Sister Anne and her son continued to occupy the pavilion in the garden. She went out very rarely, and then only to walk in the paths that were near by. She did not go near the house; she was afraid of meeting FrÉdÉric again, although her heart still burned for him with the same ardent flame.

Nor did FrÉdÉric dare to go near the pavilion; his wife's conduct, ever since the day that he embraced the dumb girl, had left no doubt in his mind that it was she who had uttered that cry of which he had unavailingly sought the author. If Constance had seen him at Sister Anne's feet, what could she think of his promises? Of course, she believed now that she was not the sole object of his love. He was often tempted to throw himself at her feet, to assure her that he adored her still; but, in that case, he must confess that he had broken his word; and suppose his wife did not know it, after all! In his uncertainty, FrÉdÉric held his peace, hoping, by keeping a close watch upon himself, to dispel the suspicions which were devouring Constance's heart in secret.

Constance did not leave the house; she did not even go into the garden. Her face was careworn, her cheeks had lost their color; she tried in vain to smile; the melancholy that was eating her heart away betrayed itself in every act. She was still as sweet and amiable as ever; she seemed to appreciate her husband's attentions, and, noticing that he never went into the garden, she often urged him to do so.

"Why do you wish me to leave you?" said FrÉdÉric; "can I be as happy elsewhere as I am with you?"

Whereupon Constance lovingly pressed his hand and turned away to conceal a tear. She had the scene in the arbor constantly before her eyes; she saw her husband pressing Sister Anne to his heart; she believed that she no longer possessed his love, and persuaded herself that he was unhappy because he no longer saw the dumb girl, but that he was sacrificing himself for her peace of mind. That cruel thought was the source of the keenest torture to her heart,—torture the more painful because she strove to conceal it.

"Things can't go on like this," Dubourg often said to FrÉdÉric. "Your wife is changing perceptibly, and the poor dumb girl's melancholy is enough to break one's heart. Morbleu! if these two women remain together, both of them will very soon die of consumption."

"What can I do? Is not Sister Anne's fate absolutely in Constance's hands? When I attempt to speak to her about it, she closes my mouth, or else declares again that she doesn't choose to send her away."

"It's very embarrassing, on my word," said MÉnard; "and if I were in my pupil's place, I know what I would do."

"Well, what would you do?" queried Dubourg.

"Pardieu! I would do as he does—not know what to do."

A very simple occurrence was destined to effect a revolution in FrÉdÉric's household: one morning, the Comte de Montreville, having at last shaken off the gout, arrived at his son's country house.

Dubourg, although he had no idea that the count knew Sister Anne, was pleased by his arrival, because he felt sure that his presence would compel FrÉdÉric to take some decisive step. FrÉdÉric was terribly disturbed when his father appeared, having as yet had no explanation with him. Should he tell him the truth—that the dumb girl was under his roof? But, before he was left alone with the count, Constance made him promise that he would not mention Sister Anne; for she thought that the count was ignorant of his son's wrong-doing, and she did not want him to know of it at all.

The Comte de Montreville had been anxious for a long while concerning the fate of the young woman who had saved his life. His last messenger had brought him the intelligence that she had left the farm, intending to go to Paris. As she did not appear at his house, he had caused a search to be made for her, but to no purpose; he had no idea what could have become of her.

On arriving at his son's house, the count was at once impressed by Constance's melancholy and dejection. He inquired anxiously concerning the cause of the change; the young woman tried to evade his questions, on the pretext that she was slightly indisposed; but the old man was sharp-eyed: he saw that some mystery was being hidden from him, and he determined to fathom it. His son was embarrassed in his presence. MÉnard avoided him as if he were afraid of being reprimanded for something. Dubourg alone appeared delighted by his arrival. Everything seemed to indicate that something extraordinary was taking place in the house.

As Constance knew that Monsieur de Montreville was accustomed, when he was at Montmorency, to go to the pavilion in the garden to read, she lost no time in informing him that a young woman and her son, of whom she had taken charge, were quartered there. The count asked no questions; he was far from suspecting that that young woman was the one he had been seeking so long: he certainly did not expect to find her under his son's roof.

On the day after his arrival, the count rose early, as usual, and went into the garden. He walked toward the pavilion, and not until he was about to enter did he remember what Constance had told him the day before. He turned away, and was walking in another direction, when a child came out of the pavilion and ran toward him; in a moment, another person had seized his hand and pressed it to her heart. The Comte de Montreville was surprised beyond expression when he found himself in the presence of the dumb girl and her son.

Sister Anne had seen the count from her window as he came toward the pavilion; she recognized him instantly; her protector's features were engraved on her memory. When he turned away, she at once ran after him. The poor girl did her best to express the pleasure she felt at seeing him again; and he was a long while recovering from his amazement.

"You here!" he said, at last; "who took you in? Do you know that the young woman who has given you shelter is FrÉdÉric's wife—your seducer's wife?"

Sister Anne explained by signs that she did know it, that she had seen FrÉdÉric, and that it was Constance who insisted that she should live in that pavilion.

Every instant added to the count's bewilderment. As he could not obtain from the dumb girl all the information he desired, he was intensely anxious to see his son.

"Go back to the pavilion," he said to Sister Anne; "you will soon leave it. You have been here only too long. Go, my poor child; I will see you again soon."

Sister Anne obeyed; she returned to the pavilion with her son, whom the count could not refrain from embracing tenderly.

FrÉdÉric dreaded just what had happened; he trembled lest his father should meet Sister Anne, and was on the point of going to him to tell him the truth, when the count appeared before him; his stern expression announced that it was too late to warn him.

"I have just seen the person who is living in the pavilion in the garden," said the count, watching his son closely; "and I am no longer surprised at the depression, the great change, which I have noticed in your wife's whole appearance. Unhappy man! so this is the recompense of her love! of her virtues! You permit the woman you seduced to live under the same roof as your wife!"

"I am not to blame in this," said FrÉdÉric; and he told his father how his wife had taken in the dumb girl and her child during his absence; how she had become attached to the unfortunate creature; and everything that had happened on his return.

The count listened in silence to FrÉdÉric's story.

"So your wife knows all!" he said; "she knows that you are that girl's seducer, the father of her child; and she insists that she shall continue to live in your house?"

"Her purpose at first was to send her away, to take her and the child to one of our estates, where she would have everything that her comfort and welfare required; the day for their departure was fixed. I have no idea why she changed her mind, but now she insists that Sister Anne shall not go."

"And you can't divine the reason? My son, such conduct is too extraordinary not to have some secret cause. It is not natural that a wife who loves, yes, adores her husband, should want to keep by her side her rival, or, at all events, the woman he once loved and may love again. But Constance has a soul capable of sacrificing everything, of immolating itself for your happiness! Ought you to allow that? Don't you see how she has changed? She conceals her tears from you, but she can't conceal her pallor, the suffering that is working havoc on her lovely features. There is not a minute in the day when she is not thinking that you are under the same roof as the mother of your son; that you can see her, speak to her."

"Oh! I swear to you, father, that I never——"

"I am glad to believe you; but your wife is in a cruel position. To-morrow, your victim will no longer be under your eyes."

"What! father!"

"Do you disapprove of my determination?"

"I? oh, no! far from it. No; I realize all that I owe you. Surely I do not need to commend that poor creature—and my son—to your care!"

"No, monsieur; I know what my duty is; your wife's beneficent intentions shall be carried out. Indeed, do you suppose that that young woman is indifferent to me, or that her son has no claim upon my heart? Because it is no longer subject to the ardent passions of youth, do you think that it is closed to all sentiment? Let me restore peace of mind and repose to your wife; and do you restore her happiness, if possible, by redoubling your devotion and your love. That is the way to atone for your wrong-doing, FrÉdÉric, and to pay me for all that I propose to do for Sister Anne and her son."

