Title: The Golden Lion of Granpere

Author: Anthony Trollope

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

E-text prepared by Les Bowler, St. Ives, Dorset

THE GOLDEN LION OF GRANPERE, BY ANTHONY TROLLOPE.



CHAPTER I.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 cafÉ 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 dot.  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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

‘I won’t have it, George,’ he had said.

‘Won’t have what, father?’

‘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.’

‘I am not thinking of marrying.’

‘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.’

‘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.

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.

But Marie was up to give him his breakfast.  ‘What is the meaning of this, George?’ she said.

‘Father says that I shall be better away from this,—so I’m going away.’

‘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.’

‘We have not quarrelled.  That is to say, I have not quarrelled with him.  If he quarrels with me, I cannot help it.’

‘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.

‘Father thinks that I love you:—so I do.’

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.’

‘But why should it displease him?  He wants to have his own way in everything.’

‘Of course he does.’

‘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.’

‘Is it not all for yourself, George?’

‘And why shouldn’t you and I be married if we like it?’

‘I will never like it,’ said she solemnly, ‘if uncle dislikes it.’

‘Very well,’ said George.  ‘There is the horse ready, and now I’m off.’

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.

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.



CHAPTER II.

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 alway

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?

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.

‘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?’

‘Yes, uncle,—I will try.’

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.



CHAPTER V.

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.

‘Does my uncle know?’ Marie asked.

‘No;—you are to tell him,’ said Greisse.

‘I am to tell him!  Why should I tell him?  You can tell him.’

‘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.

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.

‘No, indeed,’ said his father.  ‘We did not expect you now any more than on any other day since you left us.’

‘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.

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 point-device 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.

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.

‘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.’

‘What is it then?’

‘I was thinking of something else.  Tell me, father; is it true that Marie is going to be married to Adrian Urmand?’

‘What makes you ask?’

‘I heard a report of it,’ said George.  ‘Is it true?’

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.

‘Then there is something in it?’

‘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.’

‘But has he asked her?’

‘Yes; he has done that too,’ said Michel.

‘And what answer did he get?’

‘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.’

‘She likes him, then?’

‘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.

‘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.

‘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.

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.’

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.

‘They tell me you are going to be married, Marie.  I hope you will be happy and prosperous.’

‘Who tells you so?’

‘It is true at any rate, I suppose.’

‘Not that I know of.  If my uncle and aunt choose to dispose of me, I cannot help it.’

‘It is well for girls to be disposed of sometimes.  It saves them a world of trouble.’

‘I don’t know what you mean by that, George;—whether it is intended to be ill-natured.’

‘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?’

‘Farewell, George.’

‘We used to be friends, Marie.’

‘Yes;—we used to be friends.’

‘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!

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.



CHAPTER VI.

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.

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.

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.

‘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.

‘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.

‘I am sure Marie is unhappy,’ she said to her husband when he came in at noon that day.

‘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.’

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

‘And where is Marie?’ Michel asked.

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.



CHAPTER VII.

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.

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.

‘I will not,’ said Adrian.  ‘I do not wonder that she should be put out of face if she knows why I have come.’

‘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 custo

‘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.

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.

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.

‘I am come to say good-bye,’ said Urmand.

‘Good-bye, Adrian,’ said Marie, putting both her hands in his, and offering her cheek to be kissed.

‘I shall come back with such joy for the 15th,’ said he.

She smiled, and kissed his cheek, and still held his hand.  ‘Adrian,’ she said.

‘My love?’

‘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.



CHAPTER X.

‘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.

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.

‘So your cousin Marie is to be married to Adrian Urmand, the young linen-merchant at Basle,’ said Madame Faragon.

‘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.

‘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.

‘I shall not go to the wedding,’ said George.  ‘They can be married, if they are to be married, without me.’

‘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.’

‘I do not doubt it at all.  I think it is very likely.  I was well aware before that my father wished it.’

