Sister Anne Part 63

Menard returned to his tiny lodging, reviewing in his mind all the delicious dishes he had eaten. Dubourg was no sooner outside the house than he began to jump and run like a schoolboy who is no longer under the master's eye. Frederic and Constance were happy. Annoying witnesses were no longer present to curb the transports of their affection.

Company is a burden to lovers, and they await impatiently solitude and mystery. At last, Frederic was permitted to take his wife away; on the wedding night, a husband is a lover who abducts his mistress.

XXVI

SISTER ANNE BECOMES A MOTHER.--HER LONG STAY AT THE FARM

Sister Anne was still at the farmhouse where the Comte de Montreville left her; for it is no longer a secret to us that the stranger whom she had rescued from the robbers' hovel was Frederic's father, then returning from Vizille, where he had been to inquire concerning the fate of the girl whom his son had abandoned. He had found no one in the cabin in the woods but the old shepherd, who did not know in what direction Sister Anne had gone. To all the count's questions, he could make no other answer than:

"She's gone away; she insisted on going; I don't know where she's gone."

On leaving the woods, the count had visited the outskirts of Gren.o.ble, and was on his way back to Lyon when his carriage was stopped in the forest.

Sister Anne, despite her longing to continue her journey, realized that she was in no condition to travel; the moment of her delivery was drawing near, when she could press to her heart the fruit of her love.

That thought diminished her suffering to some extent; the hope of seeing her child diverted her thoughts at times from her troubles, and everyone at the farm strove to restore her peace of mind and to bring back a smile to her lips. They were worthy people, who took the most affectionate interest in the poor girl. Even without recompense, they would have been no less kind to her; but money does no harm, and the sum the Comte de Montreville had given them, when he requested them to continue to take care of Sister Anne, was considerable, according to their ideas.

The dumb girl, realizing that her stay among them must be long, offered them the purse that the old gentleman had given her just before he went away; but they would take nothing from her.

"Keep the money," said the farmer's wife; "keep it, my child; that excellent man you saved from the robbers paid for everything; in fact, he paid us too much. We didn't need that to be kind to you; you're so pretty and sweet and unfortunate! Poor little woman! I can make a guess at your situation. Some man abused your innocence and inexperience; he deceived you, and then dropped you! That's the story of most young girls who haven't got any father and mother to protect 'em from the snares those fine fellows lay for 'em. Don't cry, my child; I'm a long way from blaming you; you're less to blame than other women! But the man who deserted you's the one as ought to be punished. The idea of leaving you, in the condition you're in! he must be a hard-hearted wretch!"

When she heard that, Sister Anne made a hasty gesture as if to prevent the farmer's wife from saying any more; she put her finger on her lips and shook her head vigorously, evidently to deny what the woman had said.

"Well, well!" said the farmer's wife; "she don't want me to speak ill of him! she still loves him! That's just like a woman: always ready to make excuses for the man that does 'em the most harm. But don't you be worried about the future, my child; stay with us; we'll love you like our own daughter and take good care of you. You're out of reach of want forever here."

Sister Anne pressed her hand affectionately, but her eyes refused to make a promise which her heart had no intention of keeping. Frederic was still supreme in that ardent heart, and the girl did not renounce the hope of finding him.

A short time after the stranger's departure, Sister Anne, remembering that he had given her a paper, took it from the purse and carried it to the farmer's wife, being anxious to know what was written on it. The woman read: _Comte de Montreville_, _Rue de Provence_, _Paris_. There was nothing else on the paper, and Sister Anne had no suspicion that it was Frederic's father's name, for her lover had never mentioned his family name in her presence. But she was overjoyed when the farmer's wife read _Paris;_ she tried to make her understand that that was where she wanted to go; then she carefully replaced the paper in the purse.

"That's the gentleman's address," said her hostess; "I tell you, he ain't like most men; he's grateful, and he won't ever forget what you did for him. I'm sure he'd give you a kind reception, if you should go to Paris; but what would you do in that big city? Take my advice, my child, and stay with us; you'll be happier here."

Sister Anne was overjoyed to possess that paper with the name of the city to which she meant to go some day. With it, she could make herself understood, and she thanked heaven for that gift, which would enable her to find that wonderful Paris where she hoped to find her lover as well.

After she had been two months at the farm, Sister Anne brought a son into the world. With what delirious joy did she contemplate her child!

with what transports did she listen to his first cries! One must have been a mother to understand the perfect bliss of that moment. Already she fancied that she could recognize Frederic's features in her child's; she gazed at him incessantly and covered him with kisses; her son was never out of her arms; weak as she was, she nursed him herself. The farmer's wife did not try to thwart her desire, for it is a source of ever-recurring delight to a mother, and Sister Anne seemed to enjoy it more keenly than another. She was so proud and happy when she held her child to her breast, that she forgot her sorrows for the moment. She did not forget Frederic, but her heart was no longer oppressed by sombre melancholy; the sight of her child often brought a smile to her lips; she felt that for her son a mother can endure everything.

Some weeks after her confinement, Sister Anne manifested a wish to resume her journey; but the good people at the farm remonstrated with her.

"Can you think of such a thing," said the farmer's wife, "as starting on a journey, with a child at the breast? Remember that you don't expose your own life only, but his too. Do you suppose that if you set out in search of new dangers and fatigue, he'll be able to get nourishment from your breast? No, it isn't possible; the child will soon get sick and die, if you persist in your plan."

Endanger her son's life! that thought made the dumb girl shudder. There was no sacrifice she would not make for her child; it was a very great one to postpone her journey; but what the farmer's wife had said instantly decided her to remain at the farm until her son could no longer feel the effects of his mother's trials and sorrows.

"Good, good! you are going to stay," said the good woman, reading in Sister Anne's eyes that she would not insist. "That's right, my child; you are sensible. In a year, or a year and a half, if your son is strong enough, then we'll see; but till then you mustn't think of travelling."

Sister Anne had made up her mind, and, although she still thought of Frederic, she devoted her whole attention to her child. As the result of her unremitting care, she had the joy of seeing him grow larger and stronger every day; his cheeks glowed with health, his lips wore a sweet smile, and his little arms seemed to embrace with grat.i.tude her who had given him life.

By writing before her hosts the name of Frederic, Sister Anne had succeeded in making them understand that this was the name she wished to give her son. They called him by no other name, and the young mother felt a fresh thrill of joy every time that that name fell upon her ear; how much greater her joy would be when her child should answer to it!

She had been at the farm six months, when a courier arrived with a package containing twenty-five louis and a note from the Comte de Montreville to the farmer and his wife. In the note, he once more commended the young woman to their care, and informed them that he would send them a like sum for her every six months.

The farmer's wife lost no time in telling Sister Anne what Monsieur de Montreville had done for her, and the poor girl's eyes filled with tears of grat.i.tude.

"What an excellent man!" said the farmer's wife. "I was sure he wouldn't forget you. _Morgue!_ I tell you once more, if the fancy to go to Paris should take you again by and by, you must go to this gentleman's house right away. _Dame!_ my child, he's a count, you see, a n.o.bleman, a powerful man. He seems to be very rich, too; and if your seducer's in Paris, he'll soon find him for you; and perhaps he'll give him such good advice that he'll induce him not to leave you again."

Sister Anne signified that she agreed with the farmer's wife, and that she would do all that she suggested. Then she compelled her to accept the money sent by the count, and was much happier in the thought that she was not a burden to the good people who treated her so kindly.

The weeks and months pa.s.sed. Sister Anne fairly idolized her son. He filled the place of all that she had lost; in him, she saw once more the brother who was so dear to her, and whose death caused her such a fatal shock; she saw Frederic too; his features were reproduced in his son's.

She sought to antic.i.p.ate the child's slightest desires; she watched his glance, his smile; and her touching devotion made the time since she had seen her lover, and that which was still to pa.s.s before she could hope to see him again, seem less long to her.

Little Frederic promised to have the beauty and the sweet temper of her who gave him life; he had already learned to lisp that name which is so sweet to a mother's ear, and Sister Anne realized how essential it was that he should not be deprived of the care and thought that were so freely bestowed on him at the farm. If he knew no one but her, the poor child would never speak; for speech is an art in which a teacher is necessary.

The count sent a second remittance at the time he had fixed. His messenger inquired concerning the dumb girl's condition and the health of her child, and urged Sister Anne not to leave the farm, where she led a peaceful life and could devote all her care to her son.

But Sister Anne did not renounce her desire to go to Paris. Despite the remonstrances of the farmer's wife, she was determined to resort to every means of finding Frederic. Her love for her son did not lessen her regret at her separation from her lover; on the contrary, it seemed that, as she contemplated the child's beauty, she felt a most intense longing to present him to his father.

"If he should see him," she thought, "could he help loving him? No; and then he would not dream of parting from me again."

Little Frederic was twenty months old. He had long since ceased to receive nourishment at his mother's breast. He was beginning to take his first steps; every day he walked more steadily. Sister Anne guided him and held him up; she watched the growth of his strength and his faculties. Like the gardener, who observes the changes that the night has wrought in his young plants, a mother observes each day with delight the changes that denote her child's progress.

Being at ease in her mind concerning the boy's health, and ensured against want by the sum the count had given her when he went away; moreover, having no doubt that on her arrival in Paris she would find in him a protector and a friend--Sister Anne determined to undertake the journey, and one morning she showed the farmer's wife the paper the count had left with her. That was to announce her purpose.

Again her hosts tried to induce her to change her resolution, but this time Sister Anne was immovable; she was determined to leave them and go to Paris; her heart told her that she would find Frederic there.

"Why do you take your child?" said the farmer's wife; "leave him with us; you know how dearly we love him."

But Sister Anne could not comprehend a mother's parting from her child for a single instant; she pressed him to her heart, and signified that she would never leave him.

"At least," said the good woman, "as you're bent on going to Paris, you won't go on foot, like a beggar. I'll take you in my wagon to Lyon, and there I'll put you into a diligence that will take you and your child to the end of your journey. When you get there, just show the address you've got, and they'll show you the way to the Comte de Montreville's.

That gentleman won't turn you away; and when you want to come back to us, he'll find a way to send you back."

Sister Anne expressed as best she could her grat.i.tude for all the kindness she had received. The journey being determined on, they turned their attention to the preparations. The villagers bought the young mother linen and clothes and everything that her son needed; they even tried to force money on her; but her purse contained fifty louis; that seemed an enormous sum to her, and much more than sufficient to live on for an indefinite time in Paris, even if the Comte de Montreville should not help her. She refused to accept any more, and the clothes in which she was dressed seemed magnificent to her in comparison with those she had worn in her woods. Her heart throbbed joyfully when she looked at her simple and tasteful costume, which was that of a young farmer's wife of Dauphine.

"He'll think me prettier than before," she thought; "perhaps he'll love me more."

All the preparations were completed; the farmer's wife had her horse hitched to the wagon, in which she took her place beside Sister Anne, who held her son in her lap. They started early in the morning, and arrived at Lyon the same evening. The farmer's wife engaged a seat for the young mother in the diligence which was to start for Paris the next day, and recommended her to the conductor, so that he would keep an eye on her during the journey.

The hour for their departure arrived: not without abundant tears did the kind-hearted peasant part from the dumb girl and little Frederic.

"You would leave us, my child," she said; "I'm very much afraid you're making a mistake. You're going to an enormous city. People there won't be so much interested in you as the folks in our village are. But don't forget us. Send us word how you're getting along, through Monsieur de Montreville, who seems to be very fond of you; and if the time should ever come when you're miserable and unhappy, why, come right back to us; you'll always be as welcome as a child of our own."

Sister Anne kissed the good woman affectionately; then, with her son in her arms, she entered the carriage that was to take her to Paris.

XXVII