Sister Anne Part 56

Sister Anne expressed her grat.i.tude as best she could. She kissed the young mother and her little nursling affectionately, then left the cottage, after they had pointed out the road to Gren.o.ble, where they supposed that she was going.

The young woman did not travel rapidly; her pregnancy, her lack of practice in walking, and the bundle of clothing she carried, compelled her to stop frequently. She would sit down on a felled tree, a stone, or the bank of a ditch, and wait until her strength had returned and she could go on.

Sometimes other travellers pa.s.sed her while she was resting. Those in carriages did not look at her; several men on horseback cast a glance at her; but the pedestrians stopped and said a few words to her. Receiving no reply, they went their way, some thinking that she was half-witted, others calling her impertinent because she did not deign to speak to them. Sister Anne gazed at them with an air of surprise, smiled at a peasant who proposed to take her on his horse, and lowered her eyes when another lost his temper because she did not answer him; the most curious ended by doing as the others did, and left her.

Toward nightfall, Sister Anne, having followed the directions given her, reached Gren.o.ble. The sight of a large city was a source of fresh surprise, which increased with every step she took in the streets, where the people were dressed so much more handsomely than in her village.

Everything surprised and bewildered her, and she trembled as she walked. The tall houses, the shops, the throng of people moving in every direction, the continual uproar, the strange way in which the pa.s.sers-by gazed at her--everything tended to increase her confusion. Poor girl!

how would it be if you were in Paris?

But it grew dark, and she must seek shelter for the night. She dared not enter any of the houses; they all seemed too fine; she was afraid that she would not be admitted. For a long while, she wandered at random through those unfamiliar streets; but she was tired out at last, and determined to knock somewhere. The poor child did not know what an inn was; she thought that she could obtain a place to sleep anywhere by paying for it.

She knocked at the door of a house of modest appearance. The door opened, and she entered trembling.

"What do you want?" demanded an old tailor, who acted as concierge.

The girl looked sadly at him, and made signs to indicate that she could not speak; but he paid no attention to them, and repeated his question.

Receiving no reply, he sprang to his feet in a rage, ran to Sister Anne, took her by the arm, and put her out of the door, saying:

"Oho! so you won't tell where you're going, won't you? Folks don't get in here that way, my girl."

This reception was not encouraging; the poor girl was once more in the street; her eyes filled with tears, but she summoned all her courage and knocked at another door. There, they called her a beggar, and refused to admit her. She could stand it no longer; her sobs choked her; she sat down on a stone bench beside a door and wept bitterly. In a moment the door opened, and an old couple came out, wrapped in furs and comforters, followed by a servant carrying a lantern. As they pa.s.sed, they ordered Sister Anne to leave the bench, which belonged to their house, calling her an idler and a beggar, and threatening to have her put in prison if she did not move on. Sister Anne rose, trembling in every limb, and dragged her sorrow and weariness elsewhere; and the old couple went their way, chuckling over what they had done, and promising to hold forth concerning the audacity of the lower cla.s.ses at the party where they were to pa.s.s the evening.

The dumb girl, utterly worn out, could hardly stand erect, and did not know which way to turn. The treatment she had met with gave her a very depressing idea of life in cities. But she must find a shelter for the night. She spied a house more brightly lighted than the others; the front door was open, and many persons were going in and out. She took one of her gold pieces in her hand, afraid to enter unless she exhibited it. This time she had made a more fortunate selection: the house in question was an inn, and the sight of the gold piece procured her a cordial reception.

When the landlady found that the young traveller could not answer her questions, she felt called upon to talk for two, and, while she led the way to a small bedroom, extolled the advantages of her house and the way in which it was kept, asked her where she came from and where she was going, then interrupted herself by exclaiming:

"Mon Dieu! what a fool I am! I ask that just as if you could answer."

A moment later, she resumed her chatter, saying:

"It's very hard! I don't understand your signs, I don't understand 'em at all. Never mind, my child; you shall be served on the dot. If my nephew was only here! he knows mathematics, and he'd soon explain your signs. But he's gone away, poor boy! he's a clerk in the telegraph office at Lyon, now."

At last she left Sister Anne, who, having eaten sparingly, was able to enjoy the rest she needed so sorely. Sleep, poor girl, and may happy dreams bring momentary oblivion of your sufferings!

As she had heard the hostess say more than once: "You are in the best hotel in Gren.o.ble," she knew the name of the city, and remembered that Frederic had mentioned that name. That recollection led her to resolve not to leave that place until she had sought him there; and the next morning, after she had succeeded in making her hostess understand that she proposed to pa.s.s that day also at Gren.o.ble, she left the inn and set out to search the city, which seemed to her enormously large.

As she walked along, she looked at every window in every house. If Frederic were there, she thought that he would see her pa.s.s, and would either call to her or run after her. Sometimes she stopped, thinking that she recognized his figure; but she soon discovered her error. She pa.s.sed the whole day thus, and did not return to the inn until it was so dark that she could see nothing.

"Have you been looking about our city?" inquired the landlady; "it's a very pretty place, I tell you, a very pretty place, our city of Gren.o.ble. But it isn't as big as Lyon, and even Lyon don't come near Paris."

At the word _Paris_, the young traveller made a joyful movement, and, grasping the hostess's arm, signified that that was where she wanted to go. But she did not make her meaning clear.

"You are going to Lyon, I'll wager," said the hostess; "that isn't so far; fifteen leagues, that's all. To be sure, in your condition you can't walk very fast; but in three or four days at most, you ought to do it."

Sister Anne went sadly to her room. How could she find the road to Paris, if she could not make people understand that that was where she wanted to go? That thought disheartened her; but she had implored her mother to guide her on her journey; she prayed to her again, and hope was born anew in her heart; without hope, what would be left for the unhappy?

The next day, the girl prepared to leave the inn; the landlady presented a bill to her, of which she could make nothing; but she tendered a gold piece and received very little change. In cities, one has to pay for every reverence, every attention. Sister Anne had been treated with great courtesy, so that her stay at the inn cost her rather dear.

They pointed out the road to Lyon, and she set forth once more, with her little bundle and her stick. But how easy it is to lose one's way in the hilly, wooded paths between Gren.o.ble and Lyon! She abandoned herself to Providence for guidance. She walked most of the day, and at night, thoroughly exhausted, went to a farmhouse, where they consented to let her sleep in a barn. But, provided that she could pa.s.s the night where she was sheltered from the cold, she slept as well on straw as on feathers; fatigue enabled her at last to sleep several hours.

Her accommodation at the farm helped to exhaust her little store, and the young traveller began to realize that she must be sparing of it, for it was almost the only talisman by means of which she could obtain shelter. Hospitable folk are rare. The most humane think that they are doing much for the poor wayfarer when they give him a trifling sum of money and a crust of bread; but they will not receive him under their roof. Far distant are the days when men deemed it an honor to give shelter to a stranger, without inquiring as to his rank and his means; when they shared their fire and their repast and their bed with him.

Other times, other manners! We have become very proud, we are no longer inclined to share anything. By way of compensation, we have excellent friends, who come to our house and eat our bread, drink our wine, and sometimes make love to our wives, and who, when they leave, go elsewhere and say countless cruel things about us; but they do it from excess of affection, and because they are afraid that we may have other friends than themselves.

Toward noon of the second day after she left Gren.o.ble, Sister Anne, absorbed by her recollections, did not notice that she had strayed from the road that had been pointed out to her. Not until she began to feel the need of rest did she look about for the village, which, according to the directions she had received in the morning, could not be far away.

The place where she was at that moment was wild and deserted; there was no house in sight. She climbed a hill, and could see nothing in front of her but an extensive forest of firs. On her left, a mountain stream, with ice floating on the surface, plunged into a deep and winding ravine; on her right was a bare mountain side, with steep cliffs, but no human habitation.

