"There aren't many women like her," said Dubourg; "guard her carefully; you cannot love her too dearly; you have a veritable treasure in her!"

"Madame de Montreville's conduct," said Menard, "is certainly worthy of one of Plutarch's heroines; and I know of nothing finer in history save that of Cunegunde, wife of the Emperor Henry II, who grasped a red-hot iron to prove her chast.i.ty."

Sister Anne was still in an alarming condition; she recognized n.o.body, but she seemed to be constantly looking for somebody and holding out her arms to him. Constance looked to it that she wanted nothing; she herself brought a doctor to her, and installed at her bedside an old maid-servant, who did not leave her for an instant. Then Constance took little Frederic and carried him to her husband.

"Love him dearly," she said, as she placed him in his arms; "by making the child happy, you can best atone for the wrong you have done the mother. I feel that I, too, love him as if he were my own son. When I first saw him, a secret presentiment seemed to tell me that he belonged to you; and that thought made me love him more rather than less."

Frederic embraced his son, who thenceforth pa.s.sed a large part of the time with him; for the poor child no longer received the caresses of his mother, who was still in a raging fever, and delirious, and, for nearly a fortnight, lay at the gates of death. During that time, Constance pa.s.sed whole days and often whole nights in the pavilion, refusing to leave to another the nursing that the young patient required; she hung over her pillow, and held her in the most violent paroxysms of her delirium; she triumphed over fatigue, she was unconscious of suffering, she devoted her whole attention to Sister Anne; in vain did Frederic, day after day, urge her to be careful of her own health and to take some rest.

"Let me nurse her," said Constance; "by devoting myself to her, it seems to me that I repair a part of the wrong that you have done her."

Frederic had not a moment's peace of mind so long as he knew that Sister Anne was in danger. He was consumed with the longing to see her again, but he had promised his wife not to enter her presence; and how could he break his promise, after all that Constance had done for him? He often hovered about the pavilion where the poor girl lay, and waited impatiently for someone to come out from whom he could obtain news of her condition. But when it was Constance who came out, he concealed a part of what he felt, afraid to reveal the extent of his interest in the dumb girl.

Thanks to the unremitting care of Frederic's wife, the patient returned to life; her delirium ceased, she recognized her child, strained him to her heart, and refused to be separated from him. When she first saw Constance again, her whole body quivered; but in a moment she seemed to recover herself, and seized her benefactress's hand, which she covered with tears and kisses; it was as if she were trying to ask her forgiveness for the wrong she had done her.

"Poor girl!" said Constance, affectionately pressing her hand; "I shall always be the same to you; it is my place to try to make up for your misfortunes. I am your friend; your child is mine; henceforth his fate and yours are a.s.sured. Oh! don't shake your head--I am simply paying a debt. Your son is a sweet, lovely boy; his happiness will enable you to forget your own sorrows some day. Courage! you may yet be happy!"

Sister Anne sighed, and her eyes seemed to say that it was impossible.

Constance herself did not believe that it was possible to forget Frederic; but it is lawful to lie a little in order to comfort others.

The dumb girl looked about the room, but, in a moment, turned her eyes again upon her benefactress, as if resigned to her fate.

"I will do what you order me to do," she seemed to say.

Constance informed her husband that Sister Anne was saved, although her convalescence would be long and slow; the doctor had said that the invalid would not be able to travel for a long time, but that the proximity of the garden would afford her an excellent opportunity to test without injury the return of her strength.

Frederic was overjoyed to learn that his victim was restored to life; every day the longing to see her, though but for a moment, tormented him more. Nor was that his only longing: while the dumb girl was very ill, they had brought his son to him, and he had pa.s.sed a great part of the time with him. He had become accustomed to his presence, he had learned to know the pleasures of a father's love; and that sentiment is not one of those which time or separation impairs. Frederic, who dared not let his wife know of his longing to see Sister Anne, had no hesitation in asking for his son.

"He is his mother's sole consolation now, my dear; do you want to deprive her of him? Later, when time has allayed her suffering somewhat, I have no doubt that she will consent to send him to you now and then; but just at this time she wants him with her every moment."

Frederic said no more, but tried to conceal his feelings; for Constance was gazing at him as if she would read his inmost thoughts.

