CHAPTER XVI.
Nothing was said to Marie about her sins on that afternoon after heruncle had started on his journey. Everything in the hotel wasblank, and sad, and gloomy; but there was, at any rate, the negativecomfort of silence, and Marie was allowed to go about the house anddo her work without rebuke. But she observed that the Cure--M. leCure Gondin--sat much with her aunt during the evening, and she didnot doubt but that she herself and her iniquities made the subjectof their discourse.
M. le Cure Gondin, as he was generally called at Granpere,--beingalways so spoken of, with his full name and title, by the largeProtestant portion of the community,--was a man very much respectedby all the neighbourhood. He was respected by the Protestantsbecause he never interfered with them, never told them, eitherbehind their backs or before their faces, that they would be damnedas heretics, and never tried the hopeless task of converting them.In his intercourse with them he dropped the subject of religionaltogether,--as a philologist or an entomologist will drop hisgrammar or his insects in his intercourse with those to whom grammarand insects are matters of indifference. And he was respected bythe Catholics of both sorts,--by those who did not and by those whodid 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. Hechristened them, confessed them, and absolved them from their sins,--ofcourse, after due penitence. But he lived with them, too, in afriendly way, pronouncing no anathemas against them, because theywere not as attentive to their religious exercises as they mighthave been. But with those who took a comfort in sacred things, wholiked to go to early masses in cold weather, to be punctual atceremonies, to say the rosary as surely as the evening came, whoknew and performed all the intricacies of fasting as ordered by thebishop, down to the refinement of an egg more or less, in the wholeLent, or the absence of butter from the day's cookery,--with thesehe had all that enthusiasm which such people like to encounter intheir priest. We may say, therefore, that he was a wise man,--andprobably, on the whole, a good man; that he did good servicein his parish, and helped his people along in their lives notinefficiently. He was a small man, with dark hair very closely cut,with a tonsure that was visible but not more than visible; with ablack beard that was shaved every Tuesday, Friday, and Saturdayevenings, but which was very black indeed on the Tuesday and Fridaymornings. He always wore the black gown of his office, but would goabout his parish with an ordinary soft slouch hat,--thus subjectinghis appearance to an absence of ecclesiastical trimness which,perhaps, the most enthusiastic of his friends regretted. MadameVoss certainly would have wished that he would have had himselfshaved at any rate every other day, and that he would have abstainedfrom showing himself in the streets of Granpere without his clericalhat. But, though she was very intimate with her Cure, and hadconferred upon him much material kindness, she had never dared toexpress her opinion to him upon these matters.
During much of that afternoon M. le Cure sat with Madame Voss, butnot a word was said to Marie about her disobedience either by him orby her. Nevertheless, Marie felt that her sins were beingdiscussed, and that the lecture was coming. She herself had neverquite liked M. le Cure--not having any special reason for dislikinghim, but regarding him as a man who was perhaps a little deficientin spirit, and perhaps a trifle too mindful of his creaturecomforts. M. le Cure took a great deal of snuff, and Marie did notlike snuff taking. Her uncle smoked a great deal of tobacco, andthat she thought very nice and proper in a man. Had her uncle takenthe snuff and the priest smoked the tobacco, she would probably haveequally approved of her uncle's practice and disapproved that of thepriest;--because she loved the one and did not love the other. Shehad thought it probable that she might be sent for during theevening, and had, therefore, made for herself an immensity ofhousehold work, the performance of all which on that very eveningthe interests of the Lion d'Or would imperatively demand. The workwas all done, but no message from Aunt Josey summoned Marie into thelittle parlour.
Nevertheless Marie had been quite right in her judgment. On thefollowing morning, between eight and nine, M. le Cure was again inthe house, and had a cup of coffee taken to him in the littleparlour. Marie, who felt angry at his return, would not take itherself, but sent it in by the hands of Peter Veque. Peter Vequereturned in a few minutes with a message to Marie, saying that M. leCure wished to see her.
'Tell him that I am very busy,' said Marie. 'Say that uncle isaway, and that there is a deal to do. Ask him if another day won'tsuit as well.'
She knew when she sent this message that another day would not suitas well. And she must have known also that her uncle's absence madeno difference in her work. Peter came back with a request fromMadame Voss that Marie would go to her at once. Marie pressed herlips together, clenched her fists, and walked down into the roomwithout the delay of an instant.
'Marie, my dear,' said Madame Voss, 'M. le Cure wishes to speak toyou. I will leave you for a few minutes.' There was nothing for itbut to listen. Marie could not refuse to be lectured by the priest.But she told herself that having had the courage to resist heruncle, it certainly was out of the question that any one else shouldhave the power to move her.
'My dear Marie,' began the Cure, 'your aunt has been telling me ofthis little difference between you and your affianced husband.Won't you sit down, Marie, because we shall be able so to talk morecomfortably?'
'I don't want to talk about it at all,' said Marie. But she satdown 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 womanlike yourself should refuse to hear her friends.' Marie had italmost on her tongue to tell the priest that the only friends towhom she chose to listen were her uncle and her aunt, but shethought that it might perhaps be better that she should remainsilent. 'Of course, my dear, a young person like you must know thatshe must walk by advice, and I am sure you must feel that no one cangive it you more fittingly than your own priest.' Then he took alarge pinch of snuff.
'If it were anything to do with the Church,--yes,' she said.
'And this has to do with the Church, very much. Indeed I do notknow how any of our duties in this life cannot have to do with theChurch. There can be no duty omitted as to which you would notacknowledge that it was necessary that you should get absolutionfrom your priest.'
'But that would be in the church,' said Marie, not quite knowing howto make good her point.
'Whether you are in the church or out of it, is just the same. Ifyou were sick and in bed, would your priest be nothing to you then?'
'But I am quite well, Father Gondin.'
'Well in health; but sick in spirit,--as I am sure you must own.And I must explain to you, my dear, that this is a matter in whichyour religious duty is specially in question. You have beenbetrothed, you know, to M. Urmand.'
'But people betrothed are very often not married,' said Mariequickly. 'There was Annette Lolme at Saint Die. She was betrothedto Jean Stein at Pugnac. That was only last winter. And then therewas something wrong about the money; and the betrothal went fornothing, and Father Carrier himself said it was all right. If itwas all right for Annette Lolme, it must be all right for me as faras betrothing goes.'
The story that Marie told so clearly was perfectly true, and M. leCure Gondin knew that it was true. He wished now to teach Mariethat if certain circumstances should occur after a betrothal whichwould make the marriage inexpedient in the eyes of the parents ofthe young people, then the authority of the Church would not exertitself to insist on the sacred nature of the pledge;--but that ifthe pledge was to be called in question simply at the instance of acapricious young woman, then the Church would have full power. Hisobject, in short, was to insist on parental authority, giving toparental authority some little additional strength from his ownsacerdotal recognition of the sanctity of the betrothing promise.But he feared that Marie would be to
o strong for him, if not alsotoo clear-headed. 'You cannot mean to tell me,' said he, 'that youthink such a solemn promise as you have given to this young man,taking one from him as solemn in return, is to go for nothing?'
'I am very sorry that I promised,--very sorry indeed; but I cannotkeep my promise.'
'You are bound to keep it, especially as all your friends wish themarriage, and think that it will be good for you. Annette Lolme'sfriends wished her not to marry. It is my duty to tell you, Marie,that if you break your faith to M. Urmand, you will commit a verygrievous sin, and you will commit it with your eyes open.'
'If Annette Lolme might change her mind because her lover had notgot as much money as people wanted, I am sure I may change minebecause I don't love a man.'
'Annette did what her friends advised her.'
'Then a girl must always do what her friends tell her? If I don'tmarry M. Urmand, I sha'n't be wicked for breaking my promise, butfor disobeying Uncle Michel.'
'You will be wicked in every way,' said the priest.
'No, M. le Cure. If I had married M. Urmand, I know I should bewicked to leave him, and I would do my best to live with him andmake him a good wife. But I have found out in time that I can'tlove him; and therefore I am sure that I ought not to marry him, andI won't.'