‘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 dot.’

‘He will give her something.  He will treat her as though she were a daughter.’

‘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?’

‘O, if she likes him—!’

‘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.’

‘I daresay not,’ said George.  ‘I believe that women’s likings go after that fashion, for the most part.’

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.’

‘He is not above her,’ said George in a hoarse voice.

‘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.’

‘Yes;—she is a handsome girl.’

‘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.’

‘My father is not the man to care very much what anybody says about such things.’

‘Perhaps not so much as he ought, George,’ said Madame Faragon, shaking her head.

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 dot.  ‘It is lucky that you got your little bit of money before this affair was settled,’ said she.

‘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.

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.

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.

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.

‘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.

‘To Granpere the day after to-morrow?  And why?’

‘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.’

And he went to Granpere on the day he fixed.



CHAPTER XI.

‘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?

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!

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.

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.

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?’

‘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.

‘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.

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.’

‘I know very well,’ said he, ‘that my father cares more for Marie than he does for me.’

‘That is not so, George.’

‘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.’

‘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.’

‘Very likely not.’

‘And at any rate, it is no disgrace to be well off.’

‘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.’

‘Why then have you come here now?’

‘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.’

‘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.

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!

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.

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.’

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.’

‘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.

‘No,’ said he.  ‘I shall not be here then.’

‘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.

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.



CHAPTER XII.

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.

‘I suppose you find the old lady rather fidgety, George?’ said Michel Voss in high good humour.

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.

‘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.’

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.

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.

‘Surely you must get a wife, George, as soon as the house is your own.’

‘Of course he will get a wife,’ said the father.

‘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.

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 t

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.

When she saw him again in the evening, of course she asked him some farther questions.

‘George,’ she said, ‘I am afraid things are not going pleasantly at Granpere.’

‘Not altogether,’ he answered.

‘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.’

‘I have nothing to tell.’

‘But is the marriage to be put off?’ again demanded Madame Faragon, with extreme anxiety.

‘Not that I know of, Madame Faragon: they will not ask me whether it is to be put off or not.’

‘But have they quarrelled with M. Urmand?’

‘No; nobody has quarrelled with M. Urmand.’

‘Was he there, George?’

‘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?

‘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.

‘Certainly not.  He has not written at all.’

‘Then what is it, George?’

‘I suppose it is this,—that Marie Bromar cares nothing for him.’

‘But so rich as he is!  And they say, too, such a good-looking young man.’

‘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.’

‘But she is betrothed to him.  Of course she will marry him.’

‘Then there will be an end of it,’ said George.

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.

‘But I suppose it is nothing to you, George?’

‘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.’

‘O, George!’

‘And why should she not have promised?’

‘But, George;—during all this time you have never mentioned it.’

‘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.’

‘But he—M. Urmand; he would give her up if he knew it all, would he not?’

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.

‘And what will you do, George?’

‘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.

‘Is there nothing to be done?’ she asked at last, putting out her fat hand to take hold of his in sympathy.

‘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.

‘If you were to go to Basle and see the man?’

‘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—’

‘O, George! let there be no fighting.’

‘It would do no good, I fear.’

‘None, none, none,’ said she.

‘If I were to kill him, she could not be my wife then.’

‘No, no; certainly not.’

‘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.’

After this Madame Faragon made no farther suggestions that her young friend should go to Basle.



CHAPTER XV.

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.

‘I haven’t put it into her head,’ he answered angrily.

‘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.

‘Don’t I always speak softly?’ said he, turning sharply round upon his spouse.

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.

‘And so I do.  What would you have me say?’

‘Don’t mind petting her, but just be as you would be any other day.’

‘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.

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.

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?

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.

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?’

‘What is it about, Marie?’

‘If you will come, I will show you.’

‘Show me!  What will you show me?’

‘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.’

‘A letter to Urmand,’ he said, as he took the paper suspiciously into his hands.

‘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.’

The letter was as follows:

                          ‘The Hotel Lion d’Or, Granpere,
                                         October 1, 186-.

‘M. URMAND,

‘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.

‘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.

‘Your most humble servant,
        ‘With the greatest respect,
                       ‘MARIE BROMAR.’

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.’

‘But it must mean something, Uncle Michel.’

‘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.’

‘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!’

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.



CHAPTER XVI.

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.

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.

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.

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.

‘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.’

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.

‘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.

‘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?’

‘I don’t want to talk about it at all,’ said Marie.  But she sat down as she was bidden.

‘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 youn

‘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.

‘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.’

‘O dear, no; nothing of the kind.’

‘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.’

‘Who says she will never marry me?’

‘I say so.  She says so.’

‘We are betrothed to each other.  Why should she not marry me?’

‘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.’

‘That is all very fine.’

‘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?’

‘I could do better if I chose,’ said Adrian Urmand.

‘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?’

‘Who will turn me out of the house?’

‘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.’

‘Is that all you have to say, my friend?’ asked Urmand, assuming a voice that was intended to be indifferent.

‘Yes—that is all.  But I mean to do something more, if I am driven to it.’

‘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.

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.

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.

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!’



CHAPTER XIX.

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.

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.

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?

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.

‘And now you have found me, what of that?’

‘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.’

‘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.’

‘I have never opposed you but in one thing, father.’

‘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!’

‘But what would you have had me do?’

‘What would I have had you do?  Not come here and oppose me in everything.’

‘But when this Adrian Urmand—’

‘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.’

‘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?’

‘Why did she accept him, then?’

‘Perhaps, father, we were all to blame a little in that.’

‘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.’

‘Who cares what Father Gondin says?’ asked George.

‘I’m sure I don’t,’ said Michel Voss.

‘The betrothal means nothing, father, if either of them choose to change their minds.  There was that girl over at Saint Die.’

‘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.’

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.

‘Suppose my mother says a word to him,’ suggested George.

‘She wouldn’t dare for her life,’ answered the father.

‘I would do it.’

‘No, indeed, George; you shall do no such thing.’

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.

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.

‘What is the meaning of all this?’ said Urmand, coming up.

‘Meaning of what?’ asked Michel.

‘I don’t understand it—I don’t understand it at all,’ said Urmand.

‘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.

‘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.

‘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.’

‘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.

‘Tell him to go back to Basle,’ whispered Marie to her uncle.  Michel only shook his head and groaned.

‘I don’t think I am at all well-treated here among you,’ said Adrian Urmand to George as soon as they were alone.

‘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.’

‘I won’t put up with ill-treatment from anybody.  It’s not what I’m used to.’

‘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.’

‘I don’t want any apology.’

‘What do you want, M. Urmand?’

‘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.’

‘If you’re talking of law, you had better go back to Basle and get a lawyer,’ said George.

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.

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?

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.



CHAPTER XX.

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.

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.

‘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.’

‘Don’t say that, father.’

‘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.’

‘He’ll never get a wife here, if he stays till the house falls on him.’

‘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.’

‘Would he take a little money, father?’

‘No.  He’s not so bad as that.’

‘I should not have thought so; only he talked to me about his lawyer.’

‘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.’

‘He shouldn’t have said anything about his lawyer.’

‘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?’

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.

‘Well, yes; I should say so,’ replied his son.  ‘Soonest begun, soonest over;—and I suppose I might as well order the horses.’

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?

‘You two have got the better of me among you,’ he said.

‘Which two, Uncle Michel?’

‘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.

‘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.

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.

‘I’m afraid you find it rather dull here,’ said Michel, beginning the conversation.

‘It is dull; very dull indeed.’

‘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.’

‘Very little to look at, that’s worth the trouble of looking,’ said Urmand.

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.

‘I never saw such a place,’ continued Urmand.  ‘There isn’t a soul even to play a game of billiards with.’

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.  ‘

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