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diff --git a/5202-h/5202-h.htm b/5202-h/5202-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8253bf0 --- /dev/null +++ b/5202-h/5202-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,7656 @@ +<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01//EN"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=ISO-8859-1"> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Golden Lion of Granpere, by Anthony Trollope</title> +<style type="text/css"> + body {background:#fdfdfd; + color:black; + font-family: "Times-Roman", serif; + font-size: large; + margin-left:15%; + margin-right:15%; + text-align:justify; } + h1,h3 {text-align: center; + clear: both; } + hr.full { width: 100%; + margin-top: 3em; + margin-bottom: 0em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + height: 4px; + border-width: 4px 0 0 0; /* remove all borders except the top one */ + border-style: solid; + border-color: #000000; + clear: both; } + a:link {color:blue; + text-decoration:none} + link {color:blue; + text-decoration:none} + a:visited {color:blue; + text-decoration:none} + a:hover {color:red; + text-decoration: underline; } + pre {font-size: 70%; } +</style> +</head> +<body> +<h1>The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Golden Lion of Granpere, by Anthony +Trollope</h1> +<pre> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at <a href = "http://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a></pre> +<p>Title: The Golden Lion of Granpere</p> +<p>Author: Anthony Trollope</p> +<p>Release Date: June 4, 2002 [eBook #5202]<br> +Most recently updated: February 6, 2011</p> +<p>Language: English</p> +<p>Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1</p> +<p>***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GOLDEN LION OF GRANPERE***</p> +<p> </p> +<h3>E-text prepared by Les Bowler, St. Ives, Dorset</h3> +<p> </p> +<hr class="full"> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> +THE GOLDEN LION OF GRANPERE, BY ANTHONY TROLLOPE.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER I.<br> +<br> +Up among the Vosges mountains in Lorraine, but just outside the old +half-German province of Alsace, about thirty miles distant from the +new and thoroughly French baths of Plombières, there lies the +village of Granpere. Whatever may be said or thought here in England +of the late imperial rule in France, it must at any rate be admitted +that good roads were made under the Empire. Alsace, which twenty +years ago seems to have been somewhat behindhand in this respect, received +her full share of Napoleon’s attention, and Granpere is now placed +on an excellent road which runs from the town of Remiremont on one line +of railway, to Colmar on another. The inhabitants of the Alsatian +Ballon hills and the open valleys among them seem to think that the +civilisation of great cities has been brought near enough to them, as +there is already a diligence running daily from Granpere to Remiremont;—and +at Remiremont you are on the railway, and, of course, in the middle +of everything.<br> +<br> +And indeed an observant traveller will be led to think that a great +deal of what may most truly be called civilisation has found its way +in among the Ballons, whether it travelled thither by the new-fangled +railways and imperial routes, or found its passage along the valley +streams before imperial favours had been showered upon the district. +We are told that when Pastor Oberlin was appointed to his cure as Protestant +clergyman in the Ban de la Roche a little more than one hundred years +ago,—that was, in 1767,—this region was densely dark and far behind +in the world’s running as regards all progress. The people +were ignorant, poor, half-starved, almost savage, destitute of communication, +and unable to produce from their own soil enough food for their own +sustenance. Of manufacturing enterprise they understood nothing, +and were only just far enough advanced in knowledge for the Protestants +to hate the Catholics, and the Catholics to hate the Protestants. +Then came that wonderful clergyman, Pastor Oberlin,—he was indeed +a wonderful clergyman,—and made a great change. Since that there +have been the two empires, and Alsace has looked up in the world. +Whether the thanks of the people are more honestly due to Oberlin or +to the late Emperor, the author of this little story will not pretend +to say; but he will venture to express his opinion that at present the +rural Alsatians are a happy, prosperous people, with the burden on their +shoulders of but few paupers, and fewer gentlemen,—apparently a contented +people, not ambitious, given but little to politics. Protestants +and Catholics mingled without hatred or fanaticism, educated though +not learned, industrious though not energetic, quiet and peaceful, making +linen and cheese, growing potatoes, importing corn, coming into the +world, marrying, begetting children, and dying in the wholesome homespun +fashion which is so sweet to us in that mood of philosophy which teaches +us to love the country and to despise the town. Whether it be +better for a people to achieve an even level of prosperity, which is +shared by all, but which makes none eminent, or to encounter those rough, +ambitious, competitive strengths which produce both palaces and poor-houses, +shall not be matter of argument here; but the teller of this story is +disposed to think that the chance traveller, as long as he tarries at +Granpere, will insensibly and perhaps unconsciously become an advocate +of the former doctrine; he will be struck by the comfort which he sees +around him, and for a while will dispense with wealth, luxury, scholarships, +and fashion. Whether the inhabitants of these hills and valleys +will advance to farther progress now that they are again to become German, +is another question, which the writer will not attempt to answer here.<br> +<br> +Granpere in itself is a very pleasing village. Though the amount +of population and number of houses do not suffice to make it more than +a village, it covers so large a space of ground as almost to give it +a claim to town honours. It is perhaps a full mile in length; +and though it has but one street, there are buildings standing here +and there, back from the line, which make it seem to stretch beyond +the narrow confines of a single thoroughfare. In most French villages +some of the houses are high and spacious, but here they seem almost +all to be so. And many of them have been constructed after that +independent fashion which always gives to a house in a street a character +and importance of its own. They do not stand in a simple line, +each supported by the strength of its neighbour, but occupy their own +ground, facing this way or that as each may please, presenting here +a corner to the main street, and there an end. There are little +gardens, and big stables, and commodious barns; and periodical paint +with annual whitewash is not wanting. The unstinted slates shine +copiously under the sun, and over almost every other door there is a +large lettered board which indicates that the resident within is a dealer +in the linen which is produced throughout the country. All these +things together give to Granpere an air of prosperity and comfort which +is not at all checked by the fact that there is in the place no mansion +which we Englishmen would call the gentleman’s house, nothing +approaching to the ascendancy of a parish squire, no baron’s castle, +no manorial hall,—not even a château to overshadow the modest +roofs of the dealers in the linen of the Vosges.<br> +<br> +And the scenery round Granpere is very pleasant, though the neighbouring +hills never rise to the magnificence of mountains or produce that grandeur +which tourists desire when they travel in search of the beauties of +Nature. It is a spot to love if you know it well, rather than +to visit with hopes raised high, and to leave with vivid impressions. +There is water in abundance; a pretty lake lying at the feet of sloping +hills, rivulets running down from the high upper lands and turning many +a modest wheel in their course, a waterfall or two here and there, and +a so-called mountain summit within an easy distance, from whence the +sun may be seen to rise among the Swiss mountains;—and distant perhaps +three miles from the village the main river which runs down the valley +makes for itself a wild ravine, just where the bridge on the new road +to Münster crosses the water, and helps to excuse the people of +Granpere for claiming for themselves a great object of natural attraction. +The bridge and the river and the ravine are very pretty, and perhaps +justify all that the villagers say of them when they sing to travellers +the praises of their country.<br> +<br> +Whether it be the sale of linen that has produced the large inn at Granpere, +or the delicious air of the place, or the ravine and the bridge, matters +little to our story; but the fact of the inn matters very much. +There it is,—a roomy, commodious building, not easily intelligible +to a stranger, with its widely distributed parts, standing like an inverted +V, with its open side towards the main road. On the ground-floor +on one side are the large stables and coach-house, with a billiard-room +and <i>café</i> over them, and a long balcony which runs round +the building; and on the other side there are kitchens and drinking-rooms, +and over these the chamber for meals and the bedrooms. All large, +airy, and clean, though, perhaps, not excellently well finished in their +construction, and furnished with but little pretence to French luxury. +And behind the inn there are gardens, by no means trim, and a dusty +summer-house, which serves, however, for the smoking of a cigar; and +there is generally space and plenty and goodwill. Either the linen, +or the air, or the ravine, or, as is more probable, the three combined, +have produced a business, so that the landlord of the Lion d’Or +at Granpere is a thriving man.<br> +<br> +The reader shall at once be introduced to the landlord, and informed +at the same time that, in so far as he may be interested in this story, +he will have to take up his abode at the Lion d’Or till it be +concluded; not as a guest staying loosely at his inn, but as one who +is concerned with all the innermost affairs of the household. +He will not simply eat his plate of soup, and drink his glass of wine, +and pass on, knowing and caring more for the servant than for the servant’s +master, but he must content himself to sit at the landlord’s table, +to converse very frequently with the landlord’s wife, to become +very intimate with the landlord’s son—whether on loving or on +unloving terms shall be left entirely to himself—and to throw himself, +with the sympathy of old friendship, into all the troubles and all the +joys of the landlord’s niece. If the reader be one who cannot +take such a journey, and pass a month or two without the society of +persons whom he would define as ladies and gentlemen, he had better +be warned at once, and move on, not setting foot within the Lion d’Or +at Granpere.<br> +<br> +Michel Voss, the landlord, in person was at this time a tall, stout, +active, and very handsome man, about fifty years of age. As his +son was already twenty-five—and was known to be so throughout the +commune—people were sure that Michel Voss was fifty or thereabouts; +but there was very little in his appearance to indicate so many years. +He was fat and burly to be sure; but then he was not fat to lethargy, +or burly with any sign of slowness. There was still the spring +of youth in his footstep, and when there was some weight to be lifted, +some heavy timber to be thrust here or there, some huge lumbering vehicle +to be hoisted in or out, there was no arm about the place so strong +as that of the master. His short, dark, curly hair—that was +always kept clipped round his head—was beginning to show a tinge of +gray, but the huge moustache on his upper lip was still of a thorough +brown, as was also the small morsel of beard which he wore upon his +chin. He had bright sharp brown eyes, a nose slightly beaked, +and a large mouth. He was on the whole a man of good temper, just +withal, and one who loved those who belonged to him; but he chose to +be master in his own house, and was apt to think that his superior years +enabled him to know what younger people wanted better than they would +know themselves. He was loved in his house and respected in his +village; but there was something in the beak of his nose and the brightness +of his eye which was apt to make those around him afraid of him. +And indeed Michel Voss could lose his temper and become an angry man.<br> +<br> +Our landlord had been twice married. By his first wife he had +now living a single son, George Voss, who at the time of our tale had +already reached his twenty-fifth year. George, however, did not +at this time live under his father’s roof, having taken service +for a time with the landlady of another inn at Colmar. George +Voss was known to be a clever young man; many in those parts declared +that he was much more so than his father; and when he became clerk at +the Poste in Colmar, and after a year or two had taken into his hands +almost the entire management of that house—so that people began to +say that old-fashioned and wretched as it was, money might still be +made there—people began to say also that Michel Voss had been wrong +to allow his son to leave Granpere. But in truth there had been +a few words between the father and the son; and the two were so like +each other that the father found it difficult to rule, and the son found +it difficult to be ruled.<br> +<br> +George Voss was very like his father, with this difference, as he was +often told by the old folk about Granpere, that he would never fill +his father’s shoes. He was a smaller man, less tall by a +couple of inches, less broad in proportion across the shoulders, whose +arm would never be so strong, whose leg would never grace a tight stocking +with so full a development. But he had the same eye, bright and +brown and very quick, the same mouth, the same aquiline nose, the same +broad forehead and well-shaped chin, and the same look in his face which +made men know as by instinct that he would sooner command than obey. +So there had come to be a few words, and George Voss had gone away to +the house of a cousin of his mother’s, and had taken to commanding +there.<br> +<br> +Not that there had been any quarrel between the father and the son; +nor indeed that George was aware that he had been in the least disobedient +to his parent. There was no recognised ambition for rule in the +breasts of either of them. It was simply this, that their tempers +were alike; and when on an occasion Michel told his son that he would +not allow a certain piece of folly which the son was, as he thought, +likely to commit, George declared that he would soon set that matter +right by leaving Granpere. Accordingly he did leave Granpere, +and became the right hand, and indeed the head, and backbone, and best +leg of his old cousin Madame Faragon of the Poste at Colmar. Now +the matter on which these few words occurred was a question of love—whether +George Voss should fall in love with and marry his step-mother’s +niece Marie Bromar. But before anything farther can be said of +these few words, Madame Voss and her niece must be introduced to the +reader.<br> +<br> +Madame Voss was nearly twenty years younger than her husband, and had +now been a wife some five or six years. She had been brought from +Epinal, where she had lived with a married sister, a widow, much older +than herself—in parting from whom on her marriage there had been much +tribulation. ‘Should anything happen to Marie,’ she +had said to Michel Voss, before she gave him her troth, ‘you will +let Minnie Bromar come to me?’ Michel Voss, who was then +hotly in love with his hoped-for bride—hotly in love in spite of his +four-and-forty years—gave the required promise. The said ‘something’ +which had been suspected had happened. Madame Bromar had died, +and Minnie Bromar her daughter—or Marie as she was always afterwards +called—had at once been taken into the house at Granpere. Michel +never thought twice about it when he was reminded of his promise. +‘If I hadn’t promised at all, she should come the same,’ +he said. ‘The house is big enough for a dozen more yet.’ +In saying this he perhaps alluded to a little baby that then lay in +a cradle in his wife’s room, by means of which at that time Madame +Voss was able to make her big husband do pretty nearly anything that +she pleased. So Marie Bromar, then just fifteen years of age, +was brought over from Epinal to Granpere, and the house certainly was +not felt to be too small because she was there. Marie soon learned +the ways and wishes of her burly, soft-hearted uncle; would fill his +pipe for him, and hand him his soup, and bring his slippers, and put +her soft arm round his neck, and became a favourite. She was only +a child when she came, and Michel thought it was very pleasant; but +in five years’ time she was a woman, and Michel was forced to +reflect that it would not be well that there should be another marriage +and another family in the house while he was so young himself,—there +was at this time a third baby in the cradle,—and then Marie Bromar +had not a franc of <i>dot</i>. Marie was the sweetest eldest daughter +in the world, but he could not think it right that his son should marry +a wife before he had done a stroke for himself in the world. Prudence +made it absolutely necessary that he should say a word to his son.<br> +<br> +Madame Voss was certainly nearly twenty years younger than her husband, +and yet the pair did not look to be ill-sorted. Michel was so +handsome, strong, and hale; and Madame Voss, though she was a comely +woman,—though when she was brought home a bride to Granpere the neighbours +had all declared that she was very handsome,—carried with her a look +of more years than she really possessed. She had borne many of +a woman’s cares, and had known much of woman’s sorrows before +she had become wife to Michel Voss; and then when the babes came, and +she had settled down as mistress of that large household, and taught +herself to regard George Voss and Marie Bromar almost as her own children, +all idea that she was much younger than her husband departed from her. +She was a woman who desired to excel her husband in nothing,—if only +she might be considered to be in some things his equal. There +was no feeling in the village that Michel Voss had brought home a young +wife and had made a fool of himself. He was a man entitled to +have a wife much younger than himself. Madame Voss in those days +always wore a white cap and a dark stuff gown, which was changed on +Sundays for one of black silk, and brown mittens on her hands, and she +went about the house in soft carpet shoes. She was a conscientious, +useful, but not an enterprising woman; loving her husband much and fearing +him somewhat; liking to have her own way in certain small matters, but +willing to be led in other things so long as those were surrendered +to her; careful with her children, the care of whom seemed to deprive +her of the power of caring for the business of the inn; kind to her +niece, good-humoured in her house, and satisfied with the world at large +as long as she might always be allowed to entertain M. le Curé +at dinner on Sundays. Michel Voss, Protestant though he was, had +not the slightest objection to giving M. le Curé his Sunday dinner, +on condition that M. le Curé on these occasions would confine +his conversation to open subjects. M. le Curé was quite +willing to eat his dinner and give no offence.<br> +<br> +A word too must be said of Marie Bromar before we begin our story. +Marie Bromar is the heroine of this little tale; and the reader must +be made to have some idea of her as she would have appeared before him +had he seen her standing near her uncle in the long room upstairs of +the hotel at Granpere. Marie had been fifteen when she was brought +from Epinal to Granpere, and had then been a child; but she had now +reached her twentieth birthday, and was a woman. She was not above +the middle height, and might seem to be less indeed in that house, because +her aunt and her uncle were tall; but she was straight, well made, and +very active. She was strong and liked to use her strength, and +was very keen about all the work of the house. During the five +years of her residence at Granpere she had thoroughly learned the mysteries +of her uncle’s trade. She knew good wine from bad by the +perfume; she knew whether bread was the full weight by the touch; with +a glance of her eye she could tell whether the cheese and butter were +what they ought to be; in a matter of poultry no woman in all the commune +could take her in; she was great in judging eggs; knew well the quality +of linen; and was even able to calculate how long the hay should last, +and what should be the consumption of corn in the stables. Michel +Voss was well aware before Marie had been a year beneath his roof that +she well earned the morsel she ate and the drop she drank; and when +she had been there five years he was ready to swear that she was the +cleverest girl in Lorraine or Alsace. And she was very pretty, +with rich brown hair that would not allow itself to be brushed out of +its crisp half-curls in front, and which she always wore cut short behind, +curling round her straight, well-formed neck. Her eyes were gray, +with a strong shade indeed of green, but were very bright and pleasant, +full of intelligence, telling stories by their glances of her whole +inward disposition, of her activity, quickness, and desire to have a +hand in everything that was being done. Her father Jean Bromar +had come from the same stock with Michel Voss, and she, too, had something +of that aquiline nose which gave to the innkeeper and his son the look +which made men dislike to contradict them. Her mouth was large, +but her teeth were very white and perfect, and her smile was the sweetest +thing that ever was seen. Marie Bromar was a pretty girl, and +George Voss, had he lived so near to her and not have fallen in love +with her, must have been cold indeed.<br> +<br> +At the end of these five years Marie had become a woman, and was known +by all around her to be a woman much stronger, both in person and in +purpose, than her aunt; but she maintained, almost unconsciously, many +of the ways in the house which she had assumed when she first entered +it. Then she had always been on foot, to be everybody’s +messenger,—and so she was now. When her uncle and aunt were +at their meals she was always up and about,—attending them, attending +the public guests, attending the whole house. And it seemed as +though she herself never sat down to eat or drink. Indeed, it +was rare enough to find her seated at all. She would have a cup +of coffee standing up at the little desk near the public window when +she kept her books, or would take a morsel of meat as she helped to +remove the dishes. She would stand sometimes for a minute leaning +on the back of her uncle’s chair as he sat at his supper, and +would say, when he bade her to take her chair and eat with them, that +she preferred picking and stealing. In all things she worshipped +her uncle, observing his movements, caring for his wants, and carrying +out his plans. She did not worship her aunt, but she so served +Madame Voss that had she been withdrawn from the household Madame Voss +would have found herself altogether unable to provide for its wants. +Thus Marie Bromar had become the guardian angel of the Lion d’Or +at Granpere.<br> +<br> +There must be a word or two more said of the difference between George +Voss and his father which had ended in sending George to Colmar; a word +or two about that, and a word also of what occurred between George and +Marie. Then we shall be able to commence our story without farther +reference to things past. As Michel Voss was a just, affectionate, +and intelligent man, he would not probably have objected to a marriage +between the two young people, had the proposition for such a marriage +been first submitted to him, with a proper amount of attention to his +judgment and controlling power. But the idea was introduced to +him in a manner which taught him to think that there was to be a clandestine +love affair. To him George was still a boy, and Marie not much +more than a child, and—without much thinking—he felt that the thing +was improper.<br> +<br> +‘I won’t have it, George,’ he had said.<br> +<br> +‘Won’t have what, father?’<br> +<br> +‘Never mind. You know. If you can’t get over +it in any other way, you had better go away. You must do something +for yourself before you can think of marrying.’<br> +<br> +‘I am not thinking of marrying.’<br> +<br> +‘Then what were you thinking of when I saw you with Marie? +I won’t have it for her sake, and I won’t have it for mine, +and I won’t have it for your own. You had better go away +for a while.’<br> +<br> +‘I’ll go away to-morrow if you wish it, father.’ +Michel had turned away, not saying another word; and on the following +day George did go away, hardly waiting an hour to set in order his part +of his father’s business. For it must be known that George +had not been an idler in his father’s establishment. There +was a trade of wood-cutting upon the mountain-side, with a saw-mill +turned by water beneath, over which George had presided almost since +he had left the school of the commune. When his father told him +that he was bound to do something before he got married, he could not +have intended to accuse him of having been hitherto idle. Of the +wood-cutting and the saw-mill George knew as much as Marie did of the +poultry and the linen. Michel was wrong, probably, in his attempt +to separate them. The house was large enough, or if not, there +was still room for another house to be built in Granpere. They +would have done well as man and wife. But then the head of a household +naturally objects to seeing the boys and girls belonging to him making +love under his nose without any reference to his opinion. ‘Things +were not made so easy for me,’ he says to himself, and feels it +to be a sort of duty to take care that the course of love shall not +run altogether smooth. George, no doubt, was too abrupt with his +father; or perhaps it might be the case that he was not sorry to take +an opportunity of leaving for a while Granpere and Marie Bromar. +It might be well to see the world; and though Marie Bromar was bright +and pretty, it might be that there were others abroad brighter and prettier.<br> +<br> +His father had spoken to him on one fine September afternoon, and within +an hour George was with the men who were stripping bark from the great +pine logs up on the side of the mountain. With them, and with +two or three others who were engaged at the saw-mills, he remained till +the night was dark. Then he came down and told something of his +intentions to his stepmother. He was going to Colmar on the morrow +with a horse and small cart, and would take with him what clothes he +had ready. He did not speak to Marie that night, but he said something +to his father about the timber and the mill. Gaspar Muntz, the +head woodsman, knew, he said, all about the business. Gaspar could +carry on the work till it would suit Michel Voss himself to see how +things were going on. Michel Voss was sore and angry, but he said +nothing. He sent to his son a couple of hundred francs by his +wife, but said no word of explanation even to her. On the following +morning George was off without seeing his father.<br> +<br> +But Marie was up to give him his breakfast. ‘What is the +meaning of this, George?’ she said.<br> +<br> +‘Father says that I shall be better away from this,—so I’m +going away.’<br> +<br> +‘And why will you be better away?’ To this George +made no answer. ‘It will be terrible if you quarrel with +your father. Nothing can be so bad as that.’<br> +<br> +‘We have not quarrelled. That is to say, I have not quarrelled +with him. If he quarrels with me, I cannot help it.’<br> +<br> +‘It must be helped,’ said Marie, as she placed before him +a mess of eggs which she had cooked for him with her own hands. +‘I would sooner die than see anything wrong between you two.’ +Then there was a pause. ‘Is it about me, George?’ +she asked boldly.<br> +<br> +‘Father thinks that I love you:—so I do.’<br> +<br> +Marie paused for a few minutes before she said anything farther. +She was standing very near to George, who was eating his breakfast heartily +in spite of the interesting nature of the conversation. As she +filled his cup a second time, she spoke again. ‘I will never +do anything, George, if I can help it, to displease my uncle.’<br> +<br> +‘But why should it displease him? He wants to have his own +way in everything.’<br> +<br> +‘Of course he does.’<br> +<br> +‘He has told me to go;—and I’ll go. I’ve worked +for him as no other man would work, and have never said a word about +a share in the business;—and never would.’<br> +<br> +‘Is it not all for yourself, George?’<br> +<br> +‘And why shouldn’t you and I be married if we like it?’<br> +<br> +‘I will never like it,’ said she solemnly, ‘if uncle +dislikes it.’<br> +<br> +‘Very well,’ said George. ‘There is the horse +ready, and now I’m off.’<br> +<br> +So he went, starting just as the day was dawning, and no one saw him +on that morning except Marie Bromar. As soon as he was gone she +went up to her little room, and sat herself down on her bedside. +She knew that she loved him, and had been told that she was beloved. +She knew that she could not lose him without suffering terribly; but +now she almost feared that it would be necessary that she should lose +him. His manner had not been tender to her. He had indeed +said that he loved her, but there had been nothing of the tenderness +of love in his mode of saying so;—and then he had said no word of +persistency in the teeth of his father’s objection. She +had declared—thoroughly purposing that her declaration should be true—that +she would never become his wife in opposition to her uncle’s +wishes; but he, had he been in earnest, might have said something of +his readiness to attempt at least to overcome his father’s objection. +But he had said not a word, and Marie, as she sat upon her bed, made +up her mind that it must be all over. But she made up her mind +also that she would entertain no feeling of anger against her uncle. +She owed him everything, so she thought—making no account, as George +had done, of labour given in return. She was only a girl, and +what was her labour? For a while she resolved that she would give +a spoken assurance to her uncle that he need fear nothing from her. +It was natural enough to her that her uncle should desire a better marriage +for his son. But after a while she reflected that any speech from +her on such a subject would be difficult, and that it would be better +that she should hold her tongue. So she held her tongue, and thought +of George, and suffered;—but still was merry, at least in manner, +when her uncle spoke to her, and priced the poultry, and counted the +linen, and made out the visitors’ bills, as though nothing evil +had come upon her. She was a gallant girl, and Michel Voss, though +he could not speak of it, understood her gallantry and made notes of +it on the note-book of his heart.<br> +<br> +In the mean time George Voss was thriving at Colmar,—as the Vosses +did thrive wherever they settled themselves. But he sent no word +to his father,—nor did his father send word to him,—though they +were not more than ten leagues apart. Once Madame Voss went over +to see him, and brought back word of his well-doing.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER II.<br> +<br> +Exactly at eight o’clock every evening a loud bell was sounded +in the hotel of the Lion d’Or at Granpere, and all within the +house sat down together to supper. The supper was spread on a +long table in the saloon up-stairs, and the room was lighted with camphine +lamps,—for as yet gas had not found its way to Granpere. At +this meal assembled not only the guests in the house and the members +of the family of the landlord,—but also many persons living in the +village whom it suited to take, at a certain price per month, the chief +meal of the day, at the house of the innkeeper, instead of eating in +their own houses a more costly, a less dainty, and probably a lonely +supper. Therefore when the bell was heard there came together +some dozen residents of Granpere, mostly young men engaged in the linen +trade, from their different lodgings, and each took his accustomed seat +down the sides of the long board, at which, tied in a knot, was placed +his own napkin. At the top of the table was the place of Madame +Voss, which she never failed to fill exactly three minutes after the +bell had been rung. At her right hand was the chair of the master +of the house,—never occupied by any one else;—but it would often +happen that some business would keep him away. Since George had +left him he had taken the timber into his own hands, and was accustomed +to think and sometimes to say that the necessity was cruel on him. +Below his chair and on the other side of Madame Voss there would generally +be two or three places kept for guests who might be specially looked +upon as the intimate friends of the mistress of the house; and at the +farther end of the table, close to the window, was the space allotted +to travellers. Here the napkins were not tied in knots, but were +always clean. And, though the little plates of radishes, cakes, +and dried fruits were continued from one of the tables to the other, +the long-necked thin bottles of common wine came to an end before they +reached the strangers’ portion of the board; for it had been found +that strangers would take at that hour either tea or a better kind of +wine than that which Michel Voss gave to his accustomed guests without +any special charge. When, however, the stranger should please +to take the common wine, he was by no means thereby prejudiced in the +eyes of Madame Voss or her husband. Michel Voss liked a profit, +but he liked the habits of his country almost as well.<br> +<br> +One evening in September, about twelve months after the departure of +George, Madame Voss took her seat at the table, and the young men of +the place who had been waiting round the door of the hotel for a few +minutes, followed her into the room. And there was M. Goudin, +the Curé, with another young clergyman, his friend. On +Sundays the Curé always dined at the hotel at half-past twelve +o’clock, as the friend of the family; but for his supper he paid, +as did the other guests. I rather fancy that on week days he had +no particular dinner; and indeed there was no such formal meal given +in the house of Michel Voss on week days. There was something +put on the table about noon in the little room between the kitchen and +the public window; but except on Sundays it could hardly be called a +dinner. On Sundays a real dinner was served in the room up-stairs, +with soup, and removes, and <i>entrées</i> and the <i>rôti,</i> +all in the right place,—which showed that they knew what a dinner +was at the Lion d’Or;—but, throughout the week, supper was the +meal of the day. After M. Goudin, on this occasion, there came +two maiden ladies from Epinal who were lodging at Granpere for change +of air. They seated themselves near to Madame Voss, but still +leaving a place or two vacant. And presently at the bottom of +the table there came an Englishman and his wife, who were travelling +through the country; and so the table was made up. A lad of about +fifteen, who was known in Granpere as the waiter at the Lion d’Or, +looked after the two strangers and the young men, and Marie Bromar, +who herself had arranged the board, stood at the top of the room, by +a second table, and dispensed the soup. It was pleasant to watch +her eyes, as she marked the moment when the dispensing should begin, +and counted her guests, thoughtful as to the sufficiency of the dishes +to come; and noticed that Edmond Greisse had sat down with such dirty +hands that she must bid her uncle to warn the lad; and observed that +the more elderly of the two ladies from Epinal had bread too hard to +suit her,—which should be changed as soon as the soup had been dispensed. +She looked round, and even while dispensing saw everything. It +was suggested in the last chapter that another house might have been +built in Granpere, and that George Voss might have gone there, taking +Marie as his bride; but the Lion d’Or would sorely have missed +those quick and careful eyes.<br> +<br> +Then, when that dispensing of the soup was concluded, Michel entered +the room bringing with him a young man. The young man had evidently +been expected; for, when he took the place close at the left hand of +Madame Voss, she simply bowed to him, saying some word of courtesy as +Michel took his place on the other side. Then Marie dispensed +two more portions of soup, and leaving one on the farther table for +the boy to serve, though she could well have brought the two, waited +herself upon her uncle. ‘And is Urmand to have no soup?’ +said Michel Voss, as he took his niece lovingly by the hand.<br> +<br> +‘Peter is bringing it,’ said Marie. And in a moment +or two Peter the waiter did bring the young man his soup.<br> +<br> +‘And will not Mademoiselle Marie sit down with us?’ said +the young man.<br> +<br> +‘If you can make her, you have more influence than I,’ said +Michel. ‘Marie never sits, and never eats, and never drinks.’ +She was standing now close behind her uncle with both her hands upon +his head; and she would often stand so after the supper was commenced, +only moving to attend upon him, or to supplement the services of Peter +and the maid-servant when she perceived that they were becoming for +a time inadequate to their duties. She answered her uncle now +by gently pulling his ears, but she said nothing.<br> +<br> +‘Sit down with us, Marie, to oblige me,’ said Madame Voss.<br> +<br> +‘I had rather not, aunt. It is foolish to sit at supper +and not eat. I have taken my supper already.’ Then +she moved away, and hovered round the two strangers at the end of the +room. After supper Michel Voss and the young man—Adrian Urmand +by name—lit their cigars and seated themselves on a bench outside +the front door. ‘Have you never said a word to her?’ +said Michel.<br> +<br> +‘Well;—a word; yes.’<br> +<br> +‘But you have not asked her—; you know what I mean;—asked +her whether she could love you.’<br> +<br> +‘Well,—yes. I have said as much as that, but I have never +got an answer. And when I did ask her, she merely left me. +She is not much given to talking.’<br> +<br> +‘She will not make the worse wife, my friend, because she is not +much given to such talking as that. When she is out with me on +a Sunday afternoon she has chat enough. By St. James, she’ll +talk for two hours without stopping when I’m so out of breath +with the hill that I haven’t a word.’<br> +<br> +‘I don’t doubt she can talk.’<br> +<br> +‘That she can; and manage a house better than any girl I ever +saw. You ask her aunt.’<br> +<br> +‘I know what her aunt thinks of her. Madame Voss says that +neither you nor she can afford to part with her.’<br> +<br> +Michel Voss was silent for a moment. It was dusk, and no one could +see him as he brushed a tear from each eye with the back of his hand. +‘I’ll tell you what, Urmand,—it will break my heart to +lose her. Do you see how she comes to me and comforts me? +But if it broke my heart, and broke the house too, I would not keep +her here. It isn’t fit. If you like her, and she can +like you, it will be a good match for her. You have my leave to +ask her. She brought nothing here, but she has been a good girl, +a very good girl, and she will not leave the house empty-handed.’<br> +<br> +Adrian Urmand was a linen-buyer from Basle, and was known to have a +good share in a good business. He was a handsome young man too, +though rather small, and perhaps a little too apt to wear rings on his +fingers and to show jewelry on his shirt-front and about his waistcoat. +So at least said some of the young people of Granpere, where rings and +gold studs are not so common as they are at Basle. But he was +one who understood his business, and did not neglect it; he had money +too; and was therefore such a young man that Michel Voss felt that he +might give his niece to him without danger, if he and she could manage +to like each other sufficiently. As to Urmand’s liking, +there was no doubt. Urmand was ready enough.<br> +<br> +‘I will see if she will speak to me just now,’ said Urmand +after a pause.<br> +<br> +‘Shall her aunt try it, or shall I do it?’ said Michel.<br> +<br> +But Adrian Urmand thought that part of the pleasure of love lay in the +making of it himself. So he declined the innkeeper’s offer, +at any rate for the present occasion. ‘Perhaps,’ said +he, ‘Madame Voss will say a word for me after I have spoken for +myself.’<br> +<br> +‘So let it be,’ said the landlord. And then they finished +their cigars in silence.<br> +<br> +It was in vain that Adrian Urmand tried that night to obtain audience +from Marie. Marie, as though she well knew what was wanted of +her and was determined to thwart her lover, would not allow herself +to be found alone for a moment. When Adrian presented himself +at the window of her little bar, he found that Peter was with her, and +she managed to keep Peter with her till Adrian was gone. And again, +when he hoped to find her alone for a few moments after the work of +the day was over in the small parlour where she was accustomed to sit +for some half hour before she would go up to her room, he was again +disappointed. She was already up-stairs with her aunt and the +children, and all Michel Voss’s good nature in keeping out of +the way was of no avail.<br> +<br> +But Urmand was determined not to be beaten. He intended to return +to Basle on the next day but one, and desired to put this matter a little +in forwardness before he took his departure. On the following +morning he had various appointments to keep with countrymen and their +wives, who sold linen to him, but he was quick over his business and +managed to get back to the inn early in the afternoon. From six +till eight he well knew that Marie would allow nothing to impede her +in the grand work of preparing for supper; but at four o’clock +she would certainly be sitting somewhere about the house with her needle +in her hand. At four o’clock he found her, not with her +needle in her hand, but, better still, perfectly idle. She was +standing at an open window, looking out upon the garden as he came behind +her, standing motionless with both hands on the sill of the window, +thinking deeply of something that filled her mind. It might be +that she was thinking of him.<br> +<br> +‘I have done with my customers now, and I shall be off to Basle +to-morrow,’ said he, as soon as she had looked round at the sound +of his footsteps and perceived that he was close to her.<br> +<br> +‘I hope you have bought your goods well, M. Urmand.’<br> +<br> +‘Ah! for the matter of that the time for buying things well is +clean gone. One used to be able to buy well; but there is not +an old woman now in Alsace who doesn’t know as well as I do, or +better, what linen is worth in Berne and Paris. They expect to +get nearly as much for it here at Granpere.’<br> +<br> +‘They work hard, M. Urmand, and things are dearer than they were. +It is well that they should get a price for their labour.’<br> +<br> +‘A price, yes:—but how is a man to buy without a profit? +They think that I come here for their sakes,—merely to bring the market +to their doors.’ Then he began to remember that he had no +special object in discussing the circumstances of his trade with Marie +Bromar, and that he had a special object in another direction. +But how to turn the subject was now a difficulty.<br> +<br> +‘I am sure you do not buy without a profit,’ said Marie +Bromar, when she found that he was silent. ‘And then the +poor people, who have to pay so dear for everything!’ She +was making a violent attempt to keep him on the ground of his customers +and his purchases.<br> +<br> +‘There was another thing that I wanted to say to you, Marie,’ +he began at last abruptly.<br> +<br> +‘Another thing,’ said Marie, knowing that the hour had come.<br> +<br> +‘Yes;—another thing. I daresay you know what it is. +I need not tell you now that I love you, need I, Marie? You know +as well as I do what I think of you.’<br> +<br> +‘No, I don’t,’ said Marie, not intending to encourage +him to tell her, but simply saying that which came easiest to her at +the moment.<br> +<br> +‘I think this,—that if you will consent to be my wife, I shall +be a very happy man. That is all. Everybody knows how pretty +you are, and how good, and how clever; but I do not think that anybody +loves you better than I do. Can you say that you will love me, +Marie? Your uncle approves of it,—and your aunt.’ +He had now come quite close to her, and having placed his hand behind +her back, was winding his arm round her waist.<br> +<br> +‘I will not have you do that, M. Urmand,’ she said, escaping +from his embrace.<br> +<br> +‘But that is no answer. Can you love me, Marie?’<br> +<br> +‘No,’ she said, hardly whispering the word between her teeth.<br> +<br> +‘And is that to be all?’<br> +<br> +‘What more can I say?’<br> +<br> +‘But your uncle wishes it, and your aunt. Dear Marie, can +you not try to love me?’<br> +<br> +‘I know they wish it. It is easy enough for a girl to see +when such things are wished or when they are forbidden. Of course +I know that uncle wishes it. And he is very good;—and so are +you, I daresay. And I’m sure I ought to be very proud, because +you are so much above me.’<br> +<br> +‘I am not a bit above you. If you knew what I think, you +wouldn’t say so.’<br> +<br> +‘But—’<br> +<br> +‘Well, Marie. Think a moment, dearest, before you give me +an answer that shall make me either happy or miserable.’<br> +<br> +‘I have thought. I would almost burn myself in the fire, +if uncle wished it.’<br> +<br> +‘And he does wish this.’<br> +<br> +‘But I cannot do this even because he wishes it.’<br> +<br> +‘Why not, Marie?’<br> +<br> +‘I prefer being as I am. I do not wish to leave the hotel, +or to be married at all.’<br> +<br> +‘Nay, Marie, you will certainly be married some day.’<br> +<br> +‘No; there is no such certainty. Some girls never get married. +I am of use here, and I am happy here.’<br> +<br> +‘Ah! it is because you cannot love me.’<br> +<br> +‘I don’t suppose I shall ever love any one, not in that +way. I must go away now, M. Urmand, because I am wanted below.’<br> +<br> +She did go, and Adrian Urmand spoke no farther word of love to her on +that occasion.<br> +<br> +‘I will speak to her about it myself,’ said Michel Voss, +when he heard his young friend’s story that evening, seated again +upon the bench outside the door, and smoking another cigar.<br> +<br> +‘It will be of no use,’ said Adrian.<br> +<br> +‘One never knows,’ said Michel. ‘Young women +are queer cattle to take to market. One can never be quite certain +which way they want to go. After you are off to-morrow, I will +have a few words with her. She does not quite understand as yet +that she must make her hay while the sun shines. Some of ‘em +are all in a hurry to get married, and some of ‘em again are all +for hanging back, when their friends wish it. It’s natural, +I believe, that they should be contrary. But Marie is as good +as the best of them, and when I speak to her, she’ll hear reason.’<br> +<br> +Adrian Urmand had no alternative but to assent to the innkeeper’s +proposition. The idea of making love second-hand was not pleasant +to him; but he could not hinder the uncle from speaking his mind to +the niece. One little suggestion he did make before he took his +departure. ‘It can’t be, I suppose, that there is +any one else that she likes better?’ To this Michel Voss +made no answer in words, but shook his head in a fashion that made Adrian +feel assured that there was no danger on that head.<br> +<br> +But Michel Voss, though he had shaken his head in a manner so satisfactory, +had feared that there was such danger. He had considered himself +justified in shaking his head, but would not be so false as to give +in words the assurance which Adrian had asked. That night he discussed +the matter with his wife, declaring it as his purpose that Marie Bromar +should marry Adrian Urmand. ‘It is impossible that she should +do better,’ said Michel.<br> +<br> +‘It would be very well,’ said Madame Voss.<br> +<br> +‘Very well! Why, he is worth thirty thousand francs, and +is as steady at his business as his father was before him.’<br> +<br> +‘He is a dandy.’<br> +<br> +‘Psha! that is nothing!’ said Michel.<br> +<br> +‘And he is too fond of money.’<br> +<br> +‘It is a fault on the right side,’ said Michel. ‘His +wife and children will not come to want.’<br> +<br> +Madame Voss paused a moment before she made her last and grand objection +to the match. ‘It is my belief,’ said she, ‘that +Marie is always thinking of George.’<br> +<br> +‘Then she had better cease to think of him,’ said Michel; +‘for George is not thinking of her.’ He said nothing +farther, but resolved to speak his own mind freely to Marie Bromar.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER III.<br> +<br> +The old-fashioned inn at Colmar, at which George Voss was acting as +assistant and chief manager to his father’s distant cousin, Madame +Faragon, was a house very different in all its belongings from the Lion +d’Or at Granpere. It was very much larger, and had much +higher pretensions. It assumed to itself the character of a first-class +hotel; and when Colmar was without a railway, and was a great posting-station +on the high road from Strasbourg to Lyons, there was some real business +at the Hôtel de la Poste in that town. At present, though +Colmar may probably have been benefited by the railway, the inn has +faded, and is in its yellow leaf. Travellers who desire to see +the statue which a grateful city has erected to the memory of its most +illustrious citizen, General Rapp, are not sufficient in number to keep +a first-class hotel in the glories of fresh paint and smart waiters; +and when you have done with General Rapp, there is not much to interest +you in Colmar. But there is the hotel; and poor fat, unwieldy +Madame Faragon, though she grumbles much, and declares that there is +not a sou to be made, still keeps it up, and bears with as much bravery +as she can the buffets of a world which seems to her to be becoming +less prosperous and less comfortable and more exacting every day. +In her younger years, a posting-house in such a town was a posting-house; +and when M. Faragon married her, the heiress of the then owner of the +business, he was supposed to have done uncommonly well for himself. +Madame Faragon is now a childless widow, and sometimes declares that +she will shut the house up and have done with it. Why maintain +a business without a profit, simply that there may be an Hôtel +de la Poste at Colmar? But there are old servants whom she has +not the heart to send away; and she has at any rate a roof of her own +over her head; and though she herself is unconscious that it is so, +she has many ties to the old business; and now, since her young cousin +George Voss has been with her, things go a little better. She +is not robbed so much, and the people of the town, finding that they +can get a fair bottle of wine and a good supper, come to the inn; and +at length an omnibus has been established, and there is a little glimmer +of returning prosperity.<br> +<br> +It is a large old rambling house, built round an irregularly-shaped +court, with another court behind it; and in both courts the stables +and coach-houses seem to be so mixed with the kitchens and entrances, +that one hardly knows what part of the building is equine and what part +human. Judging from the smell which pervades the lower quarters, +and, alas, also too frequently the upper rooms, one would be inclined +to say that the horses had the best of it. The defect had been +pointed out to Madame Faragon more than once; but that lady, though +in most of the affairs of life her temper is gentle and kindly, cannot +hear with equanimity an insinuation that any portion of her house is +either dirty or unsweet. Complaints have reached her that the +beds were—well, inhabited—but no servant now dares to hint at anything +wrong in this particular. If this traveller or that says a word +to her personally in complaint, she looks as sour as death, and declines +to open her mouth in reply; but when that traveller’s back is +turned, the things that Madame Faragon can say about the upstart coxcombry +of the wretch, and as to the want of all real comforts which she is +sure prevails in the home quarters of that ill-starred complaining traveller, +are proof to those who hear them that the old landlady has not as yet +lost all her energy. It need not be doubted that she herself religiously +believes that no foul perfume has ever pervaded the sanctity of her +chambers, and that no living thing has ever been seen inside the sheets +of her beds, except those guests whom she has allocated to the different +rooms.<br> +<br> +Matters had not gone very easily with George Voss in all the changes +he had made during the last year. Some things he was obliged to +do without consulting Madame Faragon at all. Then she would discover +what was going on, and there would be a ‘few words.’ +At other times he would consult her, and carry his purpose only after +much perseverance. Twice or thrice he had told her that he must +go away, and then with many groans she had acceded to his propositions. +It had been necessary to expend two thousand francs in establishing +the omnibus, and in that affair the appearance of things had been at +one time quite hopeless. And then when George had declared that +the altered habits of the people required that the hour of the morning +<i>table-d’hôte</i> should be changed from noon to one, +she had sworn that she would not give way. She would never lend +her assent to such vile idleness. It was already robbing the business +portion of the day of an hour. She would wrap her colours round +her and die upon the ground sooner than yield. ‘Then they +won’t come,’ said George, ‘and it’s no use you +having the table then. They will all go to the Hôtel de +l’Impératrice.’ This was a new house, the very +mention of which was a dagger-thrust into the bosom of Madame Faragon. +‘Then they will be poisoned,’ she said. ‘And +let them! It is what they are fit for.’ But the change +was made, and for the first three days she would not come out of her +room. When the bell was rung at the obnoxious hour, she stopped +her ears with her two hands.<br> +<br> +But though there had been these contests, Madame Faragon had made more +than one effort to induce George Voss to become her partner and successor +in the house. If he would only bring in a small sum of +money—a sum which must be easily within his father’s reach—he should +have half the business now, and all of it when Madame Faragon had gone +to her rest. Or if he would prefer to give Madame Faragon a +pension—a moderate pension—she would give up the house at once. At +these tender moments she used to say that he probably would not begrudge +her a room in which to die. But George Voss would always say that +he had no money, that he could not ask his father for money, and that +he had not made up his mind to settle at Colmar. Madame Faragon, +who was naturally much interested in the matter, and was moreover not +without curiosity, could never quite learn how matters stood at Granpere. +A word or two she had heard in a circuitous way of Marie Bromar, but +from George himself she could never learn anything of his affairs at +home. She had asked him once or twice whether it would not be +well that he should marry, but he had always replied that he did not +think of such a thing—at any rate as yet. He was a steady young +man, given more to work than to play, and apparently not inclined to +amuse himself with the girls of the neighbourhood.<br> +<br> +One day Edmond Greisse was over at Colmar—Edmond Greisse, the lad +whose untidy appearance at the supper-table at the Lion d’Or had +called down the rebuke of Marie Bromar. He had been sent over +on some business by his employer, and had come to get his supper and +bed at Madame Faragon’s hotel. He was a modest, unassuming +lad, and had been hardly more than a boy when George Voss had left Granpere. +From time to time George had seen some friend from the village, and +had thus heard tidings from home. Once, as has been said, Madame +Voss had made a pilgrimage to Madame Faragon’s establishment to +visit him; but letters between the houses had not been frequent. +Though postage in France—or shall we say Germany?—is now almost +as low as in England, these people of Alsace have not yet fallen into +the way of writing to each other when it occurs to any of them that +a word may be said. Young Greisse had seen the landlady, who now +never went upstairs among her guests, and had had his chamber allotted +to him, and was seated at the supper-table, before he met George Voss. +It was from Madame Faragon that George heard of his arrival.<br> +<br> +‘There is a neighbour of yours from Granpere in the house,’ +said she.<br> +<br> +‘From Granpere? And who is he?’<br> +<br> +‘I forget the lad’s name; but he says that your father is +well, and Madame Voss. He goes back early to-morrow with the roulage +and some goods that his people have bought. I think he is at supper +now.’<br> +<br> +The place of honour at the top of the table at the Colmar inn was not +in these days assumed by Madame Faragon. She had, alas, become +too stout to do so with either grace or comfort, and always took her +meals, as she always lived, in the little room downstairs, from which +she could see, through the apertures of two doors, all who came in and +all who went out by the chief entrance of the hotel. Nor had George +usurped the place. It had now happened at Colmar, as it has come +to pass at most hotels, that the public table is no longer the <i>table-d’hôte.</i> +The end chair was occupied by a stout, dark man, with a bald head and +black beard, who was proudly filling a place different from that of +his neighbours, and who would probably have gone over to the Hôtel +de l’Impératrice had anybody disturbed him. On the +present occasion George seated himself next to the lad, and they were +soon discussing all the news from Granpere.<br> +<br> +‘And how is Marie Bromar?’ George asked at last.<br> +<br> +‘You have heard about her, of course,’ said Edmond Greisse.<br> +<br> +‘Heard what?’<br> +<br> +‘She is going to be married.’<br> +<br> +‘Minnie Bromar to be married? And to whom?’<br> +<br> +Edmond at once understood that his news was regarded as being important, +and made the most of it.<br> +<br> +‘O dear, yes. It was settled last week when he was there.’<br> +<br> +‘But who is he?’<br> +<br> +‘Adrian Urmand, the linen-buyer from Basle.’<br> +<br> +‘Marie to be married to Adrian Urmand?’<br> +<br> +Urmand’s journeys to Granpere had been commenced before George +Voss had left the place, and therefore the two young men had known each +other.<br> +<br> +‘They say he’s very rich,’ said Edmond.<br> +<br> +‘I thought he cared for nobody but himself. And are you +sure? Who told you?’<br> +<br> +‘I am quite sure; but I do not know who told me. They are +all talking about it.’<br> +<br> +‘Did my father ever tell you?’<br> +<br> +‘No, he never told me.’<br> +<br> +‘Or Marie herself?’<br> +<br> +‘No, she did not tell me. Girls never tell those sort of +things of themselves.’<br> +<br> +‘Nor Madame Voss?’ asked George.<br> +<br> +‘She never talks much about anything. But you may be sure +it’s true. I’ll tell you who told me first, and he +is sure to know, because he lives in the house. It was Peter Veque.’<br> +<br> +‘Peter Veque, indeed! And who do you think would tell him?’<br> +<br> +‘But isn’t it quite likely? She has grown to be such +a beauty! Everybody gives it to her that she is the prettiest +girl round Granpere. And why shouldn’t he marry her? +If I had a lot of money, I’d only look to get the prettiest girl +I could find anywhere.’<br> +<br> +After this, George said nothing farther to the young man as to the marriage. +If it was talked about as Edmond said, it was probably true. And +why should it not be true? Even though it were true, no one would +have cared to tell him. She might have been married twice over, +and no one in Granpere would have sent him word. So he declared +to himself. And yet Marie Bromar had once sworn to him that she +loved him, and would be his for ever and ever; and, though he had left +her in dudgeon, with black looks, without a kind word of farewell, yet +he had believed her. Through all his sojourn at Colmar he had +told himself that she would be true to him. He believed it, though +he was hardly sure of himself—had hardly resolved that he would ever +go back to Granpere to seek her. His father had turned him out +of the house, and Marie had told him as he went that she would never +marry him if her uncle disapproved it. Slight as her word had +been on that morning of his departure, it had rankled in his bosom, +and made him angry with her through a whole twelvemonth. And yet +he had believed that she would be true to him!<br> +<br> +He went out in the evening when it was dusk and walked round and round +the public garden of Colmar, thinking of the news which he had heard—the +public garden, in which stands the statue of General Rapp. +It was a terrible blow to him. Though he had remained a whole +year in Colmar without seeing Marie, or hearing of her, without hardly +ever having had her name upon his lips, without even having once assured +himself during the whole time that the happiness of his life would depend +on the girl’s constancy to him,—now that he heard that she was +to be married to another man, he was torn to pieces by anger and regret. +He had sworn to love her, and had never even spoken a word of tenderness +to another girl. She had given him her plighted troth, and now +she was prepared to break it with the first man who asked her! +As he thought of this, his brow became black with anger. But his +regrets were as violent. What a fool he had been to leave her +there, open to persuasion from any man who came in the way, open to +persuasion from his father, who would, of course, be his enemy. +How, indeed, could he expect that she should be true to him? The +year had been long enough to him, but it must have been doubly long +to her. He had expected that his father would send for him, would +write to him, would at least transmit to him some word that would make +him know that his presence was again desired at Granpere. But +his father had been as proud as he was, and had not sent any such message. +Or rather, perhaps, the father being older and less impatient, had thought +that a temporary absence from Granpere might be good for his son.<br> +<br> +It was late at night when George Voss went to bed, but he was up in +the morning early to see Edmond Greisse before the roulage should start +for Münster on its road to Granpere. Early times in that +part of the world are very early, and the roulage was ready in the back +court of the inn at half-past four in the morning.<br> +<br> +‘What? you up at this hour?’ said Edmond.<br> +<br> +‘Why not? It is not every day we have a friend here from +Granpere, so I thought I would see you off.’<br> +<br> +‘That is kind of you.’<br> +<br> +‘Give my love to them at the old house, Edmond.’<br> +<br> +‘Of course I will.’<br> +<br> +‘To father, and Madame Voss, and the children, and to Marie.’<br> +<br> +‘All right.’<br> +<br> +‘Tell Marie that you have told me of her marriage.’<br> +<br> +‘I don’t know whether she’ll like to talk about that +to me.’<br> +<br> +‘Never mind; you tell her. She won’t bite you. +Tell her also that I shall be over at Granpere soon to see her and the +rest of them. I’ll be over—as soon as ever I can get away.’<br> +<br> +‘Shall I tell your father that?’<br> +<br> +‘No. Tell Marie, and let her tell my father.’<br> +<br> +‘And when will you come? We shall all be so glad to see +you.’<br> +<br> +‘Never you mind that. You just give my message. Come +in for a moment to the kitchen. There’s a cup of coffee +for you and a slice of ham. We are not going to let an old friend +like you go away without breaking his fast.’<br> +<br> +As Greisse had already paid his modest bill, amounting altogether to +little more than three francs, this was kind of the young landlord, +and while he was eating his bread and ham he promised faithfully that +he would give the message just as George had given it to him.<br> +<br> +It was on the third day after the departure of Edmond Greisse that George +told Madame Faragon that he was going home.<br> +<br> +‘Going where, George?’ said Madame Faragon, leaning forward +on the table before her, and looking like a picture of despair.<br> +<br> +‘To Granpere, Madame Faragon.’<br> +<br> +‘To Granpere! and why? and when? and how? O dear! +Why did you not tell me before, child?’<br> +<br> +‘I told you as soon as I knew.’<br> +<br> +‘But you are not going yet?’<br> +<br> +‘On Monday.’<br> +<br> +‘O dear! So soon as that! Lord bless me! We +can’t do anything before Monday. And when will you be back?’<br> +<br> +‘I cannot say with certainty. I shall not be long, I daresay.’<br> +<br> +‘And have they sent for you?’<br> +<br> +‘No, they have not sent for me, but I want to see them once again. +And I must make up my mind what to do for the future.’<br> +<br> +‘Don’t leave me, George; pray do not leave me!’ exclaimed +Madame Faragon. ‘You shall have the business now if you +choose to take it—only pray don’t leave me!’<br> +<br> +George explained that at any rate he would not desert her now at once; +and on the Monday named he started for Granpere. He had not been +very quick in his action, for a week had passed since he had given Edmond +Greisse his breakfast in the hotel kitchen.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER IV.<br> +<br> +Adrian Urmand had been three days gone from Granpere before Michel Voss +found a fitting opportunity for talking to his niece. It was not +a matter, as he thought, in which there was need for any great hurry, +but there was need for much consideration. Once again he spoke +on the subject to his wife.<br> +<br> +‘If she’s thinking about George, she has kept it very much +to herself,’ he remarked.<br> +<br> +‘Girls do keep it to themselves,’ said Madame Voss.<br> +<br> +‘I’m not so sure of that. They generally show it somehow. +Marie never looks lovelorn. I don’t believe a bit of it; +and as for him, all the time he has been away he has never so much as +sent a word of a message to one of us.’<br> +<br> +‘He sent his love to you, when I saw him, quite dutifully,’ +said Madame Voss.<br> +<br> +‘Why don’t he come and see us if he cares for us? +It isn’t of him that Marie is thinking.’<br> +<br> +‘It isn’t of anybody else then,’ said Madame Voss. +‘I never see her speak a word to any of the young men, nor one +of them ever speaking a word to her.’<br> +<br> +Pondering over all this, Michel Voss resolved that he would have it +all out with his niece on the following Sunday.<br> +<br> +On the Sunday he engaged Marie to start with him after dinner to the +place on the hillside where they were cutting wood. It was a beautiful +autumn afternoon, in that pleasantest of all months in the year, when +the sun is not too hot, and the air is fresh and balmy, and one is still +able to linger abroad, loitering either in or out of the shade, when +the midges cease to bite, and the sun no longer scorches and glares; +but the sweet vestiges of summer remain, and everything without doors +is pleasant and friendly, and there is the gentle unrecognised regret +for the departing year, the unconscious feeling that its glory is going +from us, to add the inner charm of a soft melancholy to the outer luxury +of the atmosphere. I doubt whether Michel Voss had ever realised +the fact that September is the kindliest of all the months, but he felt +it, and enjoyed the leisure of his Sunday afternoon when he could get +his niece to take a stretch with him on the mountain-side. On +these occasions Madame Voss was left at home with M. le Curé, +who liked to linger over his little cup of coffee. Madame Voss, +indeed, seldom cared to walk very far from the door of her own house; +and on Sundays to go to the church and back again was certainly sufficient +exercise.<br> +<br> +Michel Voss said no word about Adrian Urmand as they were ascending +the hill. He was too wise for that. He could not have given +effect to his experience with sufficient eloquence had he attempted +the task while the burden of the rising ground was upon his lungs and +chest. They turned into a saw-mill as they went up, and counted +the scantlings of timber that had been cut; and Michel looked at the +cradle to see that it worked well, and to the wheels to see that they +were in good order, and observed that the channel for the water required +repairs, and said a word as to the injury that had come to him because +George had left him. ‘Perhaps he may come back soon,’ +said Marie. To this he made no answer, but continued his path +up the mountain-side. ‘There will be plenty of feed for +the cows this autumn,’ said Marie Bromar. ‘That is +a great comfort.’<br> +<br> +‘Plenty,’ said Michel; ‘plenty.’ But Marie +knew from the tone of his voice that he was not thinking about the grass, +and so she held her peace. But the want or plenty of the pasture +was generally a subject of the greatest interest to the people of Granpere +at that special time of the year, and one on which Michel Voss was ever +ready to speak. Marie therefore knew that there was something +on her uncle’s mind. Nevertheless he inspected the timber +that was cut, and made some remarks about the work of the men. +They were not so careful in barking the logs as they used to be, and +upon the whole he thought that the wood itself was of a worse quality. +What is there that we do not find to be deteriorating around us when +we consider the things in detail, though we are willing enough to admit +a general improvement? ‘Yes,’ said he, in answer to +some remarks from Marie, ‘we must take it, no doubt, as God gives +it to us, but we need not spoil it in the handling. Sit down, +my dear; I want to speak to you for a few minutes.’ Then +they sat down together on a large prostrate pine, which was being prepared +to be sent down to the saw-mill. ‘My dear,’ said he, +‘I want to speak to you about Adrian Urmand.’ She +blushed and trembled as she placed herself beside him; but he hardly +noticed it. He was not quite at his ease himself, and was a little +afraid of the task he had undertaken. ‘Adrian tells me that +he asked you to take him as your lover, and that you refused.’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, Uncle Michel.’<br> +<br> +‘But why, my dear? How are you to do better? Perhaps +I, or your aunt, should have spoken to you first, and told you that +we thought well of the match.’<br> +<br> +‘It wasn’t that, uncle. I knew you thought well of +it; or, at least, I believed that you did.’<br> +<br> +‘And what is your objection, Marie?’<br> +<br> +‘I don’t object to M. Urmand, uncle;—at least, not particularly.’<br> +<br> +‘But he says you do object. You would not accept him when +he offered himself.’<br> +<br> +‘No; I did not accept him.’<br> +<br> +‘But you will, my dear,—if he comes again?’<br> +<br> +‘No, uncle.’<br> +<br> +‘And why not? Is he not a good young man?’<br> +<br> +‘O, yes,—that is, I daresay.’<br> +<br> +‘And he has a good business. I do not know what more you +could expect.’<br> +<br> +‘I expect nothing, uncle,—except not to go away from you.’<br> +<br> +‘Ah,—but you must go away from me. I should be very wrong, +and so would your aunt, to let you remain here till you lose your good +looks, and become an old woman on our hands. You are a pretty +girl, Marie, and fit to be any man’s wife, and you ought to take +a husband. I am quite in earnest now, my dear; and I speak altogether +for your own welfare.’<br> +<br> +‘I know you are in earnest, and I know that you speak for my welfare.’<br> +<br> +‘Well;—well;—what then? Of course, it is only reasonable +that you should be married some day. Here is a young man in a +better way of business than any man, old or young, that comes into Granpere. +He has a house in Basle, and money to put in it whatever you want. +And for the matter of that, Marie, my niece shall not go away from me +empty-handed.’<br> +<br> +She drew herself closer to him and took hold of his arm and pressed +it, and looked up into his face.<br> +<br> +‘I brought nothing with me,’ she said, ‘and I want +to take nothing away.’<br> +<br> +‘Is that it?’ he said, speaking rapidly. ‘Let +me tell you then, my girl, that you shall have nothing but your earnings,—your +fair earnings. Don’t you take trouble about that. +Urmand and I will settle that between us, and I will go bail there shall +be no unpleasant words. As I said before, my girl sha’n’t +leave my house empty-handed; but, Lord bless you, he would only be too +happy to take you in your petticoat, just as you are. I never +saw a fellow more in love with a girl. Come, Marie, you need not +mind saying the word to me, though you could not bring yourself to say +it to him.’<br> +<br> +‘I can’t say that word, uncle, either to you or to him.’<br> +<br> +‘And why the devil not?’ said Michel Voss, who was beginning +to be tired of being eloquent.<br> +<br> +‘I would rather stay at home with you and my aunt.’<br> +<br> +‘O, bother!’<br> +<br> +‘Some girls stay at home always. All girls do not get married. +I don’t want to be taken to Basle.’<br> +<br> +‘This is all nonsense,’ said Michel, getting up. ‘If +you’re a good girl, you will do as you are told.’<br> +<br> +‘It would not be good to be married to a man if I do not love +him.’<br> +<br> +‘But why shouldn’t you love him? He’s just the +man that all the girls always love. Why don’t you love him?’<br> +<br> +As Michel Voss asked this last question, there was a tone of anger in +his voice. He had allowed his niece considerable liberty, and +now she was unreasonable. Marie, who, in spite of her devotion +to her uncle, was beginning to think that she was ill-used by this tone, +made no reply. ‘I hope you haven’t been falling in +love with any one else,’ continued Michel.<br> +<br> +‘No,’ said Marie, in a low whisper.<br> +<br> +‘I do hope you’re not still thinking of George, who has +left us without casting a thought upon you. I do hope that you +are not such a fool as that.’ Marie sat perfectly silent, +not moving; but there was a frown on her brow and a look of sorrow mixed +with anger on her face. But Michel Voss did not see her face. +He looked straight before him as he spoke, and was flinging chips of +wood to a distance in his energy. ‘If it’s that, Marie, +I tell you you had better get quit of it at once. It can come +to no good. Here is an excellent husband for you. Be a good +girl, and say that you will accept him.’<br> +<br> +‘I should not be a good girl to accept a man whom I do not love.’<br> +<br> +‘Is it any thought about George that makes you say so, child?’ +Michel paused a moment for an answer. ‘Tell me,’ he +continued, with almost angry energy, ‘is it because of George +that you refuse yourself to this young man?’<br> +<br> +Marie paused again for a moment, and then she replied, ‘No, it +is not.’<br> +<br> +‘It is not?’<br> +<br> +‘No, uncle.’<br> +<br> +‘Then why will you not marry Adrian Urmand?’<br> +<br> +‘Because I do not care for him. Why won’t you let +me remain with you, uncle?’<br> +<br> +She was very close to him now, and leaning against him; and her throat +was half choked with sobs, and her eyes were full of tears. Michel +Voss was a soft-hearted man, and inclined to be very soft of heart where +Marie Bromar was concerned. On the other hand he was thoroughly +convinced that it would be for his niece’s benefit that she should +marry this young trader; and he thought also that it was his duty as +her uncle and guardian to be round with her, and make her understand, +that as her friends wished it, and as the young trader himself wished +it, it was her duty to do as she was desired. Another uncle and +guardian in his place would hardly have consulted the girl at all. +Between his desire to have his own way and reduce her to obedience, +and the temptation to put his arm round her waist and kiss away her +tears, he was uneasy and vacillating. She gently put her hand +within his arm, and pressed it very close.<br> +<br> +‘Won’t you let me remain with you, uncle? I love you +and Aunt Josey’ (Madame Voss was named Josephine, and was generally +called Aunt Josey) ‘and the children. I could not go away +from the children. And I like the house. I am sure I am +of use in the house.’<br> +<br> +‘Of course you are of use in the house. It is not that.’<br> +<br> +‘Why, then, should you want to send me away?’<br> +<br> +‘What nonsense you talk, Marie! Don’t you know that +a young woman like you ought to be married some day—that is if she +can get a fitting man to take her? What would the neighbours say +of me if we kept you at home to drudge for us, instead of settling you +out in the world properly? You forget, Marie, that I have a duty +to perform, and you should not make it so difficult.’<br> +<br> +‘But if I don’t want to be settled?’ said Marie. +‘Who cares for the neighbours? If you and I understand each +other, is not that enough?’<br> +<br> +‘I care for the neighbours,’ said Michel Voss with energy.<br> +<br> +‘And must I marry a man I don’t care a bit for, because +of the neighbours, Uncle Michel?’ asked Marie, with something +approaching to indignation in her voice.<br> +<br> +Michel Voss perceived that it was of no use for him to carry on the +argument. He entertained a half-formed idea that he did not quite +understand the objections so strongly urged by his niece; that there +was something on her mind that she would not tell him, and that there +might be cruelty in urging the matter upon her; but, in opposition to +this, there was his assured conviction that it was his duty to provide +well and comfortably for his niece, and that it was her duty to obey +him in acceding to such provision as he might make. And then this +marriage was undoubtedly a good marriage—a match that would make all +the world declare how well Michel Voss had done for the girl whom he +had taken under his protection. It was a marriage that he could +not bear to see go out of the family. It was not probable that +the young linen-merchant, who was so well to do in the world, and who, +no doubt, might have his choice in larger places than Granpere—it +was not probable, Michel thought, that he would put up with many refusals. +The girl would lose her chance, unless he, by his firmness, could drive +this folly out of her. And yet how could he be firm, when he was +tempted to throw his great arms about her, and swear that she should +eat of his bread and drink of his cup, and be unto him as a daughter, +till the last day of their joint existence. When she crept so +close to him and pressed his arm, he was almost overcome by the sweetness +of her love and by the tenderness of his own heart.<br> +<br> +‘It seems to me that you don’t understand,’ he said +at last. ‘I didn’t think that such a girl as you would +be so silly.’<br> +<br> +To this she made no reply; and then they began to walk down the hill +together.<br> +<br> +They had walked half way home, he stepping a little in advance,—because +he was still angry with her, or angry rather with himself in that he +could not bring himself to scold her properly,—and she following close +behind his shoulder, when he stopped suddenly and asked her a question +which came from the direction his thoughts were taking at the moment. +‘You are sure,’ he said, ‘that you are not doing this +because you expect George to come back to you?’<br> +<br> +‘Quite sure,’ she said, bearing forward a moment, and answering +him in a whisper when she spoke.<br> +<br> +‘By my word, then, I can’t understand it. I can’t +indeed. Has Urmand done anything to offend you?’<br> +<br> +‘Nothing, uncle.’<br> +<br> +‘Nor said anything?’<br> +<br> +‘Not a word; uncle. I am not offended. Of course I +am much obliged to him. Only I don’t love him.’<br> +<br> +‘By my faith I don’t understand it. I don’t +indeed. It is sheer nonsense, and you must get over it. +I shouldn’t be doing my duty if I didn’t tell you that you +must get over it. He will be here again in another ten days, and +you must have thought better of it by that time. You must indeed, +Marie.’<br> +<br> +Then they walked down the hill in silence together, each thinking intently +on the purpose of the other, but each altogether misunderstanding the +other. Michel Voss was assured—as she had twice implied as +much—that she was altogether indifferent to his son George. What +he might have said or done had she declared her affection for her absent +lover, he did not himself know. He had not questioned himself +on that point. Though his wife had told him that Marie was ever +thinking of George, he had not believed that it was so. He had +no reason for disliking a marriage between his son and his wife’s +niece. When he had first thought that they were going to be lovers, +under his nose, without his permission,—going to commence a new kind +of life between themselves without so much as a word spoken to him or +by him,—he had found himself compelled to interfere, compelled as +a father and an uncle. That kind of thing could never be allowed +to take place in a well-ordered house without the expressed sanction +of the head of the household. He had interfered,—rather roughly; +and his son had taken him at his word. He was sore now at his +son’s coldness to him, and was disposed to believe that his son +cared not at all for any one at Granpere. His niece was almost +as dear to him as his son, and much more dutiful. Therefore he +would do the best he could for his niece. Marie’s declaration +that George was nothing to her,—that she did not think of him,—was +in accordance with his own ideas. His wife had been wrong. +His wife was usually wrong when any headwork was required. There +could be no good reason why Marie Bromar should not marry Adrian Urmand.<br> +<br> +But Marie, as she knew very well, had never declared that George Voss +was nothing to her,—that he was forgotten, or that her heart was free. +He had gone from her and had forgotten her. She was quite sure +of that. And should she ever hear that he was married to some +one else,—as it was probable that she would hear some day,—then +she would be free again. Then she might take this man or that, +if her friends wished it—and if she could bring herself to endure +the proposed marriage. But at present her troth was plighted to +George Voss; and where her troth was given, there was her heart also. +She could understand that such a circumstance, affecting one of so little +importance as herself, should be nothing to a man like her uncle; but +it was everything to her. George had forgotten her, and she had +wept sorely over his want of constancy. But though telling herself +that this certainly was so, she had declared to herself that she would +never be untrue till her want of truth had been put beyond the reach +of doubt. Who does not know how hope remains, when reason has +declared that there is no longer ground for hoping?<br> +<br> +Such had been the state of her mind hitherto; but what would be the +good of entertaining hope, even if there were ground for hoping, when, +as was so evident, her uncle would never permit George and her to be +man and wife? And did she not owe everything to her uncle? +And was it not the duty of a girl to obey her guardian? Would +not all the world be against her if she refused this man? Her +mind was tormented by a thousand doubts, when her uncle said another +word to her, just as they were entering the village.<br> +<br> +‘You will try and think better of it;—will you not, my dear?’ +She was silent. ‘Come, Marie, you can say that you will +try. Will you not try?’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, uncle,—I will try.’<br> +<br> +Michel Voss went home in a good humour, for he felt that he had triumphed; +and poor Marie returned broken-hearted, for she was aware that she had +half-yielded. She knew that her uncle was triumphant.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER V.<br> +<br> +When Edmond Greisse was back at Granpere he well remembered his message, +but he had some doubt as to the expediency of delivering it. He +had to reflect in the first place whether he was quite sure that matters +were arranged between Marie and Adrian Urmand. The story had been +told to him as being certainly true by Peter the waiter. And he +had discussed the matter with other young men, his associates in the +place, among all of whom it was believed that Urmand was certainly about +to carry away the young woman with whom they were all more or less in +love. But when, on his return to Granpere, he had asked a few +more questions, and had found that even Peter was now in doubt on a +point as to which he had before been so sure, he began to think that +there would be some difficulty in giving his message. He was not +without some little fear of Marie, and hesitated to tell her that he +had spread the report about her marriage. So he contented himself +with simply announcing to her that George Voss intended to visit his +old home.<br> +<br> +‘Does my uncle know?’ Marie asked.<br> +<br> +‘No;—you are to tell him,’ said Greisse.<br> +<br> +‘I am to tell him! Why should I tell him? You can +tell him.’<br> +<br> +‘But George said that I was to let you know, and that you would +tell your uncle.’ This was quite unintelligible to Marie; +but it was clear to her that she could make no such announcement, after +the conversation which she had had with her uncle. It was quite +out of the question that she should be the first to announce George’s +return, when she had been twice warned on that Sunday afternoon not +to think of him. ‘You had better let my uncle know yourself,’ +she said, as she walked away. But young Greisse, knowing that +he was already in trouble, and feeling that he might very probably make +it worse, held his peace. When therefore one morning George Voss +showed himself at the door of the inn, neither his father nor Madame +Voss expected him.<br> +<br> +But his father was kind to him, and his mother-in-law hovered round +him with demonstrations of love and gratitude, as though much were due +to him for coming back at all. ‘But you expected me,’ +said George.<br> +<br> +‘No, indeed,’ said his father. ‘We did not expect +you now any more than on any other day since you left us.’<br> +<br> +‘I sent word by Edmond Greisse,’ said George. Edmond +was interrogated, and declared that he had forgotten to give the message. +George was too clever to pursue the matter any farther, and when he +first met Marie Bromar, there was not a word said between them beyond +what might have been said between any young persons so related, after +an absence of twelve months. George Voss was very careful to make +no demonstration of affection for a girl who had forgotten him, and +who was now, as he believed, betrothed to another man; and Marie was +determined that certainly no sign of the old love should first be shown +by her. He had come back,—perhaps just in time. He had +returned just at the moment in which something must be decided. +She had felt how much there was in the little word which she had spoken +to her uncle. When a girl says that she will try to reconcile +herself to a man’s overtures, she has almost yielded. The +word had escaped her without any such meaning on her part,—had been +spoken because she had feared to continue to contradict her uncle in +the full completeness of a positive refusal. She had regretted +it as soon as it had been spoken, but she could not recall it. +She had seen in her uncle’s eye and had heard in the tone of his +voice for how much that word had been taken;—but it had gone forth +from her mouth, and she could not now rob it of its meaning. Adrian +Urmand was to be back at Granpere in a few days—in ten days Michel +Voss had said; and there were those ten days for her in which to resolve +what she would do. Now, as though sent from heaven, George had +returned, in this very interval of time. Might it not be that +he would help her out of her difficulty? If he would only tell +her to remain single for his sake, she would certainly turn her back +upon her Swiss lover, let her uncle say what he might. She would +make no engagement with George unless with her uncle’s sanction; +but a word, a look of love, would fortify her against that other marriage.<br> +<br> +George, she thought, had come back a man more to be worshipped than +ever, as far as appearance went. What woman could doubt for a +moment between two such men? Adrian Urmand was no doubt a pretty +man, with black hair, of which he was very careful, with white hands, +with bright small dark eyes which were very close together, with a thin +regular nose, a small mouth, and a black moustache, which he was always +pointing with his fingers. It was impossible to deny that he was +good-looking after a fashion; but Marie despised him in her heart. +She was almost bigger than he was, certainly stronger, and had no aptitude +for the city niceness and <i>point-device</i> fastidiousness of such +a lover. George Voss had come back, not taller than when he had +left them, but broader in the shoulders, and more of a man. And +then he had in his eye, and in his beaked nose, and his large mouth, +and well-developed chin, that look of command, which was the peculiar +character of his father’s face, and which women, who judge of +men by their feelings rather than their thoughts, always love to see. +Marie, if she would consent to marry Adrian Urmand, might probably have +her own way in the house in everything; whereas it was certain enough +that George Voss, wherever he might be, would desire to have his way. +But yet there needed not a moment, in Marie’s estimation, to choose +between the two. George Voss was a real man; whereas Adrian Urmand, +tried by such a comparison, was in her estimation simply a rich trader +in want of a wife.<br> +<br> +In a day or two the fatted calf was killed, and all went happily between +George and his father. They walked together up into the mountains, +and looked after the wood-cutting, and discussed the prospects of the +inn at Colmar. Michel was disposed to think that George had better +remain at Colmar, and accept Madame Faragon’s offer. ‘If +you think that the house is worth anything, I will give you a few thousand +francs to set it in order; and then you had better agree to allow her +so much a year for her life.’ He probably felt himself to +be nearly as young a man as his son; and then remember too that he had +other sons coming up, who would be able to carry on the house at Granpere +when he should be past his work. Michel was a loving, generous-hearted +man, and all feeling of anger with his son was over before they had +been together two days. ‘You can’t do better, George,’ +he said. ‘You need not always stay away from us for twelve +months, and I might take a turn over the mountain, and get a lesson +as to how you do things at Colmar. If ten thousand francs will +help you, you shall have them. Will that make things go straight +with you?’ George Voss thought the sum named would make +things go very straight; but as the reader knows, he had another matter +near to his heart. He thanked his father; but not in the joyous +thoroughly contented tone that Michel had expected. ‘Is +there anything wrong about it?’ Michel said in that sharp tone +which he used when something had suddenly displeased him.<br> +<br> +‘There is nothing wrong; nothing wrong at all,’ said George +slowly. ‘The money is much more than I could have expected. +Indeed I did not expect any.’<br> +<br> +‘What is it then?’<br> +<br> +‘I was thinking of something else. Tell me, father; is it +true that Marie is going to be married to Adrian Urmand?’<br> +<br> +‘What makes you ask?’<br> +<br> +‘I heard a report of it,’ said George. ‘Is it +true?’<br> +<br> +The father reflected a moment what answer he should give. It did +not seem to him that George spoke of such a marriage as though the rumour +of it had made him unhappy. The question had been asked almost +with indifference. And then the young man’s manner to Marie, +and Marie’s manner to him, during the last two days had made him +certain that he had been right in supposing that they had both forgotten +the little tenderness of a year ago. And Michel had thoroughly +made up his mind that it would be well that Marie should marry Adrian. +He believed that he had already vanquished Marie’s scruples. +She had promised ‘to try and think better of it,’ before +George’s return; and therefore was he not justified in regarding +the matter as almost settled? ‘I think that they will be +married,’ said he to his son.<br> +<br> +‘Then there is something in it?’<br> +<br> +‘O, yes; there is a great deal in it. Urmand is very eager +for it, and has asked me and her aunt, and we have consented.’<br> +<br> +‘But has he asked her?’<br> +<br> +‘Yes; he has done that too,’ said Michel.<br> +<br> +‘And what answer did he get?’<br> +<br> +‘Well;—I don’t know that it would be fair to tell that. +Marie is not a girl likely to jump into a man’s arms at the first +word. But I think there is no doubt that they will be betrothed +before Sunday week. He is to be here again on Wednesday.’<br> +<br> +‘She likes him, then?’<br> +<br> +‘O, yes; of course she likes him.’ Michel Voss had +not intended to say a word that was false. He was anxious to do +the best in his power for both his son and his niece. He thoroughly +understood that it was his duty as a father and a guardian to start +them well in the world, to do all that he could for their prosperity, +to feed their wants with his money, as a pelican feeds her young with +blood from her bosom. Had he known the hearts of each of them, +could he have understood Marie’s constancy, or the obstinate silent +strength of his son’s disposition, he would have let Adrian Urmand, +with his business and his house at Basle, seek a wife in any other quarter +where he listed, and would have joined together the hands of these two +whom he loved, with a paternal blessing. But he did not understand. +He thought that he saw everything when he saw nothing;—and now he +was deceiving his son; for it was untrue that Marie had any such ‘liking’ +for Adrian Urmand as that of which George had spoken.<br> +<br> +‘It is as good as settled, then?’ said George, not showing +by any tone of his voice the anxiety with which the question was asked.<br> +<br> +‘I think it is as good as settled,’ Michel answered. +Before they got back to the inn, George had thanked his father for his +liberal offer, had declared that he would accede to Madame Faragon’s +proposition, and had made his father understand that he must return +to Colmar on the next Monday,—two days before that on which Urmand +was expected at Granpere.