This pantomime revealed to Dubourg Sister Anne's unhappy condition, and he devoted all his efforts to consoling her. But for Sister Anne there was no consolation, no happiness, without Frédéric.
"Poor girl!" thought Dubourg; "he was quite right to assure me that she did not resemble any woman he had ever known! But to leave her in these woods—that was an outrage! for such grace and charm to live in a wretched hovel is downright murder! Upon my word, I have a mind to take her to Paris!"
"Why didn't you go with him?" he asked her; "what detains you here in the woods? Come with me, my child, and we will find Frédéric; or, if we don't find him, there are thousands of others who will be only too happy to fill his place."
Sister Anne stared at him in amazement; she seemed not to understand him; but when he waved his hand in the direction of the town, she hastily drew back, and, pointing to the cabin, made him understand by signs that there was someone there whom she could not leave. Ah! had it not been for Marguerite, how willingly she would have gone with Dubourg! for she believed that he would lead her at once to her lover's arms. But as for abandoning the one who had taken charge of her in her childhood, who had been a second mother to her,—now, when she was advanced in years and was most in need of her assistance!—such a thought did not enter the dumb girl's mind; ingratitude was a vice to which her heart was a stranger.
"Very good," said Dubourg; "then remain here in these woods, my child; and may you recover your happiness and peace of mind!"
Sister Anne's eyes questioned him anew.
"Yes, yes," he said; "he will come back; you will see him again, I have no doubt. Dry your tears. He will surely come soon and comfort you."
These words brought a gleam of hope to the dumb girl's pale, sorrowful face. She smiled at him who had given her that assurance, and, bidding him adieu with a motion of her head, left him, to return to Marguerite.
Dubourg left the woods, and, despite his heedless nature, he did not sing as he walked back through the valley to the highroad. Like a heavy weight upon his heart lay the image of that unhappy child, to whom he had held out a hope which he thought would never be realized. He had never been so moved. For several leagues, he thought constantly of Sister Anne, saying to himself: