"Come with me, and go to bed," said Madame de Montreville; "all your sorrow has been revived to-day, and you must forget it in sleep."
But, instead of following her, Sister Anne took her hand, led her to the piano, and motioned to her to sit down again.
"No, to-morrow," said Constance; "the music excites you too much. I will sing to you to-morrow."
Sister Anne clasped her hands, and her glance was so expressive, it besought her so earnestly to do what she desired, that Constance had not the heart to refuse; she seated herself at the piano, while Ménard observed sotto voce:
"That young woman is passionately fond of music; it would be a good idea to teach her to play."
Constance began an air, but Sister Anne stopped her and shook her head emphatically, as if to say: "Not that."—Thereupon she played another, but still the dumb girl was not satisfied. At last, Constance remembered that she was singing a ballad when she was interrupted; she sang it again, and had no sooner begun it than Sister Anne's emotion and the strained attention with which she listened showed plainly enough that that was what she wanted to hear.
"Just see how this ballad excites her!" said Constance; "it's the one Frédéric always liked so much!"
The words were hardly out of her mouth, when Sister Anne seized her hand, pressed it with all her strength, and nodded her head. Madame de Montreville did not understand her pantomime; she looked at Dubourg, who said in an undertone:
"I assure you that there are times when she doesn't know what she is doing. She thinks that she sees her lover everywhere; love has turned her brain."
Sister Anne's agitation partially subsided; the tears forced their way to the surface and relieved the strain. Constance gazed at her with emotion, repeating again and again: