"'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 God!" cried Frédéric; "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 passed 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 Frédéric; "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?"