"Do you know how to write, poor woman?" Constance asked her.
She shook her head.
"What a pity! I would like to know this pretty boy's name."
The dumb girl looked eagerly about. They had taken her to a room on the ground floor, looking on the garden. She went out, motioning to Constance to follow her. She broke a branch from the first shrub she came to; then, stooping over, she traced on the gravel path her son's name.
"Frédéric!" cried Constance, after reading the name; "what! your child's name is Frédéric? Ah! that will make him all the dearer to me. Frédéric! why, that is my husband's name.—What do you think of this, Monsieur Ménard? isn't it strange?"
"I don't see anything so extraordinary in it," said the tutor. "As there are great numbers of Martins, Pierres, and Pauls, there may very well be as many Frédérics. I know of no name but Thesaurochrysonicochrysides, which Plautus invented, that has never become common. So, if I had had a son, I should have insisted on giving him that name, although it isn't very easy to say."
Constance took the child in her arms again. She called him Frédéric; and he, answering to that name, by which he had been called at the farm, lisped the word mamma, and looked about as if in search of the good peasants who used to call him so.
"I am determined that my husband shall see this dear child," said Constance; then, after a moment's reflection, she went up to Sister Anne, took her hand, and said, following her signs closely so that she might understand her answers:
"Where were you going with your child?—She doesn't know.—Unfortunate creature! have you no father or mother?—Ah! they are dead!—And your child's father, your husband—why isn't he with you?—She weeps! Poor dear! He has deserted her! The idea of deserting such a pretty child! and such a sweet, unfortunate mother! Why, it's perfectly ghastly! he must have a terribly hard heart.—But cheer up, and dry your tears; I will not abandon you! No, my mind is made up; I will take care of you and your child. You shall not leave me. You shall live with me; I will give you needlework to do; I will teach you to work, and I will have your child educated under your eyes. My husband is kind, tender-hearted, and generous; I am perfectly certain that he won't blame me for what I am doing. He will love you, too, and you shall end your days with us. Do you understand, poor dear? Don't cry any more, don't worry about your child. Hereafter you shall be out of reach of want.—Why, look, Monsieur Ménard! she actually throws herself at my feet and kisses my hand, as if I were a god! What would be the use of wealth, if we could not do a little good with it?"
"To be charitable, madame, is one of the precepts of the Gospel; unfortunately, everybody doesn't put it in practice as you do!"