Sister Anne recovered her strength very slowly; it was several days before she was able to go down into the garden with her son, leaning on Constance's arm. As she supported the convalescent's tottering steps, Constance glanced anxiously about, dreading to see Frederic, although she had told him that Sister Anne was coming into the garden, which was equivalent to asking him not to appear there. Frederic knew that his presence would certainly cause an agitation that would be dangerous to the invalid, and he remained in his apartment.

Sister Anne was calmer, but her calmness seemed to be the result of complete prostration rather than of resignation; she kept her eyes fixed on the ground, except when she turned them on her son; she did not weep, but the expression of her face indicated her mental suffering; meanwhile, her strength constantly increased, and soon she was able to go out alone with her son, to stroll about the pavilion.

A few days more, and Madame de Montreville was to set out with Sister Anne and her son for the estate on which she proposed that they should make their home. Frederic approved his wife's plan, but he was consumed by the desire to see once more the woman he had loved so dearly, and whom he was not certain that he did not love still.

He knew that Sister Anne and her son went every morning at daybreak to sit in an arbor near the pavilion. One morning he rose softly, while Constance was still asleep; it was almost dawn; he could not resist the craving to see the dumb girl and her son; he did not mean to speak to her, or to show himself to her, but only to see her once more. She was to go away the next day, so that that day was the last on which it would be possible for him to satisfy the desire that beset him.

He dressed noiselessly and walked to the bed where Constance lay; she was not resting quietly, but her eyes were closed, she was asleep; he determined to seize the opportunity, and he stole quickly from the room and into the garden. The first rays of dawn were just beginning to dispel the mists of the night; he walked rapidly toward Sister Anne's favorite arbor; his heart beat fast; it seemed to him that he was living anew those moments of his first love when he arrived at the wood of Vizille and looked for the dumb girl on the bank of the stream where they were wont to meet.

She was not yet in the arbor; she probably would not be there for at least a quarter of an hour; he sat down on the bench where she usually sat, from which he could see the pavilion where she and her son lived.

He fastened his eyes upon that building; his heart was full, he felt again the delicious emotion that he used to feel as he gazed at old Marguerite's miserable hovel. At that moment, he forgot all that had happened since; he waited impatiently for her to come out; it seemed to him that he would see her come running toward him, driving her goats.

Time pa.s.ses very quickly when one is engrossed by such memories.

Suddenly the door of the pavilion opened and a child appeared--it was his son. Frederic was on the point of running forward to embrace him, but he remembered the promise he had given Constance. If he went nearer to the pavilion, Sister Anne would see him, for she could not be far behind her child. He must keep out of her sight; so he crept behind the shrubbery, and there, hidden by a thick clump of hornbeams, he waited tremblingly for her to appear.

He had hardly left the arbor, when the dumb girl came out of the pavilion and took her son by the hand. Frederic could not take his eyes from her. She was dressed in a plain white gown; her hair, gathered carelessly on top of her head, fell over her forehead, whereon sadness and suffering were written. She smiled, however, as she looked at her child; then paused, glanced about the garden, and heaved a profound sigh.

Frederic did not tire of gazing at her; that unfamiliar costume, in which he was now for the first time able to examine her at his leisure,--for in his wife's presence he had hardly dared to look at her,--seemed to add to her charms and make her more beautiful than ever.

She came toward him, she entered the arbor; he hardly breathed. She sat on the bench--she was close beside him--only a few branches separated them; he heard her sighs, he could count the throbs of her heart. How sad she seemed! Alas! who would console her now? He was the cause of her woes, and he could do nothing to put an end to them. The child put his little arms about his mother's neck; it was as if he were already trying, young as he was, to soothe her grief. She pressed him to her heart, but her tears continued to flow. Frederic could control himself no longer; he heard her sobs, he forgot his promise, he saw nothing but Sister Anne's tears, which fell upon his heart. He abruptly put aside the branches that separated them; he fell at her feet and embraced her knees, crying:

"Forgive me!"

