CHAPTER X.
'So your cousin Marie is to be married to Adrian Urmand, the younglinen-merchant at Basle,' said Madame Faragon one morning to GeorgeVoss. In this manner were the first assured tidings of the comingmarriage conveyed to the rival lover. This occurred a day or twoafter the betrothal, when Adrian was back at Basle. No one atGranpere had thought of writing an express letter to George on thesubject. George's father might have done so, had the writing ofletters been a customary thing with him; but his correspondence wasnot numerous, and such letters as he did write were short, andalways confined to matters concerning his trade. Madame Voss had,however, sent a special message to Madame Faragon, as soon as Adrianhad gone, thinking that it would be well that in this way Georgeshould learn the truth.
It had been fully arranged by this time that George Voss was to bethe landlord of the hotel at Colmar on and from the first day of thefollowing year. Madame Faragon was to be allowed to sit in thelittle room downstairs, to scold the servants, and to make thestrangers from a distance believe that her authority was unimpaired.She was also to receive a moderate annual pension in money inaddition to her board and lodging. For these considerations, and oncondition that George Voss should expend a certain sum of money inrenewing the faded glories of the house, he was to be the landlordin full enjoyment of all real power on the first of Januaryfollowing. Madame Faragon, when she had expressed her agreement tothe arrangement, which was indeed almost in all respects one of herown creation, wept and wheezed and groaned bitterly. She declaredthat she would soon be dead, and so trouble him no more.Nevertheless, she especially stipulated that she should have a newarm-chair for her own use, and that the feather bed in her ownchamber should be renewed.
'So your cousin Marie is to be married to Adrian Urmand, the younglinen-merchant at Basle,' said Madame Faragon.
'Who says so?' demanded George. He asked his question in a quietvoice; but, though the news had reached him thus suddenly, he hadsufficient control over himself to prevent any plain expression ofhis feelings. The thing which had been told him had gone into hisheart like a knife; but he did not intend that Madame Faragon shouldknow that he had been wounded.
'It is quite true. There is no doubt about it. Stodel's man withthe roulage brought me word direct from your step-mother.' Georgeimmediately began to inquire within himself why Stodel's man withthe roulage had not brought some word direct to him, and answeredthe 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 inher usual whining tone of small complaint, signifying thereby howgreat would be the grievance to herself to be left alone at thatspecial 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.' MadameFaragon's grievance now consisted in the amount of doubt which wasbeing thrown on the tidings which had been sent direct to her. 'Ofcourse you will choose to have a doubt, because it is I who tellyou.'
'I do not doubt it at all. I think it is very likely. I was wellaware 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 notto be expected that he, with a family of young children at hisheels, is to give her a dot.'
'He will give her something. He will treat her as though she were adaughter.'
'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 maysay, in the hotel,--much the same as our Floschen here; and, ofcourse, such a marriage as this is a great thing; a very greatthing, indeed. How should they not wish it?'
'O, if she likes him--!'
'Like him? Of course, she will like him. Why should she not likehim? Young, and good-looking, with a fine business, doesn't owe asou, 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 aboutthat.'
'I daresay not,' said George. 'I believe that women's likings goafter that fashion, for the most part.'
Madame Faragon, not understanding this general sarcasm against hersex, continued the expression of her opinion about the comingmarriage. 'I don't suppose anybody will think of blaming MarieBromar for accepting the match when it was proposed to her. Ofcourse, she would do as she was bidden, and could hardly be expectedto 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; nothingbeyond a most distant cousin. They do say that she has grown upgood-looking.'
'Yes;--she is a handsome girl.'
'When I remember her as a child she was broad and dumpy, and theyalways come back at last to what they were as children. But ofcourse M. Urmand only looks to what she is now. She makes her haywhile the sun shines; but I hope the people won't say that yourfather 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 aboutsuch 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, doinghis work, giving his orders, and going through the usual routine ofhis day's business. As he did so, no one guessed that his mind wasdisturbed. Madame Faragon had not the slightest suspicion that thematter of Marie's marriage was a cause of sorrow to him. She hadfelt the not unnatural envy of a woman's mind in such an affair, andcould not help expressing it, although Marie Bromar was in some sortconnected with herself. But she was sure that such an arrangementwould be regarded as a family triumph by George,--unless, indeed, heshould be inclined to quarrel with his father for over-generosity inthat matter of the dot. 'It is lucky that you got your little bitof money before this affair was settled,' said she.