<br> +<br> +The Monday came, and hitherto there had been no word of explanation +between George and Marie. Every one in the house knew that he +was about to return to Colmar, and every one in the house knew that +he had been entirely reconciled to his father. Madame Voss had +asked some question about him and Marie, and had been assured by her +husband that there was nothing in that suspicion. ‘I told +you from the beginning,’ said he, ‘that there was nothing +of that sort. I only wish that George would think of marrying +some one, now that he is to have a large house of his own over his head.’<br> +<br> +George had determined a dozen times that he would, and a dozen times +that he would not, speak to Marie about her coming marriage, changing +his mind as often as it was formed. Of what use was it to speak +to her? he would say to himself. Then again he would resolve that +he would scorch her false heart by one withering word before he went. +Chance at last arranged it for him. Before he started he found +himself alone with her for a moment, and it was almost impossible that +he should not say something. Then he did speak.<br> +<br> +‘They tell me you are going to be married, Marie. I hope +you will be happy and prosperous.’<br> +<br> +‘Who tells you so?’<br> +<br> +‘It is true at any rate, I suppose.’<br> +<br> +‘Not that I know of. If my uncle and aunt choose to dispose +of me, I cannot help it.’<br> +<br> +‘It is well for girls to be disposed of sometimes. It saves +them a world of trouble.’<br> +<br> +‘I don’t know what you mean by that, George;—whether it +is intended to be ill-natured.’<br> +<br> +‘No, indeed. Why should I be ill-natured to you? I +heartily wish you to be well and happy. I daresay M. Urmand will +make you a good husband. Good-bye, Marie. I shall be off +in a few minutes. Will you not say farewell to me?’<br> +<br> +‘Farewell, George.’<br> +<br> +‘We used to be friends, Marie.’<br> +<br> +‘Yes;—we used to be friends.’<br> +<br> +‘And I have never forgotten the old days. I will not promise +to come to your marriage, because it would not make either of us happy, +but I shall wish you well. God bless you, Marie.’ +Then he put his arm round her and kissed her, as he might have done +to a sister,—as it was natural that he should do to Marie Bromar, +regarding her as a cousin. She did not speak a word more, and +then he was gone!<br> +<br> +She had been quite unable to tell him the truth. The manner in +which he had first addressed her made it impossible for her to tell +him that she was not engaged to marry Adrian Urmand,—that she was +determined, if possible, to avoid the marriage, and that she had no +love for Adrian Urmand. Had she done so, she would in so doing +have asked him to come back to her. That she should do this was +impossible. And yet as he left her, some suspicion of the truth, +some half-formed idea of the real state of the man’s mind in reference +to her, flashed across her own. She seemed to feel that she was +specially unfortunate, but she felt at the same time that there was +no means within her reach of setting things right. And she was +as convinced as ever she had been, that her uncle would never give his +consent to a marriage between her and George Voss. As for George +himself, he left her with an assured conviction that she was the promised +bride of Adrian Urmand.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER VI.<br> +<br> +The world seemed very hard to Marie Bromar when she was left alone. +Though there were many who loved her, of whose real affection she had +no doubt, there was no one to whom she could go for assistance. +Her uncle in this matter was her enemy, and her aunt was completely +under her uncle’s guidance. Madame Voss spoke to her often +in these days of the coming of Adrian Urmand, but the manner of her +speaking was such that no comfort could be taken from it. Madame +Voss would risk an opinion as to the room which the young man ought +to occupy, and the manner in which he should be fed and entertained. +For it was thoroughly understood that he was coming on this occasion +as a lover and not as a trader, and that he was coming as the guest +of Michel Voss, and not as a customer to the inn. ‘I suppose +he can take his supper like the other people,’ Marie said to her +aunt. And again, when the question of wine was mooted, she was +almost saucy. ‘If he’s thirsty,’ she said, ‘what +did for him last week, will do for him next week: and if he’s +not thirsty, he had better leave it alone.’ But girls are +always allowed to be saucy about their lovers, and Madame Voss did not +count this for much.<br> +<br> +Marie was always thinking of those last words which had been spoken +between her and George, and of the kiss that he had given her. +‘We used to be friends,’ he had said, and then he had declared +that he had never forgotten old days. Marie was quick, intelligent, +and ready to perceive at half a glance,—to understand at half a word, +as is the way with clever women. A thrill had gone through her +as she heard the tone of the young man’s voice, and she had half +told herself all the truth. He had not quite ceased to think of +her. Then he went, without saying the other one word that would +have been needful, without even looking the truth into her face. +He had gone, and had plainly given her to understand that he acceded +to this marriage with Adrian Urmand. How was she to read it all? +Was there more than one way in which a wounded woman, so sore at heart, +could read it? He had told her that though he loved her still, +it did not suit him to trouble himself with her as a wife; and that +he would throw upon her head the guilt of having been false to their +old vows. Though she loved him better than all the world, she +despised him for his thoughtful treachery. In her eyes it was +treachery. He must have known the truth. What right had +he to suppose that she would be false to him,—he, who had never known +her to lie to him? And was it not his business, as a man, to speak +some word, to ask some question, by which, if he doubted, the truth +might be made known to him? She, a woman, could ask no question. +She could speak no word. She could not renew her assurances to +him, till he should have asked her to renew them. He was either +false, or a traitor, or a coward. She was very angry with him;—so +angry that she was almost driven by her anger to throw herself +into Adrian’s arms. She was the more angry because she was +full sure that he had not forgotten his old love,—that his heart was +not altogether changed. Had it appeared to her that the sweet +words of former days had vanished from his memory, though they had clung +to hers,—that he had in truth learned to look upon his Granpere experiences +as the simple doings of his boyhood,—her pride would have been hurt, +but she would have been angry with herself rather than with him. +But it had not been so. The respectful silence of his sojourn +in the house had told her that it was not so. The tremor in his +voice as he reminded her that they once had been friends had plainly +told her that it was not so. He had acknowledged that they had +been betrothed, and that the plight between them was still strong; but, +wishing to be quit of it, he had thrown the burden of breaking it upon +her.<br> +<br> +She was very wretched, but she did not go about the house with downcast +eyes or humble looks, or sit idle in a corner with her hands before +her. She was quick and eager in the performance of her work, speaking +sharply to those who came in contact with her. Peter Veque, her +chief minister, had but a poor time of it in these days; and she spoke +an angry word or two to Edmond Greisse. She had, in truth, spoken +no words to Edmond Greisse that were not angry since that ill-starred +communication of which he had only given her the half. To her +aunt she was brusque, and almost ill-mannered.<br> +<br> +‘What is the matter with you, Marie?’ Madame Voss said to +her one morning, when she had been snubbed rather rudely by her niece. +Marie in answer shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. ‘If +you cannot put on a better look before M. Urmand comes, I think he will +hardly hold to his bargain,’ said Madame Voss, who was angry.<br> +<br> +‘Who wants him to hold to his bargain?’ said Marie sharply. +Then feeling ill-inclined to discuss the matter with her aunt, she left +the room. Madame Voss, who had been assured by her husband that +Marie had no real objection to Adrian Urmand, did not understand it +all.<br> +<br> +‘I am sure Marie is unhappy,’ she said to her husband when +he came in at noon that day.<br> +<br> +‘Yes,’ said he. ‘It seems strange, but it is +so, I fancy, with the best of our young women. Her feeling of +modesty—of bashfulness if you will—is outraged by being told that +she is to admit this man as her lover. She won’t make the +worse wife on that account, when he gets her home.’<br> +<br> +Madame Voss was not quite sure that her husband was right. She +had not before observed young women to be made savage in their daily +work by the outrage to their modesty of an acknowledged lover. +But, as usual, she submitted to her husband. Had she not done +so, there would have come that glance from the corner of his eye, and +that curl in his lip, and that gentle breath from his nostril, which +had become to her the expression of imperious marital authority. +Nothing could be kinder, more truly affectionate, than was the heart +of her husband towards her niece. Therefore Madame Voss yielded, +and comforted herself by an assurance that as the best was being done +for Marie, she need not subject herself to her husband’s displeasure +by contradiction or interference.<br> +<br> +Michel Voss himself said little or nothing to his niece at this time. +She had yielded to him, making him a promise that she would endeavour +to accede to his wishes, and he felt that he was bound in honour not +to trouble her farther, unless she should show herself to be disobedient +when the moment of trial came. He was not himself at ease, he +was not comfortable at heart, because he knew that Marie was avoiding +him. Though she would still stand behind his chair at +supper,—when for a moment she would be still,—she did not put her hands +upon his head, nor did she speak to him more than the nature of her +service required. Twice he tried to induce her to sit with them +at table, as though to show that her position was altered now that she +was about to become a bride; but he was altogether powerless to effect +any such change as this. No words that could have been spoken +would have induced Marie to seat herself at the table, so well did she +understand all that such a change in her habits would have seemed to +imply. There was now hardly one person in the supper-room of the +hotel who did not instinctively understand the reason which made Michel +Voss anxious that his niece should sit down, and that other reason which +made her sternly refuse to comply with his request. So, day followed +day, and there was but little said between the uncle and the niece, +though heretofore—up to a time still within a fortnight of the present +day—the whole business of the house had been managed by little whispered +conferences between them. ‘I think we’ll do so and +so, uncle;’ or, ‘Just you manage it yourself, Marie.’ +Such and such-like words had passed every morning and evening, with +an understanding between them full and complete. Now each was +afraid of the other, and everything was astray.<br> +<br> +But Marie was still gentle with the children: when she could be with +them for half an hour, she would sit with them on her lap, or clustering +round, kissing them and saying soft words to them,—even softer in +her affection than had been her wont. They understood as well +as everybody else that something was wrong,—that there was to be some +change as to Marie which perhaps would not be a change for the better; +that there was cause for melancholy, for close kissing as though such +kissing were in preparation for parting, and for soft strokings with +their little hands as though Marie were to be pitied for that which +was about to come upon her. ‘Isn’t somebody coming +to take you away?’ little Michel asked her, when they were quite +alone. Marie had not known how to answer him. She had therefore +embraced him closely, and a tear fell upon his face. ‘Ah,’ +he said, ‘I know somebody is coming to take you away. Will +not papa help you?’ She had not spoken; but for the moment +she had taken courage, and had resolved that she would help herself.<br> +<br> +At length the day was there on which Adrian Urmand was to come. +It was his purpose to travel by Mulhouse and Remiremont, and Michel +Voss drove over to the latter town to fetch him. It was felt by +every one—it could not be but felt—that there was something special +in his coming. His arrival now was not like the arrival of any +one else. Marie, with all her resolution that it should be like +usual arrivals at the inn, could not avoid the making of some difference +herself. A better supper was prepared than usual; and, at the +last moment, she herself assisted in preparing it. The young men +clustered round the door of the hotel earlier than usual to welcome +the new-comer. M. le Curé was there with a clean white +collar, and with his best hat. Madame Voss had changed her gown, +and appeared in her own little room before her husband returned almost +in her Sunday apparel. She had said a doubtful word to Marie, +suggesting a clean ribbon, or an altered frill. Marie had replied +only by a look. She would not have changed a pin for Urmand’s +coming, had all Granpere come round her to tell her that it was needful. +If the man wanted more to eat than was customary, let him have it. +It was not for her to measure her uncle’s hospitality. But +her ribbons and her pins were her own.<br> +<br> +The carriage was driving up to the door, and Michel with his young friend +descended among the circle of expectant admirers. Urmand was rich, +always well dressed, and now he was to be successful in love. +He had about him a look as of a successful prosperous lover, as he jumped +out of the little carriage with his portmanteau in his hand, and his +greatcoat with its silk linings open at the breast. There was +a consciousness in him and in every one there that he had not come now +to buy linen. He made his way into the little room where Madame +Voss was standing up, waiting for him, and was taken by the hand by +her. Michel Voss soon followed them.<br> +<br> +‘And where is Marie?’ Michel asked.<br> +<br> +An answer came from some one that Marie was upstairs. Supper would +soon be ready, and Marie was busy. Then Michel sent up an order +by Peter that Marie should come down. But Marie did not come down. +‘She had gone to her own room,’ Peter said. Then there +came a frown on Michel’s brow. Marie had promised to try, +and this was not trying. He said no more till they went up to +supper. There was Marie standing as usual at the soup tureen. +Urmand walked up to her, and they touched each other’s hand; but +Marie said never a word. The frown on Michel’s brow was +very black, but Marie went on dispensing her soup.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER VII.<br> +<br> +Adrian Urmand, in spite of his white hands and his well-combed locks +and the silk lining to his coat, had so much of the spirit of a man +that he was minded to hold his head well up before the girl whom he +wished to make his wife. Michel during that drive from Remiremont +had told him that he might probably prevail. Michel had said a +thousand things in favour of his niece and not a word to her prejudice; +but he had so spoken, or had endeavoured so to speak, as to make Urmand +understand that Marie could only be won with difficulty, and that she +was perhaps unaccountably averse to the idea of matrimony. ‘She +is like a young filly, you know, that starts and plunges when she is +touched,’ he had said. ‘You think there is nobody +else?’ Urmand had asked. Then Michel Voss had answered with +confidence, ‘I am sure there is nobody else.’ Urmand +had listened and said very little; but when at supper he saw that the +uncle was ruffled in his temper and sat silent with a black brow, that +Madame Voss was troubled in spirit, and that Marie dispensed her soup +without vouchsafing a look to any one, he felt that it behoved him to +do his best, and he did it. He talked freely to Madame Voss, telling +her the news from Basle,—how at length he thought the French trade +was reviving, and how all the Swiss authorities were still opposed to +the German occupation of Alsace; and how flax was likely to be dearer +than ever he had seen it; and how the travelling English were fewer +this year than usual, to the great detriment of the innkeepers. +Every now and then he would say a word to Marie herself, as she passed +near him, speaking in a cheery tone and striving his best to dispel +a black silence which on the present occasion would have been specially +lugubrious. Upon the whole he did his work well, and Michel Voss +was aware of it; but Marie Bromar entertained no gentle thought respecting +him. He was not wanted there, and he ought not to have come. +She had given him an answer, and he ought to have taken it. Nothing, +she declared to herself, was meaner than a man who would go to a girl’s +parents or guardians for support, when the girl herself had told him +that she wished to have nothing to do with him. Marie had promised +that she would try, but every feeling of her heart was against the struggle.<br> +<br> +After supper Michel with his young friend sat some time at the table, +for the innkeeper had brought forth a bottle of his best Burgundy in +honour of the occasion. When they had eaten their fruit, Madame +Voss left the room, and Michel and Adrian were soon alone together. +‘Say nothing to her till to-morrow,’ said Michel in a low +voice.<br> +<br> +‘I will not,’ said Adrian. ‘I do not wonder +that she should be put out of face if she knows why I have come.’<br> +<br> +‘Of course she knows. Give her to-night and to-morrow, and +we will see how it is to be.’ At this time Marie was up-stairs +with the children, resolute that nothing should induce her to go down +till she should be sure that their visitor had gone to his chamber. +There were many things about the house which it was her custom to see +in their place before she went to her rest, and nobody should say that +she neglected her work because of this dressed-up doll; but she would +wait till she was sure of him,—till she was sure of her uncle also. +In her present frame of mind she could not have spoken to the doll with +ordinary courtesy. What she feared was, that her uncle should +seek her up-stairs.<br> +<br> +But Michel had some idea that her part in the play was not an easy one, +and was minded to spare her for that night. But she had promised +to try, and she must be reminded of her promise. Hitherto she +certainly had not tried. Hitherto she had been ill-tempered, petulant, +and almost rude. He would not see her himself this evening, but +he would send a message to her by his wife. ‘Tell her from +me that I shall expect to see smiles on her face to-morrow,’ said +Michel Voss. And as he spoke there certainly were no smiles on +his own.<br> +<br> +‘I suppose she is flurried,’ said Madame Voss.<br> +<br> +‘Ah, flurried! That may do for to-night. I have been +very good to her. Had she been my own, I could not have been kinder. +I have loved her just as if she were my own. Of course I look +now for the obedience of a child.’<br> +<br> +‘She does not mean to be undutiful, Michel.’<br> +<br> +‘I do not know about meaning. I like reality, and I will +have it too. I consulted herself, and was more forbearing than +most fathers would be. I talked to her about it, and she promised +me that she would do her best to entertain the man. Now she receives +him and me with an old frock and a sulky face. Who pays for her +clothes? She has everything she wants,—just as a daughter, and +she would not take the trouble to change her dress to grace my friend,—as +you did, as any daughter would! I am angry with her.’<br> +<br> +‘Do not be angry with her. I think I can understand why +she did not put on another frock.’<br> +<br> +‘So can I understand. I can understand well enough. +I am not a fool. What is it she wants, I wonder? What is +it she expects? Does she think some Count from Paris is to come +and fetch her?’<br> +<br> +‘Nay, Michel, I think she expects nothing of that sort.’<br> +<br> +‘Then let her behave like any other young woman, and do as she +is bid. He is not old or ugly, or a sot, or a gambler. Upon +my word and honour I can’t conceive what it is that she wants. +I can’t indeed.’ It was perhaps the fault of Michel +Voss that he could not understand that a young woman should live in +the same house with him, and have a want which he did not conceive. +Poor Marie! All that she wanted now, at this moment, was to be +let alone!<br> +<br> +Madame Voss, in obedience to her husband’s commands, went up to +Marie and found her sitting in the children’s room, leaning with +her head on her hand and her elbow on the table, while the children +were asleep around her. She was waiting till the house should +be quiet, so that she could go down and complete her work. ‘O, +is it you, Aunt Josey?’ she said. ‘I am waiting till +uncle and M. Urmand are gone, that I may go down and put away the wine +and the fruit.’<br> +<br> +‘Never mind that to-night, Marie.’<br> +<br> +‘O yes, I will go down presently. I should not be happy +if the things were not put straight. Everything is about the house +everywhere. We need not, I suppose, become like pigs because M. +Urmand has come from Basle.’<br> +<br> +‘No; we need not be like pigs,’ said Madame Voss. +‘Come into my room a moment, Marie. I want to speak to you. +Your uncle won’t be up yet.’ Then she led the way, +and Marie followed her. ‘Your uncle is becoming angry, Marie, +because—’<br> +<br> +‘Because why? Have I done anything to make him angry?’<br> +<br> +‘Why are you so cross to this young man?’<br> +<br> +‘I am not cross, Aunt Josey. I went on just the same as +I always do. If Uncle Michel wants anything else, that is his +fault;—not mine.’<br> +<br> +‘Of course you know what he wants, and I must say that you ought +to obey him. You gave him a sort of a promise, and now he thinks +that you are breaking it.’<br> +<br> +‘I gave him no promise,’ said Marie stoutly.<br> +<br> +‘He says that you told him that you would at any rate be civil +to M. Urmand.’<br> +<br> +‘And I have been civil,’ said Marie.<br> +<br> +‘You did not speak to him.’<br> +<br> +‘I never do speak to anybody,’ said Marie. ‘I +have got something to think of instead of talking to the people. +How would the things go, if I took to talking to the people, and left +everything to that little goose, Peter? Uncle Michel is unreasonable,—and +unkind.’<br> +<br> +‘He means to do the best by you in his power. He wants to +treat you just as though you were his daughter.’<br> +<br> +‘Then let him leave me alone. I don’t want anything +to be done. If I were his daughter he would not grudge me permission +to stop at home in his house. I don’t want anything else. +I have never complained.’<br> +<br> +‘But, my dear, it is time that you should be settled in the world.’<br> +<br> +‘I am settled. I don’t want any other settlement,—if +they will only let me alone.’<br> +<br> +‘Marie,’ said Madame Voss after a short pause, ‘I +sometimes think that you still have got George Voss in your head.’<br> +<br> +‘Is it that, Aunt Josey, that makes my uncle go on like this?’ +asked Marie.<br> +<br> +‘You do not answer me, child.’<br> +<br> +‘I do not know what answer you want. When George was here, +I hardly spoke to him. If Uncle Michel is afraid of me, I will +give him my solemn promise never to marry any one without his permission.’<br> +<br> +‘George Voss will never come back for you,’ said Madame +Voss.<br> +<br> +‘He will come when I ask him,’ said Marie, flashing round +upon her aunt with all the fire of her bright eyes. ‘Does +any one say that I have done anything to bring him to me? If so, +it is false, whoever says it. I have done nothing. He has +gone away, and let him stay. I shall not send for him. Uncle +Michel need not be afraid of me, because of George.’<br> +<br> +By this time Marie was speaking almost in a fury of passion, and her +aunt was almost subdued by her. ‘Nobody is afraid of you, +Marie,’ she said.<br> +<br> +‘Nobody need be. If they will let me alone, I will do no +harm to any one.’<br> +<br> +‘But, Marie, you would wish to be married some day.’<br> +<br> +‘Why should I wish to be married? If I liked him, I would +take him, but I don’t. O, Aunt Josey, I thought you would +be my friend!’<br> +<br> +‘I cannot be your friend, Marie, if you oppose your uncle. +He has done everything for you, and he must know best what is good for +you. There can be no reason against M. Urmand, and if you persist +in being so unruly, he will only think that it is because you want George +to come back for you.’<br> +<br> +‘I care nothing for George,’ said Marie, as she left the +room; ‘nothing at all—nothing.’<br> +<br> +About half-an-hour afterwards, listening at her own door, she heard +the sound of her uncle’s feet as he went to his room, and knew +that the house was quiet. Then she crept forth, and went about +her business. Nobody should say that she neglected anything because +of this unhappiness. She brushed the crumbs from the long table, +and smoothed the cloth for the next morning’s breakfast; she put +away bottles and dishes, and she locked up cupboards, and saw that the +windows and the doors were fastened. Then she went down to her +books in the little office below stairs. In the performance of +her daily duty there were entries to be made and figures to be adjusted, +which would have been done in the course of the evening, had it not +been that she had been driven upstairs by fear of her lover and her +uncle. But by the time that she took herself up to bed, nothing +had been omitted. And after the book was closed she sat there, +trying to resolve what she would do. Nothing had, perhaps, given +her so sharp a pang as her aunt’s assurance that George Voss would +not come back to her, as her aunt’s suspicion that she was looking +for his return. It was not that she had been deserted, but that +others should be able to taunt her with her desolation. She had +never whispered the name of George to any one since he had left Granpere, +and she thought that she might have been spared this indignity. +‘If he fancies I want to interfere with him,’ she said to +herself, thinking of her uncle, and of her uncle’s plans in reference +to his son, ‘he will find that he is mistaken.’ Then +it occurred to her that she would be driven to accept Adrian Urmand +to prove that she was heart-whole in regard to George Voss.<br> +<br> +She sat there, thinking of it till the night was half-spent, and when +she crept up cold to bed, she had almost made up her mind that it would +be best for her to do as her uncle wished. As for loving the man, +that was out of the question. But then would it not be better +to do without love altogether?<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER VIII.<br> +<br> +‘How is it to be?’ said Michel to his niece the next morning. +The question was asked downstairs in the little room, while Urmand was +sitting at table in the chamber above waiting for the landlord. +Michel Voss had begun to feel that his visitor would be very heavy on +hand, having come there as a visitor and not as a man of business, unless +he could be handed over to the woman-kind. But no such handing +over would be possible, unless Marie would acquiesce. ‘How +is it to be?’ Michel asked. He had so prepared himself that +he was ready in accordance with a word or a look from his niece either +to be very angry, thoroughly imperious, and resolute to have his way +with the dependent girl, or else to be all smiles, and kindness, and +confidence, and affection. There was nothing she should not have, +if she would only be amenable to reason.<br> +<br> +‘How is what to be, Uncle Michel?’ said Marie.<br> +<br> +The landlord thought that he discovered an indication of concession +in his niece’s voice, and began immediately to adapt himself to +the softer courses. ‘Well, Marie, you know what it is we +all wish. I hope you understand that we love you well, and think +so much of you, that we would not intrust you to any one living, who +did not bear a high character and seem to deserve you.’ +He was looking into Marie’s face as he spoke, and saw that she +was soft and thoughtful in her mood, not proud and scornful as she had +been on the preceding evening. ‘You have grown up here with +us, Marie, till it has almost come upon us with surprise that you are +a beautiful young woman, instead of a great straggling girl.’<br> +<br> +‘I wish I was a great straggling girl still.’<br> +<br> +‘Do not say that, my darling. We must all take the world +as it is, you know. But here you are, and of course it is my duty +and your aunt’s duty—’ it was always a sign of high good +humour on the part of Michel Voss, when he spoke of his wife as being +anybody in the household—’my duty and your aunt’s duty +to see and do the best for you.’<br> +<br> +‘You have always done the best for me in letting me be here.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, my dear, I hope so. You had to be here, and you fell +into this way of life naturally. But sometimes, when I have seen +you waiting on the people about the house, I’ve thought it wasn’t +quite right.’<br> +<br> +‘I think it was quite right. Peter couldn’t do it +all, and he’d be sure to make a mess of it.’<br> +<br> +‘We must have two Peters; that’s all. But as I was +saying, that kind of thing was natural enough before you were grown +up, and had become—what shall I say?—such a handsome young woman.’ +Marie laughed, and turned up her nose and shook her head; but it may +be presumed that she received some comfort from her uncle’s compliments. +‘And then I began to see, and your aunt began to see, that it +wasn’t right that you should spend your life handing soup to the +young men here.’<br> +<br> +‘It is Peter who always hands the soup to the young men.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, well; but you are waiting upon them, and upon us.’<br> +<br> +‘I trust the day is never to come, uncle, when I’m to be +ashamed of waiting upon you.’ When he heard this, he put +his arm round her and kissed her. Had he known at that moment +what her feelings were in regard to his son, he would have recommended +Adrian Urmand to go back to Basle. Had he known what were George’s +feelings, he would at once have sent for his son from Colmar.<br> +<br> +‘I hope you may give me my pipe and my cup of coffee when I’m +such an old fellow that I can’t get up to help myself. That’s +the sort of reward we look forward to from those we love and cherish. +But, Marie, when we see you as you are now—your aunt and I—we feel +that this kind of thing shouldn’t go on. We want the world +to know that you are a daughter to us, not a servant.’<br> +<br> +‘O, the world—the world, uncle! Why should we care for +the world?’<br> +<br> +‘We must care, my dear. And you yourself, my dear—if this +went on for a few years longer, you yourself would become very tired +of it. It isn’t what we should like for you, if you were +our own daughter. Can’t you understand that?’<br> +<br> +‘No, I can’t.’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, my dear, yes. I’m sure you do. Very well. +Then there comes this young man. I am not a bit surprised that +he should fall in love with you—because I should do it myself if I +were not your uncle.’ Then she caressed his arm. How +was she to keep herself from caressing him, when he spoke so sweetly +to her? ‘We were not a bit surprised when he came and told +us how it was. Nobody could have behaved better. Everybody +must admit that. He spoke of you to me and to your aunt as though +you were the highest lady in the land.’<br> +<br> +‘I don’t want any one to speak of me as though I were a +high lady.’<br> +<br> +‘I mean in the way of respect, my dear. Every young woman +must wish to be treated with respect by any young man who comes after +her. Well;—he told us that it was the great wish of his life +that you should be his wife. He’s a man who has a right +to look for a wife, because he can keep a wife. He has a house, +and a business, and ready money.’<br> +<br> +‘What’s all that, uncle?’<br> +<br> +‘Nothing;—nothing at all. No more than +that,’—saying which Michel Voss threw his right hand and arm loosely +abroad;—’no more than that, if he were not himself well-behaved along +with it. We want to see you married to him,—your aunt and +I,—because we are sure that he will be a good husband to you.’<br> +<br> +‘But if I don’t love him, Uncle Michel?’<br> +<br> +‘Ah, my dear; that’s where I think it is that you are dreaming, +and will go on dreaming till you’ve lost yourself, unless your +aunt and I interfere to prevent it. Love is all very well. +Of course you must love your husband. But it doesn’t do +for young women to let themselves be run away with by romantic ideas;—it +doesn’t, indeed, my dear. I’ve heard of young +women who’ve fallen in love with statues and men in armour out +of poetry, and grand fellows that they put into books, and there they’ve +been waiting, waiting, waiting, till some man in armour should come +for them. The man in armour doesn’t come. But sometimes +there comes somebody who looks like a man in armour, and that’s +the worst of all.’<br> +<br> +‘I don’t want a man in armour, Uncle Michel.’<br> +<br> +‘No, I daresay not. But the truth is, you don’t know +what you want. The proper thing for a young woman is to get herself +well settled, if she has the opportunity. There are people who +think so much of money, that they’d give a child almost to anybody +as long as he was rich. I shouldn’t like to see you marry +a man as old as myself.’<br> +<br> +‘I shouldn’t care how old he was if I loved him.’<br> +<br> +‘Nor to a curmudgeon,’ continued Michel, not caring to notice +the interruption, ‘nor to an ill-tempered fellow, or one who gambled, +or one who would use bad words to you. But here is a young man +who has no faults at all.’<br> +<br> +‘I hate people who have no faults,’ said Marie.<br> +<br> +‘Now you must give him an answer to-day or to-morrow. You +remember what you promised me when we were coming home the other day.’ +Marie remembered her promise very well, and thought that a great deal +more had been made of it than justice would have permitted. ‘I +don’t want to hurry you at all, only it makes me so sad at heart +when my own girl won’t come and say a kind word to me and give +me a kiss before we part at night. I thought so much of that last +night, Marie, I couldn’t sleep for thinking of it.’ +On hearing this, she flung her arms round his neck and kissed him on +each cheek and on his lips. ‘I get to feel so, Marie, if +there’s anything wrong between you and me, that I don’t +know what I’m doing. Will you do this for me, my dear? +Come and sit at table with us this evening, and make one of us. +At any rate, come and show that we don’t want to make a servant +of you. Then we’ll put off the rest of it till to-morrow.’ +When such a request was made to her in such words, how could she not +accede to it? She had no alternative but to say that she would +do in this respect as he would have her. She smiled, and nodded +her head, and kissed him again. ‘And, Marie darling, put +on a pretty frock,—for my sake. I like to see you gay and pretty.’ +Again she nodded her head, and again she kissed him. Such requests, +so made, she felt that it would be impossible she should refuse.<br> +<br> +And yet when she came to think of it as she went about the house alone, +the granting of such requests was in fact yielding in everything. +If she made herself smart for this young man, and sat next him, and +smiled, and talked to him, conscious as she would be—and he would +be also—that she was so placed that she might become his wife, how +afterwards could she hold her ground? And if she were really resolute +to hold her ground, would it not be much better that she should do so +by giving up no point, even though her uncle’s anger should rise +hot against her? But now she had promised her uncle, and she knew +that she could not go back from her word. It would be better for +her, she told herself, to think no more about it. Things must +arrange themselves. What did it matter whether she were wretched +at Basle or wretched at Granpere? The only thing that could give +a charm to her life was altogether out of her reach.<br> +<br> +After this conversation, Michel went upstairs to his young friend, and +within a quarter of an hour had handed him over to his wife. It +was of course understood now that Marie was not to be troubled till +the time came for her to sit down at table with her smart frock. +Michel explained to his wife the full amount of his success, and acknowledged +that he felt that Marie was already pretty nearly overcome.<br> +<br> +‘She’ll try to be pleasant for my sake this evening,’ +he said, ‘and so she’ll fall into the way of being intimate +with him; and when he asks her to-morrow she’ll be forced to take +him.’<br> +<br> +It never occurred to him, as he said this, that he was forming a plan +for sacrificing the girl he loved. He imagined that he was doing +his duty by his niece thoroughly, and was rather proud of his own generosity. +In the afternoon Adrian Urmand was taken out for a drive to the ravine +by Madame Voss. They both, no doubt, felt that this was very tedious; +but they were by nature patient—quite unlike Michel Voss or Marie—and +each of them was aware that there was a duty to be done. +Adrian therefore was satisfied to potter about the ravine, and Madame +Voss assured him at least a dozen times that it was the dearest wish +of her heart to call him her nephew-in-law.<br> +<br> +At last the time for supper came. Throughout the day Marie had +said very little to any one after leaving her uncle. Ideas flitted +across her mind of various modes of escape. What if she were to +run away—to her cousin’s house at Epinal; and write from thence +to say that this proposed marriage was impossible? But her cousin +at Epinal was a stranger to her, and her uncle had always been to her +the same as a father. Then she thought of going to Colmar, of +telling the whole truth to George, and of dying when he refused her—as +refuse her he would. But this was a dream rather than a plan. +Or how would it be if she went to her uncle now at once, while the young +man was away at the ravine, and swore to him that nothing on earth should +induce her to marry Adrian Urmand? But brave as Marie was, she +was afraid to do this. He had told her how he suffered when they +two did not stand well together, and she feared to be accused by him +of unkindness and ingratitude. And how would it be with her if +she did accept the man? She was sufficiently alive to the necessities +of the world to know that it would be well to have a home of her own, +and a husband, and children if God would send them. She understood +quite as well as Michel Voss did that to be head-waiter at the Lion +d’Or was not a career in life of which she could have reason to +be proud. As the afternoon went on she was in great doubt. +She spread the cloth, and prepared the room for supper, somewhat earlier +than usual, knowing that she should require some minutes for her toilet. +It was necessary that she should explain to Peter that he must take +upon himself some self-action upon this occasion, and it may be doubted +whether she did this with perfect good humour. She was angry when +she had to look for him before she commenced her operations, and scolded +him because he could not understand without being told why she went +away and left him twenty minutes before the bell was rung.<br> +<br> +As soon as the bell was heard through the house, Michel Voss, who was +waiting below with his wife in a quiet unusual manner, marshalled the +way upstairs. He had partly expected that Marie would join them +below, and was becoming fidgety lest she should break away from her +engagement. He went first, and then followed Adrian and Madame +Voss together. The accustomed guests were all ready, because it +had come to be generally understood that this supper was to be as it +were a supper of betrothal. Madame Voss had on her black silk +gown. Michel had changed his coat and his cravat. Adrian +Urmand was exceedingly smart. The dullest intellect could perceive +that there was something special in the wind. The two old ladies +who were lodgers in the house came out from their rooms five minutes +earlier than usual, and met the <i>cortége</i> from downstairs +in the passage.<br> +<br> +When Michel entered the room he at once looked round for Marie. +There she was standing at the soup-tureen with her back to the company. +But he could see that there hung down some ribbon from her waist, that +her frock was not the one she had worn in the morning, and that in the +article of her attire she had kept her word with him. He was very +awkward. When one of the old ladies was about to seat herself +in the chair next to Adrian—in preparation for which it must be admitted +that Marie had made certain wicked arrangements—Michel first by signs +and afterwards with audible words, intended to be whispered, indicated +to the lady that she was required to place herself elsewhere. +This was hard upon the lady, as her own table-napkin and a cup out of +which she was wont to drink were placed at that spot. Marie, standing +at the soup-tureen, heard it all and became very spiteful. Then +her uncle called to her:<br> +<br> +‘Marie, my dear, are you not coming?’<br> +<br> +‘Presently, uncle,’ replied Marie, in a clear voice, as +she commenced to dispense the soup.<br> +<br> +She ladled out all the soup without once turning her face towards the +company, then stood for a few moments as if in doubt, and after that +walked boldly up to her place. She had intended to sit next to +her uncle, opposite to her lover, and there had been her chair. +But Michel had insisted on bringing the old lady round to the seat that +Marie had intended for herself, and so had disarranged all her plans. +The old lady had simpered and smiled and made a little speech to M. +Urmand, which everybody had heard. Marie, too, had heard it all. +But the thing had to be done, and she plucked up her courage and did +it. She placed herself next to her lover, and as she did so, felt +that it was necessary that she should say something at the moment:<br> +<br> +‘Here I am, Uncle Michel; but you’ll find you’ll miss +me, before supper is over.’<br> +<br> +‘There is somebody would much rather have you than his supper,’ +said the horrid old lady opposite.<br> +<br> +Then there was a pause, a terrible pause.<br> +<br> +‘Perhaps it used to be so when young men came to sup with you, +years ago; but nowadays men like their supper,’ said Marie, who +was driven on by her anger to a ferocity which she could not restrain.<br> +<br> +‘I did not mean to give offence,’ said the poor old lady +meekly.<br> +<br> +Marie, as she thought of what she had said, repented so bitterly that +she could hardly refrain from tears.<br> +<br> +‘There is no offence at all,’ said Michel angrily.<br> +<br> +‘Will you allow me to give you a little wine?’ said Adrian, +turning to his neighbour.<br> +<br> +Marie bowed her head, and held her glass, but the wine remained in it +to the end of the supper, and there it was left.<br> +<br> +When it was all over, Michel felt that it had not been a success. +With the exception of her savage speech to the disagreeable old lady, +Marie had behaved well. She was on her mettle, and very anxious +to show that she could sit at table with Adrian Urmand, and be at her +ease. She was not at her ease, but she made a bold fight—which +was more than was done by her uncle or her aunt. Michel was unable +to speak in his ordinary voice or with his usual authority, and Madame +Voss hardly uttered a word. Urmand, whose position was the hardest +of all, struggled gallantly, but was quite unable to keep up any continued +conversation. The old lady had been thoroughly silenced, and neither +she nor her sister again opened their mouth. When Madame Voss +rose from her chair in order that they might all retire, the consciousness +of relief was very great.<br> +<br> +For that night Marie’s duty to her uncle was done. So much +had been understood. She was to dress herself and sit down to +supper, and after that she was not to be disturbed again till the morrow. +On the next morning she was to be subjected to the grand trial. +She understood this so well that she went about the house fearless on +that evening—fearless as regarded the moment, fearful only as regarded +the morrow.<br> +<br> +‘May I ask one question, dear?’ said her aunt, coming to +her after she had gone to her own room. ‘Have you made up +your mind?’<br> +<br> +‘No,’ said Marie; ‘I have not made up my mind.’<br> +<br> +Her aunt stood for a moment looking at her, and then crept out of the +room.<br> +<br> +In the morning Michel Voss was half-inclined to release his niece, and +to tell Urmand that he had better go back to Basle. He could see +that the girl was suffering, and, after all, what was it that he wanted? +Only that she should be prosperous and happy. His heart almost +relented; and at one moment, had Marie come across him, he would have +released her. ‘Let it go on,’ he said to himself, +as he took up his cap and stick, and went off to the woods. ‘Let +it go on. If she finds to-day that she can’t take him, I’ll +never say another word to press her.’ He went up to the +woods after breakfast, and did not come back till the evening.<br> +<br> +During breakfast Marie did not show herself at all, but remained with +the children. It was not expected that she should show herself. +At about noon, as soon as her uncle had started, her aunt came to her +and asked her whether she was ready to see M. Urmand. ‘I +am ready,’ said Marie, rising from her seat, and standing upright +before her aunt.<br> +<br> +‘And where will you see him, dear?’<br> +<br> +‘Wherever he pleases,’ said Marie, with something that was +again almost savage in her voice.<br> +<br> +‘Shall he come up-stairs to you?’<br> +<br> +‘What, here?’<br> +<br> +‘No; he cannot come here. You might go into the little sitting-room.’<br> +<br> +‘Very well. I will go into the little sitting room.’ +Then without saying another word she got up, left the room, and went +along the passage to the chamber in question. It was a small room, +furnished, as they all thought at Granpere, with Parisian elegance, +intended for such visitors to the hotel as might choose to pay for the +charm and luxury of such an apartment. It was generally found +that visitors to Granpere did not care to pay for the luxury of this +Parisian elegance, and the room was almost always empty. Thither +Marie went, and seated herself at once on the centre of the red, stuffy, +velvet sofa. There she sat, perfectly motionless, till there came +a knock at the door. Marie Bromar was a very handsome girl, but +as she sat there, all alone, with her hands crossed on her lap, with +a hard look about her mouth, with a frown on her brow, and scorn and +disdain for all around her in her eyes, she was as little handsome as +it was possible that she should make herself. She answered the +knock, and Adrian Urmand entered the room. She did not rise, but +waited till he had come close up to her. Then she was the first +to speak. ‘Aunt Josey tells me that you want to see me,’ +she said.<br> +<br> +Urmand’s task was certainly not a pleasant one. Though his +temper was excellent, he was already beginning to think that he was +being ill-used. Marie, no doubt, was a very fine girl, but the +match that he offered her was one at which no young woman of her rank +in all Lorraine or Alsace need have turned up her nose. He had +been invited over to Granpere specially that he might spend his time +in making love, and he had found the task before him very hard and disagreeable. +He was afflicted with all the ponderous notoriety of an acknowledged +suitor’s position, but was consoled with none of the usual comforts. +Had he not been pledged to make the attempt, he would probably have +gone back to Basle; as it was, he was compelled to renew his offer. +He was aware that he could not leave the house without doing so. +But he was determined that one more refusal should be the last.<br> +<br> +‘Marie,’ said he, putting out his hand to her, ‘doubtless +you know what it is that I would say.’<br> +<br> +‘I suppose I do,’ she answered.<br> +<br> +‘I hope you do not doubt my true affection for you.’<br> +<br> +She paused a moment before she replied. ‘I have no reason +to doubt it,’ she said.<br> +<br> +‘No indeed. I love you with all my heart. I do truly. +Your uncle and aunt think it would be a good thing for both of us that +we should be married. What answer will you make me, Marie?’ +Again she paused. She had allowed him to take her hand, and as +he thus asked his question he was standing opposite to her, still holding +it. ‘You have thought about it, Marie, since I was here +last?’<br> +<br> +‘Yes; I have thought about it.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, dearest?’<br> +<br> +‘I suppose it had better be so,’ said she, standing up and +withdrawing her hand.<br> +<br> +She had accepted him; and now it was no longer possible for him to go +back to Basle except as a betrothed man. She had accepted him; +but there came upon him a wretched feeling that none of the triumph +of successful love had come to him. He was almost disappointed,—or +if not disappointed, was at any rate embarrassed. But it +was necessary that he should immediately conduct himself as an engaged +man. ‘And you will love me, Marie?’ he said, as he +again took her by the hand.<br> +<br> +‘I will do my best,’ she said.<br> +<br> +Then he put his arm round her waist and kissed her, and she did not +turn away her face from him. ‘I will do my best also to +make you happy,’ he said.<br> +<br> +‘I am sure you will. I believe you. I know that you +are good.’ There was another pause during which he stood, +still embracing her. ‘I may go now; may I not?’ she +said.<br> +<br> +‘You have not kissed me yet, Marie?’ Then she kissed +him; but the touch of her lips was cold, and he felt that there was +no love in them. He knew, though he could hardly define the knowledge +to himself, that she had accepted him in obedience to her uncle. +He was almost angry, but being cautious and even-tempered by nature +he repressed the feeling. He knew that he must take her now, and +that he had better make the best of it. She would, he was sure, +be a good wife, and the love would probably come in time.<br> +<br> +‘We shall be together this evening; shall we not?’ he asked.<br> +<br> +‘O, yes,’ said Marie, ‘if you please.’ +It was, as she knew, only reasonable now that they should be together. +Then he let her go, and she walked off to her room.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER IX.<br> +<br> +‘I suppose it had better be so,’ Marie Bromar had said to +her lover, when in set form he made his proposition. She had thought +very much about it, and had come exactly to that state of mind. +She did suppose that it had better be so. She knew that she did +not love the man. She knew also that she loved another man. +She did not even think that she should ever learn to love Adrian Urmand. +She had neither ambition in the matter, nor even any feeling of prudence +as regarded herself. She was enticed by no desire of position, +or love of money. In respect to all her own feelings about herself +she would sooner have remained at the Lion d’Or, and have waited +upon the guests day after day, and month after month. But yet +she had supposed ‘that it had better be so.’ Her uncle +wished it,—wished it so strongly that she believed it would be impossible +that she could remain an inmate in his house, unless she acceded to +his wishes. Her aunt manifestly thought that it was her duty to +accept the man, and could not understand how so manifest a duty, going +hand in hand as it did with so great an advantage, should be made a +matter of doubt. She had not one about her to counsel her to hold +by her own feelings. It was the practice of the world around her +that girls in such matters should do as they were bidden. And +then, stronger than all, there was the indifference to her of the man +she loved!<br> +<br> +Marie Bromar was a fine, high-spirited, animated girl; but it must not +be thought that she was a highly educated lady, or that time had been +given to her amidst all her occupations, in which she could allow her +mind to dwell much on feelings of romance. Her life had ever been +practical, busy, and full of action. As is ever the case with +those who have to do chiefly with things material, she was thinking +more frequently of the outer wants of those around her, than of the +inner workings of her own heart and personal intelligence. Would +the bread rise well? Would that bargain she had made for poultry +suffice for the house? Was that lot of wine which she had persuaded +her uncle to buy of a creditable quality? Were her efforts for +increasing her uncle’s profits compatible with satisfaction on +the part of her uncle’s guests? Such were the questions +which from day to day occupied her attention and filled her with interest. +And therefore her own identity was not strong to her, as it is strong +to those whose business permits them to look frequently into themselves, +or whose occupations are of a nature to produce such introspection. +If her head ached, or had she lamed her hand by any accident, she would +think more of the injury to the household arising from her incapacity +than of her own pain. It is so, reader, with your gardener, your +groom, or your cook, if you will think of it. Till you tell them +by your pity that they are the sufferers, they will think that it is +you who are most affected by their ailments. And the man who loses +his daily wage because he is ill complains of his loss and not of his +ailment. His own identity is half hidden from him by the practical +wants of his life.<br> +<br> +Had Marie been disappointed in her love without the appearance of any +rival suitor, no one would have ever heard of her love. Had George +Voss married, she would have gone on with her work without a sign of +outward sorrow; or had he died, she would have wept for him with no +peculiar tears. She did not expect much from the world around +her, beyond this, that the guests should not complain about their suppers +as long as the suppers provided were reasonably good. Had no great +undertaking been presented to her, the performance of no heavy task +demanded from her, she would have gone on with her work without showing +even by the altered colour of her cheek that she was a sufferer. +But this other man had come,—this Adrian Urmand; and a great undertaking +was presented to her, and the performance of a heavy task was demanded +from her. Then it was necessary that there should be identity +of self and introspection. She had to ask herself whether the +task was practicable, whether its performance was within the scope of +her powers. She told herself at first that it was not to be done; +that it was one which she would not even attempt. Then as she +looked at it more frequently, as she came to understand how great was +the urgency of her uncle; as she came to find, in performing that task +of introspection, how unimportant a person she was herself, she began +to think that the attempt might be made. ‘I suppose it had +better be so,’ she had said. What was she that she should +stand in the way of so many wishes? As she had worked for her +bread in her uncle’s house at Granpere, so would she work for +her bread in her husband’s house at Basle. No doubt there +were other things to be joined to her work,—things the thought of +which dismayed her. She had fought against them for a while; but, +after all, what was she, that she should trouble the world by fighting? +When she got to Basle she would endeavour to see that the bread should +rise there, and the wine be sufficient, and the supper such as her husband +might wish it to be.<br> +<br> +Was it not the manifest duty of every girl to act after this fashion? +Were not all marriages so arranged in the world around her? Among +the Protestants of Alsace, as she knew, there was some greater latitude +of choice than was ever allowed by the stricter discipline of Roman +Catholic education. But then she was a Roman Catholic, as was +her aunt; and she was too proud and too grateful to claim any peculiar +exemption from the Protestantism of her uncle. She had resolved +during those early hours of the morning that ‘it had better be +so.’ She thought that she could go through with it all, +if only they would not tease her, and ask her to wear her Sunday frock, +and force her to sit down with them at table. Let them settle +the day—with a word or two thrown in by herself to increase the +distance—and she would be absolutely submissive, on condition that nothing +should be required of her till the day should come. There would +be a bad week or two then while she was being carried off to her new +home; but she had looked forward and had told herself that she would +fill her mind with the care of one man’s house, as she had hitherto +filled it with the care of the house of another man.<br> +<br> +‘So it is all right,’ said her aunt, rushing up to her with +warm congratulations, ready to flatter her, prone to admire her. +It would be something to have a niece married to Adrian Urmand, the +successful young merchant of Basle. Marie Bromar was already in +her aunt’s eyes something different from her former self.<br> +<br> +‘I hope so, aunt.’<br> +<br> +‘Hope so; but it is so, you have accepted him?’<br> +<br> +‘I hope it is right, I mean.’<br> +<br> +‘Of course it is right’ said Madame Voss. ‘How +can it be wrong for a girl to accept the man whom all her friends wish +her to marry? It must be right. And your uncle will be so +happy.’<br> +<br> +‘Dear uncle!’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, indeed. He has been so good; and it has made me wretched +to see that he has been disturbed. He has been as anxious that +you should be settled well, as though you had been his own. And +this will be to be settled well. I am told that M. Urmand’s +house is one of those which look down upon the river from near the church; +the very best position in all the town. And it is full of everything, +they say. His father spared nothing for furniture when he was +married. And they say that his mother’s linen was quite +a sight to be seen. And then, Marie, everybody acknowledges that +he is such a nice-looking young man!’<br> +<br> +But it was not a part of Marie’s programme to be waked up to +enthusiasm—at any rate by her aunt. She said little or nothing, and would +not even condescend to consider that interesting question, of the day +of the wedding. ‘There is quite time enough for all that, +Aunt Josey,’ she said, as she got up to go about her work. +Aunt Josey was almost inclined to resent such usage, and would have +done so, had not her respect for her niece been so great.<br> +<br> +Michel did not return till near seven, and walking straight through +his wife’s room to Marie’s seat of office, came upon his +niece before he had seen any one else. There was an angry look +about his brow, for he had been trying to teach himself that he was +ill-used by his niece, in spite of that half-formed resolution to release +her from persecution if she were still firm in her opposition to the +marriage. ‘Well,’ he said, as soon as he saw +her,—’well, how is it to be?’ She got off her stool, +and coming close to him put up her face to be kissed. He understood +it all in a moment, and the whole tone and colour of his countenance +was altered. There was no man whose face would become more radiant +with satisfaction than that of Michel Voss—when he was satisfied. +Please him—and immediately there would be an effort on his part to +please everybody around him. ‘My darling, my own one,’ +he said, ‘it is all right.’ She kissed him again and +pressed his arm, but said not a word. ‘I am so glad,’ +he exclaimed; ‘I am so glad!’ And he knocked off his +cap with his hand, not knowing what he was doing. ‘We shall +have but a poor house without you, Marie—a very poor house. +But it is as it ought to be. I have felt for the last year or +two, as you have sprung up to be such a woman among us, my dear, that +there was only one place fit for such a one. It is proper that +you should be mistress wherever you are. It has wounded me—I +don’t mind saying it now—it has wounded me to see you waiting +on the sort of people that come here.’<br> +<br> +‘I have only been too happy, uncle, in doing it.’<br> +<br> +‘That’s all very well; that’s all very well, my dear. +But I am older than you, and time goes quick with me. I tell you +it made me unhappy. I thought I wasn’t doing my duty by +you. I was beginning to know that you ought to have a house and +servants of your own. People say that it is a great match for +you; but I tell them that it is a great match for him. Perhaps +it is because you’ve been my own in a way, but I don’t see +any girl like you round the country.’<br> +<br> +‘You shouldn’t say such things to flatter me, Uncle Michel.’<br> +<br> +‘I choose to say what I please, and think what I please, about +my own girl,’ he said, with his arm close wound round her. +‘I say it’s a great match for Adrian Urmand, and I am quite +sure that he will not contradict me. He has had sense enough to +know what sort of a young woman will make the best wife for him, and +I respect him for it. I shall always respect Adrian Urmand because +he has known better than to take up with one of your town-bred girls, +who never learn anything except how to flaunt about with as much finery +on their backs as they can get their people to give them. He might +have had the pick of them at Basle,—or at Strasbourg either, for the +matter of that; but he has thought my girl better than them all; and +I love him for it—so I do. It was to be expected that a young +fellow with means to please himself should choose to have a good-looking +wife to sit at his table with him. Who’ll blame him for +that? And he has found the prettiest in all the country round. +But he has wanted something more than good looks,—and he has got a +great deal more. Yes; I say it, I, Michel Voss, though I am your +uncle;—that he has got the pride of the whole country round. +My darling, my own one, my child!’<br> +<br> +All this was said with many interjections, and with sundry pauses in +the speech, during which Michel caressed his niece, and pressed her +to his breast, and signified his joy by all the outward modes of expression +which a man so demonstrative knows how to use. This was a moment +of great triumph to him, because he had begun to despair of success +in this matter of the marriage, and had told himself on this very morning +that the affair was almost hopeless. While he had been up in the +wood, he had asked himself how he would treat Marie in consequence of +her disobedience to him; and he had at last succeeded in producing within +his own breast a state of mind that was not perhaps very reasonable, +but which was consonant with his character. He would let her know +that he was angry with her,—very angry with her; that she had half +broken his heart by her obstinacy; but after that she should be to him +his own Marie again. He would not throw her off, because she disobeyed +him. He could not throw her off, because he loved her, and knew +of no way by which he could get rid of his love. But he would +be very angry, and she should know of his anger. He had come home +wearing a black cloud on his brow, and intending to be black. +But all that was changed in a moment, and his only thought now was how +to give pleasure to this dear one. It is something to have a niece +who brings such credit on the family!<br> +<br> +Marie as she listened to his praise and his ecstasies, knowing by a +sure instinct every turn of his thoughts, tried to take joy to herself +in that she had given joy to him. Though he was her uncle, and +had in fact been her master, he was actually the one real friend whom +she had made for herself in her life. There had been a month or +two of something more than friendship with George Voss; but she was +too wise to look much at that now. Michel Voss was the one being +in the world whom she knew best, of whom she thought most, whose thoughts +and wishes she had most closely studied, whose interests were ever present +to her mind. Perhaps it may be said of every human heart in a +sound condition that it must be specially true to some other one human +heart; but it may certainly be so said of every female heart. +The object may be changed from time to time,—may be changed very suddenly, +as when a girl’s devotion is transferred with the consent of all +her friends from her mother to her lover; or very slowly, as when a +mother’s is transferred from her husband to some favourite child; +but, unless self-worship be predominant, there is always one friend +to whom the woman’s breast is true,—for whom it is the woman’s +joy to offer herself in sacrifice. Now with Marie Bromar that +one being had been her uncle. She prospered, if he prospered. +His comfort was her comfort. Even when his palate was pleased, +there was some gratification akin to animal enjoyment on her part. +It was ease to her, that he should be at his ease in his arm-chair. +It was mirth to her, that he should laugh. When he was contented +she was satisfied. When he was ruffled she was never smooth. +Her sympathy with him was perfect; and now that he was radiant with +triumph, though his triumph came from his victory over herself, she +could not deny him the pleasure of triumphing with him.<br> +<br> +‘Dear uncle,’ she said, still caressing him, ‘I am +so glad that you are pleased.’<br> +<br> +‘Of course it will be a poor house without you, Marie. As +for me, it will be just as though I had lost my right leg and my right +arm. But what! A man is not always to be thinking of himself. +To see you treated by all the world as you ought to be treated,—as +I should choose that my own daughter should be treated,—that is what +I have desired. Sometimes when I’ve thought of it all when +I’ve been alone, I have been mad with myself for letting it go +on as it has done.’<br> +<br> +‘It has gone on very nicely, I think, Uncle Michel.’ +She knew how worse than useless it would be now to try and make him +understand that it would be better for them both that she should remain +with him. She knew, to the moving of a feather, what she could +do with him and what she could not. Her immediate wish was to +enable him to draw all possible pleasure from his triumph of the day, +and therefore she would say no word to signify that his glory was founded +on her sacrifice.<br> +<br> +Then again came up the question of her position at supper, but there +was no difficulty in the arrangement made between them. The one +gala evening of grand dresses—the evening which had been intended +to be a gala, but which had turned out to be almost funereal—was over. +Even Michel Voss himself did not think it necessary that Marie should +come in to supper with her silk dress two nights running; and he himself +had found that that changing of his coat had impaired his comfort. +He could eat his dinner and his supper in his best clothes on Sunday, +and not feel the inconvenience; but on other occasions those unaccustomed +garments were as heavy to him as a suit of armour. There was, +therefore, nothing more said about clothes. Marie was to dispense +her soup as usual,—expressing a confident assurance that if Peter +were as yet to attempt this special branch of duty, the whole supper +would collapse,—and then she was to take her place at the table, next +to her uncle. Everybody in the house, everybody in Granpere, knew +that the marriage had been arranged, and the old lady who had been so +dreadfully snubbed by Marie, had forgiven the offence, acknowledging +that Marie’s position on that evening had been one of difficulty.<br> +<br> +But these arrangements had reference only to two days. After two +days, Adrian was to return to Basle, and to be seen no more at Granpere +till he came to claim his bride. In regard to the choice of the +day, Michel declared roundly that no constraint should be put upon Marie. +She should have her full privileges, and no one should be allowed to +interfere with her. On this point Marie had brought herself to +be almost indifferent. A long engagement was a state of things +which would have been quite incompatible with such a betrothal. +Any delay that could have been effected would have been a delay, not +of months, but of days,—or at most of a week or two. She had +made up her mind that she would not be afraid of her wedding. +She would teach herself to have no dread either of the man or of the +thing. He was not a bad man, and marriage in itself was honourable. +She formed ideas also of some future true friendship for her husband. +She would endeavour to have a true solicitude for his interests, and +would take care, at any rate, that nothing was squandered that came +into her hands. Of what avail would it be to her that she should +postpone for a few days the beginning of a friendship that was to last +all her life? Such postponement could only be induced by a dread +of the man, and she was firmly determined that she would not dread him. +When they asked her, therefore, she smiled and said very little. +What did her aunt think?<br> +<br> +Her aunt thought that the marriage should be settled for the earliest +possible day,—though she never quite expressed her thoughts. +Madame Voss, though she did not generally obtain much credit for clear +seeing, had a clearer insight to the state of her niece’s mind +than had her husband. She still believed that Marie’s heart +was not with Adrian Urmand. But, attributing perhaps no very great +importance to a young girl’s heart, and fancying that she knew +that in this instance the young girl’s heart could not have its +own way, she was quite in favour of the Urmand marriage. And if +they were to be married, the sooner the better. Of that she had +no doubt. ‘It’s best to have it over always as soon +as possible,’ she said to her husband in private, nodding her +head, and looking much wiser than usual.<br> +<br> +‘I won’t have Marie hurried,’ said Michel.<br> +<br> +‘We had better say some day next month, my dear,’ said Madame +Voss, again nodding her head. Michel, struck by the peculiarity +of her voice, looked into her face, and saw the unaccustomed wisdom. +He made no answer, but after a while nodded his head also, and went +out of the room a man convinced. There were matters between women, +he thought, which men can never quite understand. It would be +very bad if there should be any slip here between the cup and the lip; +and, no doubt, his wife was right.<br> +<br> +It was Madame Voss at last who settled the day,—the 15th of October, +just four weeks from the present time. This she did in concert +with Adrian Urmand, who, however, was very docile in her hands. +Urmand, after he had been accepted, soon managed to bring himself back +to that state of mind in which he had before regarded the possession +of Marie Bromar as very desirable. For some four-and-twenty hours, +during which he had thought himself to be ill-used, and had meditated +a retreat from Granpere, he had contrived to teach himself that he might +possibly live without her; but as soon as he was accepted, and when +the congratulations of the men and women of Granpere were showered down +upon him in quick succession,—so that the fact that the thing was +to be became assured to him,—he soon came to fancy again that he was +a man as successful in love as he was in the world’s good, and +that this acquisition of Marie’s hand was a treasure in which +he could take delight. He undoubtedly would be ready by the day +named, and would go home and prepare everything for Marie’s arrival.<br> +<br> +They were very little together as lovers during those two days, but +it was necessary that there should be an especial parting. ‘She +is up-stairs in the little sitting-room,’ Aunt Josey said; and +up-stairs to the little sitting-room Adrian Urmand went.<br> +<br> +‘I am come to say good-bye,’ said Urmand.<br> +<br> +‘Good-bye, Adrian,’ said Marie, putting both her hands in +his, and offering her cheek to be kissed.<br> +<br> +‘I shall come back with such joy for the 15th,’ said he.<br> +<br> +She smiled, and kissed his cheek, and still held his hand. ‘Adrian,’ +she said.<br> +<br> +‘My love?’<br> +<br> +‘As I believe in the dear Jesus, I will do my best to be a good +wife to you.’ Then he took her in his arms, and kissed her +close, and went out of the room with tears streaming down his cheeks. +He knew now that he was in truth a happy man, and that God had been +good to him in this matter of his future wife.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER X.<br> +<br> +‘So your cousin Marie is to be married to Adrian Urmand, the young +linen-merchant at Basle,’ said Madame Faragon one morning to George +Voss. In this manner were the first assured tidings of the coming +marriage conveyed to the rival lover. This occurred a day or two +after the betrothal, when Adrian was back at Basle. No one at +Granpere had thought of writing an express letter to George on the subject. +George’s father might have done so, had the writing of letters +been a customary thing with him; but his correspondence was not numerous, +and such letters as he did write were short, and always confined to +matters concerning his trade. Madame Voss had, however, sent a +special message to Madame Faragon, as soon as Adrian had gone, thinking +that it would be well that in this way George should learn the truth.<br> +<br> +It had been fully arranged by this time that George Voss was to be the +landlord of the hotel at Colmar on and from the first day of the following +year. Madame Faragon was to be allowed to sit in the little room +downstairs, to scold the servants, and to make the strangers from a +distance believe that her authority was unimpaired. She was also +to receive a moderate annual pension in money in addition to her board +and lodging. For these considerations, and on condition that George +Voss should expend a certain sum of money in renewing the faded glories +of the house, he was to be the landlord in full enjoyment of all real +power on the first of January following. Madame Faragon, when +she had expressed her agreement to the arrangement, which was indeed +almost in all respects one of her own creation, wept and wheezed and +groaned bitterly. She declared that she would soon be dead, and +so trouble him no more. Nevertheless, she especially stipulated +that she should have a new arm-chair for her own use, and that the feather +bed in her own chamber should be renewed.<br> +<br> +‘So your cousin Marie is to be married to Adrian Urmand, the young +linen-merchant at Basle,’ said Madame Faragon.<br> +<br> +‘Who says so?’ demanded George. He asked his question +in a quiet voice; but, though the news had reached him thus suddenly, +he had sufficient control over himself to prevent any plain expression +of his feelings. The thing which had been told him had gone into +his heart like a knife; but he did not intend that Madame Faragon should +know that he had been wounded.<br> +<br> +‘It is quite true. There is no doubt about it. Stodel’s +man with the roulage brought me word direct from your step-mother.’ +George immediately began to inquire within himself why Stodel’s +man with the roulage had not brought some word direct to him, and answered +the question to himself not altogether incorrectly. ‘O, +yes,’ continued Madame Faragon, ‘it is quite true—on the +15th of October. I suppose you will be going over to the wedding.’ +This she said in her usual whining tone of small complaint, signifying +thereby how great would be the grievance to herself to be left alone +at that special time.<br> +<br> +‘I shall not go to the wedding,’ said George. ‘They +can be married, if they are to be married, without me.’<br> +<br> +‘They are to be married; you may be quite sure of that.’ +Madame Faragon’s grievance now consisted in the amount of doubt +which was being thrown on the tidings which had been sent direct to +her. ‘Of course you will choose to have a doubt, because +it is I who tell you.’<br> +<br> +‘I do not doubt it at all. I think it is very likely. +I was well aware before that my father wished it.’<br> +<br> +‘Of course he would wish it, George. How should he not wish +it? Marie Bromar never had a franc of her own in her life, and +it is not to be expected that he, with a family of young children at +his heels, is to give her a <i>dot.</i>’<br> +<br> +‘He will give her something. He will treat her as though +she were a daughter.’<br> +<br> +‘Then I think he ought not. But your father was always a +romantic, headstrong man. At any rate, there she is,—bar-maid, +as we may say, in the hotel,—much the same as our Floschen here; and, +of course, such a marriage as this is a great thing; a very great thing, +indeed. How should they not wish it?’<br> +<br> +‘O, if she likes him—!’<br> +<br> +‘Like him? Of course, she will like him. Why should +she not like him? Young, and good-looking, with a fine business, +doesn’t owe a sou, I’ll be bound, and with a houseful of +furniture. Of course, she’ll like him. I don’t +suppose there is so much difficulty about that.’<br> +<br> +‘I daresay not,’ said George. ‘I believe that +women’s likings go after that fashion, for the most part.’<br> +<br> +Madame Faragon, not understanding this general sarcasm against her sex, +continued the expression of her opinion about the coming marriage. +‘I don’t suppose anybody will think of blaming Marie Bromar +for accepting the match when it was proposed to her. Of course, +she would do as she was bidden, and could hardly be expected to say +that the man was above her.’<br> +<br> +‘He is not above her,’ said George in a hoarse voice.<br> +<br> +‘Marie Bromar is nothing to you, George; nothing in blood; nothing +beyond a most distant cousin. They do say that she has grown up +good-looking.’<br> +<br> +‘Yes;—she is a handsome girl.’<br> +<br> +‘When I remember her as a child she was broad and dumpy, and they +always come back at last to what they were as children. But of +course M. Urmand only looks to what she is now. She makes her +hay while the sun shines; but I hope the people won’t say that +your father has caught him at the Lion d’Or, and taken him in.’<br> +<br> +‘My father is not the man to care very much what anybody says +about such things.’<br> +<br> +‘Perhaps not so much as he ought, George,’ said Madame Faragon, +shaking her head.<br> +<br> +After that George Voss went about the house for some hours, doing his +work, giving his orders, and going through the usual routine of his +day’s business. As he did so, no one guessed that his mind +was disturbed. Madame Faragon had not the slightest suspicion +that the matter of Marie’s marriage was a cause of sorrow to him. +She had felt the not unnatural envy of a woman’s mind in such +an affair, and could not help expressing it, although Marie Bromar was +in some sort connected with herself. But she was sure that such +an arrangement would be regarded as a family triumph by George,—unless, +indeed, he should be inclined to quarrel with his father for over-generosity +in that matter of the <i>dot.</i> ‘It is lucky that you +got your little bit of money before this affair was settled,’ +said she.<br> +<br> +‘It would not have made the difference of a copper sou,’ +said George Voss, as he walked angrily out of the old woman’s +room. This was in the evening, after supper, and the greater part +of the day had passed since he had first heard the news. Up to +the present moment he had endeavoured to shake the matter off from him, +declaring to himself that grief—or at least any outward show of +grief—would be unmanly and unworthy of him. With a strong resolve +he had fixed his mind upon the affairs of his house, and had allowed +himself to meditate as little as might be possible. But the misery, +the agony, had been then present with him during all those +hours,—and had been made the sharper by his endeavours to keep it down and +banish it from his thoughts. Now, as he went out from Madame Faragon’s +room, having finished all that it was his duty to do, he strolled into +the town, and at once began to give way to his thoughts. Of course +he must think about it. He acknowledged that it was useless for +him to attempt to get rid of the matter and let it be as though there +were no such persons in the world as Marie Bromar and Adrian Urmand. +He must think about it; but he might so give play to his feelings that +no one should see him in the moments of his wretchedness. He went +out, therefore, among the dark walks in the town garden, and there, +as he paced one alley after another in the gloom, he revelled in the +agony which a passionate man feels when the woman whom he loves is to +be given into the arms of another.<br> +<br> +As he thought of his own life during the past year or fifteen months, +he could not but tell himself that his present suffering was due in +some degree to his own fault. If he really loved this girl, and +if it had been his intention to try and win her for himself, why had +he taken his father at his word and gone away from Granpere? And +why, having left Granpere, had he taken no trouble to let her know that +he still loved her? As he asked himself these questions, he was +hardly able himself to understand the pride which had driven him away +from his old home, and which had kept him silent so long. She +had promised him that she would be true to him. Then had come +those few words from his father’s mouth, words which he thought +his father should never have spoken to him, and he had gone away, telling +himself that he would come back and fetch her as soon as he could offer +her a home independently of his father. If, after the promises +she had made to him, she would not wait for him without farther words +and farther vows, she would not be worth the having. In going, +he had not precisely told himself that there should be no intercourse +between them for twelve months; but the silence which he had maintained, +and his continued absence, had been the consequence of the mood of his +mind and the tenor of his purpose. The longer he had been away +from Granpere without tidings from any one there, the less possible +had it been that he should send tidings from himself to his old home. +He had not expected messages. He had not expected any letter. +But when nothing came, he told himself over and over again that he too +would be silent, and would bide his time. Then Edmond Greisse +had come to Colmar, and brought the first rumour of Adrian Urmand’s +proposal of marriage.<br> +<br> +The reader will perhaps remember that George, when he heard this first +rumour, had at once made up his mind to go over to Granpere, and that +he went. He went to Granpere partly believing, and partly disbelieving +Edmond’s story. If it were untrue, perhaps she might say +a word to him that would comfort him and give him new hope. If +it were true, she would have to tell him so; and then he would say a +word to her that should tear her heart, if her heart was to be reached. +But he would never let her know that she had torn his own to rags! +That was the pride of his manliness; and yet he was so boyish as not +to know that it should have been for him to make those overtures for +a renewal of love, which he hoped that Marie would make to him. +He had gone over to Granpere, and the reader will perhaps again remember +what had passed then between him and Marie. Just as he was leaving +her he had asked her whether she was to be married to this man. +He had made no objection to such a marriage. He had spoken no +word of the constancy of his own affection. In his heart there +had been anger against her because she had spoken no such word to +him,—as of course there was also in her heart against him, very bitter +and very hot. If he wished her to be true to him, why did he not +say so? If he had given her up, why did he come there at all? +Why did he ask any questions about her marriage, if on his own behalf +he had no statement to make,—no assurance to give? What was +her marriage, or her refusal to be married, to him? Was she to +tell him that, as he had deserted her, and as she could not busy herself +to overcome her love, therefore she was minded to wear the willow for +ever? ‘If my uncle and aunt choose to dispose of me, I cannot +help it,’ she had said. Then he had left her, and she had +been sure that for him that early game of love was a game altogether +played out. Now, as he walked along the dark paths of the town +garden, something of the truth came upon him. He made no excuse +for Marie Bromar. She had given him a vow, and should have been +true to her vow, so he said to himself a dozen times. He had never +been false. He had shown no sign of falseness. True of heart, +he had remained away from her only till he might come and claim her, +and bring her to a house that he could call his own. This also +he told himself a dozen times. But, nevertheless, there was a +very agony of remorse, a weight of repentance, in that he had not striven +to make sure of his prize when he had been at Granpere before the marriage +was settled. Had she loved him as she ought to have loved him, +had she loved him as he loved her, there should have been no question +possible to her of marriage with another man. But still he repented, +in that he had lost that which he desired, and might perhaps have then +obtained it for himself.<br> +<br> +But the strong feeling of his breast, the strongest next to his love, +was a desire to be revenged. He cared little now for his father, +little for that personal dignity which he had intended to return by +his silence, little for pecuniary advantages and prudential motives, +in comparison with his strong desire to punish Marie for her perfidy. +He would go over to Granpere, and fall among them like a thunderbolt. +Like a thunderbolt, at any rate, he would fall upon the head of Marie +Bromar. The very words of her love-promises were still firm in +his memory, and he would see if she also could be made to remember them.<br> +<br> +‘I shall go over to Granpere the day after to-morrow,’ he +said to Madame Faragon, as he caught her just before she retired for +the night.<br> +<br> +‘To Granpere the day after to-morrow? And why?’<br> +<br> +‘Well, I don’t know that I can say exactly why. I +shall not be at the marriage, but I should like to see them first. +I shall go the day after to-morrow.’<br> +<br> +And he went to Granpere on the day he fixed.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER XI.<br> +<br> +‘Probably one night only, but I won’t make any promise,’ +George had said to Madame Faragon when she asked him how long he intended +to stay at Granpere. As he took one of the horses belonging to +the inn and drove himself, it seemed to be certain that he would not +stay long. He started all alone, early in the morning, and reached +Granpere about twelve o’clock. His mind was full of painful +thoughts as he went, and as the little animal ran quickly down the mountain +road into the valley in which Granpere lies, he almost wished that his +feet were not so fleet. What was he to say when he got to Granpere, +and to whom was he to say it?<br> +<br> +When he reached the angular court along two sides of which the house +was built he did not at once enter the front door. None of the +family were then about the place, and he could, therefore, go into the +stable and ask a question or two of the man who came to meet him. +His father, the man told him, had gone up early to the wood-cutting, +and would not probably return till the afternoon. Madame Voss +was no doubt inside, as was also Marie Bromar. Then the man commenced +an elaborate account of the betrothals. There never had been at +Granpere any marriage that had been half so important as would be this +marriage; no lover coming thither had ever been blessed with so beautiful +and discreet a maiden, and no maiden of Granpere had ever before had +at her feet a lover at the same time so good-looking, so wealthy, so +sagacious, and so good-tempered. The man declared that Adrian +was the luckiest fellow in the world in finding such a wife, but his +enthusiasm rose to the highest pitch when he spoke of Marie’s +luck in finding such a husband. There was no end to the good with +which she would be endowed—’linen,’ said the man, holding +up his hands in admiration, ‘that will last out all her grandchildren +at least!’ George listened to it all, and smiled, and said +a word or two—was it worth his while to come all the way to Granpere +to throw his thunderbolt at a girl who had been captivated by promises +of a chest full of house linen!<br> +<br> +George told the man that he would go up to the wood-cutting after his +father; but before he was out of the court he changed his mind and slowly +entered the house. Why should he go to his father? What +had he to say to his father about the marriage that could not be better +said down at the house? After all, he had but little ground of +complaint against his father. It was Marie who had been untrue +to him, and it was on Marie’s head that his wrath must fall. +No doubt his father would be angry with him when he should have thrown +his thunderbolt. It could not, as he thought, be hurled effectually +without his father’s knowledge; but he need not tell his father +the errand on which he had come. So he changed his mind, and went +into the inn.<br> +<br> +He entered the house almost dreading to see her whom he was seeking. +In what way should he first express his wrath? How should he show +her the wreck which by her inconstancy she had made of his happiness? +His first words must, if possible, be spoken to her alone; and yet alone +he could hardly hope to find her. And he feared her. Though +he was so resolved to speak his mind, yet he feared her. Though +he intended to fill her with remorse, yet he dreaded the effect of her +words upon himself. He knew how strong she could be, and how steadfast. +Though his passion told him every hour, was telling him all day long, +that she was as false as hell, yet there was something in him of judgment, +something rather of instinct, which told him also that she was not bad, +that she was a firm-hearted, high-spirited, great-minded girl, who would +have reasons to give for the thing that she was doing.<br> +<br> +He went through into the kitchen before he met any one, and there he +found Madame Voss with the cook and Peter. Immediate explanations +had, of course, to be made as to his unexpected arrival;—questions +asked, and suggestions offered—’Came he in peace, or came he +in war?’ Had he come because he had heard of the betrothals? +He admitted that it was so. ‘And you are glad of it?’ +asked Madame Voss. ‘You will congratulate her with all your +heart?’<br> +<br> +‘I will congratulate her certainly,’ said George. +Then the cook and Peter began with a copious flow of domestic eloquence +to declare how great a marriage this was for the Lion d’Or—how +pleasing to the master, how creditable to the village, how satisfactory +to the friends, how joyous to the bridegroom, how triumphant to the +bride! ‘No doubt she will have plenty to eat and drink, +and fine clothes to wear, and an excellent house over her head,’ +said George in his bitterness.<br> +<br> +‘And she will be married to one of the most respectable young +men in all Switzerland,’ said Madame Voss in a tone of much anger. +It was already quite clear to Madame Voss, to the cook, and to Peter, +that George had not come over from Colmar simply to express his joyous +satisfaction at his cousin’s good fortune.<br> +<br> +He soon walked through into the little sitting-room, and his step-mother +followed him. ‘George,’ she said, ‘you will +displease your father very much if you say anything unkind about Marie.’<br> +<br> +‘I know very well,’ said he, ‘that my father cares +more for Marie than he does for me.’<br> +<br> +‘That is not so, George.’<br> +<br> +‘I do not blame him for it. She lives in the house with +him, while I live elsewhere. It was natural that she should be +more to him than I am, after he had sent me away. But he has no +right to suppose that I can have the same feeling that he has about +this marriage. I cannot think it the finest thing in the world +for all of us that Marie Bromar should succeed in getting a rich young +man for her husband, who, as far as I can see, never had two ideas in +his head.’<br> +<br> +‘He is a most industrious young man, who thoroughly understands +his business. I have heard people say that there is no one comes +to Granpere who can buy better than he can.’<br> +<br> +‘Very likely not.’<br> +<br> +‘And at any rate, it is no disgrace to be well off.’<br> +<br> +‘It is a disgrace to think more about that than anything else. +But never mind. It is no use talking about it, words won’t +mend it.’<br> +<br> +‘Why then have you come here now?’<br> +<br> +‘Because I want to see my father.’ Then he remembered +how false was this excuse; and remembered also how soon its falseness +would appear. ‘Besides, though I do not like this match, +I wish to see Marie once again before her marriage. I shall never +see her after it. That is the reason why I have come. I +suppose you can give me a bed.’<br> +<br> +‘O, yes, there are beds enough.’ After that there +was some pause, and Madame Voss hardly knew how to treat her step-son. +At last she asked him whether he would have dinner, and an order was +given to Peter to prepare something for the young master in the small +room. And George asked after the children, and in this way the +dreaded subject was for some minutes laid on one side.<br> +<br> +In the mean time, information of George’s arrival had been taken +upstairs to Marie. She had often wondered what sign he would make +when he should hear of her engagement. Would he send her a word +of affection, or such customary present as would be usual between two +persons so nearly connected? Would he come to her marriage? +And what would be his own feelings? She too remembered well, with +absolute accuracy, those warm, delicious, heavenly words of love which +had passed between them. She could feel now the pressure of his +hand and the warmth of his kiss, when she swore to him that she would +be his for ever and ever. After that he had left her, and for +a year had sent no token. Then he had come again, and had simply +asked her whether she were engaged to another man; had asked with a +cruel indication that he at least intended that the old childish words +should be forgotten. Now he was in the house again, and she would +have to hear his congratulations!<br> +<br> +She thought for some quarter of an hour what she had better do, and +then she determined to go down to him at once. The sooner the +first meeting was over the better. Were she to remain away from +him till they should be brought together at the supper-table, there +would almost be a necessity for her to explain her conduct. She +would go down to him and treat him exactly as she might have done, had +there never been any special love between them. She would do so +as perfectly as her strength might enable her; and if she failed in +aught, it would be better to fail before her aunt than in the presence +of her uncle. When she had resolved, she waited yet another minute +or two, and then she went down-stairs.<br> +<br> +As she entered her aunt’s room George Voss was sitting before +the stove, while Madame Voss was in her accustomed chair, and Peter +was preparing the table for his young master’s dinner. George +arose from his seat at once, and then came a look of pain across his +face. Marie saw it at once, and almost loved him the more because +he suffered. ‘I am so glad to see you, George,’ she +said. ‘I am so glad that you have come.’<br> +<br> +She had offered him her hand, and of course he had taken it. ‘Yes,’ +he said, ‘I thought it best just to run over. We shall be +very busy at the hotel before long.’<br> +<br> +‘Does that mean to say that you are not to be here for my marriage?’ +This she said with her sweetest smile, making all the effort in her +power to give a gracious tone to her voice. It was better, she +knew, to plunge at the subject at once.<br> +<br> +‘No,’ said he. ‘I shall not be here then.’<br> +<br> +‘Ah,—your father will miss you so much! But if it cannot +be, it is very good of you to come now. There would have been +something sad in going away from the old house without seeing you once +more. And though Colmar and Basle are very near, it will not be +the same as in the dear old home;—will it, George?’ There +was a touch about her voice as she called him by his name, that nearly +killed him. At that moment his hatred was strongest against Adrian. +Why had such an upstart as that, a puny, miserable creature, come between +him and the only thing that he had ever seen in the guise of a woman +that could touch his heart? He turned round with his back to the +table and his face to the stove, and said nothing. But he was +able, when he no longer saw her, when her voice was not sounding in +his ear, to swear that the thunderbolt should be hurled all the same. +His journey to Granpere should not be made for nothing. ‘I +must go now,’ she said presently. ‘I shall see you +at supper, shall I not, George, when Uncle will be with us? Uncle +Michel will be so delighted to find you. And you will tell us +of the new doings at the hotel. Good-bye for the present, George.’ +Then she was gone before he had spoken another word.<br> +<br> +He eat his dinner, and smoked a cigar about the yard, and then said +that he would go out and meet his father. He did go out, but did +not take the road by which he knew that his father was to be found. +He strolled off to the ravine, and came back only when it was dark. +The meeting between him and his father was kindly; but there was no +special word spoken, and thus they all sat down to supper.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER XII.<br> +<br> +It became necessary as George Voss sat at supper with his father and +Madame Voss that he should fix the time of his return to Colmar, and +he did so for the early morning of the next day but one. He had +told Madame Faragon that he expected to stay at Granpere but one night. +He felt, however, after his arrival that it might be difficult for him +to get away on the following day, and therefore he told them that he +would sleep two nights at the Lion d’Or, and then start early, +so as to reach the Colmar inn by mid-day.<br> +<br> +‘I suppose you find the old lady rather fidgety, George?’ +said Michel Voss in high good humour.<br> +<br> +George found it easier to talk about Madame Faragon and the hotel at +Colmar than he did of things at Granpere, and therefore became communicative +as to his own affairs. Michel too preferred the subject of the +new doings at the house on the other side of the Vosges. His wife +had given him a slight hint, doing her best, like a good wife and discreet +manager, to prevent ill-humour and hard words.<br> +<br> +‘He feels a little sore, you know. I was always sure there +was something. But it was wise of him to come and see her, and +it will go off in this way.’<br> +<br> +Michel swore that George had no right to be sore, and that if his son +did not take pride in such a family arrangement as this, he should no +longer be son of his. But he allowed himself to be counselled +by his wife, and soon talked himself into a pleasant mood, discussing +Madame Faragon, and the horses belonging to the Hôtel de la Poste, +and Colmar affairs in general. There was a certain important ground +for satisfaction between them. Everybody agreed that George Voss +had shown himself to be a steady man of business in the affairs of the +inn at Colmar.<br> +<br> +Marie Bromar in the mean while went on with her usual occupation round +the room, but now and again came and stood at her uncle’s elbow, +joining in the conversation, and asking a question or two about Madame +Faragon. There was, perhaps, something of the guile of the serpent +joined to her dove-like softness. She asked questions and listened +to answers—not that in her present state of mind she could bring herself +to take a deep interest in the affairs of Madame Faragon’s hotel, +but because it suited her that there should be some subject of easy +conversation between her and George. It was absolutely necessary +now that George should be nothing more to her than a cousin and an acquaintance; +but it was well that he should be that and not an enemy. It would +be well too that he should know, that he should think that he knew, +that she was disturbed by no remembrance of those words which had once +passed between them. At last she trusted herself to a remark which +perhaps she would not have made had the serpent’s guile been more +perfect of its kind.<br> +<br> +‘Surely you must get a wife, George, as soon as the house is your +own.’<br> +<br> +‘Of course he will get a wife,’ said the father.<br> +<br> +‘I hope he will get a good one,’ said Madame Voss after +a short pause—which, however, had been long enough to make her feel +it necessary to say something.<br> +<br> +George said never a word, but lifted his glass and finished his wine. +Marie at once perceived that the subject was one on which she must not +venture to touch again. Indeed, she saw farther than that, and +became aware that it would be inexpedient for her to fall into any special +or minute conversation with her cousin during his short stay at Granpere.<br> +<br> +‘You’ll go up to the woods with me tomorrow—eh, George?’ +said the father. The son of course assented. It was hardly +possible that he should not assent. The whole day, moreover, would +not be wanted for that purpose of throwing his thunderbolt; and if he +could get it thrown, it would be well that he should be as far away +from Marie as possible for the remainder of his visit. ‘We’ll +start early, Marie, and have a bit of breakfast before we go. +Will six be too early for you, George, with your town ways?’ +George said that six would not be too early, and as he made the engagement +for the morning he resolved that he would if possible throw his thunderbolt +that night. ‘Marie will get us a cup of coffee and a sausage. +Marie is always up by that time.’<br> +<br> +Marie smiled, and promised that they should not be compelled to start +upon their walk with empty stomachs from any fault of hers. If +a hot breakfast at six o’clock in the morning could put her cousin +into a good humour, it certainly should not be wanting.<br> +<br> +In two hours after supper George was with his father. Michel was +so full of happiness and so confidential that the son found it very +difficult to keep silence about his own sorrow. Had it not been +that with a half obedience to his wife’s hints Michel said little +about Adrian, there must have been an explosion. He endeavoured +to confine himself to George’s prospects, as to which he expressed +himself thoroughly pleased. ‘You see,’ said he, ‘I +am so strong of my years, that if you wished for my shoes, there is +no knowing how long you might be kept waiting.’<br> +<br> +‘It couldn’t have been too long,’ said George.<br> +<br> +‘Ah well, I don’t believe you would have been impatient +to put the old fellow under the sod. But I should have been impatient, +I should have been unhappy. You might have had the woods, to be +sure; but it’s hardly enough of a business alone. Besides, +a young man is always more his own master away from his father. +I can understand that. The only thing is, George,—take a drive +over, and see us sometimes.’ This was all very well, but +it was not quite so well when he began to speak of Marie. ‘It’s +a terrible loss her going, you know, George; I shall feel it sadly.’<br> +<br> +‘I can understand that,’ said George.<br> +<br> +‘But of course I had my duty to do to the girl. I had to +see that she should be well settled, and she will be well settled. +There’s a comfort in that;—isn’t there, George?’<br> +<br> +But George could not bring himself to reply to this with good-humoured +zeal, and there came for a moment a cloud between the father and son. +But Michel was wise and swallowed his wrath, and in a minute or two +returned to Colmar and Madame Faragon.<br> +<br> +At about half-past nine George escaped from his father and returned +to the house. They had been sitting in the balcony which runs +round the billiard-room on the side of the court opposite to the front +door. He returned to the house, and caught Marie in one of the +passages up-stairs, as she was completing her work for the day. +He caught her close to the door of his own room and asked her to come +in, that he might speak a word to her. English readers will perhaps +remember that among the Vosges mountains there is less of a sense of +privacy attached to bedrooms than is the case with us here in England. +Marie knew immediately then that her cousin had not come to Granpere +for nothing,—had not come with the innocent intention of simply pleasing +his father,—had not come to say an ordinary word of farewell to her +before her marriage. There was to be something of a scene, though +she could not tell of what nature the scene might be. She knew, +however, that her own conduct had been right; and therefore, though +she would have avoided the scene, had it been possible, she would not +fear it. She went into his room; and when he closed the door, +she smiled, and did not as yet tremble.<br> +<br> +‘Marie,’ he said, ‘I have come here on purpose to +say a word or two to you.’ There was no smile on her face +as he spoke now. The intention to be savage was written there, +as plainly as any purpose was ever written on man’s countenance. +Marie read the writing without missing a letter. She was to be +rebuked, and sternly rebuked;—rebuked by the man who had taken her +heart, and then left her;—rebuked by the man who had crushed her hopes +and made it absolutely necessary for her to give up all the sweet poetry +of her life, to forget her dreams, to abandon every wished-for prettiness +of existence, and confine herself to duties and to things material! +He who had so sinned against her was about to rid himself of the burden +of his sin by endeavouring to cast it upon her. So much she understood, +but yet she did not understand all that was to come. She would +hear the rebuke as quietly as she might. In the interest of others +she would do so. But she would not fear him,—and she would say +a quiet word in defence of her own sex if there should be need. +Such was the purport of her mind as she stood opposite to him in his +room.<br> +<br> +‘I hope they will be kind words,’ she said. ‘As +we are to part so soon, there should be none unkind spoken.’<br> +<br> +‘I do not know much about kindness,’ he replied. Then +he paused and tried to think how best the thunderbolt might be hurled. +‘There is hardly room for kindness where there was once so much +more than kindness; where there was so much more,—or the pretence +of it.’ Then he waited again, as though he expected that +she should speak. But she would not speak at all. If he +had aught to say, let him say it. ‘Perhaps, Marie, you have +in truth forgotten all the promises you once made me?’ Though +this was a direct question she would not answer it. Her words +to him should be as few as possible, and the time for such words had +not come as yet. ‘It suits you no doubt to forget them now, +but I cannot forget them. You have been false to me, and have +broken my heart. You have been false to me, when my only joy on +earth was in believing in your truth. Your vow was for ever and +ever, and within one short year you are betrothed to another man! +And why?—because they tell you that he is rich and has got a house +full of furniture! You may prove to be a blessing to his house. +Who can say? On mine, you and your memory will be a curse,—lasting +all my lifetime!’ And so the thunderbolt had been hurled.<br> +<br> +And it fell as a thunderbolt. What she had expected had not been +at all like to this. She had known that he would rebuke her; but, +feeling strong in her own innocence and her own purity, knowing or thinking +that she knew that the fault had all been his, not believing—having +got rid of all belief—that he still loved her, she had fancied that +his rebuke would be unjust, cruel, but bearable. Nay; she had +thought that she could almost triumph over him with a short word of +reply. She had expected from him reproach, but not love. +There was reproach indeed, but it came with an expression of passion +of which she had not known him to be capable. He stood before +her telling her that she had broken his heart, and, as he told her so, +his words were half choked by sobs. He reminded her of her promises, +declaring that his own to her had ever remained in full force. +And he told her that she, she to whom he had looked for all his joy, +had become a curse to him and a blight upon his life. There were +thoughts and feelings too beyond all these that crowded themselves upon +her heart and upon her mind at the moment. It had been possible +for her to accept the hand of Adrian Urmand because she had become assured +that George Voss no longer regarded her as his promised bride. +She would have stood firm against her uncle and her aunt, she would +have stood against all the world, had it not seemed to her that the +evidence of her cousin’s indifference was complete. Had +not that evidence been complete at all points, it would have been impossible +to her to think of becoming the wife of another man. Now the evidence +on that matter which had seemed to her to be so sufficient was all blown +to the winds.<br> +<br> +It is true that had all her feelings been guided by reason only, she +might have been as strong as ever. In truth she had not sinned +against him. In truth she had not sinned at all. She had +not done that which she herself had desired. She had not been +anxious for wealth, or ease, or position; but had, after painful thought, +endeavoured to shape her conduct by the wishes of others, and by her +ideas of duty, as duty had been taught to her. O, how willingly +would she have remained as servant to her uncle, and have allowed M. +Urmand to carry the rich gift of his linen-chest to the feet of some +other damsel, had she believed herself to be free to choose! Had +there been no passion in her heart, she would now have known herself +to be strong in duty, and would have been able to have answered and +to have borne the rebuke of her old lover. But passion was there, +hot within her, aiding every word as he spoke it, giving strength to +his complaints, telling her of all that she had lost, telling her of +all she had taken from him. She forgot to remember now that he +had been silent for a year. She forgot now to think of the tone +in which he had asked about her marriage when no such marriage was in +her mind. But she remembered well the promise she had made, and +the words of it. ‘Your vow was for ever and ever.’ +When she heard those words repeated from his lips, her heart too was +broken. All idea of holding herself before him as one injured +but ready to forgive was gone from her. If by falling at his feet +and owning herself to be vile and mansworn she might get his pardon, +she was ready now to lie there on the ground before him.<br> +<br> +‘O George!’ she said; ‘O George!’<br> +<br> +‘What is the use of that now?’ he replied, turning away +from her. He had thrown his thunderbolt, and he had nothing more +to say. He had seen that he had not thrown it quite in vain, and +he would have been contented to be away and back at Colmar. What +more was there to be said?<br> +<br> +She came to him very gently, very humbly, and just touched his arm with +her hand. ‘Do you mean, George, that you have continued +to care for me—always?’<br> +<br> +‘Care for you? I know not what you call caring. Did +I not swear to you that I would love you for ever and ever, and that +you should be my own? Did I not leave this house and go +away,—till I could earn for you one that should be fit for you,—because +I loved you? Why should I have broken my word? I do not +believe that you thought that it was broken.’<br> +<br> +‘By my God, that knows me, I did!’ As she said this +she burst into tears and fell on her knees at his feet.<br> +<br> +‘Marie,’ he said, ‘Marie;—there is no use in this. +Stand up.’<br> +<br> +‘Not till you tell me that you will forgive me. By the name +of the good Jesus, who knows all our hearts, I thought that you had +forgotten me. O George, if you could know all! If you could +know how I have loved you; how I have sorrowed from day to day because +I was forgotten! How I have struggled to bear it, telling myself +that you were away, with all the world to interest you, and not like +me, a poor girl in a village, with no thing to think of but my lover! +How I have striven to do my duty by my uncle, and have obeyed him, +because,—because,—because, there was nothing left. If you could know +it all! If you could know it all!’ Then she clasped +her arms round his legs, and hid her face upon his feet.<br> +<br> +‘And whom do you love now?’ he asked. She continued +to sob, but did not answer him a word. Then he stooped down and +raised her to her feet, and she stood beside him, very near to him with +her face averted. ‘And whom do you love now?’ he asked +again. ‘Is it me, or is it Adrian Urmand?’ But +she could not answer him, though she had said enough in her passionate +sorrow to make any answer to such a question unnecessary, as far as +knowledge on the subject might be required. It might suit his +views that she should confess the truth in so many words, but for other +purpose her answer had been full enough. ‘This is very sad,’ +he said, ‘sad indeed; but I thought that you would have been firmer.’<br> +<br> +‘Do not chide me again, George.’<br> +<br> +‘No;—it is to no purpose.’<br> +<br> +‘You said that I was—a curse to you?’<br> +<br> +‘O Marie, I had hoped,—I had so hoped, that you would have been +my blessing!’<br> +<br> +‘Say that I am not a curse to you, George!’<br> +<br> +But he would make no answer to this appeal, no immediate answer; but +stood silent and stern, while she stood still touching his arm, waiting +in patience for some word at any rate of forgiveness. He was using +all the powers of his mind to see if there might even yet be any way +to escape this great shipwreck. She had not answered his question. +She had not told him in so many words that her heart was still his, +though she had promised her hand to the Basle merchant. But he +could not doubt that it was so. As he stood there silent, with +that dark look upon his brow which he had inherited from his father, +and that angry fire in his eye, his heart was in truth once more becoming +soft and tender towards her. He was beginning to understand how +it had been with her. He had told her, just now, that he did not +believe her, when she assured him that she had thought that she was +forgotten. Now he did believe her. And there arose in his +breast a feeling that it was due to her that he should explain this +change in his mind. ‘I suppose you did think it,’ +he said suddenly.<br> +<br> +‘Think what, George?’<br> +<br> +‘That I was a vain, empty, false-tongued fellow, whose word was +worth no reliance.’<br> +<br> +‘I thought no evil of you, George,—except that you were changed +to me. When you came, you said nothing to me. Do you not +remember?’<br> +<br> +‘I came because I was told that you were to be married to this +man. I asked you the question, and you would not deny it. +Then I said to myself that I would wait and see.’ When he +had spoken she had nothing farther to say to him. The charges +which he made against her were all true. They seemed at least +to be true to her then in her present mood,—in that mood in which +all that she now desired was his forgiveness. The wish to defend +herself, and to stand before him as one justified, had gone from her. +She felt that having still possessed his love, having still been the +owner of the one thing that she valued, she had ruined herself by her +own doubts; and she could not forgive herself the fatal blunder. +‘It is of no use to think of it any more,’ he said at last. +‘You have to become this man’s wife now, and I suppose you +must go through with it.’<br> +<br> +‘I suppose I must,’ she said; ‘unless—’<br> +<br> +‘Unless what?’<br> +<br> +‘Nothing, George. Of course I will marry him. He has +my word. And I have promised my uncle also. But, George, +you will say that you forgive me?’<br> +<br> +‘Yes;—I will forgive you.’ But still there was the +same black cloud upon his face,—the same look of pain,—the same +glance of anger in his eye.<br> +<br> +‘O George, I am so unhappy! There can be no comfort for +me now, unless you will say that you will be contented.’<br> +<br> +‘I cannot say that, Marie.’<br> +<br> +‘You will have your house, and your business, and so many things +to interest you. And in time,—after a little time—’<br> +<br> +‘No, Marie, after no time at all. You told me at supper +to-night that I had better get a wife for myself. But I will get +no wife. I could not bring myself to marry another girl, I could +not take a woman home as my wife if I did not love her. If she +were not the person of all persons most dear to me, I should loathe +her.’<br> +<br> +He was speaking daggers to her, and he must have known how sharp were +his words. He was speaking daggers to her, and she must have felt +that he knew how he was wounding her. But yet she did not resent +his usage, even by a motion of her lip. Could she have brought +herself to do so, her agony would have been less sharp. ‘I +suppose,’ she said at last, ‘that a woman is weaker than +a man. But you say that you will forgive me?’<br> +<br> +‘I have forgiven you.’<br> +<br> +Then very gently she put out her hand to him, and he took it and held +it for a minute. She looked up at him as though for a moment she +had thought that there might be something else,—that there might be +some other token of true forgiveness, and then she withdrew her hand. +‘I had better go now,’ she said. ‘Good-night; +George.’<br> +<br> +‘Good-night, Marie.’ And then she was gone.<br> +<br> +As soon as he was alone he sat himself down on the bedside, and began +to think of it. Everything was changed to him since he had called +her into the room, determining that he would crush her with his thunderbolt. +Let things go as they may with a man in an affair of love, let him be +as far as possible from the attainment of his wishes, there will always +be consolation to him if he knows that he is loved. To be preferred +to all others, even though that preference may lead to no fruition, +is in itself a thing enjoyable. He had believed that Marie had +forgotten him,—that she had been captivated either by the effeminate +prettiness of his rival, or by his wealth and standing in the world. +He believed all this no more. He knew now how it was with her +and with him, and, let his countenance say what it might to the contrary, +he could bring himself to forgive her in his heart. She had not +forgotten him! She had not ceased to love him! There was +merit in that which went far with him in excuse of her perfidy.<br> +<br> +But what should he do now? She was not as yet married to Adrian +Urmand. Might there not still be hope; hope for her sake as well +as for his own? He perfectly understood that in his +country—nay, for aught he knew to the contrary, in all countries—a formal +betrothal was half a marriage. It was half the ceremony in the +eyes of all those concerned; but yet, in regard to that indissoluble +bond which would indeed have divided Marie from him beyond the reach +of any hope to the contrary, such betrothal was of no effect whatever. +This man whom she did not love was not yet Marie’s +husband;—need never become so if Marie could only be sufficiently firm in resisting +the influence of all her friends. No priest could marry her without +her own consent. He—George—he himself would have to face the +enmity of all those with whom he was connected. He was sure that +his father, having been a party to the betrothal, would never consent +to a breach of his promise to Urmand. Madame Voss, Madame Faragon, +the priest, and their Protestant pastor would all be against them. +They would be as it were outcasts from their own family. But George +Voss, sitting there on his bedside, thought that he could go through +it all, if only he could induce Marie Bromar to bear the brunt of the +world’s displeasure with him. As he got into bed he determined +that he would begin upon the matter to his father during the morning’s +walk. His father would be full of wrath;—but the wrath would +have to be endured sooner or later.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER XIII.<br> +<br> +On the next morning Michel Voss and his son met in the kitchen, and +found Marie already there. ‘Well, my girl,’ said Michel, +as he patted Marie’s shoulder, and kissed her forehead, ‘you’ve +been up getting a rare breakfast for these fellows, I see.’ +Marie smiled, and made some good-humoured reply. No one could +have told by her face that there was anything amiss with her. +‘It’s the last favour of the kind he’ll ever have +at your hands,’ continued Michel, ‘and yet he doesn’t +seem to be half grateful.’ George stood with his back to +the kitchen fire, and did not say a word. It was impossible for +him even to appear to be pleasant when such things were being said. +Marie was a better hypocrite, and, though she said little, was able +to look as though she could sympathise with her uncle’s pleasant +mirth. The two men had soon eaten their breakfast and were gone, +and then Marie was left alone with her thoughts. Would George +say anything to his father of what had passed up-stairs on the previous +evening?<br> +<br> +The two men started, and when they were alone together, and as long +as Michel abstained from talking about Marie and her prospects, George +was able to converse freely with his father. When they left the +house the morning was just dawning, and the air was fresh and sharp. +‘We shall soon have the frost here now,’ said Michel, ‘and +then there will be no more grass for the cattle.’<br> +<br> +‘I suppose they can have them out on the low lands till the end +of November. They always used.’<br> +<br> +‘Yes; they can have them out; but having them out and having food +for them are different things. The people here have so much stock +now, that directly the growth is checked by the frost, the land becomes +almost bare. They forget the old saying—“Half stocking, +whole profits; whole stocking, half profits!” And then, +too, I think the winters are earlier here than they used to be. +They’ll have to go back to the Swiss plan, I fancy, and carry +the food to the cattle in their houses. It may be old-fashioned, +as they say; but I doubt whether the fodder does not go farther so.’ +Then as they began to ascend the mountain, he got on to the subject +of his own business and George’s prospects. ‘The dues +to the Commune are so heavy,’ he said, ‘that in fact there +is little or nothing to be made out of the timber. It looks like +a business, because many men are employed, and it’s a kind of +thing that spreads itself, and bears looking at. But it leaves +nothing behind.’<br> +<br> +‘It’s not quite so bad as that, I hope,’ said George.<br> +<br> +‘Upon my word then it is not much better, my boy. When you’ve +charged yourself with interest on the money spent on the mills, there +is not much to boast about. You’re bound to replant every +yard you strip, and yet the Commune expects as high a rent as when there +was no planting to be done at all. They couldn’t get it, +only that men like myself have their money in the mills, and can’t +well get out of the trade.’<br> +<br> +‘I don’t think you’d like to give it up, father.’<br> +<br> +‘Well, no. It gives me exercise and something to do. +The women manage most of it down at the house; but there must be a change +when Marie has gone. I have hardly looked it in the face yet, +but I know there must be a change. She has grown up among it till +she has it all at her fingers’ ends. I tell you what, George, +she is a girl in a hundred,—a girl in a hundred. She is going +to marry a rich man, and so it don’t much signify; but if she +married a poor man, she would be as good as a fortune to him. +She’d make a fortune for any man. That’s my belief. +There is nothing she doesn’t know, and nothing she doesn’t +understand.’<br> +<br> +Why did his father tell him all this? George thought of the day +on which his father had, as he was accustomed to say to himself, turned +him out of the house because he wanted to marry this girl who was ‘as +good as a fortune’ to any man. Had he, then, been imprudent +in allowing himself to love such a girl? Could there be any good +reason why his father should have wished that a ‘fortune,’ +in every way so desirable, should go out of the family? ‘She’ll +have nothing to do of that sort if she goes to Basle,’ said George +moodily.<br> +<br> +‘That is more than you can say,’ replied his father. +‘A woman married to a man of business can always find her share +in it if she pleases. And with such a one as Adrian Urmand her +side of the house will not be the least considerable.’<br> +<br> +‘I suppose he is little better than a fool,’ said George.<br> +<br> +‘A fool! He is not a fool at all. If you were to see +him buying, you would not call him a fool. He is very far from +a fool.’<br> +<br> +‘It may be so. I do not know much of him myself.’<br> +<br> +‘You should not be so prone to think men fools till you find them +so; especially those who are to be so near to yourself. +No;—he’s not a fool by any means. But he will know that he has +got a clever wife, and he will not be ashamed to make use of her.’<br> +<br> +George was unwilling to contradict his father at the present moment, +as he had all but made up his mind to tell the whole story about himself +and Marie before he returned to the house. He had not the slightest +idea that by doing so he would be able to soften his father’s +heart. He was sure, on the contrary, that were he to do so, he +and his father would go back to the hotel as enemies. But he was +quite resolved that the story should be told sooner or later,—should +be told before the day fixed for the wedding. If it was to be +told by himself, what occasion could be so fitting as the present? +But, if it were to be done on this morning, it would be unwise to harass +his father by any small previous contradictions.<br> +<br> +They were now up among the scattered prostrate logs, and had again taken +up the question of the business of wood-cutting. ‘No, George; +it would never have done for you; not as a mainstay. I thought +of giving it up to you once, but I knew that it would make a poor man +of you.’<br> +<br> +‘I wish you had,’ said George, who was unable to repress +the feeling of his heart.<br> +<br> +‘Why do you say that? What a fool you must be if you think +it! There is nothing you may not do where you are, and you have +got it all into your own hands, with little or no outlay. The +rent is nothing; and the business is there ready made for you. +In your position, if you find the hotel is not enough, there is nothing +you cannot take up.’ They had now seated themselves on the +trunk of a pine tree; and Michel Voss having drawn a pipe from his pocket +and filled it, was lighting it as he sat upon the wood. ‘No, +my boy,’ he continued, ‘you’ll have a better life +of it than your father, I don’t doubt. After all, the towns +are better than the country. There is more to be seen and more +to be learned. I don’t complain. The Lord has been +very good to me. I’ve had enough of everything, and have +been able to keep my head up. But I feel a little sad when I look +forward. You and Marie will both be gone; and your stepmother’s +friend, M. le Curé Gondin, does not make much society for me. +I sometimes think, when I am smoking a pipe up here all alone, that +this is the best of it all;—it will be when Marie has gone.’ +If his father thus thought of it, why did he send Marie away? +If he thus thought of it, why had he sent his son away? Had it +not already been within his power to keep both of them there together +under his roof-tree? He had insisted on dividing them, and dismissing +them from Granpere, one in one direction, and the other in another;—and +then he complained of being alone! Surely his father was +altogether unreasonable. ‘And now one can’t even get +tobacco that is worth smoking,’ continued Michel, in a melancholy +tone. ‘There used to be good tobacco, but I don’t +know where it has all gone.’<br> +<br> +‘I can send you over a little prime tobacco from Colmar, father.’<br> +<br> +‘I wish you would, George. This is foul stuff. But +I sometimes think I’ll give it up. What’s the use +of it? A man sits and smokes and smokes, and nothing comes of +it. It don’t feed him, nor clothe him, and it leaves nothing +behind,—except a stink.’<br> +<br> +‘You’re a little down in the mouth, father, or you wouldn’t +talk of giving up smoking.’<br> +<br> +‘I am down in the mouth,—terribly down in the mouth. Till +it was all settled, I did not know how much I should feel Marie’s +going. Of course it had to be, but it makes an old man of me. +There will be nothing left. Of course there’s your +stepmother,—as good a woman as ever lived,—and the children; but Marie was somehow +the soul of us all. Give us another light, George. I’m +blessed if I can keep the fire in the pipe at all.’<br> +<br> +‘And this,’ thought George, ‘is in truth the state +of my father’s mind! There are three of us concerned who +are all equally dear to each other, my father, myself, and Marie Bromar. +There is not one of them who doesn’t feel that the presence of +the others is necessary to his happiness. Here is my father declaring +that the world will no longer have any savour for him because I am away +in one place, and Marie is to be away in another. There is not +the slightest real reason on earth why we should have been separated. +Yet he,—he alone has done it; and we,—we are to break our hearts +over it! Or rather he has not done it. He is about to do +it. The sacrifice is not yet made, and yet it must be made, because +my father is so unreasonable that no one will dare to point out to him +where lies the way to his own happiness and to the happiness of those +he loves!’ It was thus that George Voss thought of it as +he listened to his father’s wailings.<br> +<br> +But he himself, though he was hot in temper, was slow, or at least deliberate, +in action. He did not even now speak out at once. When his +father’s pipe was finished he suggested that they should go on +to a certain run for the fir-logs, which he himself—George +Voss—had made—a steep grooved inclined plane by which the timber when cut +in these parts could be sent down with a rush to the close neighbourhood +of the saw-mill below. They went and inspected the slide, and +discussed the question of putting new wood into the groove. Michel, +with the melancholy tone that had prevailed with him all the morning, +spoke of matters as though any money spent in mending would be thrown +away. There are moments in the lives of most of us in which it +seems to us that there will never be more cakes and ale. George, +however, talked of the children, and reminded his father that in matters +of business nothing is so ruinous as ruin. ‘If you’ve +got to get your money out of a thing, it should always be in working +order,’ he said. Michel acknowledged the truth of the rule, +but again declared that there was no money to be got out of the thing. +He yielded, however, and promised that the repairs should be made. +Then they went down to the mill, which was going at that time. +George, as he stood by and watched the man and boy adjusting the logs +to the cradle, and listened to the apparently self-acting saw as it +did its work, and observed the perfection of the simple machinery which +he himself had adjusted, and smelt the sweet scent of the newly-made +sawdust, and listened to the music of the little stream, when, between +whiles, the rattle of the mill would cease for half a minute,—George, +as he stood in silence, looking at all this, listening to the sounds, +smelling the perfume, thinking how much sweeter it all was than the +little room in which Madame Faragon sat at Colmar, and in which it was, +at any rate for the present, his duty to submit his accounts to her, +from time to time,—resolved that he would at once make an effort. +He knew his father’s temper well. Might it not be that though +there should be a quarrel for a time, everything would come right at +last? As for Adrian Urmand, George did not believe,—or told +himself that he did not believe,—that such a cur as he would suffer +much because his hopes of a bride were not fulfilled.<br> +<br> +They stayed for an hour at the saw-mill, and Michel, in spite of all +that he had said about tobacco, smoked another pipe. While they +were there, George, though his mind was full of other matter, continued +to give his father practical advice about the business—how a new wheel +should be supplied here, and a lately invented improvement introduced +there. Each of them at the moment was care-laden with special +thoughts of his own, but nevertheless, as men of business, they knew +that the hour was precious and used it. To saunter into the woods +and do nothing was not at all in accordance with Michel’s usual +mode of life; and though he hummed and hawed, and doubted and grumbled, +he took a note of all his son said, and was quite of a mind to make +use of his son’s wit.<br> +<br> +‘I shall be over at Epinal the day after tomorrow,’ he said +as they left the mill, ‘and I’ll see if I can get the new +crank there.’<br> +<br> +‘They’ll be sure to have it at Heinman’s,’ said +George, as they began to descend the hill. From the spot on which +they had been standing the walk down to Granpere would take them more +than an hour. It might well be that they might make it an affair +of two or three hours, if they went up to other timber-cuttings on their +route; but George was sure that as soon as he began to tell his story +his father would make his way straight for home. He would be too +much moved to think of his timber, and too angry to desire to remain +a minute longer than he could help in company with his son. Looking +at all the circumstances as carefully as he could, George thought that +he had better begin at once. ‘As you feel Marie’s +going so much,’ he said, ‘I wonder that you are so anxious +to send her away.’<br> +<br> +‘That’s a poor argument, George, and one that I should not +have expected from you. Am I to keep her here all her life, doing +no good for herself, simply because I like to have her here? It +is in the course of things that she should be married, and it is my +duty to see that she marries well.’<br> +<br> +‘That is quite true, father.’<br> +<br> +‘Then why do you talk to me about sending her away? I don’t +send her away. Urmand comes and takes her away. I did the +same when I was young. Now I’m old, and I have to be left +behind. It’s the way of nature.’<br> +<br> +‘But she doesn’t want to be taken away,’ said George, +rushing at once at his subject.<br> +<br> +‘What do you mean by that?’<br> +<br> +‘Just what I say, father. She consents to be taken away, +but she does not wish it.’<br> +<br> +‘I don’t know what you mean. Has she been talking +to you? Has she been complaining?’<br> +<br> +‘I have been talking to her. I came over from Colmar when +I heard of this marriage on purpose that I might talk to her. +I had at any rate a right to do that.’<br> +<br> +‘Right to do what? I don’t know that you have any +right. If you have been trying to do mischief in my house, George, +I will never forgive you—never.’<br> +<br> +‘I will tell you the whole truth, father; and then you shall say +yourself whether I have been trying to do mischief, and shall say also +whether you will forgive me. You will remember when you told me +that I was not to think of Marie Bromar for myself.’<br> +<br> +‘I do remember.’<br> +<br> +‘Well; I had thought of her. If you wanted to prevent that, +you were too late.’<br> +<br> +‘You were boys and girls together; that is all.’<br> +<br> +‘Let me tell my story, father, and then you shall judge. +Before you had spoken to me at all, Marie had given me her troth.’<br> +<br> +‘Nonsense!’<br> +<br> +‘Let me at least tell my story. She had done so, and I had +given her mine; and when you told me to go, I went, not quite knowing +then what it might be best that we should do, but feeling very sure +that she would at least be true to me.’<br> +<br> +‘Truth to any such folly as that would be very wicked.’<br> +<br> +‘At any rate, I did nothing. I remained there month after +month; meaning to do something when this was settled,—meaning to do +something when that was settled; and then there came a sort of rumour +to me that Marie was to be Urmand’s wife. I did not believe +it, but I thought that I would come and see.’<br> +<br> +‘It was true.’<br> +<br> +‘No;—it was not true then. I came over, and was very angry +because she was cold to me. She would not promise that there should +be no such engagement; but there was none then. You see I will +tell you everything as it occurred.’<br> +<br> +‘She is at any rate engaged to Adrian Urmand now, and for all +our sakes you are bound not to interfere.’<br> +<br> +‘But yet I must tell my story. I went back to Colmar, and +then, after a while, there came tidings, true tidings, that she was +engaged to this man. I came over again yesterday, determined,—you +may blame me if you will, father, but listen to me,—determined +to throw her falsehood in her teeth.’<br> +<br> +‘Then I will protect her from you,’ said Michel Voss, turning +upon his son as though he meant to strike him with his staff.<br> +<br> +‘Ah, father,’ said George, pausing and standing opposite +to the innkeeper, ‘but who is to protect her from you? If +I had found that that which you are doing was making her happy,—I +would have spoken my mind indeed; I would have shown her once, and once +only, what she had done to me; how she had destroyed me,—and then +I would have gone, and troubled none of you any more.’<br> +<br> +‘You had better go now, and bring us no more trouble. You +are all trouble.’<br> +<br> +‘But her worst trouble will still cling to her. I have found +that it is so. She has taken this man not because she loves him, +but because you have bidden her.’<br> +<br> +‘She has taken him, and she shall marry him.’<br> +<br> +‘I cannot say that she has been right, father; but she deserves +no such punishment as that. Would you make her a wretched woman +for ever, because she has done wrong in striving to obey you?’<br> +<br> +‘She has not done wrong in striving to obey me. She has +done right. I do not believe a word of this.’<br> +<br> +‘You can ask her yourself.’<br> +<br> +‘I will ask her nothing,—except that she shall not speak to +you any farther about it. You have come here wilfully-minded to +disturb us all.’<br> +<br> +‘Father, that is unjust.’<br> +<br> +‘I say it is true. She was contented and happy before you +came. She loves the man, and is ready to marry him on the day +fixed. Of course she will marry him. You would not have +us go back from our word now?’<br> +<br> +‘Certainly I would. If he be a man, and she tells him that +she repents,—if she tells him all the truth, of course he will give +her back her troth. I would do so to any woman that only hinted +that she wished it.’<br> +<br> +‘No such hint shall be given. I will hear nothing of it. +I shall not speak to Marie on the subject,—except to desire her to +have no farther converse with you. Nor will I speak of it again +to yourself; unless you wish me to bid you go from me altogether, you +will not mention the matter again.’ So saying, Michel Voss +strode on, and would not even turn his eyes in the direction of his +son. He strode on, making his way down the hill at the fastest +pace that he could achieve, every now and then raising his hat and wiping +the perspiration from his brow. Though he had spoken of Marie’s +departure as a loss that would be very hard to bear, the very idea that +anything should be allowed to interfere with the marriage which he had +planned was unendurable. What;—after all that had been said +and done, consent that there should be no marriage between his niece +and the rich young merchant! Never. He did not stop for +a moment to think how much of truth there might be in his son’s +statement. He would not even allow himself to remember that he +had forced Adrian Urmand as a suitor upon his niece. He had had +his qualms of conscience upon that matter,—and it was possible that +they might return to him. But he would not stop now to look at +that side of the question. The young people were betrothed. +The marriage was a thing settled, and it should be celebrated. +He had never broken his faith to any man, and he would not break it +to Adrian Urmand. He strode on down the mountain, and there was +not a word more said between him and his son till they reached the inn +doors. ‘You understand me,’ he said then. ‘Not +a word more to Marie.’ After that he went up at once to +his wife’s chamber, and desired that Marie might be sent to him +there. During his rapid walk home he had made up his mind as to +what he would do. He would not be severe to his niece. He +would simply ask her one question.<br> +<br> +‘My dear,’ he said, striving to be calm, but telling her +by his countenance as plainly as words could have done all that had +passed between him and his son,—’Marie, my dear, I take it +for—granted—there is nothing to—to—to interrupt our plans.’<br> +<br> +‘In what way, uncle?’ she asked, merely wanting to gain +a moment for thought.<br> +<br> +‘In any way. In no way. Just say that there is nothing +wrong, and that will be sufficient.’ She stood silent, not +having a word to say to him. ‘You know what I mean, Marie. +You intend to marry Adrian Urmand?’<br> +<br> +‘I suppose so,’ said Marie in a low whisper.<br> +<br> +‘Look here, Marie,—if there be any doubt about it, we will part,—and +for ever. You shall never look upon my face again. +My honour is pledged,—and yours.’ Then he hurried out +of the room, down into the kitchen, and without staying there a moment +went out into the yard, and walked through to the stables. His +passion had been so strong and uncontrollable, that he had been unable +to remain with his niece and exact a promise from her.<br> +<br> +George, when he saw his father go through to the stables, entered the +house. He had already made up his mind that he would return at +once to Colmar, without waiting to have more angry words. Such +words would serve him not at all. But he must if possible see +Marie, and he must also tell his stepmother that he was about to depart. +He found them both together, and at once, very abruptly, declared that +he was to start immediately.<br> +<br> +‘You have quarrelled with your father, George,’ said Madame +Voss.<br> +<br> +‘I hope not. I hope that he has not quarrelled with me. +But it is better that I should go.’<br> +<br> +‘What is it, George? I hope it is nothing serious.’ +Madame Voss as she said this looked at Marie, but Marie had turned her +face away. George also looked at her, but could not see her countenance. +He did not dare to ask her to give him an interview alone; nor had he +quite determined what he would say to her if they were together. +‘Marie,’ said Madame Voss, ‘do you know what this +is about?’