She began to fear that she had lost her way, and hesitated for some time as to the best course for her to pursue. The roads to the right and left had a most unpromising look; she was reluctant to retrace her steps; so she decided to take the road leading to the forest. After walking about half an hour, she found herself among the stately firs, which time had not bent, and whose branches, although partly despoiled of their foliage, seemed to rise no less proudly toward the clouds and to defy wind and frost.

An excellent road led directly into the forest, and Sister Anne did not hesitate to take it. She could see the marks of wheels and of horses'

feet, and she hoped that it would lead her to the village or to some nearby city. She surmounted her fatigue, in order that she might reach a place of shelter before dark. As she walked on, she did not meet a human being, and there was a sombreness and gloom about that road, hemmed in by the forest on both sides, that depressed her beyond words. Her eyes, straining to discover the end of the interminable road, saw naught save the dark firs, and there was no indication that she was approaching the village. Her heart sank; night was beginning to envelop the earth in its dark folds; she could no longer distinguish anything in the paths that led to right and left; and soon Sister Anne, her strength giving way before her courage, felt that it was impossible for her to go farther.

So she was forced to make up her mind to pa.s.s the night in the forest.

It was not fear that made the poor child's heart beat fast; she did not know what robbers were, for there had never been any in her woods. But the thought of pa.s.sing a whole night in the forest, without shelter, in such cold weather, and in her condition! However, it must be done. She seated herself at the foot of a large tree. She was always careful, when she pa.s.sed through a town or a village, to supply herself with provisions; so she ate some bread and dried nuts; then, wrapping herself as well as she could in her clothes, and placing her bundle under her head, she waited for sleep to come. Thanks to the fatigue of that long day's journey, she had not long to wait.

It was midnight when the dumb girl opened her eyes, and the moon, s.h.i.+ning directly over the road on the edge of which she had fallen asleep, lighted the strange picture which awaited her at her awakening.

Four men stood about her, all dressed like poor woodcutters, in jackets and loose trousers held in place by broad belts; they wore broad-brimmed hats, some with the brims turned down, while the others, being turned up in front, revealed faces that bore no trace of gentleness or humanity.

Their long, uncombed hair and beards intensified the sinister expression of their features; each of them carried a gun, on which he leaned; and each had a hunting-knife and a pair of pistols in his belt.

Two of these men were stooping over Sister Anne; another held a dark lantern near her face; while the fourth, who also had his eyes upon her, seemed to be listening, to make sure that everything was quiet on the road.

The sight of those four faces fixed upon hers caused Sister Anne an involuntary shock; and, although she did not appreciate the danger that threatened her, she was conscious of a feeling of terror which she could not understand, and closed her eyes to avoid those searching glances.

"What in the devil have we got here?" said one of the two who were leaning over her; "I'm very much afraid that it don't amount to much, and I doubt if it's worth while to stop."

"Eh? why not?" said the man with the lantern; "it's better'n nothing, anyway. Look, Pierre, she's got a bundle under her head."

"A lot of worthless rags; don't you see that she's a woman as works in the fields?"

"I say! is she dead or asleep?" said a third. "Come, Leroux, just push her a bit! Are we going to spend the night staring at this drudge?"

"Death of my life! I don't know as we've got anything better to do.

All's quiet on the road--eh, Jacques?"

Jacques was the man who stood a few steps away, apparently listening.

When his comrades addressed him, he approached the group about the girl, saying:

"d.a.m.nation! another bad night!"

"Not so bad as it might be!" rejoined Leroux, still gazing at Sister Anne; "morbleu! that's a pretty woman!"

It was at that moment that Sister Anne opened her eyes, resolved to appeal to the compa.s.sion of the men who surrounded her, and whose language she did not comprehend, having no suspicion of their profession.

"I say, look!" cried Leroux; "she's waking up. She's got a fine pair of eyes, on my word! I'm curious to hear what she'll say."

Sister Anne cast a glance of entreaty upon them, one after another, clasping her hands as if to implore their pity.

"Oh! don't you be afraid," said Pierre; "we ain't going to hurt you.

Where did you come from? where you going? what put it into your head to sleep in our forest?"