And Constance stooped over Sister Anne, weeping freely at the sight of her misery, while the dumb girl, touched by a compassion to which she had become unaccustomed, took her benefactress's hand, covered it with kisses, and pressed it to her heart. "Faith!" said Ménard, drawing his handkerchief,--for the kind-hearted tutor could not witness this scene without emotion,--"faith! I agree that she was in a critical position. Indeed, speech is essential throughout life; and anyone who has no tongue, or can't use it, is like a fox without a tail, a butterfly without wings, or a fish without fins." Constance continued to devote her whole attention to Sister Anne and her son; already the child was laughing in her arms; he was at the happy age when grief vanishes at sight of a cake or a toy. It seemed that Constance could not tire of caressing him. "See," she said to Ménard, "see how he smiles at me!" "Of course, for you are giving him bonbons. Men are caught by sugared words, and children by sugar without words; wherein they show more sagacity than men." "What pretty features, what lovely eyes! It may be a delusion, but it seems to me that he has my husband's eyes." "My pupil's? I can hardly conceive eyes of two years resembling eyes of twenty-three." "Poor little dear! I feel that I love him already. How happy I should be to have a child like him!" "That will come, madame: Sarah was ninety years old when she gave birth to Isaac. You have plenty of time before you." Sister Anne's heart throbbed with joy when she saw Constance caress her son. Madame de Montreville did not tire of gazing at him, for she detected in his features some resemblance to those of her husband. Ménard gazed compassionately at Sister Anne; he was very far from suspecting that that poor mendicant was the young girl he had seen seated beside Frédéric in the woods at Vizille. How could he have recognized her! He had seen her only a moment, and then she was radiant with happiness and love; her lovely features were not worn by tears and sorrow; the fatigue of a long and toilsome journey, and of incessant suffering, had not made her body weak and her steps tottering. And, lastly, Ménard did not know that that girl was dumb; so that it was impossible for him to suspect that she was before him at that moment. "Do you know how to write, poor woman?" Constance asked her. She shook her head. "What a pity! I would like to know this pretty boy's name." The dumb girl looked eagerly about. They had taken her to a room on the ground floor, looking on the garden. She went out, motioning to Constance to follow her. She broke a branch from the first shrub she came to; then, stooping over, she traced on the gravel path her son's name. "Frédéric!" cried Constance, after reading the name; "what! your child's name is Frédéric? Ah! that will make him all the dearer to me. Frédéric! why, that is my husband's name.--What do you think of this, Monsieur Ménard? isn't it strange?"