<br> +<br> +‘I wish I had died,’ said Marie, ‘before I had come +into this house. I have made hatred and bitterness between those +who should love each other better than all the world!’ Then +Madame Voss was able to guess what had been the cause of the quarrel.<br> +<br> +‘Marie,’ said George very slowly, ‘if you will only +ask your own heart what you ought to do, and be true to what it tells +you, there is no reason even yet that you should be sorry that you came +to Granpere. But if you marry a man whom you do not love, you +will sin against him, and against me, and against yourself, and against +God!’ Then he took up his hat and went out.<br> +<br> +In the courtyard he met his father.<br> +<br> +‘Where are you going now, George?’ said his father.<br> +<br> +‘To Colmar. It is better that I should go at once. +Good-bye, father;’ and he offered his hand to his parent.<br> +<br> +‘Have you spoken to Marie?’<br> +<br> +‘My mother will tell you what I have said. I have spoken +nothing in private.’<br> +<br> +‘Have you said anything about her marriage?’<br> +<br> +‘Yes. I have told her that she could not honestly marry +the man she did not love.’<br> +<br> +‘What right have you, sir,’ said Michel, nearly choked with +wrath, ‘to interfere in the affairs of my household? You +had better go, and go at once. If you return again before they +are married, I will tell the servants to put you off the place!’ +George Voss made no answer, but having found his horse and his gig, +drove himself off to Colmar.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER XIV.<br> +<br> +George Voss, as he drove back to Colmar and thought of what had been +done during the last twenty-four hours, did not find that he had much +occasion for triumph. He had, indeed, the consolation of knowing +that the girl loved him, and in that there was a certain amount of comfort. +As he had ever been thinking about her since he had left Granpere, so +also had she been thinking of him. His father had told him that +they had been no more than children when they parted, and had ridiculed +the idea that any affection formed so long back and at so early an age +should have lasted. But it had lasted; and was now as strong in +Marie’s breast as it was in his own. He had learned this +at any rate by his journey to Granpere, and there was something of consolation +in the knowledge. But, nevertheless, he did not find that he could +triumph. Marie had been weak enough to yield to his father once, +and would yield to him, he thought, yet again. Women in this +respect—as he told himself—were different from men. They were taught +by the whole tenor of their lives to submit,—unless they could conquer +by underhand unseen means, by little arts, by coaxing, and by tears. +Marie, he did not doubt, had tried all these, and had failed. +His father’s purpose had been too strong for her, and she had +yielded. Having submitted once, of course she would submit again. +There was about his father a spirit of masterfulness, which he was sure +Marie would not be able to withstand. And then there would +be—strong against his interests, George thought—that feeling so natural +to a woman, that as all the world had been told of her coming marriage, +she would be bound to go through with it. The idea of it had become +familiar to her. She had conquered the repugnance which she must +at first have felt, and had made herself accustomed to regard this man +as her future husband. And then there would be Madame Voss against +him, and M. le Curé,—both of whom would think it infinitely +better for Marie’s future welfare, that she should marry a Roman +Catholic, as was Urmand, than a Protestant such as was he, George Voss. +And then the money! Even if he could bring himself to believe +that the money was nothing to Marie, it would be so much to all those +by whom Marie would be surrounded, that it would be impossible that +she should be preserved from its influence.<br> +<br> +It is not often that young people really know each other; but George +certainly did not know Marie Bromar. In the first place, though +he had learned from her the secret of her heart, he had not taught himself +to understand how his own sullen silence had acted upon her. He +knew now that she had continued to love him; but he did not know how +natural it had been that she should have believed that he had forgotten +her. He could not, therefore, understand how different must now +be her feelings in reference to this marriage with Adrian, from what +they had been when she had believed herself to be utterly deserted. +And then he did not comprehend how thoroughly unselfish she had +been;—how she had struggled to do her duty to others, let the cost be what +it might to herself. She had plighted herself to Adrian Urmand, +not because there had seemed to her to be any brightness in the prospect +which such a future promised to her, but because she did verily believe +that, circumstanced as she was, it would be better that she should submit +herself to her friends. All this George Voss did not understand. +He had thrown his thunderbolt, and had seen that it had been efficacious. +Its efficacy had been such that his wrath had been turned into tenderness. +He had been so changed in his purpose, that he had been induced to make +an appeal to his father at the cost of his father’s enmity. +But that appeal had been in vain, and, as he thought of it all, he told +himself that on the appointed day Marie Bromar would become the wife +of Adrian Urmand. He knew well enough that a girl betrothed is +a girl already half married.<br> +<br> +He was very wretched as he drove his horse along. Though there +was a solace in the thought that the memory of him had still remained +in Marie’s heart, there was a feeling akin to despair in this +also. His very tenderness towards her was more unendurable than +would have been his wrath. The pity of it! The pity of it! +It was that which made him sore of heart and faint of spirit. +If he could have reproached her as cold, mercenary, unworthy, heartless, +even though he had still loved her, he could have supported himself +by his anger against her unworthiness. But as it was there was +no such support for him. Though she had been in fault, her virtue +towards him was greater than her fault. She still loved him. +She still loved him,—though she could not be his wife.<br> +<br> +Then he thought of Adrian Urmand and of the man’s success and +wealth, and general prosperity in the world. What if he should +go over to Basle and take Adrian Urmand by the throat and choke him? +What if he should at least half choke the successful man, and make it +well understood that the other half would come unless the successful +man would consent to relinquish his bride? George, though he did +not expect success for himself, was fully purposed that Urmand should +not succeed without some interference from him,—by means of choking +or otherwise. He would find some way of making himself disagreeable. +If it were only by speaking his mind, he thought that he could speak +it in such a way that the Basle merchant would not like it. He +would tell Urmand in the first place that Marie was won not at all by +affection, not in the least by any personal regard for her suitor, but +altogether by a feeling of duty towards her uncle. And he would +point out to this suitor how dastardly a thing it would be to take advantage +of a girl so placed. He planned a speech or two as he drove along +which he thought that even Urmand, thick-skinned as he believed him +to be, would dislike to hear. ‘You may have her, perhaps,’ +he would say to him, ‘as so much goods that you would buy, because +she is, as a thing in her uncle’s hands, to be bought. She +believes it to be her duty, as being altogether dependent, to be disposed +of as her uncle may choose. And she will go to you, as she would +to any other man who might make the purchase. But as for loving +you, you don’t even believe that she loves you. She will +keep your house for you; but she will never love you. She will +keep your house for you,—unless, indeed, she should find you to be +so intolerable to her, that she should be forced to leave you. +It is in that way that you will have her,—if you are so low a thing +as to be willing to take her so.’ He planned various speeches +of such a nature—not intending to trust entirely to speeches, but +to proceed to some attempt at choking afterwards if it should be necessary. +Marie Bromar should not become Adrian Urmand’s wife without some +effort on his part. So resolving, he drove into the yard of the +hotel at Colmar.<br> +<br> +As soon as he entered the house Madame Faragon began to ask him questions +about the wedding. When was it to be? George thought for +a moment, and then remembered that he had not even heard the day named.<br> +<br> +‘Why don’t you answer me, George?’ said the old woman +angrily. ‘You must know when it’s going to be.’<br> +<br> +‘I don’t know that it’s going to be at all,’ +said George.<br> +<br> +‘Not going to be at all! Why not? There is not anything +wrong, is there? Were they not betrothed? Why don’t +you tell me, George?’<br> +<br> +‘Yes; they were betrothed.’<br> +<br> +‘And is he crying off? I should have thought Michel Voss +was the man to strangle him if he did that.’<br> +<br> +‘And I am the man to strangle him if he don’t,’ said +George, walking out of the room.<br> +<br> +He knew that he had been silly and absurd, but he knew also that he +was so moved as to have hardly any control over himself. In the +few words that he had now said to Madame Faragon he had, as he felt, +told the story of his own disappointment; and yet he had not in the +least intended to take the old woman into his confidence. He had +not meant to have said a word about the quarrel between himself and +his father, and now he had told everything.<br> +<br> +When she saw him again in the evening, of course she asked him some +farther questions.<br> +<br> +‘George,’ she said, ‘I am afraid things are not going +pleasantly at Granpere.’<br> +<br> +‘Not altogether,’ he answered.<br> +<br> +‘But I suppose the marriage will go on?’ To this he +made no answer, but shook his head, showing how impatient he was at +being thus questioned. ‘You ought to tell me,’ said +Madame Faragon plaintively, ‘considering how interested I must +be in all that concerns you.’<br> +<br> +‘I have nothing to tell.’<br> +<br> +‘But is the marriage to be put off?’ again demanded Madame +Faragon, with extreme anxiety.<br> +<br> +‘Not that I know of, Madame Faragon: they will not ask me whether +it is to be put off or not.’<br> +<br> +‘But have they quarrelled with M. Urmand?’<br> +<br> +‘No; nobody has quarrelled with M. Urmand.’<br> +<br> +‘Was he there, George?’<br> +<br> +‘What, with me! No; he was not there with me. I have +never seen the man since I first left Granpere to come here.’ +And then George Voss began to think what might have happened had Adrian +Urmand been at the hotel while he was there himself. After all, +what could he have said to Adrian Urmand? or what could he have done +to him?<br> +<br> +‘He hasn’t written, has he, to say that he is off his bargain?’ +Poor Madame Faragon was almost pathetic in her anxiety to learn what +had really occurred at the Lion d’Or.<br> +<br> +‘Certainly not. He has not written at all.’<br> +<br> +‘Then what is it, George?’<br> +<br> +‘I suppose it is this,—that Marie Bromar cares nothing for him.’<br> +<br> +‘But so rich as he is! And they say, too, such a good-looking +young man.’<br> +<br> +‘It is wonderful, is it not? It is next to a miracle that +there should be a girl deaf and blind to such charms. But, nevertheless, +I believe it is so. They will probably make her marry him, whether +she likes it or not.’<br> +<br> +‘But she is betrothed to him. Of course she will marry him.’<br> +<br> +‘Then there will be an end of it,’ said George.<br> +<br> +There was one other question which Madame Faragon longed to ask; but +she was almost too much afraid of her young friend to put it into words. +At last she plucked up courage, and did ask her question after an ambiguous +way.<br> +<br> +‘But I suppose it is nothing to you, George?’<br> +<br> +‘Nothing at all. Nothing on earth,’ said he. +‘How should it be anything to me?’ Then he hesitated +for a while, pausing to think whether or not he would tell the truth +to Madame Faragon. He knew that there was no one on earth, setting +aside his father and Marie Bromar, to whom he was really so dear as +he was to this old woman. She would probably do more for him, +if it might possibly be in her power to do anything, than any other +of his friends. And, moreover, he did not like the idea of being +false to her, even on such a subject as this. ‘It is only +this to me,’ he said, ‘that she had promised to be my wife, +before they had ever mentioned Urmand’s name to her.’<br> +<br> +‘O, George!’<br> +<br> +‘And why should she not have promised?’<br> +<br> +‘But, George;—during all this time you have never mentioned +it.’<br> +<br> +‘There are some things, Madame Faragon, which one doesn’t +mention. And I do not know why I should have mentioned it at all. +But you understand all about it now. Of course she will marry +the man. It is not likely that my father should fail to have his +own way with a girl who is dependent on him.’<br> +<br> +‘But he—M. Urmand; he would give her up if he knew it all, would +he not?’<br> +<br> +To this George made no instant answer; but the idea was there, in his +mind—that the linen merchant might perhaps be induced to abandon his +purpose, if he could be made to understand that Marie wished it. +‘If he have any touch of manhood about him he would do so,’ +said he.<br> +<br> +‘And what will you do, George?’<br> +<br> +‘Do! I shall do nothing. What should I do? My +father has turned me out of the house. That is the whole of it. +I do not know that there is anything to be done.’ Then he +went out, and there was nothing more said upon the question. For +the next three or four days there was nothing said. As he went +in and out Madame Faragon would look at him with anxious eyes, questioning +herself how far such a feeling of love might in truth make this young +man forlorn and wretched. As far as she could judge by his manner +he was very forlorn and very wretched. He did his work indeed, +and was busy about the place, as was his wont. But there was a +look of pain in his face, which made her old heart grieve, and by degrees +her good wishes for the object, which seemed to be so much to him, became +eager and hot.<br> +<br> +‘Is there nothing to be done?’ she asked at last, putting +out her fat hand to take hold of his in sympathy.<br> +<br> +‘There is nothing to be done,’ said George, who, however, +hated himself because he was doing nothing, and still thought occasionally +of that plan of choking his rival.<br> +<br> +‘If you were to go to Basle and see the man?’<br> +<br> +‘What could I say to him, if I did see him? After all, it +is not him that I can blame. I have no just ground of quarrel +with him. He has done nothing that is not fair. Why should +he not love her if it suits him? Unless he were to fight me, indeed—’<br> +<br> +‘O, George! let there be no fighting.’<br> +<br> +‘It would do no good, I fear.’<br> +<br> +‘None, none, none,’ said she.<br> +<br> +‘If I were to kill him, she could not be my wife then.’<br> +<br> +‘No, no; certainly not.’<br> +<br> +‘And if I wounded him, it would make her like him perhaps. +If he were to kill me, indeed, there might be some comfort in that.’<br> +<br> +After this Madame Faragon made no farther suggestions that her young +friend should go to Basle.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER XV.<br> +<br> +During the remainder of the day on which George had left Granpere, the +hours did not fly very pleasantly at the Lion d’Or. Michel +Voss had gone to his niece immediately upon his return from his walk, +intending to obtain a renewed pledge from her that she would be true +to her engagement. But he had been so full of passion, so beside +himself with excitement, so disturbed by all that he had heard, that +he had hardly waited with Marie long enough to obtain such pledge, or +to learn from her that she refused to give it. He had only been +able to tell her that if she hesitated about marrying Adrian she should +never look upon his face again; and then without staying for a reply +he had left her. He had been in such a tremor of passion that +he had been unable to demand an answer. After that, when George +was gone, he kept away from her during the remainder of the morning. +Once or twice he said a few words to his wife, and she counselled him +to take no farther outward notice of anything that George had said to +him. ‘It will all come right if you will only be a little +calm with her,’ Madame Voss had said. He had tossed his +head and declared that he was calm;—the calmest man in all Lorraine. +Then he had come to his wife again, and she had again given him some +good practical advice. ‘Don’t put it into her head +that there is to be a doubt,’ said Madame Voss.<br> +<br> +‘I haven’t put it into her head,’ he answered angrily.<br> +<br> +‘No, my dear, no; but do not allow her to suppose that anybody +else can put it there either. Let the matter go on. She +will see the things bought for her wedding, and when she remembers that +she has allowed them to come into the house without remonstrating, she +will be quite unable to object. Don’t give her an opportunity +of objecting.’ Michel Voss again shook his head, as though +his wife were an unreasonable woman, and swore that it was not he who +had given Marie such opportunity. But he made up his mind to do +as his wife recommended. ‘Speak softly to her, my dear,’ +said Madame Voss.<br> +<br> +‘Don’t I always speak softly?’ said he, turning sharply +round upon his spouse.<br> +<br> +He made his attempt to speak softly when he met Marie about the house +just before supper. He put his hand upon her shoulder, and smiled, +and murmured some word of love. He was by no means crafty in what +he did. Craft indeed was not the strong point of his character. +She took his rough hand and kissed it, and looked up lovingly, beseechingly +into his face. She knew that he was asking her to consent to the +sacrifice, and he knew that she was imploring him to spare her. +This was not what Madame Voss had meant by speaking softly. Could +she have been allowed to dilate upon her own convictions, or had she +been able adequately to express her own ideas, she would have begged +that there might be no sentiment, no romance, no kissing of hands, no +looking into each other’s faces,—no half-murmured tones of love. +Madame Voss believed strongly that the every-day work of the world was +done better without any of these glancings and glimmerings of moonshine. +But then her husband was, by nature, of a fervid temperament, given +to the influence of unexpressed poetic emotions;—and thus subject, +in spite of the strength of his will, to much weakness of purpose. +Madame Voss perhaps condemned her husband in this matter the more because +his romantic disposition never showed itself in his intercourse with +her. He would kiss Marie’s hand, and press Marie’s +wrist, and hold dialogues by the eye with Marie. But with his +wife his speech was,—not exactly yea, yea, and nay, nay,—but yes, +yes, and no, no. It was not unnatural therefore that she should +specially dislike this weakness of his which came from his emotional +temperament. ‘I would just let things go, as though there +were nothing special at all,’ she said again to him, before supper, +in a whisper.<br> +<br> +‘And so I do. What would you have me say?’<br> +<br> +‘Don’t mind petting her, but just be as you would be any +other day.’<br> +<br> +‘I am as I would be any other day,’ he replied. However, +he knew that his wife was right, and was in a certain way aware that +if he could only change himself and be another sort of man, he might +manage the matter better. He could be fiercely angry, or caressingly +affectionate. But he was unable to adopt that safe and golden +mean, which his wife recommended. He could not keep himself from +interchanging a piteous glance or two with Marie at supper, and put +a great deal too much unction into his caress to please Madame Voss, +when Marie came to kiss him before she went to bed.<br> +<br> +In the mean time Marie was quite aware that it was incumbent on her +to determine what she would do. It may be as well to declare at +once that she had determined—had determined fully, before her uncle +and George had started for their walk up to the wood-cutting. +When she was giving them their breakfast that morning her mind was fully +made up. She had had the night to lie awake upon it, to think +it over, and to realise all that George had told her. It had come +to her as quite a new thing that the man whom she worshipped, worshipped +her too. While she believed that nobody else loved her;—when +she could tell herself that her fate was nothing to anybody;—as long +as it had seemed to her that the world for her must be cold, and hard, +and material;—so long could she reconcile to herself, after some painful, +dubious fashion, the idea of being the wife either of Adrian Urmand, +or of any other man. Some kind of servitude was needful, and if +her uncle was decided that she must be banished from his house, the +kind of servitude which was proposed to her at Basle would do as well +as another. But when she had learned the truth,—a truth so +unexpected,—then such servitude became impossible to her. On that morning, +when she came down to give the men their breakfast, she had quite determined +that let the consequences be what they might she would never become +the wife of Adrian Urmand. Madame Voss had told her husband that +when Marie saw the things purchased for her wedding coming into the +house, the very feeling that the goods had been bought would bind her +to her engagement. Marie had thought of that also, and was aware +that she must lose no time in making her purpose known, so that articles +which would be unnecessary might not be purchased. On that very +morning, while the men had been up in the mountain, she had sat with +her aunt hemming sheets;—intended as an addition to the already overflowing +stock possessed by M. Urmand. It was with difficulty that she +had brought herself to do that,—telling herself, however, that as +the linen was there, it must be hemmed; when there had come a question +of marking the sheets, she had evaded the task,—not without raising +suspicion in the bosom of Madame Voss.<br> +<br> +But it was, as she knew, absolutely necessary that her uncle should +be informed of her purpose. When he had come to her after the +walk, and demanded of her whether she still intended to marry Adrian +Urmand, she had answered him falsely. ‘I suppose so,’ +she had said. The question—such a question as it was—had been +put to her too abruptly to admit of a true answer on the spur of the +moment. But the falsehood almost stuck in her throat and was a +misery to her till she could set it right by a clear declaration of +the truth. She had yet to determine what she would do;—how she +would tell this truth; in what way she would insure to herself the power +of carrying out her purpose. Her mind, the reader must remember, +was somewhat dark in the matter. She was betrothed to the man, +and she had always heard that a betrothal was half a marriage. +And yet she knew of instances in which marriages had been broken off +after betrothal quite as ceremonious as her own—had been broken off +without scandal or special censure from the Church. Her aunt, +indeed, and M. le Curé had, ever since the plighting of her troth +to M. Urmand, spoken of the matter in her presence, as though the wedding +were a thing already nearly done;—not suggesting by the tenor of their +speech that any one could wish in any case to make a change, but pointing +out incidentally that any change was now out of the question. +But Marie had been sharp enough to understand perfectly the gist of +her aunt’s manoeuvres and of the priest’s incidental information. +The thing could be done, she know; and she feared no one in the doing +of it,—except her uncle. But she did fear that if she simply +told him that it must be done, he would have such a power over her that +she would not succeed. In what way could she do it first, and +then tell him afterwards?<br> +<br> +At last she determined that she would write a letter to M. Urmand, and +show a copy of the letter to her uncle when the post should have taken +it so far out of Granpere on its way to Basle, as to make it impossible +that her uncle should recall it. Much of the day after George’s +departure, and much of the night, was spent in the preparation of this +letter. Marie Bromar was not so well practised in the writing +of letters as will be the majority of the young ladies who may, perhaps, +read her history. It was a difficult thing for her to begin the +letter, and a difficult thing for her to bring it to its end. +But the letter was written and sent. The post left Granpere at +about eight in the morning, taking all letters by way of Remiremont; +and on the day following George’s departure, the post took Marie +Bromar’s letter to M. Urmand.<br> +<br> +When it was gone, her state of mind was very painful. Then it +was necessary that she should show the copy to her uncle. She +had posted the letter between six and seven with her own hands, and +had then come trembling back to the inn, fearful that her uncle should +discover what she had done before her letter should be beyond his reach. +When she saw the mail conveyance go by on its route to Remiremont, then +she knew that she must begin to prepare for her uncle’s wrath. +She thought that she had heard that the letters were detained some time +at Remiremont before they went on to Epinal in one direction, and to +Mulhouse in the other. She looked at the railway time-table which +was hung up in one of the passages of the inn, and saw the hour of the +departure of the diligence from Remiremont to catch the train at Mulhouse +for Basle. When that hour was passed, the conveyance of her letter +was insured, and then she must show the copy to her uncle. He +came into the house about twelve, and eat his dinner with his wife in +the little chamber. Marie, who was in and out of the room during +the time, would not sit down with them. When pressed to do so +by her uncle, she declared that she had eaten lately and was not hungry. +It was seldom that she would sit down to dinner, and this therefore +gave rise to no special remark. As soon as his meal was over, +Michel Voss got up to go out about his business, as was usual with him. +Then Marie followed him into the passage. ‘Uncle Michel,’ +she said, ‘I want to speak to you for a moment; will you come +with me?’<br> +<br> +‘What is it about, Marie?’<br> +<br> +‘If you will come, I will show you.’<br> +<br> +‘Show me! What will you show me?’<br> +<br> +‘It’s a letter, Uncle Michel. Come up-stairs and you +shall see it.’ Then he followed her up-stairs, and in the +long public room, which was at that hour deserted, she took out of her +pocket the copy of her letter to Adrian Urmand, and put it into her +uncle’s hands. ‘It is a letter, Uncle Michel, which +I have written to M. Urmand. It went this morning, and you must +see it.’<br> +<br> +‘A letter to Urmand,’ he said, as he took the paper suspiciously +into his hands.<br> +<br> +‘Yes, Uncle Michel. I was obliged to write it. It +is the truth, and I was obliged to let him know it. I am afraid +you will be angry with me, and—turn me away; but I cannot help it.’<br> +<br> +The letter was as follows:<br> +<br> + <i>‘The +Hotel Lion d’Or, Granpere,<br> + October +1, 186-.<br> +<br> +</i>‘M. URMAND,<br> +<br> +‘I take up my pen in great sorrow and remorse to write you a letter, +and to prevent you from coming over here for me, as you intended, on +this day fortnight. I have promised to be your wife, but it cannot +be. I know that I have behaved very badly, but it would be worse +if I were to go on and deceive you. Before I knew you I had come +to be fond of another man; and I find now, though I have struggled hard +to do what my uncle wishes, that I could not promise to love you and +be your wife. I have not told Uncle Michel yet, but I shall as +soon as this letter is gone.<br> +<br> +‘I am very, very sorry for the trouble I have given you. +I did not mean to be bad. I hope that you will forget me, and +try to forgive me. No one knows better than I do how bad I have +been.<br> +<br> +‘Your most humble servant,<br> + ‘With the greatest +respect,<br> + ‘MARIE +BROMAR.’<br> +<br> +The letter had taken her long to write, and it took her uncle long to +read, before he came to the end of it. He did not get through +a line without sundry interruptions, which all arose from his determination +to contradict at once every assertion which she made. ‘You +cannot prevent his coming,’ he said, ‘and it shall not be +prevented.’ ‘Of course, you have promised to be his +wife, and it must be.’ ‘Nonsense about deceiving him. +He is not deceived at all.’ ‘Trash—you are not fond +of another man. It is all nonsense.’ ‘You must +do what your uncle wishes. You must, now! you must! Of course, +you will love him. Why can’t you let all that come as it +does with others?’ ‘Letter gone;—yes indeed, and +now I must go after it.’ ‘Trouble!—yes! Why +could you not tell me before you sent it? Have I not always been +good to you?’ ‘You have not been bad; not before. +You have been very good. It is this that is bad.’ +‘Forget you indeed. Of course he won’t. How +should he? Are you not betrothed to him? He’ll forgive +you fast enough, when you just say that you did not know what you were +about when you were writing it.’ Thus her uncle went on; +and as the outburst of his wrath was, as it were, chopped into little +bits by his having to continue the reading of the letter, the storm +did not fall upon Marie’s head so violently as she had expected. +‘There’s a pretty kettle of fish you’ve made!’ +said he as soon as he had finished reading the letter. ‘Of +course, it means nothing.’<br> +<br> +‘But it must mean something, Uncle Michel.’<br> +<br> +‘I say it means nothing. Now I’ll tell you what I +shall do, Marie. I shall start for Basle directly. I shall +get there by twelve o’clock to-night by going through Colmar, +and I shall endeavour to intercept the letter before Urmand would receive +it to-morrow.’ This was a cruel blow to Marie after all +her precautions. ‘If I cannot do that, I shall at any rate +see him before he gets it. That is what I shall do; and you must +let me tell him, Marie, that you repent having written the letter.’<br> +<br> +‘But I don’t repent it, Uncle Michel; I don’t, indeed. +I can’t repent it. How can I repent it when I really mean +it? I shall never become his wife;—indeed I shall not. +O, Uncle Michel, pray, pray, pray do not go to Basle!’<br> +<br> +But Michel Voss resolved that he would go to Basle, and to Basle he +went. The immediate weight, too, of Marie’s misery was aggravated +by the fact that in order to catch the train for Basle at Colmar, her +uncle need not start quite immediately. There was an hour during +which he could continue to exercise his eloquence upon his niece, and +endeavour to induce her to authorise him to contradict her own letter. +He appealed first to her affection, and then to her duty; and after +that, having failed in these appeals, he poured forth the full vials +of his wrath upon her head. She was ungrateful, obstinate, false, +unwomanly, disobedient, irreligious, sacrilegious, and an idiot. +In the fury of his anger, there was hardly any epithet of severe rebuke +which he spared, and yet, as every cruel word left his mouth, he assured +her that it should all be taken to mean nothing, if she would only now +tell him that he might nullify the letter. Though she had deserved +all these bad things which he had spoken of her, yet she should be regarded +as having deserved none of them, should again be accepted as having +in all points done her duty, if she would only, even now, be obedient. +But she was not to be shaken. She had at last formed a resolution, +and her uncle’s words had no effect towards turning her from it. +‘Uncle Michel,’ she said at last, speaking with much seriousness +of purpose, and a dignity of person that was by no means thrown away +upon him, ‘if I am what you say, I had better go away from your +house. I know I have been bad. I was bad to say that I would +marry M. Urmand. I will not defend myself. But nothing on +earth shall make me marry him. You had better let me go away, +and get a place as a servant among our friends at Epinal.’ +But Michel Voss, though he was heaping abuse upon her with the hope +that he might thus achieve his purpose, had not the remotest idea of +severing the connection which bound him and her together. He wanted +to do her good, not evil. She was exquisitely dear to him. +If she would only let him have his way and provide for her welfare as +he saw, in his wisdom, would be best, he would at once take her in his +arms again and tell her that she was the apple of his eye. But +she would not; and he went at last off on his road to Colmar and Basle, +gnashing his teeth in anger.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER XVI.<br> +<br> +Nothing was said to Marie about her sins on that afternoon after her +uncle had started on his journey. Everything in the hotel was +blank, and sad, and gloomy; but there was, at any rate, the negative +comfort of silence, and Marie was allowed to go about the house and +do her work without rebuke. But she observed that the +Curé—M. le Curé Gondin—sat much with her aunt during the evening, +and she did not doubt but that she herself and her iniquities made the +subject of their discourse.<br> +<br> +M. le Curé Gondin, as he was generally called at +Granpere,—being always so spoken of, with his full name and title, by the large +Protestant portion of the community,—was a man very much respected +by all the neighbourhood. He was respected by the Protestants +because he never interfered with them, never told them, either behind +their backs or before their faces, that they would be damned as heretics, +and never tried the hopeless task of converting them. In his intercourse +with them he dropped the subject of religion altogether,—as a philologist +or an entomologist will drop his grammar or his insects in his intercourse +with those to whom grammar and insects are matters of indifference. +And he was respected by the Catholics of both sorts,—by those who +did not and by those who did adhere with strictness to the letter of +their laws of religion. With the former he did his duty, perhaps +without much enthusiasm. He preached to them, if they would come +and listen to him. He christened them, confessed them, and absolved +them from their sins,—of course, after due penitence. But he +lived with them, too, in a friendly way, pronouncing no anathemas against +them, because they were not as attentive to their religious exercises +as they might have been. But with those who took a comfort in +sacred things, who liked to go to early masses in cold weather, to be +punctual at ceremonies, to say the rosary as surely as the evening came, +who knew and performed all the intricacies of fasting as ordered by +the bishop, down to the refinement of an egg more or less, in the whole +Lent, or the absence of butter from the day’s cookery,—with +these he had all that enthusiasm which such people like to encounter +in their priest. We may say, therefore, that he was a wise +man,—and probably, on the whole, a good man; that he did good service in +his parish, and helped his people along in their lives not inefficiently. +He was a small man, with dark hair very closely cut, with a tonsure +that was visible but not more than visible; with a black beard that +was shaved every Tuesday, Friday, and Saturday evenings, but which was +very black indeed on the Tuesday and Friday mornings. He always +wore the black gown of his office, but would go about his parish with +an ordinary soft slouch hat,—thus subjecting his appearance to an +absence of ecclesiastical trimness which, perhaps, the most enthusiastic +of his friends regretted. Madame Voss certainly would have wished +that he would have had himself shaved at any rate every other day, and +that he would have abstained from showing himself in the streets of +Granpere without his clerical hat. But, though she was very intimate +with her Curé, and had conferred upon him much material kindness, +she had never dared to express her opinion to him upon these matters.<br> +<br> +During much of that afternoon M. le Curé sat with Madame Voss, +but not a word was said to Marie about her disobedience either by him +or by her. Nevertheless, Marie felt that her sins were being discussed, +and that the lecture was coming. She herself had never quite liked +M. le Curé—not having any special reason for disliking him, +but regarding him as a man who was perhaps a little deficient in spirit, +and perhaps a trifle too mindful of his creature comforts. M. +le Curé took a great deal of snuff, and Marie did not like snuff +taking. Her uncle smoked a great deal of tobacco, and that she +thought very nice and proper in a man. Had her uncle taken the +snuff and the priest smoked the tobacco, she would probably have equally +approved of her uncle’s practice and disapproved that of the +priest;—because she loved the one and did not love the other. She had +thought it probable that she might be sent for during the evening, and +had, therefore, made for herself an immensity of household work, the +performance of all which on that very evening the interests of the Lion +d’Or would imperatively demand. The work was all done, but +no message from Aunt Josey summoned Marie into the little parlour.<br> +<br> +Nevertheless Marie had been quite right in her judgment. On the +following morning, between eight and nine, M. le Curé was again +in the house, and had a cup of coffee taken to him in the little parlour. +Marie, who felt angry at his return, would not take it herself, but +sent it in by the hands of Peter Veque. Peter Veque returned in +a few minutes with a message to Marie, saying that M. le Curé +wished to see her.<br> +<br> +‘Tell him that I am very busy,’ said Marie. ‘Say +that uncle is away, and that there is a deal to do. Ask him if +another day won’t suit as well.’<br> +<br> +She knew when she sent this message that another day would not suit +as well. And she must have known also that her uncle’s absence +made no difference in her work. Peter came back with a request +from Madame Voss that Marie would go to her at once. Marie pressed +her lips together, clenched her fists, and walked down into the room +without the delay of an instant.<br> +<br> +‘Marie, my dear,’ said Madame Voss, ‘M. le Curé +wishes to speak to you. I will leave you for a few minutes.’ +There was nothing for it but to listen. Marie could not refuse +to be lectured by the priest. But she told herself that having +had the courage to resist her uncle, it certainly was out of the question +that any one else should have the power to move her.<br> +<br> +‘My dear Marie,’ began the Curé, ‘your aunt +has been telling me of this little difference between you and your affianced +husband. Won’t you sit down, Marie, because we shall be +able so to talk more comfortably?’<br> +<br> +‘I don’t want to talk about it at all,’ said Marie. +But she sat down as she was bidden.<br> +<br> +‘But, my dear, it is needful that your friends should talk to +you. I am sure that you have too much sense to think that a young +woman like yourself should refuse to hear her friends.’ +Marie had it almost on her tongue to tell the priest that the only friends +to whom she chose to listen were her uncle and her aunt, but she thought +that it might perhaps be better that she should remain silent. +‘Of course, my dear, a young person like you must know that she +must walk by advice, and I am sure you must feel that no one can give +it you more fittingly than your own priest.’ Then he took +a large pinch of snuff.<br> +<br> +‘If it were anything to do with the Church,—yes,’ she +said.<br> +<br> +‘And this has to do with the Church, very much. Indeed I +do not know how any of our duties in this life cannot have to do with +the Church. There can be no duty omitted as to which you would +not acknowledge that it was necessary that you should get absolution +from your priest.’<br> +<br> +‘But that would be in the church,’ said Marie, not quite +knowing how to make good her point.<br> +<br> +‘Whether you are in the church or out of it, is just the same. +If you were sick and in bed, would your priest be nothing to you then?’<br> +<br> +‘But I am quite well, Father Gondin.’<br> +<br> +‘Well in health; but sick in spirit,—as I am sure you must own. +And I must explain to you, my dear, that this is a matter in which your +religious duty is specially in question. You have been betrothed, +you know, to M. Urmand.’<br> +<br> +‘But people betrothed are very often not married,’ said +Marie quickly. ‘There was Annette Lolme at Saint Die. +She was betrothed to Jean Stein at Pugnac. That was only last +winter. And then there was something wrong about the money; and +the betrothal went for nothing, and Father Carrier himself said it was +all right. If it was all right for Annette Lolme, it must be all +right for me as far as betrothing goes.’<br> +<br> +The story that Marie told so clearly was perfectly true, and M. le Curé +Gondin knew that it was true. He wished now to teach Marie that +if certain circumstances should occur after a betrothal which would +make the marriage inexpedient in the eyes of the parents of the young +people, then the authority of the Church would not exert itself to insist +on the sacred nature of the pledge;—but that if the pledge was to +be called in question simply at the instance of a capricious young woman, +then the Church would have full power. His object, in short, was +to insist on parental authority, giving to parental authority some little +additional strength from his own sacerdotal recognition of the sanctity +of the betrothing promise. But he feared that Marie would be too +strong for him, if not also too clear-headed. ‘You cannot +mean to tell me,’ said he, ‘that you think such a solemn +promise as you have given to this young man, taking one from him as +solemn in return, is to go for nothing?’<br> +<br> +‘I am very sorry that I promised,—very sorry indeed; but I cannot +keep my promise.’<br> +<br> +‘You are bound to keep it, especially as all your friends wish +the marriage, and think that it will be good for you. Annette +Lolme’s friends wished her not to marry. It is my duty to +tell you, Marie, that if you break your faith to M. Urmand, you will +commit a very grievous sin, and you will commit it with your eyes open.’<br> +<br> +‘If Annette Lolme might change her mind because her lover had +not got as much money as people wanted, I am sure I may change mine +because I don’t love a man.’<br> +<br> +‘Annette did what her friends advised her.’<br> +<br> +‘Then a girl must always do what her friends tell her? If +I don’t marry M. Urmand, I sha’n’t be wicked for breaking +my promise, but for disobeying Uncle Michel.’<br> +<br> +‘You will be wicked in every way,’ said the priest.<br> +<br> +‘No, M. le Curé. If I had married M. Urmand, I know +I should be wicked to leave him, and I would do my best to live with +him and make him a good wife. But I have found out in time that +I can’t love him; and therefore I am sure that I ought not to +marry him, and I won’t.’<br> +<br> +There was much more said between them, but M. le Curé Gondin +was not able to prevail in the least. He tried to cajole her, +and he tried to persuade by threats, and he tried to conquer her by +gratitude and affection towards her uncle. But he could not prevail +at all.<br> +<br> +‘It is of no use my staying here any longer, M. le Curé,’ +she said at last, ‘because I am quite sure that nothing on earth +will induce me to consent. I am very sorry for what I have done. +If you tell me that I have sinned, I will repent and confess it. +I have repented, and am very, very sorry. I know now that I was +very wrong ever to think it possible that I could be his wife. +But you can’t make me think that I am wrong in this.’<br> +<br> +Then she left him, and as soon as she was gone, Madame Voss returned +to hear the priest’s report as to his success.<br> +<br> +In the mean time, Michel Voss had reached Basle, arriving there some +five hours before Marie’s letter, and, in his ignorance of the +law, had made his futile attempt to intercept the letter before it reached +the hands of M. Urmand. But he was with Urmand when the letter +was delivered, and endeavoured to persuade his young friend not to open +it. But in doing this he was obliged to explain, to a certain +extent, what was the nature of the letter. He was obliged to say +so much about it as to justify the unhappy lover in asserting that it +would be better for them all that he should know the contents. +‘At any rate, you will promise not to believe it,’ said +Michel. And he did succeed in obtaining from M. Urmand a sort +of promise that he would not regard the words of the letter as in truth +expressing Marie’s real resolution. ‘Girls, you know, +are such queer cattle,’ said Michel. ‘They think about +all manner of things, and then they don’t know what they are thinking.’<br> +<br> +‘But who is the other man?’ demanded Adrian, as soon as +he had finished the letter. Any one judging from his countenance +when he asked the question would have imagined that in spite of his +promise he believed every word that had been written to him. His +face was a picture of blank despair, and his voice was low and hoarse. +‘You must know whom she means,’ he added, when Michel did +not at once reply.<br> +<br> +‘Yes; I know whom she means.’<br> +<br> +‘Who is it then, M. Voss?’<br> +<br> +‘It is George, of course,’ replied the innkeeper.<br> +<br> +‘I did not know,’ said poor Adrian Urmand.<br> +<br> +‘She never spoke a dozen words to any other man in her life, and +as for him, she has hardly seen him for the last eighteen months. +He has come over and said something to her, like a traitor,—has reminded +her of some childish promise, some old vow, something said when they +were children, and meaning nothing; and so he has frightened her.’<br> +<br> +‘I was never told that there was anything between them,’ +said Urmand, beginning to think that it would become him to be indignant.<br> +<br> +‘There was nothing to tell,—literally nothing.’<br> +<br> +‘They must have been writing to each other.’<br> +<br> +‘Never a line; on my word as a man. It was just as I tell +you. When George went from home, there had been some fooling, +as I thought, between them; and I was glad that he should go. +I didn’t think it meant anything, or ever would.’ +As Michel Voss said this, there did occur to him an idea that perhaps, +after all, he had been wrong to interfere in the first instance,—that +there had then been no really valid reason why George should not have +married Marie Bromar; but that did not in the least influence his judgment +as to what it might be expedient to do now. He was still as sure +as ever that as things stood now, it was his duty to do all in his power +to bring about the marriage between his niece and Adrian Urmand. +‘But since that, there has been nothing,’ continued he, +‘absolutely nothing. Ask her, and she will tell you so. +It is some romantic idea of hers that she ought to stick to her first +promise, now that she has been reminded of it.’