Sister Anne Part 43

To be sure, he could act without his father's consent; but, in that case, he must renounce his fortune, turn his talents to account, and work for his living; in any event, he must leave the woods, for he was beginning to realize that it is absurd for a young man to turn his back on the world at twenty-one; that men are made for society; and that the being in love with a pretty woman is no reason for burying one's self alive with her in the depths of a forest.

These arguments a.s.sumed greater force from day to day; especially when he was away from Sister Anne, he abandoned himself to such reflections, and his absences became longer every day. The poor child groaned in secret; she counted the minutes that she spent without her lover; she ran down into the valley to watch for his coming, and she pouted--oh! so sadly!--when he had been long absent; but she was so overjoyed to see him again, that her dejection soon pa.s.sed away; she forgot all her anxieties when she held him to her heart.

A month had pa.s.sed. Dubourg and Menard had not returned to inquire concerning his plans, and he was greatly surprised. He did not know, as we do, that his two travelling companions were at that time installed under their friend Chambertin's roof, where that surprise in the way of fireworks was being prepared, which disclosed to their host what you already know, but what he did not know, even after the event, so they say, because his wife convinced him that he had seen nothing but fire.

So that Frederic was at a loss to understand the indifference of his friends, especially of Menard.

"Something new must have happened to them," he said to himself. "Dubourg has probably performed some further crazy exploit. I did wrong to trust him with all the money I possessed."

The invariable result of his reflections was that he must go to Gren.o.ble, to find out what those gentlemen were doing. But to join them after saying to Dubourg that he would never leave those woods again, that he had abandoned forever a false and wicked world, all of whose pleasures were not equal to the tranquil life of a cottage--that was most embarra.s.sing, and that was why Frederic could not make up his mind to go to the town; for a man often chooses to persevere in an act of folly rather than admit that he is wrong.

Meanwhile, Frederic's absolute idleness had become a heavy burden to him; with the best will in the world, one cannot talk twenty-four hours at a stretch to a pretty woman, and the poor girl was unhappy because she saw that her lover was melancholy and often sighed. At last, one fine evening, Frederic, finding that he could endure it no longer, said to her:

"To-morrow, at daybreak, I shall go to Gren.o.ble, to learn something about my friends."

As if struck by an unforeseen blow, the girl did not move for an instant, then her bosom heaved, and two streams of tears gushed from her eyes. She pointed to the road to the town, then to herself, as if to say:

"And me? are you going to leave me?"

The poor child was unable, in order to detain her lover, to resort to the sweet, loving words and entreaties which it is so hard to resist.

But how expressive her gestures were, and how eloquent her eyes! one had but to glance at them to read all her thoughts.

"I will return," said Frederic, "I promise you; I will return, and I shall never love anyone but you."

These words at once allayed Sister Anne's grief, for she did not doubt her lover's word. Remember, mesdames, that Sister Anne did not know the world--a very painful knowledge sometimes, since it teaches us to renounce the illusions of the heart.

The evening pa.s.sed sadly enough; for, although she did not doubt that he would return soon, the idea of her friend's departure was very cruel to that glowing heart, upon which love had bestowed an unalloyed happiness which she had thought would endure to the end of her life. Frederic did all that he could to comfort her; but by giving fresh proofs of his love a man inspires greater love than ever. Surely, then, that is not the best way to lessen the pain of a separation; but it is the way that is usually employed.

The dawn was a gloomy one in the eyes of the young orphan. Can that be a pleasant day which is to part us from all that we love best? Frederic climbed the hill to the road, holding the poor girl's trembling hand in his. There, having repeated his promises and bade her a most affectionate farewell, he rode away and vanished from his sweetheart's sight.

A heavy weight settled down upon the girl's heart. She could not see Frederic, but still she stood there, still she sought him with her eyes.

Suddenly she turned them upon her immediate surroundings; a groan escaped her, and she fell on her knees at the foot of an old oak, which she kissed with profound respect. Poor child! she was on the very spot where her mother had died while waiting for her father! She recognized the spot, and, clasping her hands, prayed fervently, and commended herself to her mother.

Sister Anne was in the habit of going several times a year to pray by the old oak, near which the unhappy Clotilde had breathed her last; but she had never been there with Frederic. On that day they had climbed that hill, over which ran the road to the town, and Sister Anne, absorbed by her grief, had not noticed it.

Poor child! what melancholy presentiment oppresses your heart? You think of your mother's fate, and say to yourself:

"Shall I be as unhappy as she was?"

But she must needs return to the cabin; old Marguerite might need her attention. She walked slowly down the hillside, sighing as she looked back at the old oak. There he had parted from her, and there, as her mother had done, she would come every day to await his return.

She returned to her cabin, her goats, and her woods; she resumed her ordinary habits and occupations. But everything was changed in her eyes; the woods seemed gloomy to her; wherever she went, she was oppressed by ennui. Her garden no longer had any charm for her, her home was like a desert. Frederic embellished everything, and Frederic was not there!

Before she knew him, her eyes looked with pleasure upon things that she now viewed with indifference; and yet, the things themselves had not changed; but she had lost peace of mind and repose, and nothing looked to her as it did before.

Frederic had not said how many days he would be absent, and the girl hoped to see him soon; she did not dream that he had found his father at Gren.o.ble, and that the Comte de Montreville was at that moment taking his son with him to Paris.

