The dumb girl was greatly surprised; but her heart could not be indifferent to the bliss of remaining near Frédéric. She was astonished, however, that her benefactress, who had been so unvaryingly kind to her, did not come to her and explain her change of plan. Several days passed, and she did not see Madame de Montreville. The same attention was paid to her comfort and her son's, but her benefactress had ceased to visit the occupants of the pavilion. Constance passed all her time in her own room; she did not say a word to Frédéric; but her face was drawn and haggard; it was evident that she was suffering and that she was doing her utmost to conceal it. Frédéric hardly dared to question her, and when he did she always answered gently: "Nothing is the matter with me." "Morbleu!" said Dubourg; "this isn't natural! That young woman has something on her mind. She insists now that the other one shall stay; I can't make anything out of it." "Nor I," said Ménard; "but I think, with you, that there's some mystery about it. Tertullian says that the devil isn't as mischievous as woman, and I agree with Tertullian." XXXI THE CATASTROPHE Sister Anne and her son continued to occupy the pavilion in the garden. She went out very rarely, and then only to walk in the paths that were near by. She did not go near the house; she was afraid of meeting Frédéric again, although her heart still burned for him with the same ardent flame. Nor did Frédéric dare to go near the pavilion; his wife's conduct, ever since the day that he embraced the dumb girl, had left no doubt in his mind that it was she who had uttered that cry of which he had unavailingly sought the author. If Constance had seen him at Sister Anne's feet, what could she think of his promises? Of course, she believed now that she was not the sole object of his love. He was often tempted to throw himself at her feet, to assure her that he adored her still; but, in that case, he must confess that he had broken his word; and suppose his wife did not know it, after all! In his uncertainty, Frédéric held his peace, hoping, by keeping a close watch upon himself, to dispel the suspicions which were devouring Constance's heart in secret. Constance did not leave the house; she did not even go into the garden. Her face was careworn, her cheeks had lost their color; she tried in vain to smile; the melancholy that was eating her heart away betrayed itself in every act. She was still as sweet and amiable as ever; she seemed to appreciate her husband's attentions, and, noticing that he never went into the garden, she often urged him to do so. "Why do you wish me to leave you?" said Frédéric; "can I be as happy elsewhere as I am with you?"