"What! if that's so, for heaven's sake tell me what it is!"
"It's my receipt for making milk punch, which I thought I had lost."
On leaving home, Frédéric had gone at once to the farm to ascertain the whereabouts of Sister Anne, and of his son, whom he ardently desired to embrace. But when he arrived there, he learned from the worthy peasants that the lone girl had started for Paris with her child long before. Frédéric did not know what to do, and what caused him the greatest distress was that a messenger from his father followed close on his heels, bringing, as usual, money and divers other things for her whom the count called his liberatress; which fact proved that he was unaware that Sister Anne had left the farm, and that she had failed to find her friend's house in Paris.
Frédéric was distressed beyond words; the people at the farm shared his disappointment. They regretted that they had allowed Sister Anne to go; but how could they have opposed her resolution with success? What had become of her? what was she doing in Paris, without friends or protector? If they had known that the unfortunate girl had been heartlessly robbed of all that she possessed, their grief would have been greater.
Frédéric remained only one day at the farm; he started back toward Paris, and all along the road tried to obtain some information that might put him on Sister Anne's track. On reaching Paris, he did not go home; he did not wish his presence in the city to be known, because he desired his wife to remain in ignorance of it, so that he might have time to institute a search for the dumb girl and her son. For more than a week he searched the vast city, visiting the most deserted as well as the most populous quarters, often going up to rooms under the eaves, and asking everywhere if anyone had seen a young woman who could not speak and who had a child. But his search was fruitless; he did not obtain a shred of information to put him on Sister Anne's track. With an aching heart, he decided at last to return to Constance; he was very far from thinking that he would find there those whom he had been seeking so long.
Every day, Dubourg lay in ambush on one road, and stationed Ménard as a sentry on the other to notify him if he should see Frédéric coming. As the country house could not be reached except by those two roads, he felt certain of not missing him. But one morning, Ménard, having taken his Horace with him, became so interested in an ode he was reading, that the man for whom he was watching passed him unnoticed. Frédéric entered the house and hurried to Constance's room, where she was sitting, alone, thinking of her husband.
She looked up, uttered a joyful cry, and flew into his arms. All the pain of separation was instantly forgotten on her husband's breast. Frédéric responded affectionately to her outbursts of love. After the first transports of joy had subsided, Constance said:
"During your absence, I have taken an unfortunate woman into the house. Oh! I hope that you will love her as I do."
"Whatever you do is well done, my dear Constance; your heart could never lead you astray; I am certain beforehand that your benefactions have been well bestowed."
"Oh! she is such an interesting young thing! a victim of love, and we women are always sympathetic with that sort of unhappiness. Her seducer deserted her, with a charming child, whom I am perfectly wild over. His name is Frédéric, like yours.—Why, what's the matter, dear? you are as pale as a ghost, and all of a tremble!"