When she saw that he was depressed and preoccupied, she redoubled her attentions and caresses; she would lead him into the woods, and hide behind a bush or a clump of trees; then, suddenly appearing, would rush into his arms; and her childlike grace heightened the sweet expression of her features. When night came, they returned to the garden of the cottage. Sister Anne, alert and light of foot, prepared in a twinkling their evening meal, which they ate as soon as old Marguerite had gone to bed. The dumb girl gathered fruit, brought milk and rye bread, then seated herself beside Frédéric, close against him, and selected for him what seemed to her the finest and best morsels. When her lover spoke, she listened in rapture; one could see that Frédéric's words echoed in her heart. Once he sang a love song, and the girl listened without moving a muscle, as if she feared to lose a note, then motioned to him to sing it again. Since then, her greatest joy had been to hear him sing; he had a sweet and flexible voice, and she would gladly have passed the whole day listening to him. Thus did Sister Anne seek to enchain the man she loved. It was not the tactics of a coquette--it was love, pure and simple, and nothing else; whereas in the manoeuvres of a coquette there is not the faintest trace of that sentiment. Why, then, fools that we are, do we allow ourselves to be caught in the nets of the one, and repay with cold disdain the sincere love of the other? Because the coquette has the art to keep us in suspense; when she sees that we are well caught, she plays the cruel; if we seem a little cool, she excites us by giving us some cause of jealousy; if we seem overconfident, her mockery arouses our fears; if we are disgusted and ready to turn our back, she becomes tender, sentimental, passionate, and with a word brings us back to her feet. These constant changes do not give the heart time to grow cold. I was on the point of comparing us men to the epicures whose appetites are sharpened by a variety of dishes, but I refrain; you would think that I had studied the art of love in the _Cuisinier Royal_. For several days, Frédéric had taken to making short excursions in the neighborhood. Sister Anne was alarmed at first; but he was away only a little while, and her fears vanished. Frédéric was beginning to think of the future, of his father. What would the Comte de Montreville say, if he knew that his son was living in the woods with a village girl? That question frequently disturbed Frédéric's repose, and as the days passed it recurred with increasing frequency. Sometimes he said to himself: