Chapter XII: How a Man Loves at Twenty

"Where in the devil have you been?" Dubourg inquired of Frédéric, who arrived at the inn just as his two companions were sitting down to supper.

"I have been--riding about the neighborhood."

"What a mania you have for travelling about the country! Are you going to lead the same kind of life here as at Lyon?"

"Possibly."

"That will be amusing for us! At Lyon, we could at least vary our amusements a little, see people----"

"Yes, the Marquise de Versac, and others, eh?"

"But here! why, we know the city by heart already. If one could make an acquaintance or two, obtain an introduction to a few houses--but when a man has no money, he doesn't dare to show his face anywhere, for it gives one an awkward manner that betrays one at once. If it's absolutely necessary, in every place we stop, for you to know the history of every tree, every stone, and every view, and to pause in rapt contemplation beside every brook, why, we shan't get to Italy for ten years! and your life won't be long enough for you to see half of Europe."

"I must say," observed Ménard, "that monsieur le baron's remarks seem to me most judicious. We move about as rapidly as a tortoise, _si parva licet componere magnis_."

"I could forgive you for making a minute examination of Naples or Florence; there are monuments there which one cannot contemplate too long. Gaze in admiration at the Coliseum or the Basilica of Saint Peter at Rome; walk on Mount Pausilippus or Vesuvius, and I shall not be surprised; but what do you find so extraordinary in this province? It is picturesque and romantic, I agree; but we shall find some much more remarkable views on our journey. Wait, before going into ecstasies, until you are on the glaciers of Mont Blanc, or on some peak of the Apennines; and don't stand a whole day in admiration before an old mulberry-tree overhanging a tiny stream; for there are trees, shrubbery, turf, and fountains everywhere--except in the African desert; and we are not going so far as that."

"My friend," said Frédéric, with a smile, "I have found here what one would seek in vain elsewhere; and that, to my mind, is of more value than all the wonders of the world."

With that, Frédéric went to his room and to bed, paying no heed to Dubourg, who called after him:

"For heaven's sake, tell us what you've found?--What in the devil can he have found, Monsieur Ménard?"

"I am trying to think, monsieur le baron."

"Gad! I wonder if it's the wallet that was stolen from me at Lyon."

"Or your berlin, monsieur le baron."

"My berlin! of course, that's all spent before now--that is to say, that rascal of a postilion has probably sold it to get money for drink."

"True, that is probable. What a pity! such a venerable carriage!"

"But what can he have found that's so delightful?"

"Perhaps it's a method of keeping eggs fresh on a journey."

"Bah! as if Frédéric ever gave a thought to such things!"

"But it would be a most valuable discovery, monsieur le baron. Somebody gave me a receipt for it once, and also one for making milk punch, but I was unlucky enough to lose them while moving."

"It is plain that we shall not find out what he has found, unless he chooses to tell us."

"I will go and think about it while I sleep, monsieur le baron."

"And I will go to sleep thinking about it, Monsieur Ménard."

Early the next morning, Frédéric again set out for the village. He rode down into the valley, left his horse in a field where the grass was as high as his knees, and walked rapidly along the path toward the woods; in a moment he was on the hillside with Sister Anne, who had already driven her little flock to pasture.

A deep flush overspread the girl's cheeks at sight of Frédéric; she smiled, and offered him her hand with a friendly air. She had begun to be impatient at his non-arrival; "Will he not come again?" she had said to herself, and had kept her eyes fastened on the path from the valley. She had known him only two days; but in a heart so affectionate and pure as hers, love is certain to make rapid progress. Was it, then, love that she already felt for the young stranger? Poor child! I am afraid so; and was it not natural? was she not at an age when love blends with all our other sentiments? and Frédéric was well adapted to inspire it.

"I am late," he said, "for my horse did not share my impatience; dear friend, I am so happy with you! I would like never to leave you."

Anne gazed earnestly at him for a long while; she sighed, pointed to the road leading to the city, then glanced at her cabin, as if to say:

"We shall always be separated."

"Leave that cabin, agree to come with me," cried Frédéric, eagerly; "and we will never part."

The girl rose with a gesture of dismay, and, pointing again to the cabin, imitated old Marguerite's tottering steps; then shook her head emphatically, while her eyes shone with a divine expression which said to Frédéric:

"No, I will never leave her."

"Oh! forgive me; I am wrong, I can see it now; your heart cannot be ungrateful; forgive me! love led me astray."

The dumb girl bore him no ill-will; she returned to her seat by his side, and a charming smile lighted up her features. Her beautiful hair, fluttering in the wind, caressed Frédéric's face, and she laughed as she drew it away. But he passed an arm about her waist, and held that lovely head against his heart. His eyes exchanged tender glances with Sister Anne's; his lips touched her cheeks, and the pretty dumb girl's sweet breath mingled with the air he breathed; are not such moments the sweetest in love, the happiest in life?

They passed thus a great part of the day. Frédéric remained in the woods, where Sister Anne brought him fruit and milk, so that he need not go to the village. Already the girl dreaded to have him leave her. She ran again and again to the cabin to see if Marguerite needed her; but the good old woman slept much of the day, and Sister Anne soon ran back to her new friend.

Toward evening, she remained longer with her adopted mother. Meanwhile, Frédéric went down to the stream and waited for her there, his notebook making the time pass quickly. When the girl surprised him writing, she heaved a profound sigh, and, looking sadly down at herself, seemed to say:

"I don't know anything; I never shall know anything."

"I will be your teacher," said Frédéric, in reply to her unspoken thoughts; "I will teach you to speak on paper."

At nightfall, the young man left his friend, who accompanied him sadly to his horse, and whose eyes said:

"Until to-morrow!"

A week passed away. Every morning at daybreak Frédéric left Grenoble, and rode to Vizille on the first horse he found in the inn stable. He passed the whole day with Sister Anne, and left her at nightfall.

When he was away from the dumb girl, Frédéric barely existed, and Sister Anne was no longer happy except when she was with him. Love had taken possession of her heart, without any resistance from her; it had made its appearance embellished by so many charms! why should she repel that sentiment which made her happy? Frédéric possessed every element of seduction; he kept telling her that he loved her and would love her all his life; she did not for one moment doubt his oaths; she did not know what inconstancy was. Why should he lie to her? She abandoned herself to the joy of loving. Her mouth could utter no loving words, but her eyes told him all that was taking place in her heart, and a single one of her glances was equal to the most loving protestations.

Frédéric tried to teach her to write, but love constantly interfered with the lessons he gave her. Seated by her side, pressing her to his heart, with full liberty to gaze at leisure on her lovely features, her intoxicating eyes--he stopped, and forgot what he was about to show her. She looked at him and smiled, and the lesson was forgotten. Frédéric strained her to his heart, his passions were aroused--but one is timid with innocence, especially when one loves sincerely.

But the most timid passion grows bold in time; the habit of seeing each other, of being together, of displaying their mutual affection, drew them closer together every day. They were always alone in the forest, and the forest is a very dangerous place for innocence. Could they long resist their hearts, the flame that consumed them? Frédéric became daring, and Sister Anne gave herself to him without regret, without remorse, for it seemed natural to her to make the man happy whom she was sure that she should love all her life.

In the transports of passion, Frédéric determined not to leave his sweetheart in order to go to Grenoble to sleep. The eight leagues, going and coming, kept them apart a few moments longer, and compelled him to leave her a few moments earlier.

"No," he said, "I do not propose to go away from you any more, not for an hour, not for a minute. When I cannot see you, why, I will sleep in the woods, on the grass, near your cabin. As if I could be uncomfortable there!"

The lovely girl threw her arms about her lover's neck, kissed him, did a thousand foolish things; her every gesture was eloquent of her happiness. He would not leave her any more; therefore she would be happy every minute. The poor child believed that it was possible. Suddenly, as if struck by a new idea, she led Frédéric to the cabin and pointed to a window; it was in the room where old Marguerite slept, and close beside it was another window, in the dumb girl's room; she led Frédéric there, laid her head on the back of her hand, drew him to her, and gazed passionately into his face. The young man understood her; he pressed her to his heart, and cried:

"Yes, I will sleep with you, always by your side! Ah! how happy we shall be!"

Thus did the child of nature soon discover what would forward her love; for to love ardently requires neither art nor study; the heart is the best master. Several times, Sister Anne manifested a wish to present Frédéric to her adopted mother; she could not understand why he avoided her, until he said:

"Marguerite would not leave you so entirely at liberty, if she knew that you saw me every day; on the contrary, she would tell you that you must avoid me and not speak to me."

These words were enough to prevent Anne from returning to the subject. Forbid her to see Frédéric! order her to avoid him! why, that would be condemning her to weep all her life. She felt that she would not have the strength to obey; so it was much better to conceal her happiness from Marguerite. The good old woman was growing weaker every day; she rarely left her chair, where she dozed a great part of the time; so that it was very easy to conceal the truth from her.

The night succeeded that day on which Frédéric had won the sweetest of all triumphs and had known the intoxication of a genuine passion. But the approach of darkness did not drive him forth from the woods; on the contrary, it was to increase his happiness tenfold.

He did not give a thought to his companions, to their anxiety about him, or to their embarrassing position since he had all the money; he did not remember that he had a horse belonging to the inn; he had no thought for anything on earth but Sister Anne. Not even the memory of his father interfered to mar his happiness. The present was all in all to him; Sister Anne engrossed his heart and mind; he had never known a woman who could be compared with her. Could he find elsewhere in the world so much beauty, grace, innocence, and love? Her misfortune made her even dearer to him. Frédéric was very romantic, and he did not look upon love so lightly as most young men of his years; so that his conduct should appear less extraordinary to us. And then, too, the dumb girl was so pretty! In the first transports of love, a cabin, a forest, a desert, is what all lovers desire; but this intoxication is of short duration. Will Frédéric be more constant?

In the path by the stream, where they sat together so often, he waited until old Marguerite should fall asleep. Then Sister Anne was to steal out of the cabin and come for her lover.

Frédéric tied his horse to an old ruined hovel, where a woodcutter had once lived, and which he used as a stable.

The moon was shining brightly; it was reflected in the limpid water of the brook and made the sparse clearings in the wood as light as day. Frédéric listened intently for his sweetheart's footstep! The time seemed very long; every minute robbed love of a sigh. He tried to look beneath the black firs and distinguish the cabin. At last he heard a faint sound: it was she. He could not see her, but his heart told him that she was near. As light of foot as a fawn, as swift as the hunter's arrow, as beautiful as happiness, the dumb girl sped through the paths of that forest, whose every corner she knew. In an instant, she was beside her lover, who kissed her on the forehead and could not forbear to gaze long and lovingly at her. He was proud of his good fortune; the time and place, the joy that shone on her features, the mystery that surrounded them--all seemed to make Sister Anne lovelier than ever. Her hair, carelessly caught up so that a part of it played about her neck; her shapely figure, which a light gown veiled without concealing; and her eyes, so sweet and so overflowing with love, renewed Frédéric's transports.

"Come, come," he said; "lead me!"

The girl took his arm and led him through the dense woods. They soon reached and entered the humble cabin, which had become in his eyes the most delicious retreat. He shared Sister Anne's bed; how could he envy those who sleep in palaces? Happy lovers! let us leave them to enjoy their happiness.