CHAPTER XVIII.
The people of Colmar think Colmar to be a considerable place, andfar be it from us to hint that it is not so. It is--or was in thedays when Alsace was French--the chief town of the department of theHaut Rhine. It bristles with barracks, and is busy with cottonfactories. It has been accustomed to the presence of a prefet, andis no doubt important. But it is not so large that people going inand out of it can pass without attention, and this we take to be thereally true line of demarcation between a big town and a little one.Had Michel Voss and Adrian Urmand passed through Lyons or Strasbourgon their journey to Granpere, no one would have noticed them, andtheir acquaintances in either of those cities would not have been abit the wiser. But it was not probable that they should leave thetrain at the Colmar station, and hire Daniel Bredin's caleche forthe mountain journey thence to Granpere, without all the facts ofthe case coming to the ears of Madame Faragon. And when she hadheard the news, of course she told it to George Voss. She hadinterested herself very keenly in the affair of George's love,partly because she had a soft heart of her own and loved a ray ofromance to fall in upon her as she sat fat and helpless in hereasy-chair, and partly because she thought that the future landlordof the Hotel de la Poste at Colmar ought to be regarded as a biggerman and a better match than any Swiss linen-merchant in the world.'I can't think what it is that your father means,' she had said.'When he and I were young, he used not to be so fond of the peopleof Basle, and he didn't think so much then of a peddling buyer ofsheetings and shirtings.' Madame Faragon was rather fond ofalluding to past times, and of hinting to George that in early days,had she been willing, she might have been mistress of the Lion d'Orat Granpere, instead of the Poste at Colmar. George never quitebelieved the boast, as he knew that Madame Faragon was at least tenyears older than his father. 'He used to think,' continued MadameFaragon, 'that there was nothing better than a good house in thepublic line, with a well-spirited woman inside it to stand her groundand hold her own. But everything is changed now, since the railroadscame up. The pedlars become merchants, and the respectable oldshopkeepers must go to the wall.' George would hear all this insilence, though he knew that his old friend was endeavouring tocomfort him by making little of the Basle linen-merchant. Now, whenMadame Faragon learned that Michel Voss and Adrian Urmand had gonethrough Colmar back from Basle on their way to Granpere, sheimmediately foresaw what was to happen. Marie's marriage was to behurried on, George was to be thrown overboard, and the pedlar's packwas to be triumphant over the sign of the innkeeper.
'If I were you, George, I would dash in among them at once,' saidMadame Faragon.
George was silent for a minute or two, leaving the room andreturning to it before he made any answer. Then he declared that hewould dash in among them at Granpere.
'It will be better to go over and see it all settled,' he said.
'But, George, you won't quarrel?'
'What do you mean by quarrelling? I don't suppose that this man andI can be very dear friends when we meet each other.'
'You won't have any fighting? O, George, if I thought there wasgoing to be fighting, I would go myself to prevent it.' MadameFaragon no doubt was sincere in her desire that there should be nofighting; but, nevertheless, there was a life and reality about thislittle affair which had a gratifying effect upon her. 'If I thoughtI could do any good, I really would go,' she said again afterwards.But George did not encourage her to make the attempt.
No more was said about it; but early on the following morning, or intruth long before the morning had dawned, George had started uponhis journey, following his father and M. Urmand in their route overthe mountain. This was the third time he had gone to Granpere inthe course of the present autumn, and on each time he had gonewithout invitation and without warning. And yet, previous to this,he had remained above a year at Colmar without taking any notice ofhis family. He knew that his father would not make him welcome, andhe almost doubted whether it would be proper for him to drivehimself direct to the door of the hotel. His father had told him,when they were last parting from each other, that he was nothing buta trouble. 'You are all trouble,' his father had said to him. Andthen his father had threatened to have him turned from the door bythe servants, if he should come to the house again before Marie andAdrian were married. He was not afraid of his father; but he feltthat he had no right to treat the Lion d'Or as his own home unlesshe was prepared to obey his father. And he knew nothing as to Marieand her purpose. He had learned from her that, were she left toherself, she would give herself with all her heart to him. But shewould not be left to herself, and he only knew now that AdrianUrmand was being taken back to Granpere,--of course with theintention that the marriage should be at once perfected. MadameFaragon had, no doubt, been right in her advice as to dashing inamong them at once. Whatever was to be done must be done now. Butit was by no means clear to him how he was to carry on the war whenhe found himself among them all at Granpere.
It was now October, and the morning on the mountain was very darkand cold. He had started from Colmar between three and four, sothat he had passed through Munster, and was ascending the hillbefore six. He stopped, too, and fed his horse at the Emperor'shouse at the top, and fortified himself with a tumbler of wine and ahunch of bread. He meant to go into Granpere and claim Marie as hisown. He would go to the priest, and to the pastor if necessary, andforbid all authorities to lend their countenance to the proposedmarriage. He would speak his mind plainly, and would accuse hisfather of extreme cruelty. He would call upon Madame Voss to saveher niece. He would be very savage with Marie, hoping that he mightthereby save her from herself,--defying her to say either before manor God that she loved the man whom she was about to make herhusband. And as to Adrian Urmand himself--; he still thought that,should the worst come to the worst, he would try some process ofchoking upon Adrian Urmand. Any use of personal violence would bedistasteful to him and contrary to his nature. He was not a man whoin the ordinary way of his life would probably lift his hand againstanother. Such liftings of hands on the part of other men heregarded as a falling back to the truculence of savage life. Menshould manage and coerce each other either with the tongue, or withmoney, or with the law--according to his theory of life. But onsuch an occasion as this he found himself obliged to acknowledgethat, if the worst should come to the worst, some attempt at chokinghis enemy must be made. It must be made for Marie's sake, if notfor his own. In this mood of mind he drove down to Granpere, and,not knowing where else to stop, drew up his horse in the middle ofthe road before the hotel. The stable-servant, who was hangingabout, immediately came to him;--and there was his father standing,all alone, at the door of the house. It was now ten o'clock, and hehad expected that his father would have been away from home, as washis custom at that hour. But the innkeeper's mind was at presenttoo full of trouble to allow of his going off either to thewoodcutting or to the farm.
Adrian Urmand, after his failure with Marie on the precedingevening, had not again gone down-stairs. He had taken himself atonce to his bedroom, and had remained there gloomy and unhappy, veryangry with Marie Bromar; but, if possible, more angry with MichelVoss. Knowing, as he must have known, how the land lay, why had theinnkeeper brought him from Basle to Granpere? He found himself tohave been taken in, from first to last, by the whole household, andhe would at this moment have been glad to obliterate Granperealtogether from among the valleys of the Vosges. And so he went tobed in his wrath. Michel and Madame Voss sat below waiting for himabove an hour. Madame Voss more than once proposed that she shouldgo up and see what was happening. It was impossible, she declared,that they should be talking together all that time. But her husbandhad stayed her. 'Whatever they have to say, let them say it out.'It seemed to him that Marie must be giving way, if she submittedherself to so long an interview. When at last Madame Voss did goup-stairs, she learned from the maid that M. Urmand had been in bedever so long; and on going to Marie's chamber, she found her sittingwh
ere she had sat before. 'Yes, Aunt Josey, I will go to bed atonce,' she said. 'Give uncle my love.' Then Aunt Josey hadreturned to her husband, and neither of them had been able toextract any comfort from the affairs of the evening.
