Sister Anne Part 42

"We will find him, monsieur le comte. Monsieur le Baron Potoski is going to send couriers to all the European courts."

"Who is this Baron Potoski?"

"He's a Polish n.o.bleman, a very intelligent young man, Palatine of Rava and Sandomir, who has a magnificent castle in the Krapach Mountains, which he heats with gas."

"Upon my word, Monsieur Menard, I believe they have made you an absolute idiot!"

"No, monsieur le comte; I know what I am saying, and I am telling the simple truth."

"Where did you find this baron?"

"We found him on the road, near Paris; he overturned our carriage, by the way, and I was thrown into a ditch. But monsieur your son recognized Baron Potoski as one of his friends; so we joined him in King Stanislas's berlin, where I sat in the seat once occupied by the Princess of Hungary; and we have travelled with the baron ever since."

The Comte de Montreville paced the floor, stamping angrily, and looking up at the ceiling in despair. Menard cowered in a corner, with his turban in his hand, afraid to move. After making the circuit of the room three or four times, the count returned to him.

"What has become of this baron?"

"He is playing Hippolyte, monsieur le comte; he is on the stage at this moment, and---- But, stay, here he is himself, monsieur le comte."

At this moment, in fact, Dubourg rushed into the room, crying:

"Come on, Thesee; we're waiting for you, to begin the third act."

But he stopped short when he saw the count, who exclaimed:

"I was sure of it! It's that scamp Dubourg!"

Menard opened his eyes at that, and Dubourg contented himself with bowing low to Frederic's father.

"Come, Monsieur Menard, follow me," continued the count; "take off that costume, which you should never have put on, and let us leave this place at once."

The unhappy tutor did not wait for the order to be repeated; in an instant, he had cast aside the tunic and trousers; then he resumed his own clothes, took his hat, and stood humbly before the count, who said to Dubourg:

"As for you, monsieur, whose company has been so profitable to my son, remember that if I do not find Frederic soon, my wrath will fall on you.--Come, Monsieur Menard."

A moment later, the count and the tutor were in the carriage, from which the horses had not been taken; and they drove rapidly away from the inn toward Gren.o.ble, where the count hoped to obtain news of his son.

Meanwhile, Dubourg, somewhat bewildered by what had taken place, considered what was likely to happen to him; the audience was waiting for Thesee, without whom the play could not go on, and the good people of Voreppe seemed disposed to be unamiable when they were dissatisfied.

On the other hand, he had received from the manager his own pay and Menard's; and now that Menard had gone, how was their agreement to be kept?

While he reflected, a confused noise arose in the street. Dubourg ran to the window and saw Floridor approaching with several of the spectators, who were swearing and making a great uproar, declaring that the two Poles should act or they would thrash them.

"They will act," cried Floridor; "they will act, messieurs; I paid them in advance."

Dubourg realized the danger that threatened him; he hesitated whether he should give back the money, whether he should excuse himself by disclosing his colleague's departure, or whether he should leave the manager to settle with his audience. The last plan was the most agreeable to him; he was afraid of being beaten, even if he did return the money; moreover, he considered that his performance of Hippolyte was well worth what he had received. So he ran to another window, looking on the open country, and, hearing the crowd enter the innyard, he no longer wavered; he jumped down into the sorrel, picked himself up, wrapped himself in his cloak, and ran across the fields as if the whole town were at his heels.

The count and Menard soon arrived at Gren.o.ble, and alighted at the inn where our three travellers had sojourned, and which the tutor had pointed out to the count at his request. On the way, he had questioned Menard closely concerning his son, and the replies he obtained satisfied him that it was nothing more than an amourette which detained Frederic in that neighborhood; so that he was a little more at ease, having no doubt that his presence would suffice to bring his son to his senses.

When they reached the inn, Menard had a scene with the landlord on the subject of the char-a-bancs which had been let to him and Dubourg. The landlord also spoke of Dubourg, saying that a creditor of the pretended Baron Potoski had come to Gren.o.ble in search of him, and was now on his trail, meaning to have him arrested.

Poor Menard had nothing to say; he was utterly overwhelmed when he learned that the man whom he had believed to be a Polish n.o.bleman had done nothing but make sport of him ever since they had travelled together. The Comte de Montreville put an end to the innkeeper's talk by paying him what he demanded. They slept at Gren.o.ble, the count proposing to go with Menard the next day to the place where he had said that he last saw Frederic.

But the next morning, as they were preparing to start, Menard uttered a joyful exclamation, saying:

"Here he is, monsieur le comte; the lamb returns to the fold, the son to his father. Here is your son; let us kill the fatted calf!"

Frederic was, in fact, entering the innyard at that moment, but he was very far from suspecting that he would find his father there.

The count hastened downstairs, followed by Menard; he walked toward his son, with a stern expression, and the young man hung his head and seemed stricken dumb when he saw who was before him.

"I have found you at last, monsieur," said the count; "I have heard of your behavior, I have seen your boon companion, I have learned that your travels have been confined to a miserable village and a forest near by, where you consider, doubtless, that you have acquired sufficient knowledge of the world. But I will abstain from reproaching you; I deserve reproach myself for giving you such a companion as monsieur. Let us forget it all, and return to Paris."

These last words went to Frederic's heart; he had endured bravely his father's reproaches, but now he became confused, seemed to be deeply distressed, glanced behind him, and stammered a request for a delay of a day or two. But the count pretended not to hear, and said in a harsh tone:

"I am waiting for you, my son."

The carriage was ready; what was he to do? How could he disobey his father? Frederic trembled with agitation; he was still hesitating; but the count took him by the hand and led him toward the carriage, and he dared not resist. He had had no time for reflection before he was already at some distance from Gren.o.ble. He put his head out of the window and gazed in the direction of Vizille; he heaved a profound sigh, his eyes filled with tears, as he thought of Sister Anne, and he said to himself again and again:

"Poor child! what will she think?"

XVII

THE JOYS OF LOVE LAST BUT A MOMENT, THE SORROWS OF LOVE ENDURE THROUGH LIFE

Why does the love of a month bear so little resemblance to the love of a day? why is the love of a year still less pa.s.sionate than that of a month? why are we so indifferent to the enjoyment of that which we possess without any obstacles, and why does our enjoyment sometimes cease altogether when we possess what we have ardently desired? It is because everything pa.s.ses away in this world, where we ourselves are simply birds of pa.s.sage; it is because men who are greedy of pleasure are always seeking new forms of pleasure, and to many of them love is simply a diversion. But you will say to me, perhaps: "I have been married three years, and I love my wife as dearly as I did the first day;" or: "My lover has adored me for six months, and he is more in love than ever." I have no doubt of it; there are exceptions to every rule, and everyone can invoke them in his favor; and, furthermore, I do not say that love vanishes; I mean simply that it changes its hue; and, unhappily, the last variations have not the splendor, the l.u.s.tre, the charm, of the original color.

Frederic still loved the pretty mute, beyond question; but he had been living with her in the woods for three weeks, and it began to seem a little monotonous to him. The great fault of lovers is to yield too freely to the intoxication of pa.s.sion in the first days of their happiness. They are like those gluttons who go to the table with a tremendous appet.i.te, and who eat so fast that they are filled to repletion before the repast is half served.

Sister Anne felt none of this ennui; she was happier and more loving with Frederic than ever. As a general rule, women love more truly than men, and, moreover, the unfortunate orphan was no ordinary woman; to her, Frederic was the whole earth, the universe. Since she had known him, her intelligence had awakened, her mind had developed; she had learned to think, to reflect, to form desires, to fear, and to hope; a thousand new sensations had made her heart beat fast. Before she knew what love was, her life had been only a dream, but Frederic had roused her from it.

When she saw that he was depressed and preoccupied, she redoubled her attentions and caresses; she would lead him into the woods, and hide behind a bush or a clump of trees; then, suddenly appearing, would rush into his arms; and her childlike grace heightened the sweet expression of her features.

When night came, they returned to the garden of the cottage. Sister Anne, alert and light of foot, prepared in a twinkling their evening meal, which they ate as soon as old Marguerite had gone to bed. The dumb girl gathered fruit, brought milk and rye bread, then seated herself beside Frederic, close against him, and selected for him what seemed to her the finest and best morsels. When her lover spoke, she listened in rapture; one could see that Frederic's words echoed in her heart. Once he sang a love song, and the girl listened without moving a muscle, as if she feared to lose a note, then motioned to him to sing it again.

Since then, her greatest joy had been to hear him sing; he had a sweet and flexible voice, and she would gladly have pa.s.sed the whole day listening to him.

Thus did Sister Anne seek to enchain the man she loved. It was not the tactics of a coquette--it was love, pure and simple, and nothing else; whereas in the manoeuvres of a coquette there is not the faintest trace of that sentiment.

Why, then, fools that we are, do we allow ourselves to be caught in the nets of the one, and repay with cold disdain the sincere love of the other? Because the coquette has the art to keep us in suspense; when she sees that we are well caught, she plays the cruel; if we seem a little cool, she excites us by giving us some cause of jealousy; if we seem overconfident, her mockery arouses our fears; if we are disgusted and ready to turn our back, she becomes tender, sentimental, pa.s.sionate, and with a word brings us back to her feet. These constant changes do not give the heart time to grow cold. I was on the point of comparing us men to the epicures whose appet.i.tes are sharpened by a variety of dishes, but I refrain; you would think that I had studied the art of love in the _Cuisinier Royal_.

For several days, Frederic had taken to making short excursions in the neighborhood. Sister Anne was alarmed at first; but he was away only a little while, and her fears vanished. Frederic was beginning to think of the future, of his father. What would the Comte de Montreville say, if he knew that his son was living in the woods with a village girl? That question frequently disturbed Frederic's repose, and as the days pa.s.sed it recurred with increasing frequency.

Sometimes he said to himself:

"If father should see her, it would be impossible for him not to love her. But would he accept her as his son's wife? No, that is not to be expected; the Comte de Montreville is not in the least romantic; he is proud; he loves wealth, because he knows that money always adds to the estimation in which one is held; so there is no hope that he will allow his son to marry a penniless village girl."