Whereupon Constance lovingly pressed his hand and turned away to conceal a tear. She had the scene in the arbor constantly before her eyes; she saw her husband pressing Sister Anne to his heart; she believed that she no longer possessed his love, and persuaded herself that he was unhappy because he no longer saw the dumb girl, but that he was sacrificing himself for her peace of mind. That cruel thought was the source of the keenest torture to her heart,--torture the more painful because she strove to conceal it. "Things can't go on like this," Dubourg often said to Frédéric. "Your wife is changing perceptibly, and the poor dumb girl's melancholy is enough to break one's heart. Morbleu! if these two women remain together, both of them will very soon die of consumption." "What can I do? Is not Sister Anne's fate absolutely in Constance's hands? When I attempt to speak to her about it, she closes my mouth, or else declares again that she doesn't choose to send her away." "It's very embarrassing, on my word," said Ménard; "and if I were in my pupil's place, I know what I would do." "Well, what would you do?" queried Dubourg. "Pardieu! I would do as he does--not know what to do." A very simple occurrence was destined to effect a revolution in Frédéric's household: one morning, the Comte de Montreville, having at last shaken off the gout, arrived at his son's country house. Dubourg, although he had no idea that the count knew Sister Anne, was pleased by his arrival, because he felt sure that his presence would compel Frédéric to take some decisive step. Frédéric was terribly disturbed when his father appeared, having as yet had no explanation with him. Should he tell him the truth--that the dumb girl was under his roof? But, before he was left alone with the count, Constance made him promise that he would not mention Sister Anne; for she thought that the count was ignorant of his son's wrong-doing, and she did not want him to know of it at all. The Comte de Montreville had been anxious for a long while concerning the fate of the young woman who had saved his life. His last messenger had brought him the intelligence that she had left the farm, intending to go to Paris. As she did not appear at his house, he had caused a search to be made for her, but to no purpose; he had no idea what could have become of her. On arriving at his son's house, the count was at once impressed by Constance's melancholy and dejection. He inquired anxiously concerning the cause of the change; the young woman tried to evade his questions, on the pretext that she was slightly indisposed; but the old man was sharp-eyed: he saw that some mystery was being hidden from him, and he determined to fathom it. His son was embarrassed in his presence. Ménard avoided him as if he were afraid of being reprimanded for something. Dubourg alone appeared delighted by his arrival. Everything seemed to indicate that something extraordinary was taking place in the house.