"Do you know a young girl in the village, who is called Sister Anne?" "Sister Anne? oh! yes, monsieur; of course I know her. She don't live just in the village, but her cottage ain't far away. Poor Sister Anne! who is there that don't know her, hereabouts?" "Why, you, too, seem to pity her? Is she so very unfortunate, pray?" "_Dam'_! of course I pity her; her story is very sad." "Do you know it?" "Yes, monsieur; my mother's told it to me more than once; everybody in our village knows it." "Tell me the story; tell me all you know about Sister Anne; speak, my friend, and be sure not to forget anything." As he spoke, Frédéric put a silver coin in the boy's hand; he was much surprised to be paid for such a simple thing, and artlessly began his story, of which Frédéric, walking close beside him, did not lose a word. X SISTER ANNE'S STORY "Sister Anne's mother was a lady named Clotilde, who was sweet and pretty, so they say. She belonged to a rich family, and wasn't brought up like a peasant girl; she knew ever so much, but she and her husband came and lived in our village. Folks said it was a love match, and that Clotilde chose to have her lover and a cottage instead of the fine house she could have had with another husband. "Clotilde and her husband lived happily for some time in our village; they had a daughter first, little Anne, who was as pretty as her mother--but you've seen her, haven't you, monsieur? "Four years after, they had another child, a boy; and they were very glad, and the little girl never left her little brother. But, before long, the poor things had lots of trouble: a big storm beat down their crops, so they lost them; and poor Clotilde was taken sick. Then her husband couldn't see any other way to support his wife and children but to enlist. So he sold himself as a substitute, gave all the money to Clotilde, and went away. "'Take good care of our poor children,' he says to her. "Clotilde felt so bad to have her husband go away that she couldn't do anything for a long time, and little Anne took the whole care of her brother, because she loved him with all her heart. Her mother used to say to her: "'Take good care of your brother; perhaps he won't have anybody but you to support him before long.' "A whole year passed. Clotilde's husband used to write often at first, but all of a sudden his letters stopped. There had been a battle--for in those days they were fighting all the time. "Poor Clotilde's husband was killed. The folks in the neighborhood heard of it, but no one was brave enough to tell her; and Clotilde kept expecting to hear from him long after he was dead. "Every day, the poor woman used to go to the top of a hill, where you can see the road a long way in the direction of Grenoble; that was the way she expected to see her husband come. She often passed whole days sitting at the foot of a tree, looking at the road where she saw her dear husband the last time.