The flames rising from the pavilion had been seen by the people at the house, several of whom were unable to sleep. Frédéric rushed from his room in dismay, shouting as he ran. Everyone rose and dressed in haste.
"The pavilion's on fire!" was the general cry.
Frédéric arrived there ahead of all the rest; he defied death, to make his way to Sister Anne; he entered the room a few seconds after she had lost consciousness; he took her on one arm and his son on the other; he passed through the flames into the garden; he had saved them both.
On learning what had happened, everybody had followed Frédéric. Constance was not the last to fly upon her husband's footsteps. It was she who received Sister Anne in her arms, who hung over her with loving solicitude, and ordered the unconscious girl to be carried to her apartment. They all gathered about the young woman, whose body bore the marks of the flames; but her son was uninjured, and they waited impatiently for her to open her eyes, so that they might show him to her safe and sound.
At last, she drew a long, quivering breath; her eyes opened. Constance led her child to her side.
"My son!" cried Sister Anne, covering the child with kisses.
Those words caused the greatest surprise to all who heard them. They stared at Sister Anne, listening intently, as if they doubted whether they had heard aright.
"O my God!" continued the young mother; "it is not a dream; Thou hast given me back the use of my tongue.—Ah! Frédéric! I can tell you now how I loved you—how I love you still! Forgive me, madame; I feel that I shall not long enjoy this voice which has been restored to me. All that I have suffered to-day has exhausted my strength; I am going to die, but my son is saved. Oh! don't pity me!"
The unfortunate woman had made a mighty effort to say thus much; her eyes lost their expression, her hand became like ice, a ghastly pallor overspread her face. Frédéric fell on his knees beside her; he bathed with his tears the hand she abandoned to him. The count was overcome by grief. Constance tried to recall the dying girl to life by holding up her son before her. Even Dubourg, the man who had never shed a tear, could not restrain his sobs as he supported Sister Anne's head.
"Why do you weep for me?" she said, making a final effort; "I could not be happy, but I die less wretched. Keep my son, madame; he is so happy in your arms! you will be a mother to him. Adieu, Frédéric—and you—his father—oh! forgive me for loving him so much!"