There was much more said between them, but M. le Cure Gondin was notable to prevail in the least. He tried to cajole her, and he triedto persuade by threats, and he tried to conquer her by gratitude andaffection towards her uncle. But he could not prevail at all.
'It is of no use my staying here any longer, M. le Cure,' she saidat last, 'because I am quite sure that nothing on earth will induceme to consent. I am very sorry for what I have done. If you tellme that I have sinned, I will repent and confess it. I haverepented, and am very, very sorry. I know now that I was very wrongever to think it possible that I could be his wife. But you can'tmake me think that I am wrong in this.'
Then she left him, and as soon as she was gone, Madame Voss returnedto hear the priest's report as to his success.
In the mean time, Michel Voss had reached Basle, arriving there somefive hours before Marie's letter, and, in his ignorance of the law,had made his futile attempt to intercept the letter before itreached the hands of M. Urmand. But he was with Urmand when theletter was delivered, and endeavoured to persuade his young friendnot to open it. But in doing this he was obliged to explain, to acertain extent, what was the nature of the letter. He was obligedto say so much about it as to justify the unhappy lover in assertingthat it would be better for them all that he should know thecontents. 'At any rate, you will promise not to believe it,' saidMichel. And he did succeed in obtaining from M. Urmand a sort ofpromise that he would not regard the words of the letter as in truthexpressing Marie's real resolution. 'Girls, you know, are suchqueer cattle,' said Michel. 'They think about all manner of things,and then they don't know what they are thinking.'
'But who is the other man?' demanded Adrian, as soon as he hadfinished the letter. Any one judging from his countenance when heasked the question would have imagined that in spite of his promisehe believed every word that had been written to him. His face was apicture of blank despair, and his voice was low and hoarse. 'Youmust know whom she means,' he added, when Michel did not at oncereply.
'Yes; I know whom she means.'
'Who is it then, M. Voss?'
'It is George, of course,' replied the innkeeper.
'I did not know,' said poor Adrian Urmand.
'She never spoke a dozen words to any other man in her life, and asfor him, she has hardly seen him for the last eighteen months. Hehas come over and said something to her, like a traitor,--hasreminded her of some childish promise, some old vow, something saidwhen they were children, and meaning nothing; and so he hasfrightened her.'
'I was never told that there was anything between them,' saidUrmand, beginning to think that it would become him to be indignant.
'There was nothing to tell,--literally nothing.'
'They must have been writing to each other.'
'Never a line; on my word as a man. It was just as I tell you.When George went from home, there had been some fooling, as Ithought, between them; and I was glad that he should go. I didn'tthink it meant anything, or ever would.' As Michel Voss said this,there did occur to him an idea that perhaps, after all, he had beenwrong to interfere in the first instance,--that there had then beenno really valid reason why George should not have married MarieBromar; but that did not in the least influence his judgment as towhat it might be expedient to do now. He was still as sure as everthat as things stood now, it was his duty to do all in his power tobring about the marriage between his niece and Adrian Urmand. 'Butsince that, there has been nothing,' continued he, 'absolutelynothing. Ask her, and she will tell you so. It is some romanticidea of hers that she ought to stick to her first promise, now thatshe has been reminded of it.'
All this did not convince Adrian Urmand, who for a while expressedhis opinion that it would be better for him to take Marie's refusal,and thus to let the matter drop. It would be very bitter to him,because all Basle had now heard of his proposed marriage, and awhole shower of congratulations had already fallen upon him from hisfellow-townspeople: but he thought that it would be more bitter tobe rejected again in person by Marie Bromar, and then to be staredat by all the natives of Granpere. He acknowledged that George Vosswas a traitor; and would have been ready to own that Marie wasanother, had Michel Voss given him any encouragement in thatdirection. But Michel throughout the whole morning,--and they werecloseted together for hours,--declared that poor Marie was moresinned against than sinning. If Adrian was but once more over atGranpere, all would be made right. At last Michel Voss prevailed,and persuaded the young man to return with him to the Lion d'Or.
They started early on the following morning, and travelled toGranpere by way of Colmar and the mountain. The father thus passedtwice through Colmar, but on neither occasion did he call upon hisson.