"Would you have me make myself ill, to cheer them up?"

"You're not likely to; you're getting to be a regular ball!"

"That fool of a cook gives us beefsteak every day; how can I help growing fat?"

"I expect great things from the arrival of Frederic's father; he has been to the pavilion and seen Sister Anne, and a change is coming, I am sure of it."

"Ah! do you think that we shan't have any more beefsteaks?"

"Really, Monsieur Menard, you weren't born to live in France; you ought to take up your abode in Switzerland, where they eat all day."

"I was born, monsieur, to live anywhere; and when you called yourself Baron Potoski, you had a pretty knack of squandering our funds with your three-course dinners; but I won't say of you: _Quantum mutatus ab illo_, because I noticed you at table yesterday; you ate all the tunny, and when I wanted some more it was all gone."

"Tunny is very indigestible, Monsieur Menard; it isn't good for you."

"I beg you, monsieur, not to worry about my health, and to leave some tunny for me at the next opportunity. You will see that, old as I am, I can steer clear of indigestion if I choose!"

While those whom he left in the house lost themselves in conjectures, the count walked through the garden to the pavilion. It was dark when he was ready to tell Sister Anne what he proposed to do. Her room was on the first floor; he hesitated a moment before he went upstairs to the woman who had saved his life.

"Poor child!" he said to himself; "I am going to deal her a heavy blow.

I must take her away from Frederic; I must separate them forever; but I am simply doing my duty, and her heart is too pure not to feel that she must think first of all of the peace of mind, yes, the life, of the woman who saved her and her son from the horrors of starvation, and who has taken pleasure in heaping kindnesses upon her."

The old man entered the dumb girl's room; at sight of him, she rose and ran to meet him; one could read in her eyes the respect and affection that she felt for him. The count was touched to the heart; he looked at her for several minutes in silence; but he felt that he must say at once what he had to say, so that she might be ready at dawn.

"My child," he said, "I told you this morning that you cannot, you must not, remain any longer in this house; your presence here will in the end be fatal to her who rescued you. Constance loves her husband dearly; do you wish to rob her of repose and happiness forever? She conceals the torments she is suffering; but I have read her inmost thoughts. You surely do not wish to cause the death of the woman who saved your son?"

Sister Anne, by a most eloquent gesture, signified that she was prepared to sacrifice herself for Constance.

"Very well," continued the count; "then you must go away, you must leave this place--to-morrow at daybreak--without seeing your benefactress. I will undertake to tell her all that your heart would impel you to say to her. You must not see any of this household again; it is unnecessary.

There is one person in particular--but I need not urge upon you the necessity of taking every precaution to avoid meeting him."

Sister Anne was overwhelmed with grief. To go away so suddenly, without any preparation! to go without seeing him, and forever! Her courage failed her, and the tears gushed from her eyes.

The count went to her and took her hand.

"Poor child!" he said; "this sudden departure grieves you, but it must be; under such circ.u.mstances, every minute's delay is a crime. I tear you away from this house, but I have a right to be harsh. Courage, dear child! It is Frederic's father, whom you saved from the knives of the brigands, it is he who asks you to sacrifice yourself once more, for his son's good."

These words produced upon the dumb girl all the effect that the count antic.i.p.ated; on learning that he was her lover's father, she fell at his knees, and with clasped hands seemed to implore his forgiveness.

"Rise, rise," he said, kissing her on the forehead; "unfortunate girl!

would to G.o.d that I could give you back your happiness! At all events, you may be a.s.sured of a comfortable home, and your son's future is provided for. I am going to take you to a farm, which I propose to give you; there is a pretty little cottage connected with it, where you will live, attended by faithful servants who will love you dearly. There you will bring up your son; I will come often to share your retirement, and before long, I hope, peace and tranquillity will have returned to your heart."

Sister Anne listened, and was ready to obey; she had no hope of being happy again, but her eyes seemed to say:

"Do with me as you will; I am ready to abide by your slightest wish."

"Until to-morrow, then," said the count; "I will come for you at daybreak; I want to be away before anybody in the house is astir. A comfortable carriage will be ready for us at the garden gate. Make all your preparations to-night; they need not be long, for you will find in your new home everything that you and your son will require. Au revoir, dear child; be brave! At daybreak I shall be with you."

The count took his leave, and Sister Anne was alone; her son was asleep; it was night, the last night that she was to pa.s.s near Frederic. She must go away from him--fly from him forever. That thought overwhelmed her. She sat, perfectly motionless, on a chair beside her son's cradle; a single thought absorbed all her faculties: she must go away from him whom her heart had ached to find, whom she idolized, and who, in the arbor, had acted as if he loved her still; she must go away from him; the peace of mind, the existence, of her benefactress demanded that terrible sacrifice.

The last hours that she was to pa.s.s in the house seemed to fly with unexampled rapidity. Engrossed by these thoughts, she had done nothing toward preparing for her departure. The village clock struck twelve, and the dumb girl still sat beside her son's cradle, in the same position in which the count had left her.

The mournful clang of the bell roused her from her reverie; she rose, and made a small bundle of her clothes; her preparations were soon completed, and there were still several hours before the dawn. Should she try to sleep? no; she knew that it would be in vain! But what thought is this that makes her heart beat fast? Everybody in the house is asleep; suppose she should take advantage of her last remaining moments to go a little nearer to him! She did not propose to see him, for she knew that that would be a breach of her promise to the count and of her duty to her benefactress. But she could go, without Frederic's knowledge, to bid him a last farewell; she knew which were the windows of his room; it seemed to her that she should go away a little less unhappy, and that Frederic might perhaps hear her whispered farewell in his sleep.

She hesitated no longer; she put her bundles on a chair and placed her candle on the hearth. Her son was sleeping soundly; she leaned over and looked at him, and shed tears upon his pillow at the thought that she was soon to take him away from his father.

Everything was perfectly quiet, as she stole noiselessly from the pavilion. It was a dark night, but she was familiar with the garden.

Like a shadow, her feet barely touching the earth, she glided swiftly along the paths, until at last she reached the house. Frederic's apartment was on the first floor, at the right; she knelt under his windows, she held out her arms to him, and bade him a last farewell.

Weeping bitterly, with her head resting on her hand, but unable to remove her eyes from the room in which she knew him to be, Sister Anne abandoned herself to her love, her regret, her despair. It was a long while since she had left the pavilion; the minutes were pa.s.sing rapidly, but she could not tear herself away from that spot. But it must be done.

The unhappy girl made a final effort; she rose and walked away, broken-hearted; she staggered along the paths, hardly able to restrain her sobs.

Suddenly she became conscious of a bright light in the garden; she raised her eyes; she could not conceive where it came from. As she walked on, the light became brighter and brighter; the darkness of the night was succeeded by a terrifying glare; it was fire, which lighted up every nook and corner of the garden. As that certainty burst upon her mind, Sister Anne, seized by an indescribable fear, no longer walked, but ran, aye, flew toward the pavilion; the flames were pouring forth in clouds from the windows of the first floor.

A heartrending shriek burst from the young mother's lips; she could see nothing but her son, whom she had left in that room, her son, whom the flames were perhaps already consuming!

In her desperation, she recovered her strength; she rushed into the pavilion; the hall was filled with dense smoke; but a mother knows no danger, she must have her child. She groped her way upstairs, felt for the door, which the smoke concealed and which her trembling hands sought in vain. At last the flames guided her; she entered the room; everything was ablaze. A bundle of clothes had fallen against the candle, and the flames had spread rapidly to all parts of the room. Sister Anne ran to the cradle, which the fire had just reached; she held her son in her arms; she tried to go out, but she could not see what direction to take.

Already the flames surrounded her; her limbs were badly burned; she tried to call, for she felt that she was dying. At that moment, her voice, yielding to a mighty effort of nature, broke the bonds that held it; and the unfortunate girl, as she fell, exclaimed distinctly:

"Frederic, come and save your son!"

The flames rising from the pavilion had been seen by the people at the house, several of whom were unable to sleep. Frederic rushed from his room in dismay, shouting as he ran. Everyone rose and dressed in haste.

"The pavilion's on fire!" was the general cry.

Frederic arrived there ahead of all the rest; he defied death, to make his way to Sister Anne; he entered the room a few seconds after she had lost consciousness; he took her on one arm and his son on the other; he pa.s.sed through the flames into the garden; he had saved them both.

On learning what had happened, everybody had followed Frederic.

Constance was not the last to fly upon her husband's footsteps. It was she who received Sister Anne in her arms, who hung over her with loving solicitude, and ordered the unconscious girl to be carried to her apartment. They all gathered about the young woman, whose body bore the marks of the flames; but her son was uninjured, and they waited impatiently for her to open her eyes, so that they might show him to her safe and sound.

At last, she drew a long, quivering breath; her eyes opened. Constance led her child to her side.

"My son!" cried Sister Anne, covering the child with kisses.

Those words caused the greatest surprise to all who heard them. They stared at Sister Anne, listening intently, as if they doubted whether they had heard aright.

"O my G.o.d!" continued the young mother; "it is not a dream; Thou hast given me back the use of my tongue.--Ah! Frederic! I can tell you now how I loved you--how I love you still! Forgive me, madame; I feel that I shall not long enjoy this voice which has been restored to me. All that I have suffered to-day has exhausted my strength; I am going to die, but my son is saved. Oh! don't pity me!"

The unfortunate woman had made a mighty effort to say thus much; her eyes lost their expression, her hand became like ice, a ghastly pallor overspread her face. Frederic fell on his knees beside her; he bathed with his tears the hand she abandoned to him. The count was overcome by grief. Constance tried to recall the dying girl to life by holding up her son before her. Even Dubourg, the man who had never shed a tear, could not restrain his sobs as he supported Sister Anne's head.

"Why do you weep for me?" she said, making a final effort; "I could not be happy, but I die less wretched. Keep my son, madame; he is so happy in your arms! you will be a mother to him. Adieu, Frederic--and you--his father--oh! forgive me for loving him so much!"

Sister Anne cast a last glance at Constance, who held little Frederic in her arms; then she closed her eyes, still smiling at her son.