The count took his leave, and Sister Anne was alone; her son was asleep; it was night, the last night that she was to pass near Frédéric. She must go away from him—fly from him forever. That thought overwhelmed her. She sat, perfectly motionless, on a chair beside her son's cradle; a single thought absorbed all her faculties: she must go away from him whom her heart had ached to find, whom she idolized, and who, in the arbor, had acted as if he loved her still; she must go away from him; the peace of mind, the existence, of her benefactress demanded that terrible sacrifice.
The last hours that she was to pass in the house seemed to fly with unexampled rapidity. Engrossed by these thoughts, she had done nothing toward preparing for her departure. The village clock struck twelve, and the dumb girl still sat beside her son's cradle, in the same position in which the count had left her.
The mournful clang of the bell roused her from her reverie; she rose, and made a small bundle of her clothes; her preparations were soon completed, and there were still several hours before the dawn. Should she try to sleep? no; she knew that it would be in vain! But what thought is this that makes her heart beat fast? Everybody in the house is asleep; suppose she should take advantage of her last remaining moments to go a little nearer to him! She did not propose to see him, for she knew that that would be a breach of her promise to the count and of her duty to her benefactress. But she could go, without Frédéric's knowledge, to bid him a last farewell; she knew which were the windows of his room; it seemed to her that she should go away a little less unhappy, and that Frédéric might perhaps hear her whispered farewell in his sleep.
She hesitated no longer; she put her bundles on a chair and placed her candle on the hearth. Her son was sleeping soundly; she leaned over and looked at him, and shed tears upon his pillow at the thought that she was soon to take him away from his father.
Everything was perfectly quiet, as she stole noiselessly from the pavilion. It was a dark night, but she was familiar with the garden. Like a shadow, her feet barely touching the earth, she glided swiftly along the paths, until at last she reached the house. Frédéric's apartment was on the first floor, at the right; she knelt under his windows, she held out her arms to him, and bade him a last farewell.
Weeping bitterly, with her head resting on her hand, but unable to remove her eyes from the room in which she knew him to be, Sister Anne abandoned herself to her love, her regret, her despair. It was a long while since she had left the pavilion; the minutes were passing rapidly, but she could not tear herself away from that spot. But it must be done. The unhappy girl made a final effort; she rose and walked away, broken-hearted; she staggered along the paths, hardly able to restrain her sobs.
Suddenly she became conscious of a bright light in the garden; she raised her eyes; she could not conceive where it came from. As she walked on, the light became brighter and brighter; the darkness of the night was succeeded by a terrifying glare; it was fire, which lighted up every nook and corner of the garden. As that certainty burst upon her mind, Sister Anne, seized by an indescribable fear, no longer walked, but ran, aye, flew toward the pavilion; the flames were pouring forth in clouds from the windows of the first floor.
A heartrending shriek burst from the young mother's lips; she could see nothing but her son, whom she had left in that room, her son, whom the flames were perhaps already consuming!
In her desperation, she recovered her strength; she rushed into the pavilion; the hall was filled with dense smoke; but a mother knows no danger, she must have her child. She groped her way upstairs, felt for the door, which the smoke concealed and which her trembling hands sought in vain. At last the flames guided her; she entered the room; everything was ablaze. A bundle of clothes had fallen against the candle, and the flames had spread rapidly to all parts of the room. Sister Anne ran to the cradle, which the fire had just reached; she held her son in her arms; she tried to go out, but she could not see what direction to take. Already the flames surrounded her; her limbs were badly burned; she tried to call, for she felt that she was dying. At that moment, her voice, yielding to a mighty effort of nature, broke the bonds that held it; and the unfortunate girl, as she fell, exclaimed distinctly:
"Frédéric, come and save your son!"