"Do you know it?"
"Yes, monsieur; my mother"s told it to me more than once; everybody in our village knows it."
"Tell me the story; tell me all you know about Sister Anne; speak, my friend, and be sure not to forget anything."
As he spoke, Frederic put a silver coin in the boy"s hand; he was much surprised to be paid for such a simple thing, and artlessly began his story, of which Frederic, walking close beside him, did not lose a word.
X
SISTER ANNE"S STORY
"Sister Anne"s mother was a lady named Clotilde, who was sweet and pretty, so they say. She belonged to a rich family, and wasn"t brought up like a peasant girl; she knew ever so much, but she and her husband came and lived in our village. Folks said it was a love match, and that Clotilde chose to have her lover and a cottage instead of the fine house she could have had with another husband.
"Clotilde and her husband lived happily for some time in our village; they had a daughter first, little Anne, who was as pretty as her mother--but you"ve seen her, haven"t you, monsieur?
"Four years after, they had another child, a boy; and they were very glad, and the little girl never left her little brother. But, before long, the poor things had lots of trouble: a big storm beat down their crops, so they lost them; and poor Clotilde was taken sick. Then her husband couldn"t see any other way to support his wife and children but to enlist. So he sold himself as a subst.i.tute, gave all the money to Clotilde, and went away.
""Take good care of our poor children," he says to her.
"Clotilde felt so bad to have her husband go away that she couldn"t do anything for a long time, and little Anne took the whole care of her brother, because she loved him with all her heart. Her mother used to say to her:
""Take good care of your brother; perhaps he won"t have anybody but you to support him before long."
"A whole year pa.s.sed. Clotilde"s husband used to write often at first, but all of a sudden his letters stopped. There had been a battle--for in those days they were fighting all the time.
"Poor Clotilde"s husband was killed. The folks in the neighborhood heard of it, but no one was brave enough to tell her; and Clotilde kept expecting to hear from him long after he was dead.
"Every day, the poor woman used to go to the top of a hill, where you can see the road a long way in the direction of Gren.o.ble; that was the way she expected to see her husband come. She often pa.s.sed whole days sitting at the foot of a tree, looking at the road where she saw her dear husband the last time.
"When anybody saw Clotilde there, they"d try to comfort her by talking about her children, but she"d say in a sad voice:
""Anne is with her brother; she never leaves him; she"ll be a second mother to him."
"You see, the little girl was only seven years old, but she surprised the whole village by her intelligence and her loving care of her brother. The poor little fellow didn"t see anybody but her most of the day, but he always had all he wanted. His Sister Anne dressed him, put him to sleep, played with him, and tried to guess what he was going to want; so her name, Sister Anne, was the first word he ever spoke, and everybody in the village called her that, and spoke of her as a model of sisterly affection; she has gone by that name ever since.
"One day, Clotilde went out as usual, to go where she always used to go, and left Sister Anne with her brother. Their mother didn"t come back at the usual time. The little boy kept on playing, but his sister kept looking out into the fields and saying:
""Why don"t mamma come?"
"When the night came, Clotilde hadn"t come home. If Anne had been alone, she would have gone to the village and all around, to ask if anyone had seen her mother. But she couldn"t leave her brother; he was a treasure that had been given to her to take care of, and she couldn"t think of leaving him for an instant. At last, the poor girl decided to put her brother to bed, for he was only three years old and needed his sleep; then she sat down by his bed to wait for their mother. Every minute she suffered more and more; she couldn"t help crying, and she kept saying to herself:
""Why don"t mamma come? O mon Dieu! she can"t have deserted us!"
"To make it all the harder for her, a terrible storm came up. The thunder made a frightful uproar, and Sister Anne was awfully afraid of it; so she put her head into her brother"s cradle and called to her mother to come and save them.
"All of a sudden, there was a frightful crash that startled the whole village. Sister Anne was dazed by it, and didn"t dare to open her eyes for some time. But when she did open them, and looked around, the cottage was filled with thick smoke. The poor girl looked to see where it could come from. The smoke got thicker every minute. Anne ran toward the window, but couldn"t get to it on account of the flames. The lightning had struck the roof and set it on fire, and the two poor children were surrounded by flames on all sides.
"Then the girl thought of nothing but her brother; she took him out of the cradle and ran all around the room, shrieking at the top of her voice. But the danger was increasing all the time, and she lost her strength; the smoke suffocated her; she tried to keep on calling, but she couldn"t.
"Everybody in the village ran to the cottage, of course, monsieur. They couldn"t save the house, but they must save the children, anyway. They succeeded, by taking great risks, in getting into Sister Anne"s room.
They found her with her brother under their mother"s bed; she was holding him tight against her breast, trying to save him from death; but it was no use; the poor little fellow was dead! Sister Anne had only fainted, and they succeeded in bringing her back to life.--But just imagine how surprised and grieved everybody was, monsieur, when they found that the terrible shock had made her dumb!--She opened her mouth, but could only make a sort of low, moaning noise. Since then, the poor girl has never spoken a word!"
"Great G.o.d!" cried Frederic; "poor child! so that is the cause of the melancholy expression of her lovely face!"
"Yes, monsieur," resumed the boy; "Sister Anne is dumb; all that has been done since then to make her able to speak hasn"t done any good. The city doctors said that the horrible fright, and her agony at seeing her brother die and not being able to save him, had taken away the power of speech, and that the same kind of shock might give it back to her, perhaps, but nothing else could. But the poor little girl still had a heart to feel her sorrow; she succeeded in making people understand all she had suffered. For ever so many years, she mourned for her brother and her mother; for poor Clotilde gave way to her grief the same night that was so fatal to her children, and they found her dead on top of the mountain, at the foot of the tree.
"The burning of the little cottage deprived Anne of her only place of shelter. But everybody in the village subscribed to help her; and a good woman named Marguerite, who lives in a little cabin in the woods, near the valley, took her in and adopted her. Marguerite was poor, too; but with the money collected from the richest people in the village, Anne bought a cow and a number of goats.
"For several years, she didn"t seem able to do any kind of work. She pa.s.sed her days sitting on the bank of a brook, or in the woods; she didn"t listen to what anyone said to her, and couldn"t seem to do anything but grieve for her father and mother and brother; but she got partly over her grief in time, and now she"s more calm and resigned; she seems to appreciate what people do for her; she works like any country girl, and shows the greatest respect for Marguerite, who is very old and never leaves her cabin. Sister Anne is sweet and good and tender-hearted now, as she always used to be. She even smiles sometimes, but her smile is always sad. If she sees a little boy of her brother"s age, it makes her excited and unhappy, and her eyes fill with tears. If you"ve seen her, monsieur, you know how pretty she is. She"s sixteen now; even if she can"t talk, she can make herself understood; her gestures mean so much, and her eyes speak so plain! We all understand her as easy as can be. But, for all that, it"s a great pity she can"t talk; for all the women say it would do her a lot of good."
"Poor child!" said Frederic; "yes, it is a great pity, indeed! How soft and sweet her voice would be! how I would have liked to hear it! But her misfortune makes her even more interesting in my eyes.--And you say that she lives in the woods?"
"Yes, monsieur; but it"s easy enough to find old Marguerite"s cabin. If you take the path to the left from the one where the willows are, you"ll come to a clearing; then go down a low hill, and the cabin is in front of you."
"Very good, my boy; thank you."
"But here you are at Gren.o.ble; you don"t need me any more, do you, monsieur?"
"No, my boy; here, take this with the other, for your trouble."
"Thank you very much, monsieur; if you ever need anyone in the village to help you, my name"s Julien, and I"d be glad to work for you."
"Very well; I will remember."
The two hors.e.m.e.n dismounted; the young guide took their place, doffed his cap to the travellers, and rode away at a footpace. Frederic, musing upon all that he had heard, walked in silence beside his two companions, who, as they entered Gren.o.ble, were discussing the proper way to serve a _canard aux olives_--a discussion in which they had been engaged for some time, Dubourg insisting upon the method in vogue in Bretagne, and Menard immovable in the principles he had learned from the _Cuisinier Royal_.
On reaching the inn, they retired to take the rest of which they stood in need after so tiresome a day. But Frederic could not sleep; the dumb girl"s face was constantly in his thoughts; he thought of her misfortune, of the pathetic story he had heard, and he said to himself:
"How dearly she loved her brother! What a loving heart! How she will love, when love makes itself known to her! What pleasure to awaken love in her heart! to read in her lovely eyes, which fill the place so well of the organ she has lost!"
This thought kept Frederic busy all night. At daybreak, he rose, and, leaving his companions to enjoy the repose which he could not obtain, left the inn, ordered a horse, and galloped away toward Vizille.
XI
A DAY IN THE WOODS
Love is the G.o.d who most agreeably employs our leisure; he scoffs at distances and disarranges time. A lover is never bored, even when he is not favored. Memories, schemes, hopes, afford constant occupation to a loving heart. Love is the G.o.d of all countries and of all cla.s.ses; he finds his way into the humble cottage as well as into the palace. Love is as sweet on the heather as on the softest cushions; indeed, some persons go so far as to maintain that love is truer in the country than in the city; it ought, at all events, to be more natural there. The mountaineer, the woodchopper, the ploughman, may not devote his time to the fine arts, to financial schemes, to political intrigues; but everybody is at liberty to love, luckily for the human race. Some author, I know not who, has said with much truth: "The happiest time of a man"s life is that which he spends paying court to his mistress."
What a pity it is that this time is so short! It is probably to renew their happiness that men change mistresses so often. Women do not treat love so lightly. It is their life"s history, while with us it is only a romance.
Frederic soon arrived at the valley where there was dancing the night before, and which was now as peaceful and quiet as the whole neighborhood. A few laboring men pa.s.sed, on their way to work; here and there, a peasant could be seen in the fields. In the country, the evening"s enjoyment does not impair the morrow"s toil; the good people find their diversion in talking over the pleasures of the holiday, which will not return for a year; but the time will pa.s.s quickly to them: they know so well how to employ it.