Several young ladies exhibited their talents and their voices in selections self-accompanied on the harp or piano, but Frédéric heard no one but Mademoiselle de Valmont. She sang only one ballad, but she sang it so beautifully! As he listened, Frédéric examined her more closely than he had hitherto dared to do. Whether it was mere chance, or an illusion of the heart, he discovered in Constance's features a striking resemblance to those of Sister Anne: the same expression, the same melting sweetness; and if the poor mute could speak, surely her voice would be as tender and expressive. Frédéric, while listening to Constance, persuaded himself that it was Sister Anne's voice that he heard, and his eyes were wet with tears. Full of that illusion, and discovering every moment some new point of resemblance in feature, he did not take his eyes from Mademoiselle de Valmont. When she had finished singing, Frédéric remained by her side, and his eyes, persistently fastened on her face, shone with a new fire and meaning. Constance noticed it, and avoided his gaze; a crimson flush overspread her cheeks. If Frédéric, when he gazed so tenderly at her, fancied that the dumb girl was before him, should he not have told Mademoiselle de Valmont of the real object of his preoccupation? And was not Constance justified in the belief that the Comte de Montreville's son did not look upon her with indifference? The evening passed very swiftly to Frédéric. When the general and his niece went away, the former announced that they were going to their country house on the following day, and that he should await impatiently a visit from the count and his son. When Constance had gone, Frédéric felt entirely alone in the midst of the company; and as soon as he could with courtesy retire, he hastened to his room to think--of Constance? oh, no! of Sister Anne; it was still the poor dumb girl who filled his thoughts; but was it his fault if now and then the memory of Mademoiselle de Valmont intruded itself? It was solely because of the resemblance between them. A loving heart sees its loved one everywhere, even where she is not. It loves her in another who recalls her features. That is why it is no safer to trust sentimental lovers than fickle ones. Several days passed; Frédéric heard nothing from Dubourg, and concluded that he had not yet returned to Paris. The young count was still sad and thoughtful, but there was something not unpleasant in his sadness. The thought of Sister Anne often caused him to sigh. He was intensely anxious to see her again; but he had ceased to form those extravagant projects which, in the first days after his return, seemed so easy of execution. He longed to ensure Sister Anne's happiness and repose forever; but he thought of the future, and he was more certain than ever that his father would never consent to give her to him for his wife. He said to himself: