is to pay for that young woman's lodging; she's a mute."

With that, he hurried away, flattering himself that he had performed a very neat trick; he went to the Palais-Royal, where he found other blacklegs of his stamp, and soon lost the money he had stolen from a helpless woman; then, as he was unable to find other dupes who would give him their purses, he filched one from the pocket of a stout English milord; the Englishman, having detected him in the act, caused his arrest; he was taken to the Prefecture, then to Bicetre, then to the galleys, where he kept his hand in by stealing from his fellow convicts.

There we will leave him.

Sister Anne waited and waited for the return of the kind friend who had gone out with her purse; the poor child had no suspicion, she was not at all anxious, and played quietly with her son, glancing out of the window now and then, but instantly drawing back in alarm, because the room was on the third floor, and she had never been so far above the ground.

But her friend did not return, and Sister Anne was beginning to wonder at his long absence, when the landlady appeared.

The young mother put out her hand for her purse, but the woman simply asked what she could do for her.

"I'll take good care of you," said she; "for the gentleman, when he went away, paid for your board and lodging and whatever you might want during the two days that he said you would stay here."

He had gone away! A horrible presentiment enlightened Sister Anne at last; she tried to make herself understood, constantly holding out her hand and going through the motion of counting money.

"I am paid, I tell you," said the landlady; "I don't want anything, my child, and I'll send up your dinner."

Sister Anne was overwhelmed; it was not the money simply that she regretted, for she did not realize its value; but the Comte de Montreville's address was in her purse, and the villain had carried that away with all that she possessed. What would become of her? how could she find her protector's house now?

During the day, the young woman still retained a little hope, trying to convince herself that the stranger would return; but night came, and he did not appear. Sister Anne strained her child to her breast, weeping bitterly; it was not for herself alone that she trembled, and her terror was all the more intense on that account. Already she imagined her child deprived of the sustenance he required; she shuddered as the whole horror of their situation dawned upon her, and she was sorry now that she had left the farm, for the thought that her son would suffer destroyed her courage.

She pa.s.sed in her room the second day after her arrival in Paris; the villain who had robbed her had told her that the count was absent for two days, so she waited until the third day before trying to find him.

She flattered herself that she could recognize the house in front of which the cab had stopped. The poor child thought that she could find her way in that immense city, where she had never been before! she did not know that the wretch who had deceived her had caused the cab to stop in front of a house which was not the count's.

The next day, she took her son in her arms, and, with the bundle that contained her effects, left the lodging-house, whose mistress made no attempt to keep her, because she had been paid for two days only. Sister Anne commended herself to Providence, and tried to revive her courage as she ventured forth into that city which was entirely unknown to her.

Every minute the horses and carriages frightened her, and the cries of the street peddlers deafened her; the sight of all those people, going and coming in every direction, and often jostling and crowding her, so confused her that she had no idea where she was. The poor child went under a porte cochere and began to cry. The concierge asked her what the trouble was, but Sister Anne was unable to reply except with more tears; whereupon the concierge turned away in a pet, saying:

"What's the use of sympathizing with people who won't tell you what's the matter!"

After she had wept a long while, Sister Anne walked on; but she had been on her feet four hours and had made no progress; she saw nothing but endless streets, and shops; she had no idea in which direction she should go, and often walked a long distance only to find herself at the point she had started from. How was she to recognize that house of the count's? she began to think that it was impossible. She was sinking with fatigue, for she had had her child in her arms all the time; and soon hunger made itself felt, and added to the horror of her plight.

She sat down on a stone bench; the pa.s.sers-by glanced at her, but went on; they would have stopped if, instead of a woman weeping over a child, they had seen a cat fighting with Polichinello.

Luckily, it was midsummer; the weather was beautiful, and the approach of night did not drive people indoors. The dumb girl entered a pastry-cook's shop and bought cakes for her child, offering a garment from her bundle in payment; but they gave it back, looking at her with compa.s.sion and surprise; for her appearance did not denote poverty, and they could not understand her having no money.

She tried to walk on, but the darkness increased her terror tenfold, and, despite the lamps in the streets, the clatter of the horses' feet seemed to her more terrifying than ever; she was in mortal dread of being run over with her son by the carriages which often surrounded her on every side; so she sat down again on a bench.

At this time she was on Rue Montmartre; several times during the day, she had walked through Rue de Provence and had pa.s.sed Monsieur de Montreville's house; but the poor child did not know it. It was impossible now for her to find her lodging-house, and she was on the point of giving way to despair; but she pressed her son to her heart, and tried to recover her strength by covering him with kisses. The child smiled at her and played with her hair; he was at the age at which a child does not know what unhappiness is when he is in his mother's arms.