'It would not have made the difference of a copper sou,' said GeorgeVoss, as he walked angrily out of the old woman's room. This was inthe evening, after supper, and the greater part of the day hadpassed since he had first heard the news. Up to the present momenthe had endeavoured to shake the matter off from him, declaring tohimself that grief--or at least any outward show of grief--would beunmanly and unworthy of him. With a strong resolve he had fixed hismind upon the affairs of his house, and had allowed himself tomeditate as little as might be possible. But the misery, the agony,had been then present with him during all those hours,--and had beenmade the sharper by his endeavours to keep it down and banish itfrom 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 thetown, and at once began to give way to his thoughts. Of course hemust think about it. He acknowledged that it was useless for him toattempt to get rid of the matter and let it be as though there wereno such persons in the world as Marie Bromar and Adrian Urmand. Hemust think about it; but he might so give play to his feelings thatno one should see him in the moments of his wretchedness. He wentout, therefore, among the dark walks in the town garden, and there,as he paced one alley after another in the gloom, he revelled in theagony which a passionate man feels when the woman whom he loves isto be given into the arms of another.
As he thought of his own life during the past year or fifteenmonths, he could not but tell himself that his present suffering wasdue 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, whyhad he taken his father at his word and gone away from Granpere?And why, having left Granpere, had he taken no trouble to let herknow that he still loved her? As he asked himself these questions,he was hardly able himself to understand the pride which had drivenhim 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 comethose few words from his father's mouth, words which he thought hisfath
er should never have spoken to him, and he had gone away,telling himself that he would come back and fetch her as soon as hecould offer her a home independently of his father. If, after thepromises she had made to him, she would not wait for him withoutfarther words and farther vows, she would not be worth the having.In going, he had not precisely told himself that there should be nointercourse between them for twelve months; but the silence which hehad maintained, and his continued absence, had been the consequenceof the mood of his mind and the tenor of his purpose. The longer hehad been away from Granpere without tidings from any one there, theless possible had it been that he should send tidings from himselfto his old home. He had not expected messages. He had not expectedany letter. But when nothing came, he told himself over and overagain that he too would be silent, and would bide his time. ThenEdmond Greisse had come to Colmar, and brought the first rumour ofAdrian Urmand's proposal of marriage.
The reader will perhaps remember that George, when he heard thisfirst rumour, had at once made up his mind to go over to Granpere,and that he went. He went to Granpere partly believing, and partlydisbelieving Edmond's story. If it were untrue, perhaps she mightsay a word to him that would comfort him and give him new hope. Ifit were true, she would have to tell him so; and then he would say aword to her that should tear her heart, if her heart was to bereached. But he would never let her know that she had torn his ownto rags! That was the pride of his manliness; and yet he was soboyish as not to know that it should have been for him to make thoseovertures for a renewal of love, which he hoped that Marie wouldmake to him. He had gone over to Granpere, and the reader willperhaps again remember what had passed then between him and Marie.Just as he was leaving her he had asked her whether she was to bemarried 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 hisheart there had been anger against her because she had spoken nosuch word to him,--as of course there was also in her heart againsthim, 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 comethere at all? Why did he ask any questions about her marriage, ifon his own behalf he had no statement to make,--no assurance togive? 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 couldnot busy herself to overcome her love, therefore she was minded towear the willow for ever? 'If my uncle and aunt choose to disposeof me, I cannot help it,' she had said. Then he had left her, andshe had been sure that for him that early game of love was a gamealtogether played out. Now, as he walked along the dark paths ofthe town garden, something of the truth came upon him. He made noexcuse for Marie Bromar. She had given him a vow, and should havebeen true to her vow, so he said to himself a dozen times. He hadnever been false. He had shown no sign of falseness. True ofheart, he had remained away from her only till he might come andclaim her, and bring her to a house that he could call his own.This also he told himself a dozen times. But, nevertheless, therewas a very agony of remorse, a weight of repentance, in that he hadnot striven to make sure of his prize when he had been at Granperebefore the marriage was settled. Had she loved him as she ought tohave loved him, had she loved him as he loved her, there should havebeen no question possible to her of marriage with another man. Butstill he repented, in that he had lost that which he desired, andmight perhaps have then obtained it for himself.
But the strong feeling of his breast, the strongest next to hislove, was a desire to be revenged. He cared little now for hisfather, little for that personal dignity which he had intended toreturn by his silence, little for pecuniary advantages andprudential motives, in comparison with his strong desire to punishMarie for her perfidy. He would go over to Granpere, and fall amongthem like a thunderbolt. Like a thunderbolt, at any rate, hewould fall upon the head of Marie Bromar. The very words of herlove-promises were still firm in his memory, and he would see ifshe also could be made to remember them.
'I shall go over to Granpere the day after to-morrow,' he said toMadame Faragon, as he caught her just before she retired for thenight.
'To Granpere the day after to-morrow? And why?'
'Well, I don't know that I can say exactly why. I shall not be atthe marriage, but I should like to see them first. I shall go theday after to-morrow.'
And he went to Granpere on the day he fixed.