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 Vosshad gone to his niece immediately upon his return from his walk,intending to obtain a renewed pledge from her that she would be trueto her engagement. But he had been so full of passion, so besidehimself with excitement, so disturbed by all that he had heard, thathe 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 beenable to tell her that if she hesitated about marrying Adrian sheshould never look upon his face again; and then without staying fora reply he had left her. He had been in such a tremor of passionthat he had been unable to demand an answer. After that, whenGeorge was gone, he kept away from her during the remainder of themorning. Once or twice he said a few words to his wife, and shecounselled him to take no farther outward notice of anything thatGeorge had said to him. 'It will all come right if you will only bea little calm with her,' Madame Voss had said. He had tossed hishead and declared that he was calm;--the calmest man in allLorraine. Then he had come to his wife again, and she had againgiven him some good practical advice. 'Don't put it into her headthat 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 elsecan put it there either. Let the matter go on. She will see thethings bought for her wedding, and when she remembers that she hasallowed them to come into the house without remonstrating, she willbe quite unable to object. Don't give her an opportunity ofobjecting.' Michel Voss again shook his head, as though his wifewere an unreasonable woman, and swore that it was not he who hadgiven Marie such opportunity. But he made up his mind to do as hiswife recommended. 'Speak softly to her, my dear,' said Madame Voss.
'Don't I always speak softly?' said he, turning sharply round uponhis spouse.
He made his attempt to speak softly when he met Marie about thehouse just before supper. He put his hand upon her shoulder, andsmiled, and murmured some word of love. He was by no means craftyin what he did. Craft indeed was not the strong point of hischaracter. She took his rough hand and kissed it, and looked uplovingly, beseechingly into his face. She knew that he was askingher to consent to the sacrifice, and he knew that she was imploringhim to spare her. This was not what Madame Voss had meant byspeaking softly. Could she have been allowed to dilate upon her ownconvictions, or had she been able adequately to express her ownideas, she would have begged that there might be no sentiment, noromance, no kissing of hands, no looking into each other's faces,--nohalf-murmured tones of love. Madame Voss believed strongly thatthe every-day work of the world was done better without any of theseglancings and glimmerings of moonshine. But then her husband was,by nature, of a fervid temperament, given to the influence ofunexpressed poetic emotions;--and thus subject, in spite of thestrength of his will, to much weakness of purpose. Madame Vossperhaps condemned her husband in this matter the more because hisromantic disposition never showed itself in his intercourse withher. He would kiss Marie's hand, and press Marie's wrist, and holddialogues by the eye with Marie. But with his wife his speechwas,--not exactly yea, yea, and nay, nay,--but yes, yes, and no, no.It was not unnatural therefore that she should specially dislike thisweakness of his which came from his emotional temperament. 'I wouldjust 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 knewthat his wife was right, and was in a certain way aware that if hecould only change himself and be another sort of man, he mightmanage the matter better. He could be fiercely angry, orcaressingly affectionate. But he was unable to adopt that safe andgolden mean, which his wife recommended. He could not keep himselffrom interchanging a piteous glance or two with Marie at supper, andput a great deal too much unction into his caress to please MadameVoss, when Marie came to kiss him before she went to bed.
