Sister Anne Part 52

"I doubt whether that emotion would make Sister Anne very happy."

"But it is impossible for me not to feel it. Tell me, isn't it strange that there should be such a resemblance?"

"Exceedingly strange, no doubt; but I fancy that it would be less striking to my eyes. I am no longer surprised at your leaving the little one in her woods. You have found her here, you see her, and listen to her--a pleasure that you did not enjoy when you were with her. You are privileged to gaze upon her every day, at your leisure; here, she has graces and talents which she did not have down yonder. It is extremely convenient. I congratulate you. I can understand that you don't need to bother your head about the one who is far away, in her cabin or on the hilltop, watching for you to come, since you can still be with her, without putting yourself out, and since she is more lovely and fascinating here than there."

There was an undercurrent of satire, of reproach, in Dubourg's tone that made Frederic lower his eyes.

"No," he said, with evident embarra.s.sment, "no, I will not desert Sister Anne. I shall certainly go to see her--I haven't forgotten her, for I think of her every day. Is it my fault that I find all her features in another woman's? On the contrary, isn't it a proof that I am always thinking of her? But really it is surprising; Mademoiselle de Valmont resembles her so closely--in spite of some slight differences--she is so sweet and kind! her voice moves me so deeply! Ah! I would like you to see Constance!"

Dubourg did not reply at once, and for some minutes there was silence between them. Dubourg broke it at last.

"Look you, Frederic, I confess that I am sorry that I saw that girl--that I saw her waiting for you and weeping."

"Why so?"

"Why? Because I imagine that I still see her, and, despite my heedlessness, I feel--it makes me unhappy. I am nothing more than a reckless chap, a libertine, a ne'er-do-well, if you please; but, after all, I prefer my way of loving to yours. With your great pa.s.sions, which are destined never to end, but which do end just like others, you wheedle inexperienced young hearts, sentimental women, who allow themselves to be touched by your sighs, your n.o.ble sentiments; they give themselves to you, and then--why, they weep and tear their hair over your inconstancy. Faith! I know none but women of easy virtue, grisettes or coquettes, who, if they're no better, are at least more lively. They deceive me, I deceive them, we deceive each other; it's all understood and accepted beforehand. But we don't rave about it; we weep only for sport; and when we fall out altogether, it doesn't make us melancholy. I agree that the ladies I speak of are not absolutely virtuous; but for an amourette, a caprice, should we seek that flower of pure sentiment, an inexperienced heart that knows love only from romantic novels in which it is always painted in colors that, while they may be very seductive, are altogether false? No; on the contrary, I think that it's barbarous to try to win a girl's whole heart, to inspire a great pa.s.sion, and then to leave your victim to waste her best days in tears and despair."

"Why do you say this to me? I still love Sister Anne; I am not unfaithful to her. Is it my fault that my father dragged me back to Paris all of a sudden? and that it has been impossible for me to absent myself since then? Most certainly I shall see her again, I shall not abandon her; she is still dear to me."

"Pshaw! Frederic, don't talk that humbug to me! Do you want to make me believe that my nose is crooked? I tell you, I'm an old hand, and I am not to be hoodwinked; indeed, I may have read your heart better than you have yourself. You no longer love Sister Anne, or at least you are no longer enamored of her; for you are burning now for this fascinating Constance, who is a perfect image of the poor dumb girl, except that she is taller and stouter, has darker eyes and a different complexion, and----"

"No, no, Dubourg! I swear that I am not in love with Constance; I love her--like a brother--but no word of love has ever pa.s.sed my lips."

"Well, I give you my word that that will soon come. Oh! it's of no use for you to look up at the sky; I tell you that you are in love with Mademoiselle Constance. I don't charge you with it as a crime; it's perfectly natural: she is pretty, she attracts you--and why not? But what I do blame is your prowling about in the woods after that poor little creature who has no knowledge of the world or men, and who yielded to your seductions and believed all your oaths, because they were the first oaths she had ever heard. What was wrong was your inspiring in her heart an exalted pa.s.sion, which will ruin her life, because she has nothing there in the woods to divert her thoughts. If, yielding to a sudden temptation, you had seduced her and then left her at once, the pain would have been sharp, but it wouldn't have lasted so long; she wouldn't have had time to love you so dearly; but you always have to run things into the ground. You abandon everything to live in the woods--in order not to be separated from her; for six weeks, you don't leave her for a single moment; you eat nuts together and lie on the gra.s.s; you would live on roots, if need be, in order to speak of love to her. How in the devil do you think that that can fail to turn her head? The girl has reached a point where she cannot do without you; she lives and breathes for you alone; she imagines that that sort of life will last forever; and then--presto! my gentleman vanishes; good-evening, it's all over! Weep, and tear your hair! you won't see him again.--But I have seen her, and I'm almighty sorry; for I fancy that I see her still, pale, dishevelled, walking without seeing, listening without hearing, and, absorbed by a single thought, keeping her tear-dimmed eyes fixed on the road by which he went away; then returning to her poor cabin, to weep on; and so again the next day, and forever!

And remember that she has not even the one poor consolation of the unhappy, the power to complain and pour her sorrows into a friend's bosom. That is what you have caused, and it isn't the n.o.blest chapter in your history. That is what you would have avoided if you had not followed the guidance of your romantic ideas, or if you had paid your addresses to women of the world only."

Frederic made no response; he seemed to be lost in thought.

"My friend," continued Dubourg, taking his hand, "I have told you just what I think; you ought not to be angry. Moreover, all that one can say to a lover never makes any difference; he always follows his own impulses solely. I know, too, that you cannot marry Sister Anne.

Parbleu! if a man had to marry all the charmers he has loved, I should have as many wives as King Solomon. I tell you simply that it gave me great pain to---- But, enough of that! I am none the less your friend, do with me as you will. Adieu! I am going to dine at a thirty-two-sou ordinary, because when a man has an income of sixteen hundred francs a year and wants to keep it, he doesn't go to Beauvilliers."

Long after Dubourg had gone, Frederic remained where he had left him, absorbed in his reflections. Argue as he would, Dubourg had opened his eyes to the state of his heart, and, although he still tried to delude himself, he knew that he was no longer the dumb girl's devoted, ardent, faithful lover, who was ready to sacrifice everything in order to pa.s.s his days with her.

It is hard for a man to admit his faults to himself, and even when he does he always finds some excuse to palliate his conduct, and says to himself that he could not have done otherwise. Especially in love do we reason thus, and the last pa.s.sion, being always the strongest, speedily vanquishes its predecessor.

Frederic, cudgelling his brains for some means of repairing the wrong he had done, said to himself:

"I will see Sister Anne again, I will not leave her to pa.s.s her life in a wretched hovel, cut off from all intercourse with society; I will buy her a pretty cottage, with a lovely garden, and some cows and sheep; I will surround her with everything that will make her life pleasant and happy; I will find some village girl, of her own age, to wait upon her, whose presence will enliven her; she will live there with old Marguerite, and she shall have everything that she needs; the sight of her neighbors, of the pa.s.sers-by, and of the people at work in the fields, with her own household cares, will drive away her melancholy; I will go to see her sometimes, and she will be happy."

Happy, without Frederic! No; to Sister Anne, that was impossible.

Comfort, even wealth, would not compensate her for the loss of her love; for Sister Anne was not brought up in Paris; she could not conceive that anyone could prefer diamonds and fine clothes to joys of the heart, or that a wrong could be atoned for with gold. Nor, five months earlier, could Frederic have conceived it; but as he could readily do so now, it was natural that he should believe that Sister Anne could do the same: we judge others' hearts by our own.

For several days, Frederic, tormented by what Dubourg had said to him, had the dumb girl's image constantly before his eyes; even when he was with Constance, his melancholy, which had at one time almost disappeared, seemed to weigh upon him more heavily than ever. The general and his niece had returned to Paris. Frederic was able to see Constance every day. But he trembled when he entered her presence, and she, though surprised by his dejection, dared not ask him the cause of it; but her eyes, when they met Frederic's, spoke for her, and revealed all the concern she felt for his secret sorrow, and often, too, her longing to know its cause.

In his desire to be relieved from his anxiety, and to have news of Sister Anne, Frederic several times urged Dubourg to go to Vizille, to see the poor girl and try to comfort her. But on that point Dubourg was immovable.

"I will not go," he said; "I saw her once, and that was quite enough. I have no desire to see her again, and then have unpleasant thoughts for six weeks--I, who never knew what such thoughts were. Besides, my presence would not comfort her; she wouldn't believe anything that I could say to her, because I lied to her once; so my journey would do no good and would not change her plight at all."

As he could not induce Dubourg to take the journey, Frederic decided to ask his father's permission to leave Paris for a fortnight. Not until after long hesitation did he determine upon that step; but his remorse was troublesome, he was constantly tormented by the memory of the poor mute, and he was persuaded that he would be calmer and less conscience-stricken after he had seen her.

For some time past, the count had treated his son most affectionately; convinced that he had entirely forgotten the person who had fascinated him during his stay in Dauphine, and having no doubt of his love for Mademoiselle de Valmont, the count had entirely laid aside his former sternness of manner with Frederic; he hoped soon to see the plan he had formed successfully carried out, being confident in advance of the general's consent; so that he was greatly surprised when his son asked his permission to leave Paris for a few days.

The Comte de Montreville's brow became clouded and severe, and Frederic, who was accustomed to tremble before his father, anxiously awaited his reply.

"Where do you want to go?" asked the count, after a brief silence.

Frederic attempted to stammer some pretext, but the count did not give him time.

"Don't try to beat about the bush; I don't like it. You are still thinking of a woman who interested you during your journey, and for whom, I know, you committed a thousand follies. I thought, I confess, that you had become reasonable; I thought that the memory of that fancy had long since vanished from your mind--I do not say from your heart, for the heart has no concern in such affairs."

"Ah! father, if you knew her!"

"Enough, monsieur! You do not propose to marry your conquest, I presume?

Still, it is possible that you have some wrongs to undo. I do not know this girl. Perhaps you are more culpable than I think; perhaps she whom you seduced, or led astray, is now cast off and abandoned through your fault, and is living in want. If her misfortunes can be mended with money, you may be sure that I will not spare it, monsieur; but I will attend to the business, not you."

"You, father?"

"Yes, monsieur, I; I shall be better able to arrange it than anyone else. So you need not leave Paris now. Besides," the count continued, after a moment's thought, "your presence here is indispensable. The general expects to marry his niece to a young colonel, who will probably arrive in Paris very soon."

"The general expects to marry his niece!" echoed Frederic. Already his features had a.s.sumed a different expression: sadness and melancholy were succeeded by violent emotion, a jealous perturbation which was manifest in his excited glance, and which made it impossible for him to remain seated. His voice trembled, and, as he questioned his father, it seemed as if his life or death hung upon the answer he was to receive.

"Yes," said the count, in an indifferent tone, pretending not to notice Frederic's state of mind, "yes; and, for my part, I see nothing surprising about it."

"And--this colonel is coming to Paris? Do you know him, father? Is he young? Is he supposed to be handsome? Mademoiselle de Valmont loves him, of course?"

"You don't think that I am in Mademoiselle de Valmont's confidence, do you? She met the colonel in society, I presume. I believe he's a young man of twenty-eight or thirty."

"Good-looking?"

"Oh! whether he's good-looking or ugly, isn't an honorable man always attractive?"

"And this marriage is all arranged?"

"So it seems."

"And Mademoiselle Constance has never mentioned it to me!"

"Why on earth should she have told you beforehand of something that a well-bred young woman never mentions?"

"Oh! of course--I had no claim--there was no reason why I should know--and still, I should have thought----"

"Besides, it is possible that the general hasn't mentioned his plans to his niece as yet."

"And this is the reason why I must stay in Paris?"

"To be sure; at such times, there are innumerable details to be attended to--clothes and presents and wedding festivities; the general, being accustomed to camp life, knows nothing about such things; a bachelor always needs advice, and he relies on you to help him."

"Indeed! that's very kind of him; I am highly flattered that he considers me good enough for that."