Sister Anne Part 55

The next morning, at daybreak, Sister Anne went to the woods to wait for the old shepherd who supplied her with bread in exchange for milk. He soon appeared. He was a man of some sixty years, still strong and well, who had pa.s.sed most of his life in the forest, and, like Sister Anne, knew almost nothing of what happened in the village, which is the whole world to a woodsman. The girl took him by the hand and seemed to urge him to go with her to the cabin. The old shepherd complied with her entreaty, and she led him to Marguerite's bedside. He shook his head, but did not seem moved: the habit of living the life of a savage sometimes makes men indifferent to the suffering of others. But Sister Anne appealed to him by signs which he could not fail to understand, and the old fellow consented to perform the service she asked at his hands.

She led him into the garden, to the fig-tree under which Marguerite loved to sit, and pointed to the ground: that was where she wished that her adopted mother should rest. The old shepherd soon dug the grave, then carried the old woman's remains thither and covered them with earth. Sister Anne planted a cross by the spot. It was the only monument she could erect to her benefactress's memory; but she would come often to water it with her tears. How many magnificent mausoleums there are whereon no tear was ever shed!

The shepherd went his way, and Sister Anne was once more alone--and forever! At that moment, she felt more keenly than ever the loss she had sustained. Marguerite talked little; for some time past, she had dozed constantly; but she was always there, and the poor child felt that she was not altogether alone in the world. There was one person who could comfort her; but he did not come, and each succeeding day helped to destroy the little hope that still sustained her. She would not have had the courage to endure her torments, but for the feeling that heaven would soon give her someone to lighten them. She was now fully aware of the existence of the being in whom she was to live again. She had already suffered much for its sake: people shunned and despised her; she could no longer seek help or shelter in the village; but the mere sight of that little creature would bring forgetfulness of all her agony; is it not just that we should find in the cause of our sorrows their compensation?

As the days pa.s.sed, Sister Anne's profound grief for the loss of Marguerite changed into a tender, grateful memory; but time, which soothes the regrets of friends.h.i.+p, does not allay the sufferings of a lover. The memory of Frederic was more constantly in her mind than ever, for there was nothing to divert her thoughts from it. She saw no one; and if the movements within her reminded her that she was soon to be a mother, that fact made her desire more ardently the presence of her child's father.

While Frederic was with Sister Anne, he had talked to her sometimes of the outside world, of his father, and very often of Paris, his birthplace. During the day, while they sat together by the brook, it amused him to draw a picture of the great city for the wondering girl, to describe the pleasures, the plays, the splendid avenues, which make it a place of enchantment. She did not always comprehend what he said, but she listened with wide-open eyes, manifesting her amazement by artless gestures, by curious tokens of surprise; and it amused Frederic, who was often obliged to tell her stories to satisfy her, for one cannot be always making love. Some people maintain that it is a great pity; they forget that those things which one can do all the time end by losing their value.

What Frederic had told Sister Anne was engraved in her memory. Each day she thought about it more and more, and said to herself:

"He is probably in that great city, Paris, that he used to tell me so much about, where he was born. Perhaps his father won't let him come back to me. But if I could go there and find him, if I could once throw myself into his arms, I'm very sure he would be glad to see me. Then he would keep me with him, I would never leave him again, and I should be, oh! so happy! But how can I find my way to Paris?"

Every day, the longing to set out in search of her lover became stronger in that loving heart, which could not persuade itself that Frederic had forgotten her, but believed that the reason he did not return was that someone was keeping him away from her. Marguerite being dead, there was nothing to detain Sister Anne in the woods. In her condition, and bereft as she was of so essential an organ, she ought doubtless to have felt that her cabin was preferable to the dangers, the suffering, and the fatigue that would be her portion in the journey she contemplated; but a woman who loves truly sees neither danger nor suffering; she dares everything, sustained by the hope of seeing once more the object of her affection. Sister Anne, unacquainted with the world, unable to speak, and bearing within her the fruit of her love, determined to leave her home to go in search of her lover; to face every danger, to endure poverty and privations of every sort; and even though she should have to employ years in her search, it seemed to her that every step would bring her nearer to her lover.

Having formed her decision, she devoted all her thought to its execution; but she did not wish to leave her cabin and Marguerite's grave to be utterly neglected. Again it was the old shepherd to whom she addressed herself: she led him into the house one morning, and pointed to a small bundle containing her clothing, which she slung over her shoulders, to indicate that she was going away; then she motioned to him to sit down, as if to say:

"This cabin is yours, stay here; I ask you only to take care of the fig-tree that shades my mother's tomb, and these poor creatures who have been my only companions so long."

The old man readily understood her; but, although the hovel was a palace in his eyes, and Sister Anne's cession of it to him made him richer than he had ever been, he tried to induce the girl to abandon a plan which seemed to him insane.

"Where do you propose to go, my child?" he asked; "can you think of leaving home in the condition you are in? Within two months you will be a mother, and you propose to go on a journey; and you a poor, dumb girl!

Who will take you in, who will help you, how will you ask the way? Come, my girl, you are going to do a very foolish thing. Wait a little while, at least."

But Sister Anne had made up her mind, and nothing could move her; she shook her head as she looked at the old shepherd; then raised her eyes to heaven, as if to say:

"G.o.d will take pity on me and guide my steps."

He tried once more to keep her.

"What about money?" he said; "you need money in the world, my girl; I know that, although I haven't lived much in the world. I haven't got any myself, and I can't give you anything for your house and what there is in it, although it's well worth something."

Sister Anne smiled, then took from her bosom a small canvas bag, and showed the old man four gold pieces: it was Marguerite's little h.o.a.rd.

Some time before she died, the good woman had told her to look in the corner of the cabin, under her bed; there she had found the little bag securely tied, and Marguerite had said to her:

"Take it, my child; it's for you; it's the fruit of my savings in sixty years of toil. I have always meant it for you; perhaps it will help you to buy some more goats."

At sight of the four gold pieces, the old shepherd ceased his efforts to detain her, for he believed that with that amount of money she could go round the world.

"Go, my child," he said; "I will keep your cabin; remember that it still belongs to you, if ever you want to come back to it."

Sister Anne smiled sadly; then, with a last glance at her home, she went forth, with her light bundle in one hand, and in the other a stick on which she leaned as she walked. She saluted Marguerite's grave in the garden; her goats ran after her, as if they expected her to drive them to the hill as usual. She caressed them, weeping, for they had come to be her only friends, and something told her that she would never see them again.

What memories stirred her heart as she walked through the woods! There was the place where they had sat so often! yonder the brook, by which she first saw him, and where he told her that he loved her! Those familiar spots seemed alive with his presence, and she found it hard to make up her mind to leave them. But she said to herself, to sustain her courage:

"I am going to join him; and perhaps we shall return together."

She climbed the hill, and knelt at the foot of the tree where Clotilde died. She prayed to her mother to watch over her from on high, and to guide her in her journey. Then she descended the hill, in the direction of the town; she followed the road that he had taken, and wished that she could discover his footprints.

XXIII

SISTER ANNE'S JOURNEY.--THE FOREST

The dumb girl had begun her journey at daybreak; it was a cold but fine morning; a heavy frost had dried up the roads, frozen the streams, and checked the torrents. The fields were deserted; the peasants who were abroad wasted no time, but hastened to return to their cabins and sit down in front of the fireplace, where the stumps they had brought from the forest snapped and crackled. A bright fire enlivens the long winter evening, and the poor beggar, as he pa.s.ses through a village, stops and gazes enviously at the flame that s.h.i.+nes through a cottage window, overjoyed when he finds an opportunity to warm himself on the public square, before a bundle or two of straw which other poor wretches have set on fire.

It was only four hours since Sister Anne had set out, and her eyes were already struck by the novelty of what she saw. Having never seen anything besides her own cabin, her woods, and the village of Vizille, she paused in amazement before a forge, or a mill, or a country house, which seemed to her a very castle. Everything was new to her; but how was she to find her way in this world, which seemed to her so immense, how could she find that city which she could not name, and of which she did not even know the direction? Sometimes these thoughts made her heart sink; she would stop and look sadly about; then she would think of Frederic, and resume her journey.

Toward midday, she arrived at a small hamlet, and knocked at the door of a peasant's cottage; it was opened by a young woman, who was nursing one child, while four others played about her, and an old woman kindled the fire with an armful of dry branches she had just brought from the woods.

"What do you want, my good woman?" asked the young mother. Sister Anne gazed at the picture before her, and could not take her eyes from the child at its mother's breast. A gleam of joy lighted up her face; one could see that she was thinking at that moment:

"I will nurse my child, too; I will carry him at my bosom and receive his caresses."

"Why don't you say what you want?" said the old woman, without taking her eyes from the fire.

"Oh! see how pale she is, mother!" said the younger woman; "and how she seems to be suffering! To think of such a young thing, and so near her time, travelling about when it's as cold as this!--You are going to join your husband, I suppose?"

Sister Anne sighed; then, seeing that they were waiting for her answer, she explained by signs that she could not speak.

"Mon Dieu! mother, she's dumb! Poor woman!"

"Dumb!" cried the old mother. "What, my dear, can't you talk? How I pity you, poor child! Are you deaf too?"

Sister Anne's pantomime indicated that she could hear them perfectly.

"Well, that's lucky, on my word!" exclaimed the old woman, walking toward the traveller; while all the children stared curiously at her, thinking that a mute was not like other people.

"Was it some accident that made you dumb, my girl? have you been so long? Was it an illness? Can't it be cured?"

"Let us first give the poor creature what she needs, mother," said the young woman; "let her rest and eat something; then you can question her."

They bustled about, and seated Sister Anne in front of the fire; one child took her bundle, another her stick, and the old mother brought her food, for the daughter could not leave the child she was nursing. Sister Anne, touched by their kindness to her, manifested her grat.i.tude by such pathetic gestures, that the occupants of the little cottage were deeply moved.

"So it isn't the same everywhere as it is at my village," thought the young wayfarer; "here, instead of turning me away and looking down on me, they are kind to me, and treat me like their own child. The world isn't so cruel, after all."

This welcome revived her courage; but she could not answer all the old woman's questions. The peasants believed, according to her signs, that she was going to join her husband.

"He's in the city, I suppose?" queried the old woman.

Sister Anne nodded her head; and as Gren.o.ble was the nearest city, they concluded that that was her destination.

After remaining several hours beneath that hospitable roof, she determined to resume her journey; but first she took one of the gold pieces from her little bag and offered it to the young woman.

"Keep it, my dear," said she; "we don't want anything for what we've done. You're so much to be pitied for not being able to talk, that you deserve to be taken in and put up everywhere for nothing; but, unluckily, everybody don't think so; there's some folks with hard, unfeeling hearts. You're going to the city, and you'll need all your money; they won't refuse it there."