The night advanced; the shops were closing, the pedestrians becoming less numerous, the carriages pa.s.sed at longer intervals. Sister Anne raised her eyes and looked about her with a little more confidence.

Where should she ask shelter for the night? She felt lost amid all those buildings; she dared not apply anywhere. She gazed imploringly at those who pa.s.sed her, and several men stopped to look at her.

"She's very pretty!" they said; but as soon as she held out her child, they walked on.

"Great G.o.d!" thought the unhappy girl; "don't the people of Paris love children? they walk away very fast as soon as I show them mine."

About midnight, a patrol pa.s.sed through the street. As they drew near, she shuddered; one of the soldiers went up to her, and said:

"Come, come! what are you doing here with your child? Go home, or we'll take you to the guard-house!"

The man's harsh tone made her tremble; she rose hastily and hurried away, with her child in her arms. But before she had gone a hundred yards, she discovered that she had left her bundle of clothes on the bench. She went back to look for it, and found the place where she had been sitting; but, alas! her clothes had already disappeared. They were the unfortunate creature's last resource.

She shed no tears over this last catastrophe; an enormous weight seemed to have settled on her chest. She moved away with her child, afraid to think. She walked more rapidly, with no idea where she was going; she embraced her son convulsively; a sort of nervous contraction stiffened her limbs; she had almost lost consciousness of her sufferings. She descended Rue Montmartre to the boulevard, where the trees caught her eye, and her heart dilated. The poor child thought that she had reached the outskirts of that city where fate pursued her so pitilessly; she fancied that she was once more approaching her fields and her woods; and running wildly to the nearest tree, she stood close against it, touched it with rapture, and the tears came at last.

She sat down beneath the foliage, the sight of which had given her fresh courage; she covered her child with her ap.r.o.n and determined to wait there for the dawn.

The day came at last, but the dumb girl had not enjoyed one moment's rest; she thought of the future, and saw that she must needs appeal to public charity for herself and her son. If she had been alone, she would have preferred death; but for him she could endure everything. She had been so comfortable at the farm, surrounded by people who were attached to her and who loved her son, and now she was reduced to beg for bread!

How bitterly she repented having left that peaceful abode! When she looked at her son, she reproached herself even more severely.

"Poor little fellow!" she thought; "all your sufferings will be caused by me. But am I so guilty, after all, for longing to give you a father?

Ah, me! if only I could find my way back there! if only I could return to those kind-hearted peasants who treated me like their own daughter! I feel that I must abandon all hope of finding Frederic; but if my grief kills me, what will become of my son in this great city?"

The poor mother wept as she gazed at little Frederic, who was still asleep. Some peasants on their way to market offered her bread and fruit; a milkwoman gave her and the child some milk to drink; all hearts are not insensible to pity, and even the Parisians give freely to the poor; if they do not do it more frequently, it is only because they dread to make themselves melancholy by the contemplation of misfortune.

During a large part of the day, Sister Anne continued to wander about the city in search of her protector's abode; she met many men who had Frederic's figure and were dressed like him; she quickened her pace to overtake them; but when she was near enough to see their faces, recognized her error. Some looked at her in amazement, others with a sneer; whereupon she would turn away, shamefaced and broken-hearted.

"O G.o.d!" she thought; "I shall never meet him again!"

By the end of the day, the food that had been given her in the morning was exhausted, and it became necessary to hold out her hand to the pa.s.sers-by, in quest of charity. In order to obtain courage to beg for bread, Sister Anne had to gaze upon her boy. If those who give alms always did so with a gracious manner, the unfortunate would be less to be pitied; but many persons accompany their charity with a harsh or disdainful air; in fact, they almost grumble at those they relieve.

"Alas!" thought the poor girl, as she wept; "why do they consider it a crime that I am poor?"

She longed to leave Paris, for the country people seemed to her to be more humane and gentle; with them, she felt less abashed. But in what direction must she go to return to the hospitable farm? She could only trust in Providence, which had not thus far been very propitious to her.

Poor child! may it guide thee at last to the end of thy woes!

Having no idea what road she should take, but absolutely determined to leave the city, she decided to follow a man who was walking beside a small canvas-covered wagon. As it happened, this man went through one of the faubourgs, and in due time pa.s.sed the barrier. Thus, by dint of following the wagon, which went always at a walk, the young mother found herself at last in the country; she breathed more freely; she kissed her son, and, beseeching the mercy of heaven for him, bent her steps toward the nearest village to ask hospitality.