FrÉdÉric shed tears upon his father's hand. The count left him, to go to Constance; he did not mention the dumb girl to her, but, as he looked into her face, he felt that he admired her and loved her more than ever. Constance did not know to what she should attribute the marks of affection which the count, usually so cold, took pleasure in lavishing upon her; she could not divine the explanation of them. She believed that he was ignorant of his son's fault.

The count sent his servant to Paris, with orders to have a post chaise with two good horses at the garden gate the next morning at daybreak. He proposed to accompany Sister Anne, and he went to the pavilion to tell her what he had determined upon.

His frequent going and coming led Dubourg to conclude that the count had some project in contemplation.

"We shall have a change here," he said to MÉnard; "God grant that it may restore happiness and pleasure to this house!"

"It certainly hasn't been very gay here of late," said MÉnard; "madame la comtesse sighs, my pupil is preoccupied, the dumb girl says nothing; and I can hardly recognize you yourself, my dear Dubourg."

"Well! how do you expect me to be in high spirits, when I see that all the people I love are unhappy? In spite of my philosophy, I am not insensible to my friends' suffering."

"You're like me; I think of it all day long."

"Indeed! but it doesn't take away your appetite."

"Would you have me make myself ill, to cheer them up?"

"You're not likely to; you're getting to be a regular ball!"

"That fool of a cook gives us beefsteak every day; how can I help growing fat?"

"I expect great things from the arrival of FrÉdÉric's father; he has been to the pavilion and seen Sister Anne, and a change is coming, I am sure of it."

"Ah! do you think that we shan't have any more beefsteaks?"

"Really, Monsieur MÉnard, you weren't born to live in France; you ought to take up your abode in Switzerland, where they eat all day."

"I was born, monsieur, to live anywhere; and when you called yourself Baron Potoski, you had a pretty knack of squandering our funds with your three-course dinners; but I won't say of you: Quantum mutatus ab illo, because I noticed you at table yesterday; you ate all the tunny, and when I wanted some more it was all gone."

"Tunny is very indigestible, Monsieur MÉnard; it isn't good for you."

"I beg you, monsieur, not to worry about my health, and to leave some tunny for me at the next opportunity. You will see that, old as I am, I can steer clear of indigestion if I choose!"

While those whom he left in the house lost themselves in conjectures, the count walked through the garden to the pavilion. It was dark when he was ready to tell Sister Anne what he proposed to do. Her room was on the first floor; he hesitated a moment before he went upstairs to the woman who had saved his life.

"Poor child!" he said to himself; "I am going to deal her a heavy blow. I must take her away from FrÉdÉric; I must separate them forever; but I am simply doing my duty, and her heart is too pure not to feel that she must think first of all of the peace of mind, yes, the life, of the woman who saved her and her son from the horrors of starvation, and who has taken pleasure in heaping kindnesses upon her."

The old man entered the dumb girl's room; at sight of him, she rose and ran to meet him; one could read in her eyes the respect and affection that she felt for him. The count was touched to the heart; he looked at her for several minutes in silence; but he felt that he must say at once what he had to say, so that she might be ready at dawn.

"My child," he said, "I told you this morning that you cannot, you must not, remain any longer in this house; your presence here will in the end be fatal to her who rescued you. Constance loves her husband dearly; do you wish to rob her of repose and happiness forever? She conceals the torments she is suffering; but I have read her inmost thoughts. You surely do not wish to cause the death of the woman who saved your son?"

Sister Anne, by a most eloquent gesture, signified that she was prepared to sacrifice herself for Constance.

"Very well," continued the count; "then you must go away, you must leave this place—to-morrow at daybreak—without seeing your benefactress. I will undertake to tell her all that your heart would impel you to say to her. You must not see any of this household again; it is unnecessary. There is one person in particular—but I need not urge upon you the necessity of taking every precaution to avoid meeting him."

Sister Anne was overwhelmed with grief. To go away so suddenly, without any preparation! to go without seeing him, and forever! Her courage failed her, and the tears gushed from her eyes.

The count went to her and took her hand.

"Poor child!" he said; "this sudden departure grieves you, but it must be; under such circumstances, every minute's delay is a crime. I tear you away from this house, but I have a right to be harsh. Courage, dear child! It is FrÉdÉric's father, whom you saved from the knives of the brigands, it is he who asks you to sacrifice yourself once more, for his son's good."

These words produced upon the dumb girl all the effect that the count anticipated; on learning that he was her lover's father, she fell at his knees, and with clasped hands seemed to implore his forgiveness.

"Rise, rise," he said, kissing her on the forehead; "unfortunate girl! would to God that I could give you back your happiness! At all events, you may be assured of a comfortable home, and your son's future is provided for. I am going to take you to a farm, which I propose to give you; there is a pretty little cottage connected with it, where you will live, attended by faithful servants who will love you dearly. There you will bring up your son; I will come often to share your retirement, and before long, I hope, peace and tranquillity will have returned to your heart."

Sister Anne listened, and was ready to obey; she had no hope of being happy again, but her eyes seemed to say:

"Do with me as you will; I am ready to abide by your slightest wish."

"Until to-morrow, then," said the count; "I will come for you at daybreak; I want to be away before anybody in the house is astir. A comfortable carriage will be ready for us at the garden gate. Make all your preparations to-night; they need not be long, for you will find in your new home everything that you and your son will require. Au revoir, dear child; be brave! At daybreak I shall be with you."

The count took his leave, and Sister Anne was alone; her son was asleep; it was night, the last night that she was to pass near FrÉdÉric. She must go away from him—fly from him forever. That thought overwhelmed her. She sat, perfectly motionless, on a chair beside her son's cradle; a single thought absorbed all her faculties: she must go away from him whom her heart had ached to find, whom she idolized, and who, in the arbor, had acted as if he loved her still; she must go away from him; the peace of mind, the existence, of her benefactress demanded that terrible sacrifice.

The last hours that she was to pass in the house seemed to fly with unexampled rapidity. Engrossed by these thoughts, she had done nothing toward preparing for her departure. The village clock struck twelve, and the dumb girl still sat beside her son's cradle, in the same position in which the count had left her.

The mournful clang of the bell roused her from her reverie; she rose, and made a small bundle of her clothes; her preparations were soon completed, and there were still several hours before the dawn. Should she try to sleep? no; she knew that it would be in vain! But what thought is this that makes her heart beat fast? Everybody in the house is asleep; suppose she should take advantage of her last remaining moments to go a little nearer to him! She did not propose to see him, for she knew that that would be a breach of her promise to the count and of her duty to her benefactress. But she could go, without FrÉdÉric's knowledge, to bid him a last farewell; she knew which were the windows of his room; it seemed to her that she should go away a little less unhappy, and that FrÉdÉric might perhaps hear her whispered farewell in his sleep.

She hesitated no longer; she put her bundles on a chair and placed her candle on the hearth. Her son was sleeping soundly; she leaned over and looked at him, and shed tears upon his pillow at the thought that she was soon to take him away from his father.

Everything was perfectly quiet, as she stole noiselessly from the pavilion. It was a dark night, but she was familiar with the garden. Like a shadow, her feet barely touching the earth, she glided swiftly along the paths, until at last she reached the house. FrÉdÉric's apartment was on the first floor, at the right; she knelt under his windows, she held out her arms to him, and bade him a last farewell.

Weeping bitterly, with her head resting on her hand, but unable to remove her eyes from the room in which she knew him to be, Sister Anne abandoned herself to her love, her regret, her despair. It was a long while since she had left the pavilion; the minutes were passing rapidly, but she could not tear herself away from that spot. But it must be done. The unhappy girl made a final effort; she rose and walked away, broken-hearted; she staggered along the paths, hardly able to restrain her sobs.

Suddenly she became conscious of a bright light in the garden; she raised her eyes; she could not conceive where it came from. As she walked on, the light became brighter and brighter; the darkness of the night was succeeded by a terrifying glare; it was fire, which lighted up every nook and corner of the garden. As that certainty burst upon her mind, Sister Anne, seized by an indescribable fear, no longer walked, but ran, aye, flew toward the pavilion; the flames were pouring forth in clouds from the windows of the first floor.

A heartrending shriek burst from the young mother's lips; she could see nothing but her son, whom she had left in that room, her son, whom the flames were perhaps already consuming!

In her desperation, she recovered her strength; she rushed into the pavilion; the hall was filled with dense smoke; but a mother knows no danger, she must have her child. She groped her way upstairs, felt for the door, which the smoke concealed and which her trembling hands sought in vain. At last the flames guided her; she entered the room; everything was ablaze. A bundle of clothes had fallen against the candle, and the flames had spread rapidly to all parts of the room. Sister Anne ran to the cradle, which the fire had just reached; she held her son in her arms; she tried to go out, but she could not see what direction to take. Already the flames surrounded her; her limbs were badly burned; she tried to call, for she felt that she was dying. At that moment, her voice, yielding to a mighty effort of nature, broke the bonds that held it; and the unfortunate girl, as she fell, exclaimed distinctly:

"FrÉdÉric, come and save your son!"

The flames rising from the pavilion had been seen by the people at the house, several of whom were unable to sleep. FrÉdÉric rushed from his room in dismay, shouting as he ran. Everyone rose and dressed in haste.

"The pavilion's on fire!" was the general cry.

FrÉdÉric arrived there ahead of all the rest; he defied death, to make his way to Sister Anne; he entered the room a few seconds after she had lost consciousness; he took her on one arm and his son on the other; he passed through the flames into the garden; he had saved them both.

On learning what had happened, everybody had followed FrÉdÉric. Constance was not the last to fly upon her husband's footsteps. It was she who received Sister Anne in her arms, who hung over her with loving solicitude, and ordered the unconscious girl to be carried to her apartment. They all gathered about the young woman, whose body bore the marks of the flames; but her son was uninjured, and they waited impatiently for her to open her eyes, so that they might show him to her safe and sound.

At last, she drew a long, quivering breath; her eyes opened. Constance led her child to her side.

"My son!" cried Sister Anne, covering the child with kisses.

Those words caused the greatest surprise to all who heard them. They stared at Sister Anne, listening intently, as if they doubted whether they had heard aright.

"O my God!" continued the young mother; "it is not a dream; Thou hast given me back the use of my tongue.—Ah! FrÉdÉric! I can tell you now how I loved you—how I love you still! Forgive me, madame; I feel that I shall not long enjoy this voice which has been restored to me. All that I have suffered to-day has exhausted my strength; I am going to die, but my son is saved. Oh! don't pity me!"

The unfortunate woman had made a mighty effort to say thus much; her eyes lost their expression, her hand became like ice, a ghastly pallor overspread her face. FrÉdÉric fell on his knees beside her; he bathed with his tears the hand she abandoned to him. The count was overcome by grief. Constance tried to recall the dying girl to life by holding up her son before her. Even Dubourg, the man who had never shed a tear, could not restrain his sobs as he supported Sister Anne's head.

"Why do you weep for me?" she said, making a final effort; "I could not be happy, but I die less wretched. Keep my son, madame; he is so happy in your arms! you will be a mother to him. Adieu, FrÉdÉric—and you—his father—oh! forgive me for loving him so much!"

Sister Anne cast a last glance at Constance, who held little FrÉdÉric in her arms; then she closed her eyes, still smiling at her son.