Each day, Sister Anne went to the hilltop with her goats, and her eyes were constantly fixed on the road to the town; she sought Frederic there, even as poor Clotilde had sought her husband. She amused herself by tracing her lover's name on the ground with a stick; that was all that he had taught her, but she had practised writing the name so often with him that she had succeeded in writing it legibly.

Several days pa.s.sed, and Frederic did not return. Sister Anne still hoped, because she could not believe that her lover would break his promise; and every morning, as she went up the hill, she said to herself:

"To-day I shall certainly come down with him."

Vain hope! she must needs return alone once more to her cabin, to that abode whence repose had fled since love had crossed the threshold.

But a new sentiment diverted her thoughts from her sorrow. Sister Anne bore within her a pledge of her love for Frederic; she was enceinte, but had not yet tried to understand the change that she observed in herself.

In her simplicity, it had not occurred to her that she might be a mother; but that thought suddenly came into her mind. Thereupon an unfamiliar joy took possession of her heart; she abandoned herself in ecstasy to that newborn hope. She would have a child--a child by Frederic! It seemed to her that he must love her more than ever. The thought filled her heart with joy. To be a mother! what bliss! and what pleasure to be able to tell Frederic! The girl leaped and ran about through the woods; in her excitement, she did innumerable foolish things; she looked at herself in the brook and in the fountain; she was proud to be a mother, and would have been glad that people should see it when they looked at her.

Poor child! whose every action manifests your perfect innocence--enjoy to the utmost this sentiment newborn in your heart! That, at all events, will never grow less.

But the days pa.s.sed, and Frederic did not return. Sister Anne was certain that she was to be a mother, and she could not tell her lover the joyful news! There can be no pleasure without pain; hers was poisoned by the anxiety she felt at the non-appearance of the being whom she adored; and every day the old oak was a silent witness of her sighs and her tears.

XVIII

THE GREAT BEAST

We left Dubourg running across the fields to escape Monsieur Floridor, the angry audience, and the raw potatoes of which Phedre had received a specimen in the eye; we must not forget that his flight was so sudden that he had no time to change his costume, that his head was still buried under the huge Louis XIV wig, which fell in great curls over his neck and shoulders, and that his body was enveloped in the cloak covered with rabbit skins.

For an hour he ran at full speed, crossing highroads, jumping ditches, stumbling through fields of wheat and tracts of ploughed land, with no idea where he was or whither he was going, for the reader will remember that these things happened late in the evening; consequently, it was dark, and, as it was raining, there was no moon to light his path.

He paused at last and listened; he heard nothing to indicate that he was pursued. The most profound silence reigned all about him; he tried to look about and find out where he was; he no longer was afraid of being caught, and he felt the need of rest. It was the middle of autumn, the evenings were beginning to be cool, and our fugitive was not at all desirous to pa.s.s the night in the open air, unprotected from the rain; to be sure, his wig took the place of a hat, and his cloak was as good as an umbrella; but they would be drenched in time, and then he would be very uncomfortable; so that it was most advisable to seek a place of shelter.

He knew by the feeling that he was walking over vegetables, and soon his path was barred by a tall hedge; but as his cloak protected him from the thorns, he climbed over, leaving two or three rabbit skins and two curls from his wig in the bushes, and found himself at last on the other side, uncertain whether he would be any better off there. But various fruit-trees, pots of flowers, and a trellis, led him to think that he was in a garden. He walked on, holding his hands in front of him, and came to a wall; then he found that he was under a roof, where his progress was arrested by bundles of hay and straw: he was in a shed which was evidently used to store fodder.

"Parbleu!" he said to himself; "I have found all that I need for a comfortable night; I am sheltered from the rain, so I'll just lie down on this straw, wrap myself in my cloak, and sleep. To-morrow, we will consider our future plans."

Dubourg was soon ready for the night; he was exceedingly comfortable under the shed, and, after blessing the chance to which he owed that shelter, he fell sound asleep.

The shed in which he lay was at the end of a garden belonging to a very pretty little cottage, occupied by a farmer named Bertrand, who had married, seven years before, a pretty damsel of his village, a fresh, wide-awake young woman known as La Belle Claudine; she had already presented Monsieur Bertrand with two bouncing children, and hoped that the end was not yet.

In the country, everyone rises early. At daybreak, Fanfan and Marie, the farmer's two children, one five years old and the other four, having had their porridge, went out as usual to run about and play in the garden.

Happening to pa.s.s near the shed, what did they see on the straw? Imagine Azor in _Beauty and the Beast_, and you will have an idea of the aspect of Dubourg, whose face was entirely hidden by a profusion of reddish-brown curls, which fell over his breast, while his whole body was covered by the cloak, which counterfeited some other animal if not the tiger; fancy, therefore, the fright of those children when they saw that shapeless ma.s.s.

Little Marie dropped the slice of bread and b.u.t.ter she held in her hand; while the little boy opened his mouth and could not close it again, being almost petrified by fear.

"Oh! oh! brother, do you see?" said little Marie at last, clinging to him and pointing to the object stretched out on the straw.

"Oh! oh! what a horrid beast!" said Fanfan, running behind his sister.

Then they ran at full speed to the house, uttering piercing shrieks which did not wake Dubourg, because the fatigue of the preceding night made his sleep very sound.

Bertrand had just kissed his Claudine, preparatory to going into the fields to work, when the two frightened, screaming children appeared.

"What's the matter?" said their papa; "why don't you speak, you rascals?"

The children were so panic-stricken that they could not speak coherently. At last, they cried in unison: