The Golden Lion of Granpere

  CHAPTER XVII.

  There had been very little said between Michel Voss and Urmand ontheir journey towards Granpere till they were at the top of theVosges, on the mountain road, at which place they had to leave theirlittle carriage and bait their horse. Indeed Michel had been asleepduring almost the entire time. On the night but one before he hadnot been in bed at all, having reached Basle after midnight, andhaving passed the hours 'twixt that and his morning visit toUrmand's house in his futile endeavours to stop poor Marie's letter.And the departure of the travellers from Basle on this morning hadbeen very early, so that the poor innkeeper had been robbed of hisproper allowance of natural rest. He had slept soundly in the trainto Colmar, and had afterwards slept in the little caleche which hadtaken them to the top of the mountain. Urmand had sat silent by hisside,--by no means anxious to disturb his companion, because he hadno determined plan ready to communicate. Once or twice before hereached Colmar he had thought that he would go back again. He hadbeen, he felt, badly treated; and, though he was very fond of Marie,it would be better for him perhaps to wash his hands of the wholeaffair. He was so thinking the whole way to Colmar. But he wasafraid of Michel Voss, and when they got out upon the platformthere, he had no resolution ready to be declared as fixed. Thenthey had hired the little carriage, and Michel Voss had slept again.He had slept all through Munster, and up the steep mountain, and wasnot thoroughly awake till they were summoned to get out at thewonderfully fine house for refreshment which the late Emperor causedto be built at the top of the hill. Here they went into therestaurant, and as Michel Voss was known to the man who kept it, heordered a bottle of wine. 'What a terrible place to live in all thewinter!' he said, as he looked down through the window right intothe deep valley below. From the spot on which the house is builtyou can see all the broken wooded ground of the steep descent, andthen the broad plain that stretches away to the valley of the Rhine.'There is nothing but snow here after Christmas,' continued Michel,'and perhaps not a Christian over the road for days together. Ishouldn't like it, I know. It may be all very well just now.'

  But Adrian Urmand was altogether inattentive either to the scenerynow before him, or to the prospect of the mountain innkeeper'swinter life. He knew that two hours and a half would take them downthe mountain into Granpere, and that when there, it would be at oncenecessary that he should begin a task the idea of which was by nomeans pleasant to him. He was quite sure now that he wished he hadremained at Basle, and that he had accepted Marie's letter as final.He told himself again and again that he could not make her marry himif she chose to change her mind. What was he to say, and what washe to do when he got to Granpere, a place which he almost wishedthat he had never seen in spite of those profitable linen-buyings?And now when Michel Voss began to talk to him about the scenery, andwhat this man up in the mountain did in the winter,--at this momentwhen his terrible trouble was so very near him,--he felt it to be aninsult, or at least a cruelty. 'What can he do from December tillApril except smoke and drink?' asked Michel Voss.

  'I don't care what he does,' said Urmand, turning away. 'I onlyknow I wish I'd never come here.'

  'Take a glass of wine, my friend,' said Michel. 'The mountain airhas made you chill.' Urmand took the glass of wine, but it did notcheer him much. 'We shall have it all right before the day isover,' continued Michel.

  'I don't think it will ever be all right,' said the other.

  'And why not? The fact is, you don't understand young women; as howshould you, seeing that you have not had to manage them? You do asI tell you, and just be round with her. You tell her that you don'tdesire any change yourself, and that after what has passed you can'tallow her to think of such a thing. You speak as though you had adownright claim, as you have; and all will come right. It's notthat she cares for him, you know. You must remember that. She hasnever even said a word of that kind. I haven't a doubt on my mindas to which she really likes best; but it's that stupid promise, andthe way that George has had of making her believe that she is boundby the first word she ever spoke to a young man. It's onlynonsense, and of course we must get over it.' Then they weresummoned out, the horse having finished his meal, and were rattleddown the hill into Granpere without many more words between them.

  One other word was spoken, and that word was hardly pleasant in itstone. Urmand at least did not relish it. 'I shall go away at onceif she doesn't treat me as she ought,' said he, just as they wereentering the village.

  Michel was silent for a moment before he answered. 'You'll behave,I'm sure, as a man ought to behave to a young woman whom he intendsto make his wife.' The words themselves were civil enough; butthere was a tone in the innkeeper's voice and a flame in his eye,which made Urmand almost feel that he had been threatened. Thenthey drove into the space in front of the door of the Lion d'Or.

  Michel had made for himself no plan whatsoever. He led the way atonce into the house, and Urmand followed, hardly daring to look upinto the faces of the persons around him. They were both of themsoon in the presence of Madame Voss, but Marie Bromar was not there.Marie had been sharp enough to perceive who was coming before theywere out of the carriage, and was already ensconced in some saferretreat up-stairs, in which she could meditate on her plan of thecampaign. 'Look lively, and get us something to eat,' said Michel,meaning to be cheerful and self-possessed. 'We left Basle at five,and have not eaten a mouthful since.' It was now nearly fouro'clock, and the bread and cheese which had been served with thewine on the top of the mountain had of course gone for nothing.Madame Voss immediately began to bustle about, calling the cook andPeter Veque to her assistance. But nothing for a while was saidabout Marie. Urmand, trying to look as though he were self-possessed,stood with his back to the stove, and whistled. For a few minutes,during which the bustling about the table went on, Michel was wrappedin thought, and said nothing. At last he had made up his mind, andspoke: 'We might as well make a dash at it at once,' said he.'Where is Marie?' No one answered him. 'Where is Marie Bromar?' heasked again, angrily. He knew that it behoved him now to take uponhimself at once the real authority of a master of a house.

  'She is up-stairs,' said Peter, who was straightening a table-cloth.

  'Tell her to come down to me,' said her uncle. Peter departedimmediately, and for a while there was silence in the little room.Adrian Urmand felt his heart to palpitate disagreeably. Indeed, themanner in which it would appear that the innkeeper proposed tomanage the business was distressing enough to him. It seemed asthough it were intended that he should discuss his littledifficulties with Marie in the presence of the whole household. Buthe stood his ground, and sounded one more ineffectual littlewhistle. In a few minutes Peter returned, but said nothing. 'Whereis Marie Bromar?' again demanded Michel in an angry voice.

  'I told her to come down,' said Peter.

  'Well?'

  'I don't think she's coming,' said Peter.

  'What did she say?'

  'Not a word; she only bade me go down.' Then Michel walked into thekitchen as though he were about to fetch the recusant himself. Buthe stopped himself, and asked his wife to go up to Marie. MadameVoss did go up, and after her return there was some whisperingbetween her and her husband. 'She is upset by the excitement ofyour return,' Michel said at last; 'and we must give her a littlegrace. Come, we will eat our dinner.'

  In the mean time Marie was sitting on her bed up-stairs in a mostunhappy plight. She really loved her uncle, and almost feared him.She did fear him with that sort of fear which is produced byreverence and habits of obedience, but which, when softened byaffection, hardly makes itself known as fear, except on troublousoccasions. And she was oppressed by the remembrance of all that wasdue from her to him and to her aunt, feeling, as it was natural thatshe should do, in compliance with the manners and habits of herpeople, that she owed a duty of obedience in this matter ofmarriage. Though she had been able to hold her own against thepriest, and had been quite firm in opposition to her aunt,--who
wasin truth a woman much less strong by nature than herself,--shedreaded a farther dispute with her uncle. She could not bear tothink that he should be enabled to accuse her with justice ofingratitude. It had been her great pleasure to be true to him, andhe had answered her truth by a perfect confidence which had given acharm to her life. Now this would all be over, and she would bedriven again to beg him to send her away, that she might become ahousehold drudge elsewhere. And now that this very moment of heragony had come, and that this man to whom she had given a promisewas there to claim her, how was she to go down and say what she hadto say, before all the world? It was perfectly clear to her that inaccordance with her reception of Urmand at the first moment of theirmeeting, so must be her continued conduct towards him, till heshould leave her, or else take her away with him. She could notsmile on him and shake hands with him, and cut his bread for him andpour out his wine, after such a letter as she had written to him,without signifying thereby that the letter was to go for nothing.Now, let what might happen, the letter was not to go for nothing.The letter was to remain a true fact, and a true letter. 'I can'tgo down, Aunt Josey; indeed I can't,' she said. 'I am not well, andI should drop. Pray tell Uncle Michel, with my best love and withmy duty, that I can't go to him now.' And she sat still upon herbed, not weeping, but clasping her hands, and trying to see her wayout of her misfortune.

  The dinner was eaten in grim silence, and after the dinner Michel,still grimly silent, sat with his friend on the bench before thedoor and smoked a cigar. While he was smoking, Michel said never aword. But he was thinking of the difficulty he had to overcome; andhe was thinking also, at odd moments, whether his own son George wasnot, after all, a better sort of lover for a young woman than thisyoung man who was seated by his side. But it never occurred to himthat he might find a solution of the difficulty by encouraging thissecond idea. Urmand, during this time, was telling himself that itbehoved him to be a man, and that his sitting there in silence washardly proof of his manliness. He knew that he was being ill-treated,and that he must do something to redress his own wrongs, if heonly knew how to do it. He was quite determined that he wouldnot be a coward; that he would stand up for his own rights. But ifa young woman won't marry a man, a man can't make her do so, eitherby scolding her, or by fighting any of her friends. In this casethe young lady's friends were all on his side. But the weight ofthat half hour of silence and of Michel's gloom was intolerable tohim. At last he got up and declared he would go and see an oldwoman who would have linen to sell. 'As I am here, I might as welldo a stroke of work,' he said, striving to be jocose.

  'Do,' said Michel; 'and in the mean time I will see Marie Bromar.'

  Whenever Michel Voss was heard to call his niece Marie Bromar, usingthe two names, it was understood, by all who heard him about thehotel, that he was not in a good humour. As soon as Urmand wasgone, he rose slowly from his seat, and with heavy steps he wentup-stairs in search of the refractory girl. He went straight to herown bedroom, and there he found her still sitting on her bedside.She jumped up as soon as he was in the room, and running up to him,took him by the arm. 'Uncle Michel,' she said, 'pray, pray be goodto me. Pray, spare me!'

  'I am good to you,' he said. 'I try to be good to you.'

  'You know that I love you. Do you not know that I love you?' Thenshe paused, but he made no answer to her. He was surer of nothingin the world than he was of her affection; but it did not suit himto acknowledge it at that moment. 'I would do anything for you thatI could do, Uncle Michel; but pray do not ask me to do this?' Thenshe clasped him tightly, and hung upon him, and put up her face tobe kissed. But he would not kiss her. 'Ah,' said she; 'you mean tobe hard to me. Then I must go; then I must go; then I must go.'

  'That is nonsense, Marie. You cannot go, till you go to yourhusband. Where would you go to?'

  'It matters not where I go to now.'

  'Marie, you are betrothed to this man, and you must consent tobecome his wife. Say that you will consent, and all this nonsenseshall be forgotten.' She did not say that she would consent; butshe did not say that she would not, and he thought that he mightpersuade her, if he could speak to her as he ought. But he doubtedwhich might be most efficacious, affection or severity. He hadassured himself that it would be his duty to be very severe, beforehe gave up the point; but it might be possible, as she was so sweetwith him, so loving and so gracious, that affection might prevail.If so, how much easier would the task be to himself! So he put hisarm round her, and stooped down and kissed her.

  'O, Uncle Michel,' she said; 'dear, dear Uncle Michel; say that youwill spare me, and be on my side, and be good to me.'

  'My darling girl, it is for your own good, for the good of us all,that you should marry this man. Do you not know that I would nottell you so, if it were not true? I cannot be more good to you thanthat.'

  'I can--not, Uncle Michel.'

  'Tell me why, now. What is it? Has anybody been bringing tales toyou?'

  'Nobody has brought any tales.'

  'Is there anything amiss with him?'

  'It is not that. It is not that at all. I am sure he is anexcellent young man, and I wish with all my heart he had a betterwife than I can ever be.'

  'He thinks you will be quite good enough for him.'

  'I am not good for anybody. I am very bad.'

  'Leave him to judge of that.'

  'But I cannot do it, Uncle Michel. I can never be Adrian Urmand'swife.'

  'But why, why, why?' repeated Michel, who was beginning to be againangered by his own want of success. 'You have said that a dozentimes, but have never attempted to give a reason.'

  'I will tell you the reason. It is because I love George with allmy heart, and with all my soul. He is so dear to me, that I shouldalways be thinking of him. I could not help myself. I shouldalways have him in my heart. Would that be right, Uncle Michel, ifI were married to another man?'

  'Then why did you accept the other man? There is nothing changedsince then.'

  'I was wicked then.'

  'I don't think you were wicked at all;--but at any rate you did it.You didn't think anything about having George in your heart then.'

  It was very hard for her to answer this, and for a moment or two shewas silenced. At last she found a reply. 'I thought everything wasdead within me then,--and that it didn't signify. Since that he hasbeen here, and he has told me all.'

  'I wish he had stayed where he was with all my heart. We did notwant him here,' said the innkeeper in his anger.

  'But he did come, Uncle Michel. I did not send for him, but he didcome.'

  'Yes; he came,--and he has disturbed everything that I had arrangedso happily. Look here, Marie. I lay my commands upon you as youruncle and guardian, and I may say also as your best and staunchestfriend, to be true to the solemn engagement which you have made withthis young man. I will not hear any answer from you now, but Ileave you with that command. Urmand has come here at my request,because I told him that you would be obedient. If you make a foolof me, and of yourself, and of us all, it will be impossible that Ishould forgive you. He will see you this evening, and I will trustto your good sense to receive him with propriety.' Then Michel Vossleft the room and descended with ponderous steps, indicative of aheavy heart.

  Marie, when she was alone, again seated herself on the bedside. Ofcourse she must see Adrian Urmand. She was quite aware that shecould not encounter him now with that half-saucy independent airwhich had come to her quite naturally before she had accepted him.She would willingly humble herself in the dust before him, if by sodoing she could induce him to relinquish his suit. But if she couldnot do so; if she could not talk over either her uncle or him to beon what she called her side, then what should she do? Her uncle'sentreaties to her, joined to his too evident sorrow, had upon her aneffect so powerful, that she could hardly overcome it. She had, asshe thought, resolved most positively that nothing should induce herto marry Adrian Urmand. She had of course been
very firm in thisresolution when she wrote her letter. But now--now she was almostshaken! When she thought only of herself, she would almost taskherself to believe that after all it did not much matter what ofhappiness or of unhappiness might befall her. If she allowedherself to be taken to a new home at Basle she could still work andeat and drink,--and working, eating, and drinking she could waittill her unhappiness should be removed. She was sufficiently wiseto understand that as she became a middle-aged woman, with perhapschildren around her, her sorrow would melt into a soft regret whichwould be at least endurable. And what did it signify after all howmuch one such a being as herself might suffer? The world would goon in the same way, and her small troubles would be of but littlesignificance. Work would save her from utter despondence. But whenshe thought of George, and the words in which he had expressed theconstancy of his own love, and the shipwreck which would fall uponhim if she were untrue to him,--then again she would become strongin her determination. Her uncle had threatened her with his lastingdispleasure. He had said that it would be impossible that he shouldforgive her. That would be unbearable! Yet, when she thought ofGeorge, she told herself that it must be borne.

  Before the hour of supper came, her aunt had been with her, and shehad promised to see her suitor alone. There had been some doubt onthis point between Michel and his wife, Madame Voss thinking thateither she or her husband ought to be present. But Michel hadprevailed. 'I don't care what any people may say,' he replied. 'Iknow my own girl;--and I know also what he has a right to expect.'So it was settled, and Marie understood that Adrian was to come toher in the little brightly furnished sitting-room upstairs. On thisoccasion she took no notice of the hotel supper at all. It is to behoped that Peter Veque proved himself equal to the occasion.

  At about nine she was seated in the appointed place, and Madame Vossbrought her lover up into the room.

  'Here is M. Urmand come to speak to you,' she said. 'Your unclethinks that you had better see him alone. I am sure you will bearin mind what it is that he and I wish.' Then she closed the door,and Adrian and Marie were left together.

  'I need hardly tell you,' said he, 'what were my feelings when youruncle came to me yesterday morning. And when I opened your letterand read it, I could hardly believe that it had come from you.'

  'Yes, M. Urmand;--it did come from me.'

  'And why--what have I done? The last word you had spoken to me wasto declare that you would be my loving wife.'

  'Not that, M. Urmand; never that. When I thought it was to be so, Itold you that I would do my best to do my duty by you.'

  'Say that once more, and all shall be right.'

  'But I never promised that I would love you. I could not promisethat; and I was very wicked to allow them to give you my troth. Youcan't think worse of me than I think of myself.'

  'But, Marie, why should you not love me? I am sure you would loveme.'

  'Listen to me, M. Urmand; listen to me, and be generous to me. Ithink you can be generous to a poor girl who is very unhappy. I donot love you. I do not say that I should not have loved you, if youhad been the first. Why should not any girl love you? You areabove me in every way, and rich, and well spoken of; and your lifehas been less rough and poor than mine. It is not that I have beenproud. What is there that I can be proud of--except my uncle'strust in me? But George Voss had come to me before, and had made mepromise that I would love him;--and I do love him. How can I helpit, if I wished to help it? O, M. Urmand, can you not be generous?Think how little it is that you will lose.' But Adrian Urmand didnot like to be told of the girl's love for another man. Hisgenerosity would almost have been more easily reached had she toldhim of George's love for her. People had assured him since he wasengaged that Marie Bromar was the handsomest girl in Lorraine orAlsace; and he felt it to be an injury that this handsome girlshould prefer such a one as George Voss to himself. Marie, with awoman's sharpness, perceived all this accurately. 'Remember,' saidshe, 'that I had hardly seen you when George and I were--when he andI became such friends.'

  'Your uncle doesn't want you to marry his son.'

  'I shall never become George's wife without consent; never.'

  'Then what would be the use of my giving way?' asked Urmand. 'Hewould never consent.'

  She paused for a moment before she replied.

  'To save yourself,' said she, 'from living with a woman who cannotlove you, and to save me from living with a man I cannot love.'

  'And is this to be all the answer you will give me?'

  'It is the request that I have to make to you,' said Marie.

  'Then I had better go down to your uncle.' And he went down toMichel Voss, leaving Marie Bromar again alone.