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 shehad 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 completelyunder her uncle's guidance. Madame Voss spoke to her often in thesedays of the coming of Adrian Urmand, but the manner of her speakingwas such that no comfort could be taken from it. Madame Voss wouldrisk 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 itwas thoroughly understood that he was coming on this occasion as alover and not as a trader, and that he was coming as the guest ofMichel Voss, and not as a customer to the inn. 'I suppose he cantake his supper like the other people,' Marie said to her aunt. Andagain, when the question of wine was mooted, she was almost saucy.'If he's thirsty,' she said, 'what did for him last week, will dofor him next week: and if he's not thirsty, he had better leave italone.' But girls are always allowed to be saucy about theirlovers, and Madame Voss did not count this for much.
Marie was always thinking of those last words which had been spokenbetween her and George, and of the kiss that he had given her. 'Weused to be friends,' he had said, and then he had declared that hehad never forgotten old days. Marie was quick, intelligent, andready 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 asshe heard the tone of the young man's voice, and she had half toldherself all the truth. He had not quite ceased to think of her.Then he went, without saying the other one word that would have beenneedful, without even looking the truth into her face. He had gone,and had plainly given her to understand that he acceded to thismarriage with Adrian Urmand. How was she to read it all? Was theremore than one way in which a wounded woman, so sore at heart, couldread it? He had told her that though he loved her still, it did notsuit him to trouble himself with her as a wife; and that he wouldthrow upon her head the guilt of having been false to their oldvows. Though she loved him better than all the world, she despisedhim for his thoughtful treachery. In her eyes it was treachery. Hemust have known the truth. What right had he to suppose that shewould 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 asksome question, by which, if he doubted, the truth might be madeknown to him? She, a woman, could ask no question. She could speakno word. She could not renew her assurances to him, till he shouldhave asked her to renew them. He was either false, or a traitor, ora coward. She was very angry with him;--so angry that she wasalmost driven by her anger to throw herself into Adrian's arms. Shewas the more angry because she was full sure that he had notforgotten his old love,--that his heart was not altogether changed.Had it appeared to her that the sweet words of former days hadvanished from his memory, though they had clung to hers,--that hehad in truth learned to look upon his Granpere experiences as thesimple doings of his boyhood,--her pride would have been hurt, butshe would have been angry with herself rather than with him. But ithad not been so. The respectful silence of his sojourn in the househad told her that it was not so. The tremor in his voice as hereminded her that they once had been friends had plainly told herthat it was not so. He had acknowledged that they had beenbetrothed, and that the plight between them was still strong; but,wishing to be quit of it, he had thrown the burden of breaking itupon her.
She was very wretched, but she did not go about the house withdowncast eyes or humble looks, or sit idle in a corner with herhands before her. She was quick and eager in the performance of herwork, speaking sharply to those who came in contact with her. PeterVeque, 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, intruth, spoken no words to Edmond Greisse that were not angry sincethat ill-starred communication of which he had only given her thehalf. To her aunt she was brusque, and almost ill-mannered.
'What is the matter with you, Marie?' Madame Voss said to her onemorning, when she had been snubbed rather rudely by her niece.Marie in answer shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. 'If youcannot put on a better look before M. Urmand comes, I think he willhardly hold to his bargain,' said Madame Voss, who was angry.
'Who wants him to hold to his bargain?' said Marie sharply. Thenfeeling ill-inclined to discuss the matter with her aunt, she leftthe room. Madame Voss, who had been assured by her husband thatMarie had no real objection to Adrian Urmand, did not understand itall.
'I am sure Marie is unhappy,' she said to her husband when he camein at noon that day.
'Yes,' said he. 'It seems strange, but it is so, I fancy, with thebest of our young women. Her feeling of modesty--of bashfulness ifyou will--is outraged by being told that she is to admit this man asher lover. She won't make the worse wife on that account, when hegets her home.'
Madame Voss was not quite sure that her husband was right. She hadnot before observed young women to be made savage in their dailywork by the outrage to their modesty of an acknowledged lover. But,as usual, she submitted to her husband. Had she not done so, therewould have come that glance from the corner of his eye, and thatcurl in his lip, and that gentle breath from his nostril, which hadbecome to her the expression of imperious marital authority.Nothing could be kinder, more truly affectionate, than was the heartof her husband towards her niece. Therefore Madame Voss yielded,and comforted herself by an assurance that as the best was beingdone for Marie, she need not subject herself to her husband'sdispleasure by contradiction or interference.
Michel Voss himself said little or nothing to his niece at thistime. She had yielded to him, making him a promise that she wouldendeavour to accede to his wishes, and he felt that he was bound inhonour not to trouble her farther, unless she should show herself tobe disobedient when the moment of trial came. He was not himself atease, he was not comfortable at heart, because he knew that Mariewas avoiding him. Though she would still stand behind his chair atsupper,--when for a moment she would be still,--she did not put herhands upon his head, nor did she speak to him more than the natureof her service required. Twice he tried to induce her to sit withthem at table, as though to show that her position was altered nowthat she was about to become a bride; but he was altogetherpowerless to effect any such change as this. No words that couldhave been spoken would have induced Marie to seat herself at thetable, so well did she understand all that such a change in herhabits would have seemed to imply. There was now hardly one personin the supper-room of the hotel who did not instinctively understandthe reason which made Michel Voss anxious that his niece should sitdown, and that other reason which made her sternly refuse to complywith his request. So, day followed day, and there was but littlesaid between the uncle and the niece, though heretofore--up to atime still within a fortnight of the present day--the whole businessof the house had been managed by little whispered conferencesbetween them. 'I think we'll do so and so, uncle;' or, 'Just youmanage it yourself, Marie.' Such and such-like words had passedevery morning and evening, with an understanding between them fulland complete. Now each was afraid of the other, and everything wasastray.
But Marie was still gentle with the children: when she could bewith them for half an hour, she would sit with them on her lap, orclustering round, kissing them and saying soft words to them,--evensofter in her affection than had been her wont. They understood aswell as everybody else that something was wrong,--that there was tobe some change as to Marie which perhaps would not be a change forthe better; that there was cause for melancholy, for close kissingas though such kissing were in preparation for parting, and for softstrokings with their little hands as though Marie were to be pitiedfor that which was about to come upon her. 'Isn't somebody comingto take you away?' little Michel asked her, when they were quitealone. Marie had not known how to answer him. She had thereforeembraced him closely, and a tear fell upon his face. 'Ah,' he said,'I know somebody is comi
ng to take you away. Will not papa helpyou?' 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. Itwas his purpose to travel by Mulhouse and Remiremont, and MichelVoss drove over to the latter town to fetch him. It was felt byevery one--it could not be but felt--that there was somethingspecial in his coming. His arrival now was not like the arrival ofany one else. Marie, with all her resolution that it should be likeusual arrivals at the inn, could not avoid the making of somedifference herself. A better supper was prepared than usual; and,at the last moment, she herself assisted in preparing it. The youngmen clustered round the door of the hotel earlier than usual towelcome the new-comer. M. le Cure was there with a clean whitecollar, and with his best hat. Madame Voss had changed her gown,and appeared in her own little room before her husband returnedalmost in her Sunday apparel. She had said a doubtful word toMarie, suggesting a clean ribbon, or an altered frill. Marie hadreplied only by a look. She would not have changed a pin forUrmand's coming, had all Granpere come round her to tell her that itwas needful. If the man wanted more to eat than was customary, lethim 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 youngfriend descended among the circle of expectant admirers. Urmand wasrich, 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 hejumped out of the little carriage with his portmanteau in his hand,and his greatcoat with its silk linings open at the breast. Therewas a consciousness in him and in every one there that he had notcome now to buy linen. He made his way into the little room whereMadame Voss was standing up, waiting for him, and was taken by thehand by her. Michel Voss soon followed them.
'And where is Marie?' Michel asked.
An answer came from some one that Marie was upstairs. Supper wouldsoon be ready, and Marie was busy. Then Michel sent up an order byPeter that Marie should come down. But Marie did not come down.'She had gone to her own room,' Peter said. Then there came a frownon Michel's brow. Marie had promised to try, and this was nottrying. He said no more till they went up to supper. There wasMarie standing as usual at the soup tureen. Urmand walked up toher, and they touched each other's hand; but Marie said never aword. The frown on Michel's brow was very black, but Marie went ondispensing her soup.