In the mean time Marie was quite aware that it was incumbent on herto determine what she would do. It may be as well to declare atonce that she had determined--had determined fully, before her uncleand George had started for their walk up to the wood-cutting. Whenshe was giving them their breakfast that morning her mind was fullymade 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 asquite a new thing that the man whom she worshipped, worshipped her too.While she believed that nobody else loved her;--when she could tellherself that her fate was nothing to anybody;--as long as it had seemedto her that the world for her must be cold, and hard, and material;--solong could she reconcile to herself, after some painful, dubiousfashion, the idea of being the wife either of Adrian Urmand, orof any other man. Some kind of servitude was needful, and if heruncle was decided that she must be banished from his house, thekind of servitude which was proposed to her at Basle would do aswell as another. But when she had learned the truth,--a truth sounexpected,--then such servitude became impossible to her. On thatmorning, when she came down to give the men their breakfast, she hadquite determined that let the consequences be what they might she wouldnever become the wife of Adrian Urmand. Madame Voss had told herhusband that when Marie saw the things purchased for her wedding cominginto the house, the very feeling that the goods had been bought wouldbind her to her engagement. Marie had thought of that also, and wasaware that she must lose no time in making her purpose known, so thatarticles which would be unnecessary might not be purchased. On thatvery morning, while the men had been up in the mountain, she had satwith her aunt hemming sheets;--intended as an addition to the alreadyoverflowing stock possessed by M. Urmand. It was with difficultythat she had brought herself to do that,--telling herself, however,that as the linen was there, it must be hemmed; when there had comea question of marking the sheets, she had evaded the task,--notwithout raising suspicion in the bosom of Madame Voss.
But it was, as she knew, absolutely necessary that her uncle shouldbe informed of her purpose. When he had come to her after the walk,and demanded of her whether she still intended to marry AdrianUrmand, she had answered him falsely. 'I suppose so,' she had said.The question--such a question as it was--had been put to her tooabruptly to admit of a true answer on the spur of the moment. Butthe falsehood almost stuck in her throat and was a misery to hertill 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 thistruth; in what way she would insure to herself the power of carryingout her purpose. Her mind, the reader must remember, was somewhatdark in the matter. She was betrothed to the man, and she hadalways heard that a betrothal was half a marriage. And yet she knewof instances in which marriages had been broken off after betrothalquite as ceremonious as her own--had been broken off without scandalor special censure from the Church. Her aunt, indeed, and M. leCure had, ever since the plighting of her troth to M. Urmand, spokenof the matter in her presence, as though the wedding were a thingalready nearly done;--not suggesting by the tenor of their speechthat any one could wish in any case to make a change, but pointingout incidentally that any change was now out of the question. ButMarie had been sharp enough to understand perfectly the gist of heraunt's manoeuvres and of the priest's incidental information. Thething could be done, she know; and she feared no one in the doing ofit,--except her uncle. But she did fear that if she simply told himthat it must be done, he would have such a power over her that shewould not succeed. In what way could she do it first, and then tellhim 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 havetaken it so far out of Granpere on its way to Basle, as to make itimpossible that her uncle should recall i
t. Much of the day afterGeorge's departure, and much of the night, was spent in thepreparation of this letter. Marie Bromar was not so well practisedin the writing of letters as will be the majority of the youngladies who may, perhaps, read her history. It was a difficult thingfor her to begin the letter, and a difficult thing for her to bringit to its end. But the letter was written and sent. The post leftGranpere at about eight in the morning, taking all letters by way ofRemiremont; and on the day following George's departure, the posttook Marie Bromar's letter to M. Urmand.
When it was gone, her state of mind was very painful. Then it wasnecessary that she should show the copy to her uncle. She hadposted the letter between six and seven with her own hands, and hadthen come trembling back to the inn, fearful that her uncle shoulddiscover what she had done before her letter should be beyond hisreach. When she saw the mail conveyance go by on its route toRemiremont, then she knew that she must begin to prepare for heruncle's wrath. She thought that she had heard that the letters weredetained some time at Remiremont before they went on to Epinal inone direction, and to Mulhouse in the other. She looked at therailway time-table which was hung up in one of the passages of theinn, and saw the hour of the departure of the diligence fromRemiremont to catch the train at Mulhouse for Basle. When that hourwas passed, the conveyance of her letter was insured, and then shemust show the copy to her uncle. He came into the house abouttwelve, 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 sitdown with them. When pressed to do so by her uncle, she declaredthat she had eaten lately and was not hungry. It was seldom thatshe would sit down to dinner, and this therefore gave rise to nospecial remark. As soon as his meal was over, Michel Voss got up togo out about his business, as was usual with him. Then Mariefollowed him into the passage. 'Uncle Michel,' she said, 'I want tospeak 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, whichwas at that hour deserted, she took out of her pocket the copy ofher letter to Adrian Urmand, and put it into her uncle's hands. 'Itis a letter, Uncle Michel, which I have written to M. Urmand. Itwent this morning, and you must see it.'
'A letter to Urmand,' he said, as he took the paper suspiciouslyinto 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 angrywith 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, onthis day fortnight. I have promised to be your wife, but it cannotbe. I know that I have behaved very badly, but it would be worse ifI were to go on and deceive you. Before I knew you I had come to befond of another man; and I find now, though I have struggled hard todo what my uncle wishes, that I could not promise to love you and beyour wife. I have not told Uncle Michel yet, but I shall as soon asthis letter is gone.
'I am very, very sorry for the trouble I have given you. I did notmean to be bad. I hope that you will forget me, and try to forgiveme. 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 longto read, before he came to the end of it. He did not get through aline without sundry interruptions, which all arose from hisdetermination to contradict at once every assertion which she made.'You cannot prevent his coming,' he said, 'and it shall not beprevented.' 'Of course, you have promised to be his wife, and itmust be.' 'Nonsense about deceiving him. He is not deceived atall.' 'Trash--you are not fond of another man. It is allnonsense.' 'You must do what your uncle wishes. You must, now! youmust! Of course, you will love him. Why can't you let all thatcome as it does with others?' 'Letter gone;--yes indeed, and now Imust go after it.' 'Trouble!--yes! Why could you not tell mebefore you sent it? Have I not always been good to you?' 'You havenot been bad; not before. You have been very good. It is this thatis bad.' 'Forget you indeed. Of course he won't. How should he?Are you not betrothed to him? He'll forgive you fast enough, whenyou just say that you did not know what you were about when you werewriting it.' Thus her uncle went on; and as the outburst of hiswrath was, as it were, chopped into little bits by his having tocontinue the reading of the letter, the storm did not fall uponMarie's head so violently as she had expected. 'There's a prettykettle of fish you've made!' said he as soon as he had finishedreading 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 twelveo'clock to-night by going through Colmar, and I shall endeavour tointercept the letter before Urmand would receive it to-morrow.'This was a cruel blow to Marie after all her precautions. 'If Icannot do that, I shall at any rate see him before he gets it. Thatis what I shall do; and you must let me tell him, Marie, that yourepent having written the letter.'
'But I don't repent it, Uncle Michel; I don't, indeed. I can'trepent it. How can I repent it when I really mean it? I shallnever 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 hewent. The immediate weight, too, of Marie's misery was aggravatedby the fact that in order to catch the train for Basle at Colmar,her uncle need not start quite immediately. There was an hourduring which he could continue to exercise his eloquence upon hisniece, and endeavour to induce her to authorise him to contradicther own letter. He appealed first to her affection, and then to herduty; and after that, having failed in these appeals, he pouredforth the full vials of his wrath upon her head. She wasungrateful, obstinate, false, unwomanly, disobedient, irreligious,sacrilegious, and an idiot. In the fury of his anger, there washardly any epithet of severe rebuke which he spared, and yet, asevery cruel word left his mouth, he assured her that it should allbe taken to mean nothing, if she would only now tell him that hemight nullify the letter. Though she had deserved all these badthings which he had spoken of her, yet she should be regarded ashaving deserved none of them, should again be accepted as having inall 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 ofpurpose, and a dignity of person that was by no means thrown awayupon him, 'if I am what you say, I had better go away from yourhouse. I know I have been bad. I was bad to say that I would marryM. Urmand. I will not defend myself. But nothing on earth shallmake me marry him. You had better let me go away, and get a placeas a servant among our friends at Epinal.' But Michel Voss, thoughhe was heaping abuse upon her with the hope that he might thusachieve his purpose, had not the remotest idea of severing theconnection which bound him and her together. He wanted to do hergood, not evil. She was exquisitely dear to him. If she would onlylet him have his way and provide for her welfare as he saw, in hiswisdom, would be best, he would at once take her in his arms againand 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, gnashinghis teeth in anger.