But, even then, Constance detected a trace of sadness in his smile; he did not seem to her entirely happy.

One day Frederic told his wife that he was about to undertake the journey which he had postponed so long, but which had become absolutely necessary. Constance had flattered herself that Menard would go in his stead; indeed, Frederic himself had suggested it; but he had changed his mind, and was evidently determined to go. Constance dared not try to detain him, or to propose to accompany him; she was afraid of annoying him; she was unwilling to thwart him in the most trivial thing.

Moreover, if Frederic had wanted her to go with him, he would have had but to say the word; she would have left everything to go; but he did not say the word! Constance groaned in secret, but she showed her husband a cloudless brow and a smiling face.

Frederic embraced her tenderly; he promised to hasten his return, and to be with her again within a month. She tried to be brave; and Frederic took his departure, commending her to the care of Menard and Dubourg.

But Constance did not need to be entertained: although absent, Frederic was always with her.

It was the month of August, that lovely season when it is so pleasant to live in the pure air of the country. Constance determined to pa.s.s at her country house near Montmorency all the time that her husband was absent. As it was much quieter there than in Paris, it seemed to her that she would be more free to think of him, to count the moments which must pa.s.s before his return. Monsieur de Montreville visited his daughter-in-law in the country. But at the count's age a man has settled habits, and amus.e.m.e.nt becomes a necessity. The count loved Paris, for he had a great number of acquaintances there; and the never-ceasing life and animation of the capital had always attracted him. After a week's stay in the country, he returned to his favorite city and his wonted amus.e.m.e.nts.

Constance was left alone with Menard and the servants. It was still early in the quarter, and Dubourg was not in the country; but Constance did not suffer one moment from ennui; when the heart is well occupied, the head is never empty. The old tutor was always ready to bear her company; he talked to her of Greek and Roman history, quoted his favorite Latin authors, and sometimes plunged into Biblical history. It is not certain that Constance was greatly entertained; but when Menard had finished speaking, she would smile at him so amiably that he was invariably satisfied.

Toward nightfall Constance always went to the summer-house. It was her favorite spot; there she and Frederic had begun to understand each other, there she had felt the first approach of love. Since that time, she had often visited the summer-house, more often than ever now that she was awaiting her husband's return. From that eminence she could overlook the whole valley and the country round about the walls of her garden.

One fine evening, as she happened to glance at the road which pa.s.sed the house, Constance noticed a young woman seated at the foot of a tree, with an infant in her arms; the unfortunate creature was evidently in the last stages of dest.i.tution; she was gazing mournfully at her child, and, while covering him with kisses, seemed to be utterly hopeless and desperate.

Constance was deeply affected. At that moment, Monsieur Menard joined her on the platform.

"Look!" she said; "do you see that poor woman? See how frantically she kisses her child! She seems in terrible distress. Do you see her?"

"One moment, madame," said Menard; "I can't find my spectacles.--Where in the devil have I put them?"

At that instant the poor woman raised her eyes, and, when she saw Constance, her glance became so expressive, so full of entreaty, that it was impossible not to understand her.

"Oh! she is crying," exclaimed Constance; "wait, wait, my poor woman! I will come down."

She rushed out of the summer-house, while Menard was still looking for his spectacles.

Not far away was a small gate by which the road was reached. Constance opened it, and soon stood beside the unfortunate creature she longed to a.s.sist. As she drew near to her, she was even more touched, for the wayfarer's every feature was eloquent of suffering and despair; but it was for her child, above all, that she implored Constance's pity. She held him out to her, and great tears flowed from her drawn and reddened eyes.

"Poor child!" said Constance; "how pale and thin he is! but what lovely features!"--And she took the child in her arms, saying to the mother: "Come, and I will give you something to restore your strength. Follow me."

The woman walked a few steps, but soon fell to the ground; her strength had failed her.

"Great heaven!" said Constance; "what a state the poor creature is in!--Monsieur Menard, do come and help me take her to the house."

"Here I am, here I am, madame! They were in my waistcoat pocket," said Menard. "Oho! this young person seems sadly in need of help."

"Support her--let us help her to walk. Poor woman! how she distresses me! Mon Dieu! is it possible that there can be people so unfortunate?"

"Very possible, certainly, madame; but it is important to know the _causa causarum_."

With the a.s.sistance of Menard and Constance, the latter of whom carried the child as well as supported the mother, the poor woman succeeded in reaching the house. There Constance at once gave her whatever she thought would do her and the child good; and while the mother recovered her strength, she observed her with interest.

"Just see," she said to Menard, "she is still a mere girl--and already so greatly to be pitied! Her features are sweet and pathetic. Poor mother! where have you come from? what do you mean to do?"

The unfortunate creature did not reply to these questions; the reader will have divined the cause: it was Sister Anne and her son to whom Constance had brought succor.

Ten days had pa.s.sed since the dumb girl left Paris, during which she had wandered about the country, guided by chance alone. Being forced constantly to beg for shelter and food, often repulsed, often depriving herself of sustenance to give it to her son, she had felt her strength and her courage grow less day by day; despair took possession of her mind, it sapped all her faculties, and the unhappy mother was embracing her child in momentary expectation of death, when chance, which had led her to Madame de Montreville's house, decreed that she should notice her and fly to her a.s.sistance.

Surprised at receiving no reply to her questions, Constance repeated them; whereupon Sister Anne, putting her hand to her lips and mournfully shaking her head, succeeded in making her understand her pitiful condition.

"O heaven! she cannot speak! Poor soul! All alone with her child, and without money, without a guide, and unable to ask her way! Oh! this is too much, too many trials at once!"

And Constance stooped over Sister Anne, weeping freely at the sight of her misery, while the dumb girl, touched by a compa.s.sion to which she had become unaccustomed, took her benefactress's hand, covered it with kisses, and pressed it to her heart.

"Faith!" said Menard, drawing his handkerchief,--for the kind-hearted tutor could not witness this scene without emotion,--"faith! I agree that she was in a critical position. Indeed, speech is essential throughout life; and anyone who has no tongue, or can't use it, is like a fox without a tail, a b.u.t.terfly without wings, or a fish without fins."

Constance continued to devote her whole attention to Sister Anne and her son; already the child was laughing in her arms; he was at the happy age when grief vanishes at sight of a cake or a toy. It seemed that Constance could not tire of caressing him.

"See," she said to Menard, "see how he smiles at me!"

"Of course, for you are giving him bonbons. Men are caught by sugared words, and children by sugar without words; wherein they show more sagacity than men."

"What pretty features, what lovely eyes! It may be a delusion, but it seems to me that he has my husband's eyes."

"My pupil's? I can hardly conceive eyes of two years resembling eyes of twenty-three."

"Poor little dear! I feel that I love him already. How happy I should be to have a child like him!"

"That will come, madame: Sarah was ninety years old when she gave birth to Isaac. You have plenty of time before you."

Sister Anne's heart throbbed with joy when she saw Constance caress her son. Madame de Montreville did not tire of gazing at him, for she detected in his features some resemblance to those of her husband.

Menard gazed compa.s.sionately at Sister Anne; he was very far from suspecting that that poor mendicant was the young girl he had seen seated beside Frederic in the woods at Vizille. How could he have recognized her! He had seen her only a moment, and then she was radiant with happiness and love; her lovely features were not worn by tears and sorrow; the fatigue of a long and toilsome journey, and of incessant suffering, had not made her body weak and her steps tottering. And, lastly, Menard did not know that that girl was dumb; so that it was impossible for him to suspect that she was before him at that moment.

"Do you know how to write, poor woman?" Constance asked her.

She shook her head.

"What a pity! I would like to know this pretty boy's name."

The dumb girl looked eagerly about. They had taken her to a room on the ground floor, looking on the garden. She went out, motioning to Constance to follow her. She broke a branch from the first shrub she came to; then, stooping over, she traced on the gravel path her son's name.

"Frederic!" cried Constance, after reading the name; "what! your child's name is Frederic? Ah! that will make him all the dearer to me. Frederic!

why, that is my husband's name.--What do you think of this, Monsieur Menard? isn't it strange?"

"I don't see anything so extraordinary in it," said the tutor. "As there are great numbers of Martins, Pierres, and Pauls, there may very well be as many Frederics. I know of no name but _Thesaurochrysonicochrysides_, which Plautus invented, that has never become common. So, if I had had a son, I should have insisted on giving him that name, although it isn't very easy to say."

Constance took the child in her arms again. She called him Frederic; and he, answering to that name, by which he had been called at the farm, lisped the word _mamma_, and looked about as if in search of the good peasants who used to call him so.

"I am determined that my husband shall see this dear child," said Constance; then, after a moment's reflection, she went up to Sister Anne, took her hand, and said, following her signs closely so that she might understand her answers:

"Where were you going with your child?--She doesn't know.--Unfortunate creature! have you no father or mother?--Ah! they are dead!--And your child's father, your husband--why isn't he with you?--She weeps! Poor dear! He has deserted her! The idea of deserting such a pretty child!

and such a sweet, unfortunate mother! Why, it's perfectly ghastly! he must have a terribly hard heart.--But cheer up, and dry your tears; I will not abandon you! No, my mind is made up; I will take care of you and your child. You shall not leave me. You shall live with me; I will give you needlework to do; I will teach you to work, and I will have your child educated under your eyes. My husband is kind, tender-hearted, and generous; I am perfectly certain that he won't blame me for what I am doing. He will love you, too, and you shall end your days with us. Do you understand, poor dear? Don't cry any more, don't worry about your child. Hereafter you shall be out of reach of want.--Why, look, Monsieur Menard! she actually throws herself at my feet and kisses my hand, as if I were a G.o.d! What would be the use of wealth, if we could not do a little good with it?"

"To be charitable, madame, is one of the precepts of the Gospel; unfortunately, everybody doesn't put it in practice as you do!"

"But it's high time to think about arranging a room for this young woman," said Constance, leading Sister Anne back to the house. "After all the fatigue she has undergone, she must feel the need of rest. Where shall we put her? Oh! I know; in that little building adjoining the greenhouse in the garden. My husband intended to make a study of it; but he can work in his own room. Yes, that is what we'll do. Be kind enough to give orders accordingly, Monsieur Menard. Have a bed taken there, and everything she needs for the night; to-morrow, I will have it properly arranged. She will be quiet there, and she will have her son with her and can take him to walk in the garden in the morning."