x.x.xI

THE CATASTROPHE

Sister Anne and her son continued to occupy the pavilion in the garden.

She went out very rarely, and then only to walk in the paths that were near by. She did not go near the house; she was afraid of meeting Frederic again, although her heart still burned for him with the same ardent flame.

Nor did Frederic dare to go near the pavilion; his wife's conduct, ever since the day that he embraced the dumb girl, had left no doubt in his mind that it was she who had uttered that cry of which he had unavailingly sought the author. If Constance had seen him at Sister Anne's feet, what could she think of his promises? Of course, she believed now that she was not the sole object of his love. He was often tempted to throw himself at her feet, to a.s.sure her that he adored her still; but, in that case, he must confess that he had broken his word; and suppose his wife did not know it, after all! In his uncertainty, Frederic held his peace, hoping, by keeping a close watch upon himself, to dispel the suspicions which were devouring Constance's heart in secret.

Constance did not leave the house; she did not even go into the garden.

Her face was careworn, her cheeks had lost their color; she tried in vain to smile; the melancholy that was eating her heart away betrayed itself in every act. She was still as sweet and amiable as ever; she seemed to appreciate her husband's attentions, and, noticing that he never went into the garden, she often urged him to do so.

"Why do you wish me to leave you?" said Frederic; "can I be as happy elsewhere as I am with you?"

Whereupon Constance lovingly pressed his hand and turned away to conceal a tear. She had the scene in the arbor constantly before her eyes; she saw her husband pressing Sister Anne to his heart; she believed that she no longer possessed his love, and persuaded herself that he was unhappy because he no longer saw the dumb girl, but that he was sacrificing himself for her peace of mind. That cruel thought was the source of the keenest torture to her heart,--torture the more painful because she strove to conceal it.

"Things can't go on like this," Dubourg often said to Frederic. "Your wife is changing perceptibly, and the poor dumb girl's melancholy is enough to break one's heart. Morbleu! if these two women remain together, both of them will very soon die of consumption."

"What can I do? Is not Sister Anne's fate absolutely in Constance's hands? When I attempt to speak to her about it, she closes my mouth, or else declares again that she doesn't choose to send her away."

"It's very embarra.s.sing, on my word," said Menard; "and if I were in my pupil's place, I know what I would do."

"Well, what would you do?" queried Dubourg.

"Pardieu! I would do as he does--not know what to do."

A very simple occurrence was destined to effect a revolution in Frederic's household: one morning, the Comte de Montreville, having at last shaken off the gout, arrived at his son's country house.

Dubourg, although he had no idea that the count knew Sister Anne, was pleased by his arrival, because he felt sure that his presence would compel Frederic to take some decisive step. Frederic was terribly disturbed when his father appeared, having as yet had no explanation with him. Should he tell him the truth--that the dumb girl was under his roof? But, before he was left alone with the count, Constance made him promise that he would not mention Sister Anne; for she thought that the count was ignorant of his son's wrong-doing, and she did not want him to know of it at all.

The Comte de Montreville had been anxious for a long while concerning the fate of the young woman who had saved his life. His last messenger had brought him the intelligence that she had left the farm, intending to go to Paris. As she did not appear at his house, he had caused a search to be made for her, but to no purpose; he had no idea what could have become of her.

On arriving at his son's house, the count was at once impressed by Constance's melancholy and dejection. He inquired anxiously concerning the cause of the change; the young woman tried to evade his questions, on the pretext that she was slightly indisposed; but the old man was sharp-eyed: he saw that some mystery was being hidden from him, and he determined to fathom it. His son was embarra.s.sed in his presence. Menard avoided him as if he were afraid of being reprimanded for something.

Dubourg alone appeared delighted by his arrival. Everything seemed to indicate that something extraordinary was taking place in the house.

As Constance knew that Monsieur de Montreville was accustomed, when he was at Montmorency, to go to the pavilion in the garden to read, she lost no time in informing him that a young woman and her son, of whom she had taken charge, were quartered there. The count asked no questions; he was far from suspecting that that young woman was the one he had been seeking so long: he certainly did not expect to find her under his son's roof.

On the day after his arrival, the count rose early, as usual, and went into the garden. He walked toward the pavilion, and not until he was about to enter did he remember what Constance had told him the day before. He turned away, and was walking in another direction, when a child came out of the pavilion and ran toward him; in a moment, another person had seized his hand and pressed it to her heart. The Comte de Montreville was surprised beyond expression when he found himself in the presence of the dumb girl and her son.

Sister Anne had seen the count from her window as he came toward the pavilion; she recognized him instantly; her protector's features were engraved on her memory. When he turned away, she at once ran after him.

The poor girl did her best to express the pleasure she felt at seeing him again; and he was a long while recovering from his amazement.

"You here!" he said, at last; "who took you in? Do you know that the young woman who has given you shelter is Frederic's wife--your seducer's wife?"

Sister Anne explained by signs that she did know it, that she had seen Frederic, and that it was Constance who insisted that she should live in that pavilion.

Every instant added to the count's bewilderment. As he could not obtain from the dumb girl all the information he desired, he was intensely anxious to see his son.

"Go back to the pavilion," he said to Sister Anne; "you will soon leave it. You have been here only too long. Go, my poor child; I will see you again soon."

Sister Anne obeyed; she returned to the pavilion with her son, whom the count could not refrain from embracing tenderly.

Frederic dreaded just what had happened; he trembled lest his father should meet Sister Anne, and was on the point of going to him to tell him the truth, when the count appeared before him; his stern expression announced that it was too late to warn him.

"I have just seen the person who is living in the pavilion in the garden," said the count, watching his son closely; "and I am no longer surprised at the depression, the great change, which I have noticed in your wife's whole appearance. Unhappy man! so this is the recompense of her love! of her virtues! You permit the woman you seduced to live under the same roof as your wife!"

"I am not to blame in this," said Frederic; and he told his father how his wife had taken in the dumb girl and her child during his absence; how she had become attached to the unfortunate creature; and everything that had happened on his return.

The count listened in silence to Frederic's story.

"So your wife knows all!" he said; "she knows that you are that girl's seducer, the father of her child; and she insists that she shall continue to live in your house?"

"Her purpose at first was to send her away, to take her and the child to one of our estates, where she would have everything that her comfort and welfare required; the day for their departure was fixed. I have no idea why she changed her mind, but now she insists that Sister Anne shall not go."

"And you can't divine the reason? My son, such conduct is too extraordinary not to have some secret cause. It is not natural that a wife who loves, yes, adores her husband, should want to keep by her side her rival, or, at all events, the woman he once loved and may love again. But Constance has a soul capable of sacrificing everything, of immolating itself for your happiness! Ought you to allow that? Don't you see how she has changed? She conceals her tears from you, but she can't conceal her pallor, the suffering that is working havoc on her lovely features. There is not a minute in the day when she is not thinking that you are under the same roof as the mother of your son; that you can see her, speak to her."

"Oh! I swear to you, father, that I never----"

"I am glad to believe you; but your wife is in a cruel position.

To-morrow, your victim will no longer be under your eyes."

"What! father!"

"Do you disapprove of my determination?"

"I? oh, no! far from it. No; I realize all that I owe you. Surely I do not need to commend that poor creature--and my son--to your care!"

"No, monsieur; I know what my duty is; your wife's beneficent intentions shall be carried out. Indeed, do you suppose that that young woman is indifferent to me, or that her son has no claim upon my heart? Because it is no longer subject to the ardent pa.s.sions of youth, do you think that it is closed to all sentiment? Let me restore peace of mind and repose to your wife; and do you restore her happiness, if possible, by redoubling your devotion and your love. That is the way to atone for your wrong-doing, Frederic, and to pay me for all that I propose to do for Sister Anne and her son."

Frederic shed tears upon his father's hand. The count left him, to go to Constance; he did not mention the dumb girl to her, but, as he looked into her face, he felt that he admired her and loved her more than ever.

Constance did not know to what she should attribute the marks of affection which the count, usually so cold, took pleasure in lavishing upon her; she could not divine the explanation of them. She believed that he was ignorant of his son's fault.

The count sent his servant to Paris, with orders to have a post chaise with two good horses at the garden gate the next morning at daybreak. He proposed to accompany Sister Anne, and he went to the pavilion to tell her what he had determined upon.

His frequent going and coming led Dubourg to conclude that the count had some project in contemplation.

"We shall have a change here," he said to Menard; "G.o.d grant that it may restore happiness and pleasure to this house!"

"It certainly hasn't been very gay here of late," said Menard; "madame la comtesse sighs, my pupil is preoccupied, the dumb girl says nothing; and I can hardly recognize you yourself, my dear Dubourg."

"Well! how do you expect me to be in high spirits, when I see that all the people I love are unhappy? In spite of my philosophy, I am not insensible to my friends' suffering."

"You're like me; I think of it all day long."

"Indeed! but it doesn't take away your appet.i.te."