The poor mother wept as she gazed at little Frédéric, who was still asleep. Some peasants on their way to market offered her bread and fruit; a milkwoman gave her and the child some milk to drink; all hearts are not insensible to pity, and even the Parisians give freely to the poor; if they do not do it more frequently, it is only because they dread to make themselves melancholy by the contemplation of misfortune.
During a large part of the day, Sister Anne continued to wander about the city in search of her protector's abode; she met many men who had Frédéric's figure and were dressed like him; she quickened her pace to overtake them; but when she was near enough to see their faces, recognized her error. Some looked at her in amazement, others with a sneer; whereupon she would turn away, shamefaced and broken-hearted.
"O God!" she thought; "I shall never meet him again!"
By the end of the day, the food that had been given her in the morning was exhausted, and it became necessary to hold out her hand to the passers-by, in quest of charity. In order to obtain courage to beg for bread, Sister Anne had to gaze upon her boy. If those who give alms always did so with a gracious manner, the unfortunate would be less to be pitied; but many persons accompany their charity with a harsh or disdainful air; in fact, they almost grumble at those they relieve.
"Alas!" thought the poor girl, as she wept; "why do they consider it a crime that I am poor?"
She longed to leave Paris, for the country people seemed to her to be more humane and gentle; with them, she felt less abashed. But in what direction must she go to return to the hospitable farm? She could only trust in Providence, which had not thus far been very propitious to her. Poor child! may it guide thee at last to the end of thy woes!
Having no idea what road she should take, but absolutely determined to leave the city, she decided to follow a man who was walking beside a small canvas-covered wagon. As it happened, this man went through one of the faubourgs, and in due time passed the barrier. Thus, by dint of following the wagon, which went always at a walk, the young mother found herself at last in the country; she breathed more freely; she kissed her son, and, beseeching the mercy of heaven for him, bent her steps toward the nearest village to ask hospitality.
XXVIII
CHANCE BRINGS THEM TOGETHER
Frédéric still loved his wife—perhaps with a less violent passion than during the first month of their union; but the husband's facility of intercourse with his wife had not diminished his love, for he discovered new qualities, new virtues, in Constance every day. Beauty of feature fascinates, but does not suffice to enslave; happy the husband who finds in his wife attractions over which time has no power!
Constance was chargeable with but one fault—a very lamentable one when one cannot control it, but which she confined sedulously within her own breast. She was jealous; the very excess of her love for Frédéric sometimes caused her a secret alarm. When he seemed dreamy and pensive, Constance became uneasy, and a multitude of apprehensions crowded into her mind. What could it be that engrossed her husband's thoughts, saddened him, and made him sigh?—for he still sighed sometimes. Before their marriage, she attributed to his love for her the melancholy that often darkened his brow. But now that they were united, now that they could give a free rein to their affection, and there was nothing to mar their happiness, why did Frédéric continue to sigh? why was he sometimes preoccupied? That was what Constance asked herself, but the amiable girl was careful not to let her husband see what she felt; she would have been terribly distressed to display the slightest suspicion. Although jealous, she would not annoy her husband; she would continue to be as loving and sweet as always; and if she suffered, she would carefully conceal her suffering, in order not to distress him whom she loved better than her life.