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 passed, Sister Anne's profound grief for the loss of Marguerite changed into a tender, grateful memory; but time, which soothes the regrets of friendship, does not allay the sufferings of a lover. The memory of Frédéric 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 Frédéric 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 Frédéric, 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 Frédéric 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 Frédéric 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."