The Golden Lion of Granpere

  CHAPTER XIV.

  George Voss, as he drove back to Colmar and thought of what had beendone during the last twenty-four hours, did not find that he hadmuch occasion for triumph. He had, indeed, the consolation ofknowing that the girl loved him, and in that there was a certainamount of comfort. As he had ever been thinking about her since hehad left Granpere, so also had she been thinking of him. His fatherhad told him that they had been no more than children when theyparted, and had ridiculed the idea that any affection formed so longback and at so early an age should have lasted. But it had lasted;and was now as strong in Marie's breast as it was in his own. Hehad learned this at any rate by his journey to Granpere, and therewas something of consolation in the knowledge. But, nevertheless,he did not find that he could triumph. Marie had been weak enoughto yield to his father once, and would yield to him, he thought, yetagain. Women in this respect--as he told himself--were differentfrom men. They were taught by the whole tenor of their lives tosubmit,--unless they could conquer by underhand unseen means, bylittle arts, by coaxing, and by tears. Marie, he did not doubt, hadtried all these, and had failed. His father's purpose had been toostrong for her, and she had yielded. Having submitted once, ofcourse she would submit again. There was about his father a spiritof masterfulness, which he was sure Marie would not be able towithstand. And then there would be--strong against his interests,George thought--that feeling so natural to a woman, that as all theworld had been told of her coming marriage, she would be bound to gothrough with it. The idea of it had become familiar to her. Shehad conquered the repugnance which she must at first have felt, andhad made herself accustomed to regard this man as her futurehusband. And then there would be Madame Voss against him, and M. leCure,--both of whom would think it infinitely better for Marie'sfuture welfare, that she should marry a Roman Catholic, as wasUrmand, than a Protestant such as was he, George Voss. And then themoney! Even if he could bring himself to believe that the money wasnothing to Marie, it would be so much to all those by whom Mariewould be surrounded, that it would be impossible that she should bepreserved from its influence.

  It is not often that young people really know each other; but Georgecertainly did not know Marie Bromar. In the first place, though hehad learned from her the secret of her heart, he had not taughthimself to understand how his own sullen silence had acted upon her.He knew now that she had continued to love him; but he did not knowhow natural it had been that she should have believed that he hadforgotten her. He could not, therefore, understand how differentmust now be her feelings in reference to this marriage with Adrian,from what they had been when she had believed herself to be utterlydeserted. And then he did not comprehend how thoroughly unselfishshe had been;--how she had struggled to do her duty to others, letthe cost be what it might to herself. She had plighted herself toAdrian Urmand, not because there had seemed to her to be anybrightness in the prospect which such a future promised to her, butbecause she did verily believe that, circumstanced as she was, itwould be better that she should submit herself to her friends. Allthis George Voss did not understand. He had thrown his thunderbolt,and had seen that it had been efficacious. Its efficacy had beensuch that his wrath had been turned into tenderness. He had been sochanged in his purpose, that he had been induced to make an appealto his father at the cost of his father's enmity. But that appealhad been in vain, and, as he thought of it all, he told himself thaton the appointed day Marie Bromar would become the wife of AdrianUrmand. He knew well enough that a girl betrothed is a girl alreadyhalf married.

  He was very wretched as he drove his horse along. Though there wasa solace in the thought that the memory of him had still remained inMarie's heart, there was a feeling akin to despair in this also.His very tenderness towards her was more unendurable than would havebeen his wrath. The pity of it! The pity of it! It was that whichmade him sore of heart and faint of spirit. If he could havereproached her as cold, mercenary, unworthy, heartless, even thoughhe had still loved her, he could have supported himself by his angeragainst her unworthiness. But as it was there was no such supportfor him. Though she had been in fault, her virtue towards him wasgreater than her fault. She still loved him. She still lovedhim,--though she could not be his wife.

  Then he thought of Adrian Urmand and of the man's success andwealth, and general prosperity in the world. What if he should goover to Basle and take Adrian Urmand by the throat and choke him?What if he should at least half choke the successful man, and makeit well understood that the other half would come unless thesuccessful man would consent to relinquish his bride? George,though he did not expect success for himself, was fully purposedthat Urmand should not succeed without some interference fromhim,--by means of choking or otherwise. He would find some way ofmaking himself disagreeable. If it were only by speaking his mind,he thought that he could speak it in such a way that the Baslemerchant would not like it. He would tell Urmand in the first placethat Marie was won not at all by affection, not in the least by anypersonal regard for her suitor, but altogether by a feeling of dutytowards her uncle. And he would point out to this suitor howdastardly a thing it would be to take advantage of a girl so placed.He planned a speech or two as he drove along which he thought thateven Urmand, thick-skinned as he believed him to be, would disliketo hear. 'You may have her, perhaps,' he would say to him, 'as somuch goods that you would buy, because she is, as a thing in heruncle's hands, to be bought. She believes it to be her duty, asbeing altogether dependent, to be disposed of as her uncle maychoose. And she will go to you, as she would to any other man whomight make the purchase. But as for loving you, you don't evenbelieve that she loves you. She will keep your house for you; butshe will never love you. She will keep your house for you,--unless,indeed, she should find you to be so intolerable to her, that sheshould be forced to leave you. It is in that way that you will haveher,--if you are so low a thing as to be willing to take her so.'He planned various speeches of such a nature--not intending to trustentirely to speeches, but to proceed to some attempt at chokingafterwards if it should be necessary. Marie Bromar should notbecome Adrian Urmand's wife without some effort on his part. Soresolving, he drove into the yard of the hotel at Colmar.

  As soon as he entered the house Madame Faragon began to ask himquestions about the wedding. When was it to be? George thought fora moment, and then remembered that he had not even heard the daynamed.

  'Why don't you answer me, George?' said the old woman angrily. 'Youmust know when it's going to be.'

  'I don't know that it's going to be at all,' said George.

  'Not going to be at all! Why not? There is not anything wrong, isthere? Were they not betrothed? Why don't you tell me, George?'

  'Yes; they were betrothed.'

  'And is he crying off? I should have thought Michel Voss was theman to strangle him if he did that.'

  'And I am the man to strangle him if he don't,' said George, walkingout of the room.

  He knew that he had been silly and absurd, but he knew also that hewas so moved as to have hardly any control over himself. In the fewwords 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 theleast intended to take the old woman into his confidence. He hadnot meant to have said a word about the quarrel between himself andhis father, and now he had told everything.

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

  'George,' she said, 'I am afraid things are not going pleasantly atGranpere.'

  '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 thusquestioned. 'You ought to tell me,' said Madame Faragonplaintively, 'considering how interested I must be in all thatconcerns 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 whetherit 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 seenthe man since I first left Granpere to come here.' And then GeorgeVoss began to think what might have happened had Adrian Urmand beenat the hotel while he was there himself. After all, what could hehave 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 whathad 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 youngman.'

  'It is wonderful, is it not? It is next to a miracle that thereshould be a girl deaf and blind to such charms. But, nevertheless,I believe it is so. They will probably make her marry him, whethershe 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; butshe was almost too much afraid of her young friend to put it intowords. At last she plucked up courage, and did ask her questionafter an ambiguous way.

  'But I suppose it is nothing to you, George?'

  'Nothing at all. Nothing on earth,' said he. 'How should it beanything to me?' Then he hesitated for a while, pausing to thinkwhether or not he would tell the truth to Madame Faragon. He knewthat there was no one on earth, setting aside his father and MarieBromar, 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 herpower 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 asubject as this. 'It is only this to me,' he said, 'that she hadpromised to be my wife, before they had ever mentioned Urmand's nameto 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 youunderstand all about it now. Of course she will marry the man. Itis not likely that my father should fail to have his own way with agirl who is dependent on him.'

  'But he--M. Urmand; he would give her up if he knew it all, would henot?'

  To this George made no instant answer; but the idea was there, inhis mind--that the linen merchant might perhaps be induced toabandon his purpose, if he could be made to understand that Mariewished it. 'If he have any touch of manhood about him he would doso,' said he.

  'And what will you do, George?'

  'Do! I shall do nothing. What should I do? My father has turnedme out of the house. That is the whole of it. I do not know thatthere is anything to be done.' Then he went out, and there wasnothing more said upon the question. For the next three or fourdays there was nothing said. As he went in and out Madame Faragonwould look at him with anxious eyes, questioning herself how farsuch a feeling of love might in truth make this young man forlornand wretched. As far as she could judge by his manner he was veryforlorn and very wretched. He did his work indeed, and was busyabout the place, as was his wont. But there was a look of pain inhis face, which made her old heart grieve, and by degrees her goodwishes for the object, which seemed to be so much to him, becameeager and hot.

  'Is there nothing to be done?' she asked at last, putting out herfat hand to take hold of his in sympathy.

  'There is nothing to be done,' said George, who, however, hatedhimself because he was doing nothing, and still thought occasionallyof 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 nothim 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 ifit 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 hewere to kill me, indeed, there might be some comfort in that.'

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