At sight of Frederic, Sister Anne started to rise and fly, but she had not the strength; she fell back on the bench and tried to look the other way, but an irresistible power forced her to turn her eyes upon her lover. He was at her feet, entreating her forgiveness; she had not the courage to repel him; she placed her son in his arms, and soon she was straining him to her heart. At that moment they heard a cry, not far away. Frederic, disturbed and alarmed, left the arbor and looked in every direction; seeing no one, he returned to Sister Anne. But she was already going back to the pavilion with her son; he tried to detain her; she slipped from his arms, while her eyes bade him an affectionate adieu. She had enjoyed a moment's happiness, but she did not propose to be culpable toward her benefactress by remaining longer with Frederic.

Sister Anne and the child having returned to the pavilion, Frederic was alone in the garden; he was still agitated by the pleasure it had afforded him to see his former sweetheart, but that pleasure was mingled with anxiety. The cry he had heard worried him. He searched every part of the garden, but found no one. He persuaded himself that he had made a mistake, that the voice came from the fields. For a moment he thought of his wife. Suppose that Constance had seen him! But he soon rejected that idea, for Constance was asleep when he left his room. He returned to the house. The servants were astir. Dubourg and Menard came down into the garden. Frederic dared not go to his wife, but waited till breakfast before seeing her again.

He strolled about the garden with his friends; but he was thoughtful and ill at ease.

"Are you grieving over Sister Anne's approaching departure?" said Dubourg. "I tell you, my dear fellow, it is indispensable. A man can't live under the same roof with his wife and his mistress, even if the latter has ceased to be anything to him; for the wife must always stand in dread of chance meetings and accidents; and if she loves her husband ever so little, she won't sleep peacefully."

"Unquestionably," said Menard, "one cannot live with the wolf and the lamb. It's as if you should put a canary and a parrot in the same cage; they'll always end by fighting. I don't refer to Madame de Montreville; she's an angel of gentleness; and certainly the other little woman will never talk loud. But, after all: _naturam expellas furca, tamen usque recurret_. Furthermore, a Greek philosopher has said: 'Do you want to have h.e.l.l on earth? if so, live with your wife and your mistress.'"

"But, Monsieur Menard, far from having any such desire, I wish with all my heart that the poor creature were already far away. I realize too well that I must not rely on my resolutions."

"There's only one thing in the world you can rely on; and that is indigestion, if you bathe right after eating."

The breakfast hour arrived; Constance appeared, and, as usual, went to her husband and kissed him.

"I was mistaken; she knows nothing," said Frederic to himself.

However, it seemed to him that she was pale, that her eyes were red and swollen, that her hand trembled in his. He inquired affectionately concerning her health.

"I am all right," said Constance; "I am not sick; there's nothing the matter with me."

But her tone seemed to contradict her words.

The day pa.s.sed, and Frederic was surprised to see that Constance made no preparations for Sister Anne's departure and her own. He ventured at last to mention the subject.

"I have changed my mind," said Constance, struggling to conceal her emotion; "I don't see why that young woman should leave the house; she is so happy with us! Her presence cannot be disagreeable to you; on the other hand, her absence might cause you too much regret."

"What do you say?" cried Frederic.

"No, she shall not go," continued Constance, coldly; apparently not noticing her husband's bewilderment. "It is useless now."

With that, she turned away and shut herself up in her own apartment.

Frederic did not know what to think of that sudden change of plan; but that evening Constance's maid went to the pavilion, at her bidding, and informed Sister Anne that she was to live on at the pavilion; that there was no further question of her going away.

The dumb girl was greatly surprised; but her heart could not be indifferent to the bliss of remaining near Frederic. She was astonished, however, that her benefactress, who had been so unvaryingly kind to her, did not come to her and explain her change of plan. Several days pa.s.sed, and she did not see Madame de Montreville. The same attention was paid to her comfort and her son's, but her benefactress had ceased to visit the occupants of the pavilion.

Constance pa.s.sed all her time in her own room; she did not say a word to Frederic; but her face was drawn and haggard; it was evident that she was suffering and that she was doing her utmost to conceal it. Frederic hardly dared to question her, and when he did she always answered gently:

"Nothing is the matter with me."

"Morbleu!" said Dubourg; "this isn't natural! That young woman has something on her mind. She insists now that the other one shall stay; I can't make anything out of it."

"Nor I," said Menard; "but I think, with you, that there's some mystery about it. Tertullian says that the devil isn't as mischievous as woman, and I agree with Tertullian."