Frédéric made no reply, but left the room, in a state of complete bewilderment. He met Dubourg and Ménard hurrying toward him.
"The pretence is of no avail," he said; "Constance has divined the truth; she knows all."
"As she knows all," said Ménard, "we mustn't conceal anything more from her."
Constance lavished upon Sister Anne the most zealous attention. At last, the dumb girl opened her eyes. When they fell upon Frédéric's wife, her first impulse was to push her away; then she looked about in search of Frédéric. Constance beckoned to the child, who held out his little arms to his mother. Sister Anne seemed touched by Constance's conduct; she looked at her with less jealousy, but she shuddered from head to foot, her teeth chattered violently, her eyes closed again, and a ghastly pallor overspread her cheeks.
Constance ordered the servants to carry her to the pavilion, where she was put to bed. She was in a raging fever, and was really delirious. Her eyes rolled from side to side with an expression of intense anxiety; she recognized nobody, and even repulsed her son.
"Poor dear! I will not abandon you," said Constance; and she passed the whole day beside Sister Anne's bed. Not until evening, when she found that she was a little calmer, did she decide to leave her; but she left her in charge of faithful and willing servants, intending to return frequently to ascertain her condition.
She returned to her own apartment, where Frédéric awaited her. How different was that day, which reunited them, from those that they had previously passed together! Constance said nothing; her heart was drawn hither and thither by a multitude of conflicting emotions; her bosom rose and fell convulsively, but she tried to conceal her suffering and to appear calm before her husband. Frédéric stood before her, motionless, like a criminal awaiting his doom; her kindness made him keenly alive to his wrong-doing. At last he approached her, not daring to speak, and fell at her feet.
"What are you doing?" said Constance, gently; "why do you kneel at my feet? You are not guilty toward me. Ah! it would be more just for you to kneel at the feet of her whom you have betrayed and deserted! I have no right to complain: your fault is only too common among men. You knew this poor girl before your marriage. She has become a mother. But, in the world, your conduct would be considered perfectly natural and proper. Far from blaming you, society would perhaps applaud you for forgetting a woman who could not be your wife. But, I confess, I thought that you were different from the heedless rakes who pride themselves on the tears of which they are the cause. What lamentable results your fault has had! If you only knew all that the unhappy creature has suffered! She was in the last stages of destitution, actually dying of starvation, when I took her in; yes, dying of starvation—with your son in her arms. Oh! Frédéric! do you realize what your remorse would have been? You weep? Ah! my dear, let your tears flow; I would rather lose your heart than believe that it was capable of utter lack of feeling. Listen: you have found your child's mother; you must not abandon her again. If you will leave everything to me, I will assure her future; she shall live in a house which I will buy for her in some pleasant place in the country; she shall want nothing. Her son is a dear boy; I would have liked to be a mother to him, but it would be a horrible thing to separate her from her child. He shall have a good education. When he has grown up, you shall decide his fate; and be assured that I shall never consider anything that you do for him more than you ought to do. That is what I propose to do for the woman you once loved. But it may be that this plan does not satisfy you. Perhaps, on seeing the poor girl again, the love that she formerly inspired in you has revived. Perhaps you love her still. Oh! Frédéric, I entreat you to be sincere with me; let me read in the bottom of your heart. There is no sacrifice of which I am not capable to make you happy. Yes, my dear; I shall be able to endure anything—except the sight of your regret for another. If you love her—if you still feel drawn to her—I will go away, I will bury myself on one of our estates; you will not see me again, and you will be at liberty to keep the mother of your child with you."
Constance could no longer hold back the tears that were suffocating her. She had made a prolonged effort to restrain her feelings, but her courage gave way when she proposed to Frédéric that they should part.
"I, leave you!" he cried, throwing his arms about her. "Oh! Constance, can you believe that I have ceased for one instant to love you? No, I swear to you, you alone possess my heart! I realize the wrong I have done; I propose to assure Sister Anne's future; I must do it. Could I help feeling profoundly moved when I saw her again? And the child—I love him, and I propose to see to his future welfare and happiness; for that you cannot blame me. I approve all your plans; I know the goodness of your heart, the nobility of your soul. How few wives would have acted as you have done! Command me: send Sister Anne away; let her go to-morrow."