<br> +<br> +All this did not convince Adrian Urmand, who for a while expressed his +opinion that it would be better for him to take Marie’s refusal, +and thus to let the matter drop. It would be very bitter to him, +because all Basle had now heard of his proposed marriage, and a whole +shower of congratulations had already fallen upon him from his fellow-townspeople: +but he thought that it would be more bitter to be rejected again in +person by Marie Bromar, and then to be stared at by all the natives +of Granpere. He acknowledged that George Voss was a traitor; and +would have been ready to own that Marie was another, had Michel Voss +given him any encouragement in that direction. But Michel throughout +the whole morning,—and they were closeted together for hours,—declared +that poor Marie was more sinned against than sinning. If Adrian +was but once more over at Granpere, all would be made right. At +last Michel Voss prevailed, and persuaded the young man to return with +him to the Lion d’Or.<br> +<br> +They started early on the following morning, and travelled to Granpere +by way of Colmar and the mountain. The father thus passed twice +through Colmar, but on neither occasion did he call upon his son.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER XVII.<br> +<br> +There had been very little said between Michel Voss and Urmand on their +journey towards Granpere till they were at the top of the Vosges, on +the mountain road, at which place they had to leave their little carriage +and bait their horse. Indeed Michel had been asleep during almost +the entire time. On the night but one before he had not been in +bed at all, having reached Basle after midnight, and having passed the +hours ‘twixt that and his morning visit to Urmand’s house +in his futile endeavours to stop poor Marie’s letter. And +the departure of the travellers from Basle on this morning had been +very early, so that the poor innkeeper had been robbed of his proper +allowance of natural rest. He had slept soundly in the train to +Colmar, and had afterwards slept in the little <i>calèche</i> +which had taken them to the top of the mountain. Urmand had sat +silent by his side,—by no means anxious to disturb his companion, +because he had no determined plan ready to communicate. Once or +twice before he reached Colmar he had thought that he would go back +again. He had been, he felt, badly treated; and, though he was +very fond of Marie, it would be better for him perhaps to wash his hands +of the whole affair. He was so thinking the whole way to Colmar. +But he was afraid of Michel Voss, and when they got out upon the platform +there, he had no resolution ready to be declared as fixed. Then +they had hired the little carriage, and Michel Voss had slept again. +He had slept all through Münster, and up the steep mountain, and +was not thoroughly awake till they were summoned to get out at the wonderfully +fine house for refreshment which the late Emperor caused to be built +at the top of the hill. Here they went into the restaurant, and +as Michel Voss was known to the man who kept it, he ordered a bottle +of wine. ‘What a terrible place to live in all the winter!’ +he said, as he looked down through the window right into the deep valley +below. From the spot on which the house is built you can see all +the broken wooded ground of the steep descent, and then the broad plain +that stretches away to the valley of the Rhine. ‘There is +nothing but snow here after Christmas,’ continued Michel, ‘and +perhaps not a Christian over the road for days together. I shouldn’t +like it, I know. It may be all very well just now.’<br> +<br> +But Adrian Urmand was altogether inattentive either to the scenery now +before him, or to the prospect of the mountain innkeeper’s winter +life. He knew that two hours and a half would take them down the +mountain into Granpere, and that when there, it would be at once necessary +that he should begin a task the idea of which was by no means pleasant +to him. He was quite sure now that he wished he had remained at +Basle, and that he had accepted Marie’s letter as final. +He told himself again and again that he could not make her marry him +if she chose to change her mind. What was he to say, and what +was he to do when he got to Granpere, a place which he almost wished +that he had never seen in spite of those profitable linen-buyings? +And now when Michel Voss began to talk to him about the scenery, and +what this man up in the mountain did in the winter,—at this moment +when his terrible trouble was so very near him,—he felt it to be an +insult, or at least a cruelty. ‘What can he do from December +till April except smoke and drink?’ asked Michel Voss.<br> +<br> +‘I don’t care what he does,’ said Urmand, turning +away. ‘I only know I wish I’d never come here.’<br> +<br> +‘Take a glass of wine, my friend,’ said Michel. ‘The +mountain air has made you chill.’ Urmand took the glass +of wine, but it did not cheer him much. ‘We shall have it +all right before the day is over,’ continued Michel.<br> +<br> +‘I don’t think it will ever be all right,’ said the +other.<br> +<br> +‘And why not? The fact is, you don’t understand young +women; as how should you, seeing that you have not had to manage them? +You do as I tell you, and just be round with her. You tell her +that you don’t desire any change yourself, and that after what +has passed you can’t allow her to think of such a thing. +You speak as though you had a downright claim, as you have; and all +will come right. It’s not that she cares for him, you know. +You must remember that. She has never even said a word of that +kind. I haven’t a doubt on my mind as to which she really +likes best; but it’s that stupid promise, and the way that George +has had of making her believe that she is bound by the first word she +ever spoke to a young man. It’s only nonsense, and of course +we must get over it.’ Then they were summoned out, the horse +having finished his meal, and were rattled down the hill into Granpere +without many more words between them.<br> +<br> +One other word was spoken, and that word was hardly pleasant in its +tone. Urmand at least did not relish it. ‘I shall +go away at once if she doesn’t treat me as she ought,’ said +he, just as they were entering the village.<br> +<br> +Michel was silent for a moment before he answered. ‘You’ll +behave, I’m sure, as a man ought to behave to a young woman whom +he intends to make his wife.’ The words themselves were +civil enough; but there was a tone in the innkeeper’s voice and +a flame in his eye, which made Urmand almost feel that he had been threatened. +Then they drove into the space in front of the door of the Lion d’Or.<br> +<br> +Michel had made for himself no plan whatsoever. He led the way +at once into the house, and Urmand followed, hardly daring to look up +into the faces of the persons around him. They were both of them +soon in the presence of Madame Voss, but Marie Bromar was not there. +Marie had been sharp enough to perceive who was coming before they were +out of the carriage, and was already ensconced in some safer retreat +up-stairs, in which she could meditate on her plan of the campaign. +‘Look lively, and get us something to eat,’ said Michel, +meaning to be cheerful and self-possessed. ‘We left Basle +at five, and have not eaten a mouthful since.’ It was now +nearly four o’clock, and the bread and cheese which had been served +with the wine on the top of the mountain had of course gone for nothing. +Madame Voss immediately began to bustle about, calling the cook and +Peter Veque to her assistance. But nothing for a while was said +about Marie. Urmand, trying to look as though he were self-possessed, +stood with his back to the stove, and whistled. For a few minutes, +during which the bustling about the table went on, Michel was wrapped +in thought, and said nothing. At last he had made up his mind, +and spoke: ‘We might as well make a dash at it at once,’ +said he. ‘Where is Marie?’ No one answered him. +‘Where is Marie Bromar?’ he asked again, angrily. +He knew that it behoved him now to take upon himself at once the real +authority of a master of a house.<br> +<br> +‘She is up-stairs,’ said Peter, who was straightening a +table-cloth.<br> +<br> +‘Tell her to come down to me,’ said her uncle. Peter +departed immediately, and for a while there was silence in the little +room. Adrian Urmand felt his heart to palpitate disagreeably. +Indeed, the manner in which it would appear that the innkeeper proposed +to manage the business was distressing enough to him. It seemed +as though it were intended that he should discuss his little difficulties +with Marie in the presence of the whole household. But he stood +his ground, and sounded one more ineffectual little whistle. In +a few minutes Peter returned, but said nothing. ‘Where is +Marie Bromar?’ again demanded Michel in an angry voice.<br> +<br> +‘I told her to come down,’ said Peter.<br> +<br> +‘Well?’<br> +<br> +‘I don’t think she’s coming,’ said Peter.<br> +<br> +‘What did she say?’<br> +<br> +‘Not a word; she only bade me go down.’ Then Michel +walked into the kitchen as though he were about to fetch the recusant +himself. But he stopped himself, and asked his wife to go up to +Marie. Madame Voss did go up, and after her return there was some +whispering between her and her husband. ‘She is upset by +the excitement of your return,’ Michel said at last; ‘and +we must give her a little grace. Come, we will eat our dinner.’<br> +<br> +In the mean time Marie was sitting on her bed up-stairs in a most unhappy +plight. She really loved her uncle, and almost feared him. +She did fear him with that sort of fear which is produced by reverence +and habits of obedience, but which, when softened by affection, hardly +makes itself known as fear, except on troublous occasions. And +she was oppressed by the remembrance of all that was due from her to +him and to her aunt, feeling, as it was natural that she should do, +in compliance with the manners and habits of her people, that she owed +a duty of obedience in this matter of marriage. Though she had +been able to hold her own against the priest, and had been quite firm +in opposition to her aunt,—who was in truth a woman much less strong +by nature than herself,—she dreaded a farther dispute with her uncle. +She could not bear to think that he should be enabled to accuse her +with justice of ingratitude. It had been her great pleasure to +be true to him, and he had answered her truth by a perfect confidence +which had given a charm to her life. Now this would all be over, +and she would be driven again to beg him to send her away, that she +might become a household drudge elsewhere. And now that this very +moment of her agony had come, and that this man to whom she had given +a promise was there to claim her, how was she to go down and say what +she had to say, before all the world? It was perfectly clear to +her that in accordance with her reception of Urmand at the first moment +of their meeting, so must be her continued conduct towards him, till +he should leave her, or else take her away with him. She could +not smile on him and shake hands with him, and cut his bread for him +and pour out his wine, after such a letter as she had written to him, +without signifying thereby that the letter was to go for nothing. +Now, let what might happen, the letter was not to go for nothing. +The letter was to remain a true fact, and a true letter. ‘I +can’t go down, Aunt Josey; indeed I can’t,’ she said. +‘I am not well, and I should drop. Pray tell Uncle Michel, +with my best love and with my duty, that I can’t go to him now.’ +And she sat still upon her bed, not weeping, but clasping her hands, +and trying to see her way out of her misfortune.<br> +<br> +The dinner was eaten in grim silence, and after the dinner Michel, still +grimly silent, sat with his friend on the bench before the door and +smoked a cigar. While he was smoking, Michel said never a word. +But he was thinking of the difficulty he had to overcome; and he was +thinking also, at odd moments, whether his own son George was not, after +all, a better sort of lover for a young woman than this young man who +was seated by his side. But it never occurred to him that he might +find a solution of the difficulty by encouraging this second idea. +Urmand, during this time, was telling himself that it behoved him to +be a man, and that his sitting there in silence was hardly proof of +his manliness. He knew that he was being ill-treated, and that +he must do something to redress his own wrongs, if he only knew how +to do it. He was quite determined that he would not be a coward; +that he would stand up for his own rights. But if a young woman +won’t marry a man, a man can’t make her do so, either by +scolding her, or by fighting any of her friends. In this case +the young lady’s friends were all on his side. But the weight +of that half hour of silence and of Michel’s gloom was intolerable +to him. At last he got up and declared he would go and see an +old woman who would have linen to sell. ‘As I am here, I +might as well do a stroke of work,’ he said, striving to be jocose.<br> +<br> +‘Do,’ said Michel; ‘and in the mean time I will see +Marie Bromar.’<br> +<br> +Whenever Michel Voss was heard to call his niece Marie Bromar, using +the two names, it was understood, by all who heard him about the hotel, +that he was not in a good humour. As soon as Urmand was gone, +he rose slowly from his seat, and with heavy steps he went up-stairs +in search of the refractory girl. He went straight to her own +bedroom, and there he found her still sitting on her bedside. +She jumped up as soon as he was in the room, and running up to him, +took him by the arm. ‘Uncle Michel,’ she said, ‘pray, +pray be good to me. Pray, spare me!’<br> +<br> +‘I am good to you,’ he said. ‘I try to be good +to you.’<br> +<br> +‘You know that I love you. Do you not know that I love you?’ +Then she paused, but he made no answer to her. He was surer of +nothing in the world than he was of her affection; but it did not suit +him to acknowledge it at that moment. ‘I would do anything +for you that I could do, Uncle Michel; but pray do not ask me to do +this?’ Then she clasped him tightly, and hung upon him, +and put up her face to be kissed. But he would not kiss her. +‘Ah,’ said she; ‘you mean to be hard to me. +Then I must go; then I must go; then I must go.’<br> +<br> +‘That is nonsense, Marie. You cannot go, till you go to +your husband. Where would you go to?’<br> +<br> +‘It matters not where I go to now.’<br> +<br> +‘Marie, you are betrothed to this man, and you must consent to +become his wife. Say that you will consent, and all this nonsense +shall be forgotten.’ She did not say that she would consent; +but she did not say that she would not, and he thought that he might +persuade her, if he could speak to her as he ought. But he doubted +which might be most efficacious, affection or severity. He had +assured himself that it would be his duty to be very severe, before +he gave up the point; but it might be possible, as she was so sweet +with him, so loving and so gracious, that affection might prevail. +If so, how much easier would the task be to himself! So he put +his arm round her, and stooped down and kissed her.<br> +<br> +‘O, Uncle Michel,’ she said; ‘dear, dear Uncle Michel; +say that you will spare me, and be on my side, and be good to me.’<br> +<br> +‘My darling girl, it is for your own good, for the good of us +all, that you should marry this man. Do you not know that I would +not tell you so, if it were not true? I cannot be more good to +you than that.’<br> +<br> +‘I can—not, Uncle Michel.’<br> +<br> +‘Tell me why, now. What is it? Has anybody been bringing +tales to you?’<br> +<br> +‘Nobody has brought any tales.’<br> +<br> +‘Is there anything amiss with him?’<br> +<br> +‘It is not that. It is not that at all. I am sure +he is an excellent young man, and I wish with all my heart he had a +better wife than I can ever be.’<br> +<br> +‘He thinks you will be quite good enough for him.’<br> +<br> +‘I am not good for anybody. I am very bad.’<br> +<br> +‘Leave him to judge of that.’<br> +<br> +‘But I cannot do it, Uncle Michel. I can never be Adrian +Urmand’s wife.’<br> +<br> +‘But why, why, why?’ repeated Michel, who was beginning +to be again angered by his own want of success. ‘You have +said that a dozen times, but have never attempted to give a reason.’<br> +<br> +‘I will tell you the reason. It is because I love George +with all my heart, and with all my soul. He is so dear to me, +that I should always be thinking of him. I could not help myself. +I should always have him in my heart. Would that be right, Uncle +Michel, if I were married to another man?’<br> +<br> +‘Then why did you accept the other man? There is nothing +changed since then.’<br> +<br> +‘I was wicked then.’<br> +<br> +‘I don’t think you were wicked at all;—but at any rate +you did it. You didn’t think anything about having George +in your heart then.’<br> +<br> +It was very hard for her to answer this, and for a moment or two she +was silenced. At last she found a reply. ‘I thought +everything was dead within me then,—and that it didn’t signify. +Since that he has been here, and he has told me all.’<br> +<br> +‘I wish he had stayed where he was with all my heart. We +did not want him here,’ said the innkeeper in his anger.<br> +<br> +‘But he did come, Uncle Michel. I did not send for him, +but he did come.’<br> +<br> +‘Yes; he came,—and he has disturbed everything that I had arranged +so happily. Look here, Marie. I lay my commands upon you +as your uncle and guardian, and I may say also as your best and staunchest +friend, to be true to the solemn engagement which you have made with +this young man. I will not hear any answer from you now, but I +leave you with that command. Urmand has come here at my request, +because I told him that you would be obedient. If you make a fool +of me, and of yourself, and of us all, it will be impossible that I +should forgive you. He will see you this evening, and I will trust +to your good sense to receive him with propriety.’ Then +Michel Voss left the room and descended with ponderous steps, indicative +of a heavy heart.<br> +<br> +Marie, when she was alone, again seated herself on the bedside. +Of course she must see Adrian Urmand. She was quite aware that +she could not encounter him now with that half-saucy independent air +which had come to her quite naturally before she had accepted him. +She would willingly humble herself in the dust before him, if by so +doing she could induce him to relinquish his suit. But if she +could not do so; if she could not talk over either her uncle or him +to be on what she called her side, then what should she do? Her +uncle’s entreaties to her, joined to his too evident sorrow, had +upon her an effect so powerful, that she could hardly overcome it. +She had, as she thought, resolved most positively that nothing should +induce her to marry Adrian Urmand. She had of course been very +firm in this resolution when she wrote her letter. But now—now +she was almost shaken! When she thought only of herself, she would +almost task herself to believe that after all it did not much matter +what of happiness or of unhappiness might befall her. If she allowed +herself to be taken to a new home at Basle she could still work and +eat and drink,—and working, eating, and drinking she could wait till +her unhappiness should be removed. She was sufficiently wise to +understand that as she became a middle-aged woman, with perhaps children +around her, her sorrow would melt into a soft regret which would be +at least endurable. And what did it signify after all how much +one such a being as herself might suffer? The world would go on +in the same way, and her small troubles would be of but little significance. +Work would save her from utter despondence. But when she thought +of George, and the words in which he had expressed the constancy of +his own love, and the shipwreck which would fall upon him if she were +untrue to him,—then again she would become strong in her determination. +Her uncle had threatened her with his lasting displeasure. He +had said that it would be impossible that he should forgive her. +That would be unbearable! Yet, when she thought of George, she +told herself that it must be borne.<br> +<br> +Before the hour of supper came, her aunt had been with her, and she +had promised to see her suitor alone. There had been some doubt +on this point between Michel and his wife, Madame Voss thinking that +either she or her husband ought to be present. But Michel had +prevailed. ‘I don’t care what any people may say,’ +he replied. ‘I know my own girl;—and I know also what +he has a right to expect.’ So it was settled, and Marie +understood that Adrian was to come to her in the little brightly furnished +sitting-room upstairs. On this occasion she took no notice of +the hotel supper at all. It is to be hoped that Peter Veque proved +himself equal to the occasion.<br> +<br> +At about nine she was seated in the appointed place, and Madame Voss +brought her lover up into the room.<br> +<br> +‘Here is M. Urmand come to speak to you,’ she said. +‘Your uncle thinks that you had better see him alone. I +am sure you will bear in mind what it is that he and I wish.’ +Then she closed the door, and Adrian and Marie were left together.<br> +<br> +‘I need hardly tell you,’ said he, ‘what were my feelings +when your uncle came to me yesterday morning. And when I opened +your letter and read it, I could hardly believe that it had come from +you.’<br> +<br> +‘Yes, M. Urmand;—it did come from me.’<br> +<br> +‘And why—what have I done? The last word you had spoken +to me was to declare that you would be my loving wife.’<br> +<br> +‘Not that, M. Urmand; never that. When I thought it was +to be so, I told you that I would do my best to do my duty by you.’<br> +<br> +‘Say that once more, and all shall be right.’<br> +<br> +‘But I never promised that I would love you. I could not +promise that; and I was very wicked to allow them to give you my troth. +You can’t think worse of me than I think of myself.’<br> +<br> +‘But, Marie, why should you not love me? I am sure you would +love me.’<br> +<br> +‘Listen to me, M. Urmand; listen to me, and be generous to me. +I think you can be generous to a poor girl who is very unhappy. +I do not love you. I do not say that I should not have loved you, +if you had been the first. Why should not any girl love you? +You are above me in every way, and rich, and well spoken of; and your +life has been less rough and poor than mine. It is not that I +have been proud. What is there that I can be proud of—except +my uncle’s trust in me? But George Voss had come to me before, +and had made me promise that I would love him;—and I do love him. +How can I help it, if I wished to help it? O, M. Urmand, can you +not be generous? Think how little it is that you will lose.’ +But Adrian Urmand did not like to be told of the girl’s love for +another man. His generosity would almost have been more easily +reached had she told him of George’s love for her. People +had assured him since he was engaged that Marie Bromar was the handsomest +girl in Lorraine or Alsace; and he felt it to be an injury that this +handsome girl should prefer such a one as George Voss to himself. +Marie, with a woman’s sharpness, perceived all this accurately. +‘Remember,’ said she, ‘that I had hardly seen you +when George and I were—when he and I became such friends.’<br> +<br> +‘Your uncle doesn’t want you to marry his son.’<br> +<br> +‘I shall never become George’s wife without consent; never.’<br> +<br> +‘Then what would be the use of my giving way?’ asked Urmand. +‘He would never consent.’<br> +<br> +She paused for a moment before she replied.<br> +<br> +‘To save yourself,’ said she, ‘from living with a +woman who cannot love you, and to save me from living with a man I cannot +love.’<br> +<br> +‘And is this to be all the answer you will give me?’<br> +<br> +‘It is the request that I have to make to you,’ said Marie.<br> +<br> +‘Then I had better go down to your uncle.’ And he +went down to Michel Voss, leaving Marie Bromar again alone.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER XVIII.<br> +<br> +The people of Colmar think Colmar to be a considerable place, and far +be it from us to hint that it is not so. It is—or was in the +days when Alsace was French—the chief town of the department of the +Haut Rhine. It bristles with barracks, and is busy with cotton +factories. It has been accustomed to the presence of a préfet, +and is no doubt important. But it is not so large that people +going in and out of it can pass without attention, and this we take +to be the really true line of demarcation between a big town and a little +one. Had Michel Voss and Adrian Urmand passed through Lyons or +Strasbourg on their journey to Granpere, no one would have noticed them, +and their acquaintances in either of those cities would not have been +a bit the wiser. But it was not probable that they should leave +the train at the Colmar station, and hire Daniel Bredin’s <i>calèche</i> +for the mountain journey thence to Granpere, without all the facts of +the case coming to the ears of Madame Faragon. And when she had +heard the news, of course she told it to George Voss. She had +interested herself very keenly in the affair of George’s love, +partly because she had a soft heart of her own and loved a ray of romance +to fall in upon her as she sat fat and helpless in her easy-chair, and +partly because she thought that the future landlord of the Hôtel +de la Poste at Colmar ought to be regarded as a bigger man and a better +match than any Swiss linen-merchant in the world. ‘I can’t +think what it is that your father means,’ she had said. +‘When he and I were young, he used not to be so fond of the people +of Basle, and he didn’t think so much then of a peddling buyer +of sheetings and shirtings.’ Madame Faragon was rather fond +of alluding to past times, and of hinting to George that in early days, +had she been willing, she might have been mistress of the Lion d’Or +at Granpere, instead of the Poste at Colmar. George never quite +believed the boast, as he knew that Madame Faragon was at least ten +years older than his father. ‘He used to think,’ continued +Madame Faragon, ‘that there was nothing better than a good house +in the public line, with a well-spirited woman inside it to stand her +ground and hold her own. But everything is changed now, since +the railroads came up. The pedlars become merchants, and the respectable +old shopkeepers must go to the wall.’ George would hear +all this in silence, though he knew that his old friend was endeavouring +to comfort him by making little of the Basle linen-merchant. Now, +when Madame Faragon learned that Michel Voss and Adrian Urmand had gone +through Colmar back from Basle on their way to Granpere, she immediately +foresaw what was to happen. Marie’s marriage was to be hurried +on, George was to be thrown overboard, and the pedlar’s pack was +to be triumphant over the sign of the innkeeper.<br> +<br> +‘If I were you, George, I would dash in among them at once,’ +said Madame Faragon.<br> +<br> +George was silent for a minute or two, leaving the room and returning +to it before he made any answer. Then he declared that he would +dash in among them at Granpere.<br> +<br> +‘It will be better to go over and see it all settled,’ he +said.<br> +<br> +‘But, George, you won’t quarrel?’<br> +<br> +‘What do you mean by quarrelling? I don’t suppose +that this man and I can be very dear friends when we meet each other.’<br> +<br> +‘You won’t have any fighting? O, George, if I thought +there was going to be fighting, I would go myself to prevent it.’ +Madame Faragon no doubt was sincere in her desire that there should +be no fighting; but, nevertheless, there was a life and reality about +this little affair which had a gratifying effect upon her. ‘If +I thought I could do any good, I really would go,’ she said again +afterwards. But George did not encourage her to make the attempt.<br> +<br> +No more was said about it; but early on the following morning, or in +truth long before the morning had dawned, George had started upon his +journey, following his father and M. Urmand in their route over the +mountain. This was the third time he had gone to Granpere in the +course of the present autumn, and on each time he had gone without invitation +and without warning. And yet, previous to this, he had remained +above a year at Colmar without taking any notice of his family. +He knew that his father would not make him welcome, and he almost doubted +whether it would be proper for him to drive himself direct to the door +of the hotel. His father had told him, when they were last parting +from each other, that he was nothing but a trouble. ‘You +are all trouble,’ his father had said to him. And then his +father had threatened to have him turned from the door by the servants, +if he should come to the house again before Marie and Adrian were married. +He was not afraid of his father; but he felt that he had no right to +treat the Lion d’Or as his own home unless he was prepared to +obey his father. And he knew nothing as to Marie and her purpose. +He had learned from her that, were she left to herself, she would give +herself with all her heart to him. But she would not be left to +herself, and he only knew now that Adrian Urmand was being taken back +to Granpere,—of course with the intention that the marriage should +be at once perfected. Madame Faragon had, no doubt, been right +in her advice as to dashing in among them at once. Whatever was +to be done must be done now. But it was by no means clear to him +how he was to carry on the war when he found himself among them all +at Granpere.<br> +<br> +It was now October, and the morning on the mountain was very dark and +cold. He had started from Colmar between three and four, so that +he had passed through Münster, and was ascending the hill before +six. He stopped, too, and fed his horse at the Emperor’s +house at the top, and fortified himself with a tumbler of wine and a +hunch of bread. He meant to go into Granpere and claim Marie as +his own. He would go to the priest, and to the pastor if necessary, +and forbid all authorities to lend their countenance to the proposed +marriage. He would speak his mind plainly, and would accuse his +father of extreme cruelty. He would call upon Madame Voss to save +her niece. He would be very savage with Marie, hoping that he +might thereby save her from herself,—defying her to say either before +man or God that she loved the man whom she was about to make her husband. +And as to Adrian Urmand himself—; he still thought that, should the +worst come to the worst, he would try some process of choking upon Adrian +Urmand. Any use of personal violence would be distasteful to him +and contrary to his nature. He was not a man who in the ordinary +way of his life would probably lift his hand against another. +Such liftings of hands on the part of other men he regarded as a falling +back to the truculence of savage life. Men should manage and coerce +each other either with the tongue, or with money, or with the +law—according to his theory of life. But on such an occasion as this +he found himself obliged to acknowledge that, if the worst should come +to the worst, some attempt at choking his enemy must be made. +It must be made for Marie’s sake, if not for his own. In +this mood of mind he drove down to Granpere, and, not knowing where +else to stop, drew up his horse in the middle of the road before the +hotel. The stable-servant, who was hanging about, immediately +came to him;—and there was his father standing, all alone, at the +door of the house. It was now ten o’clock, and he had expected +that his father would have been away from home, as was his custom at +that hour. But the innkeeper’s mind was at present too full +of trouble to allow of his going off either to the woodcutting or to +the farm.<br> +<br> +Adrian Urmand, after his failure with Marie on the preceding evening, +had not again gone down-stairs. He had taken himself at once to +his bedroom, and had remained there gloomy and unhappy, very angry with +Marie Bromar; but, if possible, more angry with Michel Voss. Knowing, +as he must have known, how the land lay, why had the innkeeper brought +him from Basle to Granpere? He found himself to have been taken +in, from first to last, by the whole household, and he would at this +moment have been glad to obliterate Granpere altogether from among the +valleys of the Vosges. And so he went to bed in his wrath. +Michel and Madame Voss sat below waiting for him above an hour. +Madame Voss more than once proposed that she should go up and see what +was happening. It was impossible, she declared, that they should +be talking together all that time. But her husband had stayed +her. ‘Whatever they have to say, let them say it out.’ +It seemed to him that Marie must be giving way, if she submitted herself +to so long an interview. When at last Madame Voss did go up-stairs, +she learned from the maid that M. Urmand had been in bed ever so long; +and on going to Marie’s chamber, she found her sitting where she +had sat before. ‘Yes, Aunt Josey, I will go to bed at once,’ +she said. ‘Give uncle my love.’ Then Aunt Josey +had returned to her husband, and neither of them had been able to extract +any comfort from the affairs of the evening.<br> +<br> +Early on the following morning, M. le Curé was called to a consultation. +This was very distasteful to Michel Voss, because he was himself a Protestant, +and, having lived all his life with a Protestant son and two Roman Catholic +women in the house, he had come to feel that Father Gondin’s religion +was a religion for the weaker sex. He troubled himself very little +with the doctrinal differences, having no slightest touch of an idea +that he was to be saved because he was a Protestant, and that they were +in peril because they were Roman Catholics. Nor, indeed, was there +any such idea on either side prevalent in the valley. What M. +le Curé himself may have believed, who can say? But he +never taught his parishioners that their Protestant uncles and wives +and children were to be damned. Michel Voss was averse to priestly +assistance; but now he submitted to it. He hardly knew himself +how far that betrothal was a binding ceremony. But he felt strongly +that he had committed himself to the marriage; that it did not become +him to allow that his son had been right; and also that if Marie would +only marry the man, she would find herself quite happy in her new home. +So M. le Curé was called in, and there was a consultation. +M. le Curé was quite as hot in favour of the marriage as were +the other persons concerned. It was, in the first place, infinitely +preferable in his eyes that his young parishioner should marry a Roman +Catholic. But he was not able to undertake to use any special +thunders of the Church. He could tell the young woman what was +her duty, and he had done so. If her guardians wished it, he would +do so again, very strongly. But he did not know how he was to +do more. Then the priest told the story of Annette Lolme, pointing +out how well Marie was acquainted with all the bearings of the case.<br> +<br> +‘But both consented to break it off in that case,’ said +Michel. It was singular to observe how cruel he had become against +the girl whom he so dearly loved. The Curé explained to +him again that neither the Church nor the law could interfere to make +her marry M. Urmand. It might be explained to her that she would +commit a sin requiring penitence and absolution if she did not marry +him. The Church could go no farther than that. But—such +was the Curé’s opinion—there was no power at the command +of Michel Voss by which he could force his niece to marry the man, unless +his own internal power as a friend and a protector might enable him +to do so. ‘She doesn’t care a straw for that now,’ +said he. ‘Not a straw. Since that fellow was over +here, she thinks nothing of me, and nothing of her word.’ +Then he went out to the hotel door, leaving the priest with his wife, +and he had not stood there for a minute or two before he saw his son’s +arrival. Marie, in the mean time, had not left her room. +She had sent word down to her uncle that she was ill, and that she would +beg him to go up to her. As yet he had not seen her; but a message +had been taken to her, saying that he would come soon. Adrian +Urmand had breakfasted alone, and had since been wandering about the +house by himself. He also, from the windows of the billiard-room, +had seen the arrival of George Voss.<br> +<br> +Michel Voss, when he saw George, did not move from his place. +He was still very angry with his son, vehemently angry, because his +son stood in the way of the completion of his desires. But he +had forgotten all his threats, spoken now nearly a week ago. He +was altogether oblivious of his declaration that he would have George +turned away from the door by the servants of the inn. That his +own son should treat his house as a home was so natural to him, that +it did not even occur to him now that he could bid him not to enter. +There he was again, creating more trouble; and, as far as our friend +the innkeeper could see, likely enough to be successful in his object. +Michel stood his ground, with his hands in his pockets, because he would +not even shake hands with his son. But when George came up, he +bowed a recognition with his head; as though he should have said, ‘I +see you; but I cannot say that you are welcome to Granpere.’ +George stood for a moment or two, and then addressed his father.<br> +<br> +‘Adrian Urmand is here with you, is he not, father?’<br> +<br> +‘He is in the house somewhere,’ said Michel, sullenly.<br> +<br> +‘May I speak to him?’<br> +<br> +‘I am not his keeper; not his,’ and Michel put a special +accent on the last word, by which he implied that though he was not +the keeper of Adrian Urmand, he was the keeper of somebody else. +George stood awhile, hesitating, by his father’s side, and as +he stood he saw through the window of the billiard-room the figure of +Urmand, who was watching them. ‘Your mother is in her own +room; you had better go to her,’ said Michel. Then George +entered the hotel, and his father went across the court to seek Urmand +in his retreat. In this way the difficulty of the first meeting +was overcome, and George did not find himself turned out of the Lion +d’Or.<br> +<br> +He knew of course nothing of the state of affairs at the inn. +It might be that Marie had already given way, and was still the promised +bride of this man. Indeed, to him it seemed most probable that +such should be the case. He had been sent to look for Madame Voss, +and Madame Voss he found in the kitchen.<br> +<br> +‘O, George, who expected to see you here to-day!’ she exclaimed.<br> +<br> +‘Nobody, I daresay,’ he replied. The cook was there, +and two or three other servants and hangers-on. It was impossible +that he should speak out before so many persons, and he had not a friend +about the place, unless Marie was his friend. After a few moments +he went into the inner room, and Madame Voss followed him. ‘Well,’ +said he, ‘has anything been settled?’<br> +<br> +‘I am sorry to say that everything is as unsettled as it can be,’ +said Madame Voss.<br> +<br> +Then Marie must be true to him! And if so, she must be the grandest +woman, the finest girl that had ever been created. If so, would +he not be true to her? If so, with what a true worship would he +offer her all that he had to give in the world! He had come there +before determined to crush her with his thunderbolt. Now he would +swear to cherish her and keep her warm with his love for ever and ever. +‘Is she here?’ he asked.<br> +<br> +‘She is up-stairs, in bed. You cannot see her.’<br> +<br> +‘She is not ill?’<br> +<br> +‘She is making everybody else ill about the place, I know that,’ +said Madame Voss. ‘And as for you, George, you owe a different +kind of treatment to your father; you do indeed. It will make +an old man of him. He has set his heart upon this, and you ought +to have yielded.’<br> +<br> +It was at any rate evident that Marie was holding out, was true to her +first love, in spite of that betrothal which had appeared to George +to be so wicked, but which had in truth been caused by his own fault. +If Marie would hold out, there would be no need that he should lay violent +hands upon Adrian Urmand, or have resort to any process of choking. +If she would only be firm, they could not succeed in making her marry +the linen-merchant. He was not in the least afraid of M. le Curé +Gondin; nor was he afraid of Adrian Urmand. He was not much afraid +of Madame Voss. He was afraid only of his father. ‘A +man cannot yield on such a matter,’ he said. ‘No man +yields in such an affair,—though he may be beaten.’ Madame +Voss listened to him, but said nothing farther. She was busy with +her work, and went on intently with her needle.<br> +<br> +He had asked to see Urmand, and he now went out in quest of him. +He passed across the court, and in at the door of the café, and +up into the billiard-room. Here he found both his father and the +young man. Urmand got up to salute him, and George took off his +hat. Nothing could be more ceremonious than the manner in which +the two rivals greeted each other. They had not seen each other +for nearly two years, and had never been intimate. When George +had been living at Granpere, Urmand had only been an occasional sojourner +at the inn, and had not as yet fallen into habits of friendship with +the Voss family.<br> +<br> +‘Have you seen your mother?’ Michel asked.<br> +<br> +‘Yes; I have seen her.’ Then there was silence for +awhile. Urmand knew not how to speak, and George was doubtful +how to proceed in presence of his father.<br> +<br> +Then Michel asked another question. ‘Are you going to stay +long with us, George?’<br> +<br> +‘Certainly not long, father. I have brought nothing with +me but what you see.’<br> +<br> +‘You have brought too much, if you have come to give us trouble.’<br> +<br> +Then there was another pause, during which George sat down in a corner, +apart from them. Urmand took out a cigar and lit it, offering +one to the innkeeper. But Michel Voss shook his head. He +was very unhappy, feeling that everything around him was wrong. +Here was a son of his, of whom he was proud, the only living child of +his first wife, a young man of whom all people said good things; a son +whom he had always loved and trusted, and who even now, at this very +moment, was showing himself to be a real man; and yet he was forced +to quarrel with this son, and say harsh things to him, and sit away +from him with a man who was after all no more than a stranger to him, +with whom he had no sympathy; when it would have made him so happy to +be leaning on his son’s shoulder, and discussing their joint affairs +with unreserved confidence, asking questions about wages, and suggesting +possible profits. He was beginning to hate Adrian Urmand. +He was beginning to hate the young man, although he knew that it was +his duty to go on with the marriage. Urmand, as soon as his cigar +was lighted, got up and began to knock the balls about on the table. +That gloom of silence was to him most painful.<br> +<br> +‘If you would not mind it, M. Urmand,’ said George, ‘I +should like to take a walk with you.’<br> +<br> +‘To take a walk?’<br> +<br> +‘If it would not be disagreeable. Perhaps it would be well +that you and I should have a few minutes of conversation.’<br> +<br> +‘I will leave you together here,’ said the father, ‘if +you, George, will promise me that there shall be no violence.’ +Urmand looked at the innkeeper as though he did not like the proposition, +but Michel took no notice of his look.<br> +<br> +‘There certainly shall be none on my part,’ said George. +‘I don’t know what M. Urmand’s feelings may be.’<br> +<br> +‘O dear, no; nothing of the kind,’ said Urmand. ‘But +I don’t exactly see what we are to talk about.’ Michel, +however, paid no attention to this, but walked slowly out of the room. +‘I really don’t know what there is to say,’ continued +Urmand, as he knocked the balls about with his cue.<br> +<br> +‘There is this to say. That girl up there was induced to +promise that she would be your wife, when she believed that—I had +forgotten her.’<br> +<br> +‘O dear, no; nothing of the kind.’<br> +<br> +‘That is her story. Go and ask her. If it is so, or +even if it suits her now to say so, you will hardly, as a man, endeavour +to drive her into a marriage which she does not wish. You will +never do it, even if you do try. Though you go on trying till +you drive her mad, she will never be your wife. But if you are +a man, you will not continue to torment her, simply because you have +got her uncle to back you.’<br> +<br> +‘Who says she will never marry me?’<br> +<br> +‘I say so. She says so.’<br> +<br> +‘We are betrothed to each other. Why should she not marry +me?’<br> +<br> +‘Simply because she does not wish it. She does not love +you. Is not that enough? She does love another man; +me—me—me. Is not that enough? Heaven and earth! I would sooner +go to the galleys, or break stones upon the roads, than take a woman +to my bosom who was thinking of some other man.’<br> +<br> +‘That is all very fine.’<br> +<br> +‘Let me tell you, that the other thing, that which you propose +to do, is by no means fine. But I will not quarrel with you, if +I can help it. Will you go away and leave us at peace? They +say you are rich and have a grand house. Surely you can do better +than marry a poor innkeeper’s niece—a girl that has worked hard +all her life?’<br> +<br> +‘I could do better if I chose,’ said Adrian Urmand.<br> +<br> +‘Then go and do better. Do you not perceive that even my +father is becoming tired of all the trouble you are making? Surely +you will not wait till you are turned out of the house?’<br> +<br> +‘Who will turn me out of the house?’<br> +<br> +‘Marie will, and my father. Do you think he’ll see +her wither and droop and die, or perhaps go mad, in order that a promise +may be kept to you? Take the matter into your own hands at once, +and say you will have no more to do with it. That will be the +manly way.’<br> +<br> +‘Is that all you have to say, my friend?’ asked Urmand, +assuming a voice that was intended to be indifferent.<br> +<br> +‘Yes—that is all. But I mean to do something more, if +I am driven to it.’<br> +<br> +‘Very well. When I want advice from you, I will come to +you for it. And as for your doing, I believe you are not master +here as yet. Good-morning.’ So saying, Adrian Urmand +left the room, and George Voss in a few minutes followed him down the +stairs.<br> +<br> +The rest of the day was passed in gloom and wretchedness. George +hardly spoke to his father; but the two sat at table together, and there +was no open quarrel between them. Urmand also sat with them, and +tried to converse with Michel and Madame Voss. But Michel would +say very little to him; and the mistress of the house was so cowed by +the circumstances of the day, that she was hardly able to talk. +Marie still kept her room; and it was stated to them that she was not +well and was in bed. Her uncle had gone to see her twice, but +had made no report to any one of what had passed between them.<br> +<br> +It had come to be understood that George would sleep there, at any rate +for that night, and a bed had been prepared for him. The party +broke up very early, for there was nothing in common among them to keep +them together. Madame Voss sat murmuring with the priest for half +an hour or so; but it seemed that the gloom attendant upon the young +lovers had settled also upon M. le Curé. Even he escaped +as early as he could.<br> +<br> +When George was about to undress himself there came a knock at his door, +and one of the servant-girls put into his hand a scrap of paper. +On it was written, ‘I will never marry him, never—never—never; +upon my honour!’<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER XIX.<br> +<br> +Michel Voss at this time was a very unhappy man. He had taught +himself to believe that it would be a good thing that his niece should +marry Adrian Urmand, and that it was his duty to achieve this good thing +in her behalf. He had had it on his mind for the last year, and +had nearly brought it to pass. There was, moreover, now, at this +present moment, a clear duty on him to be true to the young man who +with his consent, and indeed very much at his instance, had become betrothed +to Marie Bromar. The reader will understand how ideas of duty, +not very clearly looked into or analysed, acted upon his mind. +And then there was always present to him a recurrence of that early +caution which had made him lay a parental embargo upon anything like +love between his son and his wife’s niece. Without much +thinking about it,—for he probably never thought very much about anything,—he +had deemed it prudent to separate two young people brought up together, +when they began, as he fancied, to be foolish. An elderly man +is so apt to look upon his own son as a boy, and on a girl who has grown +up under his nose as little more than a child! And then George +in those days had had no business of his own, and should not have thought +of such a thing! In this way the mind of Michel Voss had been +forced into strong hostility against the idea of a marriage between +Marie and his son, and had filled itself with the spirit of a partisan +on the side of Adrian Urmand. But now, as things had gone, he +had been made very unhappy by the state of his own mind, and consequently +was beginning to feel a great dislike for the merchant from Basle. +The stupid mean little fellow, with his white pocket-handkerchief, and +his scent, and his black greasy hair, had made his way into the house +and had destroyed all comfort and pleasure! That was the light +in which Michel was now disposed to regard his previously honoured guest. +When he made a comparison between Adrian and George, he could not but +acknowledge that any girl of spirit and sense would prefer his son. +He was very proud of his son,—proud even of the lad’s disobedience +to himself on such a subject; and this feeling added to his discomfort.<br> +<br> +He had twice seen Marie in her bed during that day spoken of in the +last chapter. On both occasions he had meant to be very firm; +but it was not easy for such a one as Michel Voss to be firm to a young +woman in her night-cap, rather pale, whose eyes were red with weeping. +A woman in bed was to him always an object of tenderness, and a woman +in tears, as his wife well knew, could on most occasions get the better +of him. When he first saw Marie, he merely told her to lie still +and take a little broth. He kissed her however and patted her +cheek, and then got out of the room as quickly as he could. He +knew his own weakness, and was afraid to trust himself to her prayers +while she lay before him in that guise. When he went again, he +had been unable not to listen to a word or two which she had prepared, +and had ready for instant speech. ‘Uncle Michel,’ +she said, ‘I will never marry any one without your leave, if you +will let M. Urmand go away.’ He had almost come to wish +by this time that M. Urmand would go away and never come back again. +‘How am I to send him away?’ he had said crossly. +‘If you tell him, I know he will go,—at once,’ said Marie. +Michel had muttered something about Marie’s illness and the impossibility +of doing anything at present, and again had left the room. Then +Marie began to take heart of grace, and to think that victory might +yet be on her side. But how was George to know that she was firmly +determined to throw those odious betrothals to the wind? Feeling +it to be absolutely incumbent on her to convey to him this knowledge, +she wrote the few words which the servant conveyed to her lover,—making +no promise in regard to him, but simply assuring him that she would +never,—never,—never become the wife of that other man.<br> +<br> +Early on the following morning Michel Voss went off by himself. +He could not stay in bed, and he could not hang about the house. +He did not know how to demean himself to either of the young men when +he met them. He could not be cordial as he ought to be with Urmand; +nor could he be austere to George with that austerity which he felt +would have been proper on his part. He was becoming very tired +of his dignity and authority. Hitherto the exercise of power in +his household had generally been easy enough, his wife and Marie had +always been loving and pleasant in their obedience. Till within +these last weeks there had even been the most perfect accordance between +him and his niece. ‘Send him away;—that’s very easily +said,’ he muttered to himself as he went up towards the mountains; +‘but he has got my engagement, and of course he’ll hold +me to it.’ He trudged on, he hardly knew whither. +He was so unhappy, that the mills and the timber-cutting were nothing +to him. When he had walked himself into a heat, he sat down and +took out his pipe, but he smoked more by habit than for enjoyment. +Supposing that he did bring himself to change his mind,—which he did +not think he ever would,—how could he break the matter to Urmand? +He told himself that he was sure he would not change his mind, because +of his solemn engagement to the young man; but he did acknowledge that +the young man was not what he had taken him to be. He was effeminate, +and wanted spirit, and smelt of hair-grease. Michel had discovered +none of these defects,—had perhaps regarded the characteristics as +meritorious rather than otherwise,—while he had been hotly in favour +of the marriage. Then the hair-grease and the rest of it had in +his eyes simply been signs of the civilisation of the town as contrasted +with the rusticity of the country. It was then a great thing in +his eyes that Marie should marry a man so polished, though much of the +polish may have come from pomade. Now his ideas were altered, +and, as he sat alone upon the log, he continued to turn up his nose +at poor M. Urmand. But how was he to be rid of him,—and, if +not of him, what was he to do then? Was he to let all authority +go by the board, and allow the two young people to marry, although the +whole village heard how he had pledged himself in this matter?<br> +<br> +As he was sitting there, suddenly his son came upon him. He frowned +and went on smoking, though at heart he felt grateful to George for +having found him out and followed him. He was altogether tired +of being alone, or, worse than that, of being left together with Adrian +Urmand. But the overtures for a general reconciliation could not +come first from him, nor could any be entertained without at least some +show of obedience. ‘I thought I should find you up here,’ +said George.<br> +<br> +‘And now you have found me, what of that?’<br> +<br> +‘I fancy we can talk better, father, up among the woods, than +we can down there when that young man is hanging about. We always +used to have a chat up here, you know.’<br> +<br> +‘It was different then,’ said Michel. ‘That +was before you had learned to think it a fine thing to be your own master +and to oppose me in everything.’<br> +<br> +‘I have never opposed you but in one thing, father.’<br> +<br> +‘Ah, yes; in one thing. But that one thing is everything. +Here I’ve been doing the best I could for both of you, striving +to put you upon your legs, and make you a man and her a woman, and this +is the return I get!’<br> +<br> +‘But what would you have had me do?’<br> +<br> +‘What would I have had you do? Not come here and oppose +me in everything.’<br> +<br> +‘But when this Adrian Urmand—’<br> +<br> +‘I am sick of Adrian Urmand,’ said Michel Voss. George +raised his eyebrows and stared. ‘I don’t mean that,’ +said he; ‘but I am beginning to hate the very sight of the man. +If he’d had the pluck of a wren, he would have carried her off +long ago.’<br> +<br> +‘I don’t know how that may be, but he hasn’t done +it yet. Come, father; you don’t like the man any more than +she does. If you get tired of him in three days, what would she +do in her whole life?’<br> +<br> +‘Why did she accept him, then?’<br> +<br> +‘Perhaps, father, we were all to blame a little in that.’<br> +<br> +‘I was not to blame—not in the least. I won’t admit +it. I did the best I could for her. She accepted him, and +they are betrothed. The Curé down there says it’s +nearly as good as being married.’<br> +<br> +‘Who cares what Father Gondin says?’ asked George.<br> +<br> +‘I’m sure I don’t,’ said Michel Voss.<br> +<br> +‘The betrothal means nothing, father, if either of them choose +to change their minds. There was that girl over at Saint Die.’<br> +<br> +‘Don’t tell me of the girl at Saint Die. I’m +sick of hearing of the girl at Saint Die. What the mischief is +the girl at Saint Die to us? We’ve got to do our duty if +we can, like honest men and women; and not follow vagaries learned from +Saint Die.’<br> +<br> +The two men walked down the hill together, reaching the hotel about +noon. Long before that time the innkeeper had fallen into a way +of acknowledging that Adrian Urmand was an incubus; but he had not as +yet quite admitted that there was any way of getting rid of the incubus. +The idea of having the marriage on the 1st of the present month was +altogether abandoned, and Michel had already asked how they might manage +among them to send Adrian Urmand back to Basle. ‘He must +come again, if he chooses,’ he had said; ‘but I suppose +he had better go now. Marie is ill, and she mustn’t be worried.’ +George proposed that his father should tell this to Urmand himself; +but it seemed that Michel, who had never yet been known to be afraid +of any man, was in some degree afraid of the little Swiss merchant.<br> +<br> +‘Suppose my mother says a word to him,’ suggested George.<br> +<br> +‘She wouldn’t dare for her life,’ answered the father.<br> +<br> +‘I would do it.’<br> +<br> +‘No, indeed, George; you shall do no such thing.’<br> +<br> +Then George suggested the priest; but nothing had been settled when +they reached the inn-door. There he was, swinging a cane at the +foot of the billiard-room stairs—the little bug-a-boo, who was now +so much in the way of all of them! The innkeeper muttered some +salutation, and George just touched his hat. Then they both passed +on, and went into the house.<br> +<br> +Unfortunately the plea of Marie’s illness was in part cut from +under their feet by the appearance of Marie herself. George, who +had not as yet seen her, went up quickly to her, and, without saying +a word, took her by the hand and held it. Marie murmured some +pretence at a salutation, but what she said was heard by no one. +When her uncle came to her and kissed her, her hand was still grasped +in that of George. All this had taken place in the passage; and +before Michel’s embrace was over, Adrian Urmand was standing in +the doorway looking on. George, when he saw him, held tighter +by the hand, and Marie made no attempt to draw it away.<br> +<br> +‘What is the meaning of all this?’ said Urmand, coming up.<br> +<br> +‘Meaning of what?’ asked Michel.<br> +<br> +‘I don’t understand it—I don’t understand it at +all,’ said Urmand.<br> +<br> +‘Don’t understand what?’ said Michel. The two +lovers were still holding each other’s hands; but Michel had not +seen it; or, seeing it, had not observed it.<br> +<br> +‘Am I to understand that Marie Bromar is betrothed to me, or not?’ +demanded Adrian. ‘When I get an answer either way, I shall +know what to do.’ There was in this an assumption of more +spirit than had been expected on his part by his enemies at the Lion +d’Or.<br> +<br> +‘Why shouldn’t you be betrothed to her?’ said Michel. +‘Of course you are betrothed to her; but I don’t see what +is the use of your talking so much about it.’<br> +<br> +‘It is the first time I have said a word on the subject since +I’ve been here,’ said Urmand. Which was true; but +as Michel was continually thinking of the betrothal, he imagined that +everybody was always talking to him of the matter. Marie had now +managed to get her hand free, and had retired into the kitchen. +Michel followed her, and stood meditative, with his back to the large +stove. As it happened, there was no one else present there at +the moment.<br> +<br> +‘Tell him to go back to Basle,’ whispered Marie to her uncle. +Michel only shook his head and groaned.<br> +<br> +‘I don’t think I am at all well-treated here among you,’ +said Adrian Urmand to George as soon as they were alone.<br> +<br> +‘Any special friendship from me you can hardly expect,’ +said George. ‘As to my father and the rest of them, if they +ill-treat you, I suppose you had better leave them.’<br> +<br> +‘I won’t put up with ill-treatment from anybody. It’s +not what I’m used to.’<br> +<br> +‘Look here, M. Urmand,’ said George. ‘I quite +admit you have been badly used; and, on the part of the family, I am +ready to apologise.’<br> +<br> +‘I don’t want any apology.’<br> +<br> +‘What do you want, M. Urmand?’<br> +<br> +‘I want—I want—Never mind what I want. It is from your +father that I shall demand it, not from you. I shall take care +to see myself righted. I know the French law as well as the Swiss.’<br> +<br> +‘If you’re talking of law, you had better go back to Basle +and get a lawyer,’ said George.<br> +<br> +There had been no word spoken of George returning to Colmar on that +morning. He had told his father that he had brought nothing with +him but what he had on; and in truth when he left Colmar he had not +looked forward to any welcome which would induce him to remain at Granpere. +But the course of things had been different from that which he had expected. +He was much too good a general to think of returning now, and he had +friends in the house who knew how to supply him with what was most necessary +to him. Nobody had asked him to stay. His father had not +uttered a word of welcome. But he did stay, and Michel would have +been very much surprised indeed if he had heard that he had gone. +The man in the stable had ventured to suggest that the old mare would +not be wanted to go over the mountain that day. To this George +assented, and made special request that the old mare might receive gentle +treatment.<br> +<br> +And so the day passed away. Marie, who had recovered her health, +was busy as usual about the house. George and Urmand, though they +did not associate, were rarely long out of each other’s sight; +and neither the one nor the other found much opportunity for pressing +his suit. George probably felt that there was not much need to +do so, and Urmand must have known that any pressing of his suit in the +ordinary way would be of no avail. The innkeeper tried to make +work for himself about the place, had the carriages out and washed, +inspected the horses, and gave orders as to the future slaughter of +certain pigs. Everybody about the house, nevertheless, down to +the smallest boy attached to the inn, knew that the landlord’s +mind was pre-occupied with the love affairs of those two men. +There was hardly an inhabitant of Granpere who did not understand what +was going on; and, had it been the custom of the place to make bets +on such matters, very long odds would have been wanted before any one +would have backed Adrian Urmand. And yet two days ago he was considered +to be sure of the prize. M. le Curé Gondin was a good deal +at the hotel during the day, and perhaps he was the staunchest supporter +of the Swiss aspirant. He endeavoured to support Madame Voss, +having that strong dislike to yield an inch in practice or in doctrine, +which is indicative of his order. He strove hard to make Madame +Voss understand that if only she would be firm and cause her husband +to be firm also, Marie would, of course, yield at last. ‘I +have ever so many young women just in the same way,’ said the +Curé, ‘and you would have thought they were going to break +their hearts; but as soon as ever they have been married, they have +forgotten all that.’ Madame Voss would have been quite contented +to comply with the priest’s counsel, could she have seen the way +with her husband. But it had become almost manifest even to her, +with the Curé to support her, that the star of Adrian Urmand +was on the wane. She felt from every word that Marie spoke to +her, that Marie herself was confident of success. And it may be +said of Madame Voss, that although she had been forced by Michel into +a kind of enthusiasm on behalf of the Swiss marriage, she had no very +eager wishes of her own on the subject. Marie was her own niece, +and was dear to her; but the girl was sure of a well-to-do husband whichever +way the war went; and what aunt need desire more for her most favourite +niece than a well-to-do husband?<br> +<br> +The day went by, and the supper was eaten, and the cigars were smoked, +and then they all went to bed. But nothing more had been settled. +That obstinate young man, M. Adrian Urmand, though he had talked of +his lawyer, had said not a word of going back to Basle.<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER XX.<br> +<br> +It is probable that all those concerned in the matter who slept at the +Lion d’Or that night, made up their minds that on the following +day the powers of the establishment must come to some decision. +It was not right that a young woman should have to live in the house +with two favoured lovers; nor, as regarded the young men, was it right +that they should be allowed to go on glaring at each other. Both +Michel and Madame Voss feared that they would do more than glare, seeing +that they were so like two dogs with one bone between them, who, in +such an emergency, will generally fight. Urmand himself was quite +alive to the necessity of putting an end to his present exceptionally +disagreeable position. He was very angry; very angry naturally +with Marie, who had, he thought, treated him villainously. Why +had she made that little soft, languid promise to him when he was last +at Granpere, if she had not then loved him? And of course he was +angry with George Voss. What unsuccessful lover fails of being +angry with his happy rival? And then George had behaved with outrageous +impropriety. Urmand was beginning now to have a clear insight +of the circumstances. George and Marie had been lovers, and then +George, having been sent away, had forgotten his love for a year or +more. But when the girl had been accommodated with another lover, +then he thrust himself forward and disturbed everybody’s arrangements! +No conduct could have been worse than this. But, nevertheless, +Urmand’s anger was the hottest against Michel Voss himself. +Had he been left alone at Basle, had he been allowed to receive Marie’s +letter, and act upon it in accordance with his own judgment, he would +never have made himself ridiculous by appearing at Granpere as a discomfited +lover. But the innkeeper had come and dragged him away from home, +had misrepresented everything, had carried him away, as it were, by +force to the scene of his disgrace, and now—threw him over! +He, at any rate, he, Michel Voss, should, as Adrian Urmand felt very +bitterly, have been true and constant; but Michel, whose face could +not lie, whatever his words might do, was clearly as anxious to be rid +of his young friend as were any of the others in the hotel. Urmand +himself would have been very glad to be back at Basle. He had +come to regard any farther connection with the inn at Granpere as extremely +undesirable. The Voss family was low. He had found that +out during his present visit. But how was he to get away, and +not look, as he was going, like a dog with his tail between his legs? +He had so clear a right to demand Marie’s hand, that he could +not bring himself to bear to be robbed of his claim. And yet he +had come to perceive how very foolish such a marriage would be. +He had been told that he could do better. Of course he could do +better. But how could he be rid of his bargain without submitting +to ill-treatment? If Michel had not come and fetched him away +from his home the ill-treatment would have been by comparison slight, +and of that normal kind to which young men are accustomed. But +to be brought over to the house, and then to be deserted by everybody +in the house! How, O how, was he to get out of the house? +Such were his reflections as he sat solitary in the long public room +drinking his coffee, and eating an omelet, with which Peter Veque had +supplied him, but which had in truth been cooked for him very carefully +by Marie Bromar herself. In her present frame of mind Marie would +have cooked ortolans for him had he wished for them.<br> +<br> +And while Urmand was eating his omelet and thinking of his wrongs, Michel +Voss and his son were standing together at the stable door. Michel +had been there some time before his son had joined him, and when George +came up to him he put out his hand almost furtively. George grasped +it instantly, and then there came a tear into the innkeeper’s +eye. ‘I have brought you a little of that tobacco we were +talking of,’ said George, taking a small packet out of his pocket.<br> +<br> +‘Thank ye, George; thank ye; but it does not much matter now what +I smoke. Things are going wrong, and I don’t get satisfaction +out of anything.’<br> +<br> +‘Don’t say that, father.’<br> +<br> +‘How can I help saying it? Look at that fellow up there. +What am I to do with him? What am I to say to him? He means +to stay there till he gets his wife.’<br> +<br> +‘He’ll never get a wife here, if he stays till the house +falls on him.’<br> +<br> +‘I can see that now. But what am I to say to him? +How am I to get rid of him? There is no denying, you know, that +he has been treated badly among us.’<br> +<br> +‘Would he take a little money, father?’<br> +<br> +‘No. He’s not so bad as that.’<br> +<br> +‘I should not have thought so; only he talked to me about his +lawyer.’<br> +<br> +‘Ah;—he did that in his anger. By George, if I was in +his position I should try and raise the very devil. But don’t +talk of giving him money, George. He’s not bad in that way.’<br> +<br> +‘He shouldn’t have said anything about his lawyer.’<br> +<br> +‘You wait till you’re placed as he is, and you’ll +find that you’ll say anything that comes uppermost. But +what are we to do with him, George?’<br> +<br> +Then the matter was discussed in the utmost confidence, and in all its +bearings. George offered to have a carriage and pair of horses +got ready for Remiremont, and then to tell the young man that he was +expected to get into it, and go away; but Michel felt that there must +be some more ceremonious treatment than that. George then suggested +that the Curé should give the message, but Michel again objected. +The message, he felt, must be given by himself. The doing this +would be very bitter to him, because it would be necessary that he should +humble himself before the scented shiny head of the little man: but +Michel knew that it must be so. Urmand had been undoubtedly ill-treated +among them, and the apology for that ill-treatment must be made by the +chief of the family himself. ‘I suppose I might as well +go to him alone,’ said Michel, groaning.<br> +<br> +‘Well, yes; I should say so,’ replied his son. ‘Soonest +begun, soonest over;—and I suppose I might as well order the horses.’<br> +<br> +To this latter suggestion the father made no reply, but went slowly +into the house. He turned for a moment into Marie’s little +office, and stood there hesitating whether he would tell her his mission. +As she was to be made happy, why should she not know it?<br> +<br> +‘You two have got the better of me among you,’ he said.<br> +<br> +‘Which two, Uncle Michel?’<br> +<br> +‘Which two? Why, you and George. And what I’m +to do with the gentleman upstairs, it passes me to think. Thank +heaven, it will be a great many years before Flos wants a husband.’ +Flos was the little daughter up-stairs, who was as yet no more than +five years old.<br> +<br> +‘I hope, Uncle Michel, you’ll never have anybody else as +naughty and troublesome as I have been,’ said Marie, pressing +close to him. She was indescribably happy. She was to be +saved from the lover whom she did not want. She was to have the +lover whom she did want. And, over and above all this, a spirit +of kind feeling and full sympathy existed once more between her and +her dear friend. As she offered no advice in regard to the disposal +of the gentleman up-stairs, Michel was obliged to go upon his painful +duty, trusting to his own wit.<br> +<br> +In the long room up-stairs he found Adrian Urmand sitting at the closed +window, looking out at the ducks who were paddling in a temporary pool +made by the late rains. He had been painfully in want of something +to do,—so much so that he had more than once almost resolved to put +his things into his bag, and leave the house without saying a word of +farewell to any one. Had there been any means for him to escape +from Granpere without saying a word, he would have done so. But +at Granpere there was no railway, and the only public conveyance in +and out of the place started from the door of the Lion d’Or; started +every morning, with much ceremony, so that it was impossible for him +to fly unobserved. There he was, watching the ducks, when Michel +entered the room, and very much disposed to quarrel with any one who +approached him.<br> +<br> +‘I’m afraid you find it rather dull here,’ said Michel, +beginning the conversation.<br> +<br> +‘It is dull; very dull indeed.’<br> +<br> +‘That is the worst of it. We are dull people here in the +country. We have not the distractions which you town folk can +always find. There’s not much to do, and nothing to look +at.’<br> +<br> +‘Very little to look at, that’s worth the trouble of looking,’ +said Urmand.<br> +<br> +There was a malignity of satire intended in this; for the young man +in his wrath, and with a full conviction of what was coming upon him, +had intended to include his betrothed in the catalogue of things of +Granpere not worthy of inspection. But Michel Voss did not at +all follow him so far as that.<br> +<br> +‘I never saw such a place,’ continued Urmand. ‘There +isn’t a soul even to play a game of billiards with.’<br> +<br> +Now Michel Voss, although for a purpose he had been willing to make +little of his own village, did in truth consider that Granpere was at +any rate as good a place to live in as Basle. And he felt that +though he might abuse Granpere, it was very uncourteous in Adrian Urmand +to do so. ‘I don’t think much of playing billiards +in the morning, I must own,’ said he.<br> +<br> +‘I daresay not,’ said Urmand, still looking at the ducks.<br> +<br> +Michel had made no progress as yet, so he sat down and scratched his +head. The more he thought of it, the larger the difficulty seemed +to be. He was quite aware now that it was his own unfortunate +journey to Basle which had brought so heavy a burden on him. It +was as yet no more than three or four days since he had taken upon himself +to assure the young man that he, by his own authority, would make everything +right; and now he was forced to acknowledge that everything was wrong. +‘M. Urmand,’ he said at last, ‘it has been a very +great grief to me, a very great grief indeed, that you should have found +things so uncomfortable.’<br> +<br> +‘What things do you mean?’ said Urmand.<br> +<br> +‘Well—everything—about Marie, you know. When I went +over to Basle the other day, I didn’t think how it was going to +turn out. I didn’t indeed.’<br> +<br> +‘And how is it going to turn out?’<br> +<br> +‘I can’t make the young woman consent, you know,’ +said the innkeeper.<br> +<br> +‘Let me tell you, M. Voss, that I wouldn’t have the young +woman, as you call her, if she consented ever so much. She has +disgraced me.’<br> +<br> +To this Michel listened with perfect equanimity.<br> +<br> +‘She has disgraced you.’<br> +<br> +At hearing this Michel bit his lips, telling himself, however, that +there had been mistakes made, and that he was bound to bear a good deal.<br> +<br> +‘And she has disgraced herself,’ said Adrian Urmand, with +all the emphasis that he had at command.<br> +<br> +‘I deny it,’ said Marie’s uncle, coming close up to +his opponent, and standing before him. ‘I deny it. +It is not true. That shall not be said in my hearing, even by +you.’<br> +<br> +‘But I do say it. She has disgraced herself. Did she +not give me her troth, when all the time she intended to marry another +man?’<br> +<br> +‘No! She did nothing of the kind. And look here, my +friend, if you wish to be treated like a man in this house, you had +better not say anything against any of the women who live in it. +You may abuse me as much as you please,—and George too, if it will +do you any good. There have been mistakes made, and we owe you +something.’<br> +<br> +‘By heavens, yes; you do.’<br> +<br> +‘But you sha’n’t take it out in saying anything against +Marie Bromar,—not in my hearing.’<br> +<br> +‘Why;—what will you do?’<br> +<br> +‘Don’t drive me to do anything, M. Urmand. If there +is any compensation possible—’<br> +<br> +‘Of course there must be compensation.’<br> +<br> +‘What is it you will take? Is it money?’<br> +<br> +‘Money;—no. As for money, I’m better off than any +of you.’<br> +<br> +‘What is it, then? You don’t want the girl herself?’<br> +<br> +‘No;—certainly not. I would not take her if she came and +knelt to me.’<br> +<br> +‘What can we do, then? If you will only say.’<br> +<br> +‘I want—I want—I don’t know what I want. I have +been cruelly ill-used, and made a fool of before everybody. I +never heard of such a case before;—never. And I have been so +generous and honest to you! I did not ask for a franc of <i>dot</i>; +and now you come and offer me money. I don’t think any man +ever was so badly used anywhere.’ And on saying this Adrian +Urmand in very truth burst into tears.<br> +<br> +The innkeeper’s heart was melted at once. It was all so +true! Between them they had treated him very badly. But +then there had been so many unfortunate and unavoidable mistakes! +When the young man talked of compensation, what was Michel Voss to think? +His son had been led into exactly the same error. Nevertheless, +he repented himself bitterly in that he had said anything about money, +and was prepared to make the most abject apologies. Adrian Urmand +had fallen into a chair, and Michel Voss came and seated himself close +beside him.<br> +<br> +‘I beg your pardon, Urmand; I do indeed. I ought not to +have mentioned money. But when you spoke of compensation—’<br> +<br> +‘It wasn’t that. It wasn’t that. It’s +my feelings!’<br> +<br> +Then the white cambric handkerchief was taken out and used with considerable +vehemence.<br> +<br> +From that moment the innkeeper’s goodwill towards Urmand returned, +though of course he was quite aware that there was no place for him +in that family.<br> +<br> +‘If there is anything I can do, I will do it,’ said Michel +piteously. ‘It has been unfortunate. I know it has +been very unfortunate. But we didn’t mean to be untrue.’<br><br> +‘If you had only left me alone when I was at home!’ said +the unfortunate young man, who was still sobbing bitterly.<br> +<br> +They two remained in the long room together for a considerable time, +during all of which Michel Voss was as gentle as though Urmand had been +a child. Nor did the poor rejected lover again have recourse to +any violence of abuse, though he would over and over again repeat his +opinion that surely, since lovers were first known in the world, and +betrothals of marriage first made, no one had ever been so ill-used +as was he. It soon became clear to Michel that his great grief +did not come from the loss of his wife, but from the feeling that everybody +would know that he had been ill-used. There wasn’t a shopkeeper +in his own town, he said, who hadn’t heard of his approaching +marriage. And what was he to say when he went back?<br> +<br> +‘Just say that you found us so rough and rustic,’ said Michel +Voss.<br> +<br> +But Urmand knew well that no such saying on his part would be believed.<br> +<br> +‘I think I shall go to Lyons,’ said he, ‘and stay +there for six months. What’s the business to me? I +don’t care for the business.’<br> +<br> +There they sat all the morning. Two or three times Peter Veque +opened the door, peeped in at them, and then brought down word that +the conference was still going on.<br> +<br> +‘The master is sitting just over him like,’ said Peter, +‘and they’re as close and loving as birds.’<br> +<br> +Marie listened, and said not a word to any one. George had made +two or three little attempts during the morning to entice her into some +lover-like privacy. But Marie would not be enticed. The +man to whom she was betrothed was still in the house; and, though she +was quite secure that the betrothals would now be absolutely annulled, +still she would not actually entertain another lover till this was done.<br> +<br> +At length the door of the long room was opened, and the two men came +out. Adrian Urmand, who was the first to be seen in the passage, +went at once to his bedroom, and then Michel descended to the little +parlour. Marie was at the moment sitting on her stool of authority +in the office, from whence she could hear what was said in the parlour. +Satisfied with this, she did not come down from her seat. In the +parlour was Madame Voss and the Curé, and George, who had seen +his father from the front door, at once joined them.<br> +<br> +‘Well,’ said Madame Voss, ‘how is it to be?’<br> +<br> +‘I’ve arranged that we’re to have a little picnic +up the ravine to-morrow,’ said Michel.<br> +<br> +‘A picnic!’ said the Curé.<br> +<br> +‘I’m all for a picnic,’ said George.<br> +<br> +‘A picnic!’ said Madame Voss, ‘and the ground as wet +as a sop, and the wind from the mountains enough to cut one in two.’<br> +<br> +‘Never mind about the wind. We’ll take coats and umbrellas. +It’s better to have some kind of an outing, and then he’ll +recover himself.’ Marie, as she heard all this, made up +her mind that if any possible store of provisions packed in hampers +could bring her late lover round to equanimity, no efforts on her part +should be wanting. She would pack up cold chickens and champagne +bottles with the greatest pleasure, and would eat her dinner sitting +on a rock, even though the wind from the mountains should cut her in +two.<br> +<br> +‘And so it’s all to end in a picnic,’ said M. le Curé, +with evident disgust.<br> +<br> +It appeared from Michel’s description of what had taken place +during that very long interview that Adrian Urmand had at last become +quite gentle and confidential. In what way could he be let down +the most easily? That was the question for the answering which +these two heads were kept together in conference so long. How +could it be made to appear that the betrothal had been annulled by mutual +consent? At last the happy idea of a picnic occurred to Michel +himself. ‘I never thought about the time of the year,’ +he said; ‘but when friends are here and we want to do our best +for them, we always take them to the ravine, and have dinners on the +rocks.’ It had seemed to him, and as he declared to Urmand +also, that if something like a jubilee could be got up before the young +man’s departure, it would appear as though there could not have +been much disappointment.<br> +<br> +‘We shall all catch our death of cold,’ said Madame Voss.<br> +<br> +‘We needn’t stay long, you know,’ said Michel. +‘And, Marie,’ said he, going into the little office in which +his niece was still seated, ‘Marie, mind you behave yourself.’<br> +<br> +‘O, I will, Uncle Michel,’ she said. ‘You shall +see.’<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +CHAPTER XXI.<br> +<br> +They all sat down together at supper that evening, Marie dispensing +her soup as usual before she went to the table. She sat next to +her uncle on one side, and below her there were vacant seats. +Urmand took a chair on the left hand of Madame Voss, next to him was +the Curé, and below the Curé the happy rival. It +had all been arranged by Marie herself, with the greatest care. +Urmand seemed to have got over the worst of his trouble, and when Marie +came to the table bowed to her graciously. She bowed in return, +and then eat her soup in silence. Michel Voss overdid his part +a little by too much talking, but his wife restored the balance by her +prudence. George told them how strong the French party was at +Colmar, and explained that the Germans had not a leg to stand upon as +far as general opinion went. Before the supper was over, Adrian +Urmand was talking glibly enough; and it really seemed as though the +terrible misfortunes of the Lion d’Or would arrange themselves +comfortably after all. When supper was done, the father, son, +and the discarded lover smoked their pipes together amicably in the +billiard room. There was not a word said then by either of them +in connection with Marie Bromar.<br> +<br> +On the next morning the sun was bright, and the air was as warm as it +ever is in October. The day, perhaps, might not have been selected +for an out-of-doors party had there been no special reason for such +an arrangement; but seeing how strong a reason existed, even Madame +Voss acknowledged that the morning was favourable. While those +pipes of peace were being smoked over night, Marie had been preparing +the hampers. On the next morning nobody except Marie herself was +very early. It was intended that the day should be got through +at any rate with a pretence of pleasure, and they were all to be as +idle, and genteel, and agreeable as possible. It had been settled +that they should start at twelve. The drive, unfortunately, would +not consume much more than half an hour. Then what with unpacking, +climbing about the rocks, and throwing stones down into the river, they +would get through the time till two. At two they would eat their +dinner—with all their shawls and greatcoats around them—then smoke +their cigars, and come back when they found it impossible to drag out +the day any longer. Marie was not to talk to George, and was to +be specially courteous to M. Urmand. The two old ladies accompanied +them, as did also M. le Curé Gondin. The programme for +the day did not seem to be very delightful; but it appeared to Michel +Voss that in this way, better than in any other, could some little halo +be thrown over the parting hours of poor Adrian Urmand.<br> +<br> +Everything went as well as could have been anticipated. They managed +to delay their departure till nearly half-past twelve, and were so lost +in wonder at the quantity of water running down the fall in the ravine, +that there had hardly been any heaviness of time when they seated themselves +on the rocks at half-past two.<br> +<br> +‘Now for the business of the day,’ said Michel, as, standing +up, he plunged a knife and fork into a large pie which he had placed +on a boulder before him. ‘Marie has got no soup for us here, +so we must begin with the solids at once.’ Soon after that +one cork might have been heard to fly, and then another, and no stranger +looking on would have believed how dreadful had been the enmity existing +on the previous day—or, indeed, how great a cause for enmity there +had been. Michel himself was very hilarious. If he could +only obliterate in any way the evil which he had certainly inflicted +on that unfortunate young man! ‘Urmand, my friend, another +glass of wine. George, fill our friend Urmand’s glass; not +so quickly, George, not so quickly; you give him nothing but the froth. +Adrian Urmand, your very good health. May you always be a happy +and successful man!’ So saying, Michel Voss drained his +own tumbler.<br> +<br> +Urmand, at the moment, was seated in a niche among the rocks, in which +a cushion out of the carriage had been placed for his special accommodation. +Indeed, every comfort and luxury had been showered upon his head to +compensate him for his lost bride. This was the third time that +he had been by name invited to drink his wine, and three times he had +obeyed. Now, feeling himself to be summoned in a very peculiar +way—feeling also, perhaps, that that which might have made others +drunk had made him bold, he extricated himself from his niche, and stood +upon his legs among the rocks. He stood upon his legs among the +rocks, and with a graceful movement of his arm, waved the glass above +his head.<br> +<br> +‘We are delighted to have you here among us, my friend,’ +said Michel Voss, who also, perhaps, had been made bold. Madame +Voss, who was close to her husband, pulled him by the sleeve. +Then he seated himself, but Adrian Urmand was left standing among them.<br> +<br> +‘My friend,’ said he, ‘and you, Madame Voss particularly, +I feel particularly obliged to you for this charming entertainment.’ +Then the innkeeper cheered his guest, whereupon Madame Voss pulled her +husband’s sleeve harder than before. ‘I am, indeed,’ +continued Urmand. ‘The best thing will be,’ said he, +‘to make a clean breast of it at once. You all know why +I came here,—and you all know how I’m going back.’ +At this moment his voice faltered a little, and he almost sobbed. +Both the old ladies immediately put their handkerchiefs to their eyes. +Marie blushed and turned away her face on to her uncle’s shoulder. +Madame Voss remained immovable. She dreaded greatly any symptoms +of that courage which follows the flying of corks. In truth, however, +she had nothing now to fear. ‘Of course, I feel it a little,’ +continued Adrian Urmand. ‘That is only natural. I +suppose it was a mistake; but it has been rather trying to me. +But I am ready to forget and forgive, and that is all I’ve got +to say.’ This speech, which astonished them all exceedingly, +remained unanswered for some few moments, during which Urmand had sunk +back into his niche. Michel Voss was not ready-witted enough to +reply to his guest at the moment, and George was aware that it would +not be fitting for him, the triumphant lover, to make any reply. +He could hardly have spoken without showing his triumph. During +this short interval no one said a word, and Urmand endeavoured to assume +a look of gloomy dignity.<br> +<br> +But at last Michel Voss got upon his legs, his wife giving him various +twitches on the sleeve as he did so. ‘I never was so much +affected in my life,’ said he, ‘and upon my word I think +that our excellent friend Adrian Urmand has behaved as well in a trying +difficulty as,—as,—as any man ever did. I needn’t say +much about it, for we all know what it was. And we all know that +young women will be young women, and that they are very hard to manage.’ +‘Don’t, Uncle Michel’ said Marie in a whisper. +But Michel was too bold to attend either to whisperings or pullings +of the sleeve, and went on with his speech. ‘There has been +a slight mistake, but I hope sincerely that everything has now been +made right. Here is our friend Adrian Urmand’s health, and +I am quite sure that we all hope that he may get an excellent, beautiful +young wife, with a good dowry, and that before long.’ Then +he too sat down, and all the ladies drank to the health and future fortunes +of M. Adrian Urmand.<br> +<br> +Upon the whole the rejected lover liked it. At any rate it was +better so than being alone and moody and despised of all people. +He would know now how to get away from Granpere without having to plan +a surreptitious escape. Of course he had come out intending to +be miserable, to be known as an ill-used man who had been treated with +an amount of cruelty surpassing all that had ever been told of in love +histories. To be depressed by the weight of the ill-usage which +he had borne was a part of the play which he had to act. But the +play when acted after this fashion had in it something of pleasing excitement, +and he felt assured that he was exhibiting dignity in very adverse circumstances. +George Voss was probably thinking ill of the young man all the while; +but every one else there conceived that M. Urmand bore himself well +under most trying circumstances. After the banquet was over Marie +expressed herself so much touched as almost to incur the jealousy of +her more fortunate lover. When the speeches were finished the +men made themselves happy with their cigars and wine till Madame Voss +declared that she was already half-dead with the cold and damp, and +then they all returned to the inn in excellent spirits. That which +had made so bold both Michel and his guest had not been allowed to have +any more extended or more deleterious effect.<br> +<br> +On the next morning M. Urmand returned home to Basle, taking the public +conveyance as far as Remiremont. Everybody was up to see him off, +and Marie herself gave him his cup of coffee at parting. It was +pretty to see the mingled grace and shame with which the little ceremony +was performed. She hardly said a word; indeed what word she did +say was heard by no one; but she crossed her hands on her breast, and +the gravest smile came over her face, and she turned her eyes down to +the ground, and if any one ever begged pardon without a word spoken, +Marie Bromar then asked Adrian Urmand to pardon her the evil she had +wrought upon him. ‘O, yes;—of course,’ he said. +‘It’s all right. It’s all right.’ +Then she gave him her hand, and said good-bye, and ran away up into +her room. Though she had got rid of one lover, not a word had +yet been said as to her uncle’s acceptance of that other lover +on her behalf; nor had any words more tender been spoken between her +and George than those with which the reader has been made acquainted.<br> +<br> +‘And now,’ said George, as soon as the diligence had started +out of the yard.<br> +<br> +‘Well;—and what now?’ asked the father.<br> +<br> +‘I must be off to Colmar next.’<br> +<br> +‘Not to-day, George.’<br> +<br> +‘Yes; to-day;—or this evening at least. But I must settle +something first. What do you say, father?’ Michel +Voss stood for a while with his hands in his pockets and his head turned +away. ‘You know what I mean, father.’<br> +<br> +‘O yes; I know what you mean.’<br> +<br> +‘I don’t suppose you’ll say anything against it now.’<br> +<br> +‘It wouldn’t be any good, I suppose, if I did,’ said +Michel, crossing over the courtyard to the other part of the establishment. +He gave no farther permission than this, but George thought that so +much was sufficient.<br> +<br> +George did return to Colmar that evening, being in all matters of business +a man accurate and resolute; but he did not go till he had been thoroughly +scolded for his misconduct by Marie Bromar. ‘It was your +fault,’ said Marie. ‘Your fault from beginning to +end.’<br> +<br> +‘It shall be if you say so,’ answered George; ‘but +I can’t say that I see it.’<br> +<br> +‘If a person goes away for more than twelve months and never sends +a word or a message or a sign, what is a person to think, George?’ +He could only promise her that he would never leave her again even for +a month.<br> +<br> +How they were married in November, and how Madame Faragon was brought +over to Granpere with infinite trouble, and how the household linen +got itself marked at last, with a V instead of a U, the reader can understand +without the narration of farther details.<br> + +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<hr class="full"> + +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GOLDEN LION OF GRANPERE***</p> +<p>******* This file should be named 5202-h.txt or 5202-h.zip *******</p> +<p>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:<br> +<a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/5/2/0/5202">http://www.gutenberg.org/5/2/0/5202</a></p> +<p>Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed.</p> + +<p>Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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