Early on the following morning, M. le Cure was called to aconsultation. This was very distasteful to Michel Voss, because hewas himself a Protestant, and, having lived all his life with aProtestant son and two Roman Catholic women in the house, he hadcome to feel that Father Gondin's religion was a religion for theweaker sex. He troubled himself very little with the doctrinaldifferences, having no slightest touch of an idea that he was to besaved because he was a Protestant, and that they were in perilbecause they were Roman Catholics. Nor, indeed, was there any suchidea on either side prevalent in the valley. What M. le Curehimself may have believed, who can say? But he never taught hisparishioners that their Protestant uncles and wives and childrenwere to be damned. Michel Voss was averse to priestly assistance;but now he submitted to it. He hardly knew himself how far thatbetrothal was a binding ceremony. But he felt strongly that he hadcommitted himself to the marriage; that it did not become him toallow that his son had been right; and also that if Marie would onlymarry the man, she would find herself quite happy in her new home.So M. le Cure was called in, and there was a consultation. M. leCure was quite as hot in favour of the marriage as were the otherpersons concerned. It was, in the first place, infinitelypreferable in his eyes that his young parishioner should marry aRoman Catholic. But he was not able to undertake to use any specialthunders of the Church. He could tell the young woman what was herduty, and he had done so. If her guardians wished it, he would doso again, very strongly. But he did not know how he was to do more.Then the priest told the story of Annette Lolme, pointing out howwell Marie was acquainted with all the bearings of the case.
'But both consented to break it off in that case,' said Michel. Itwas singular to observe how cruel he had become against the girlwhom he so dearly loved. The Cure explained to him again thatneither the Church nor the law could interfere to make her marry M.Urmand. It might be explained to her that she would commit a sinrequiring penitence and absolution if she did not marry him. TheChurch could go no farther than that. But--such was the Cure'sopinion--there was no power at the command of Michel Voss by whichhe could force his niece to marry the man, unless his own internalpower as a friend and a protector might enable him to do so. 'Shedoesn't care a straw for that now,' said he. 'Not a straw. Sincethat fellow was over here, she thinks nothing of me, and nothing ofher word.' Then he went out to the hotel door, leaving the priestwith his wife, and he had not stood there for a minute or two beforehe saw his son's arrival. Marie, in the mean time, had not left herroom. She had sent word down to her uncle that she was ill, andthat she would beg him to go up to her. As yet he had not seen her;but a message had been taken to her, saying that he would come soon.Adrian Urmand had breakfasted alone, and had since been wanderingabout the house by himself. He also, from the windows of thebilliard-room, had seen the arrival of George Voss.
Michel Voss, when he saw George, did not move from his place. Hewas still very angry with his son, vehemently angry, because his sonstood in the way of the completion of his desires. But he hadforgotten all his threats, spoken now nearly a week ago. He wasaltogether oblivious of his declaration that he would have Georgeturned away from the door by the servants of the inn. That his ownson should treat his house as a home was so natural to him, that itdid not even occur to him now that he could bid him not to enter.There he was again, creating more trouble; and, as far as our friendthe innkeeper could see, likely enough to be successful in hisobject. Michel stood his ground, with his hands in his pockets,because he would not even shake hands with his son. But when Georgecame up, he bowed a recognition with his head; as though he shouldhave said, 'I see you; but I cannot say that you are welcome toGranpere.' George stood for a moment or two, and then addressed hisfather.
'Adrian Urmand is here with you, is he not, father?'
'He is in the house somewhere,' said Michel, sullenly.
'May I speak to him?'
'I am not his keeper; not his,' and Michel put a special accent onthe last word, by which he implied that though he was not the keeperof Adrian Urmand, he was the keeper of somebody else. George stoodawhile, hesitating, by his father's side, and as he stood he sawthrough the window of the billiard-room the figure of Urmand, whowas watching them. 'Your mother is in her own room; you had bettergo to her,' said Michel. Then George entered the hotel, and hisfather went across the court to seek Urmand in his retreat. In thisway the difficulty of the first meeting was overcome, and George didnot find himself turned out of the Lion d'Or.
He knew of course nothing of the state of affairs at the inn. Itmight be that Marie had already given way, and was still thepromised bride of this man. Indeed, to him it seemed most probablethat such should be the case. He had been sent to look for MadameVoss, and Madame Voss he found in the kitchen.
'O, George, who expected to see you here to-day!' she exclaimed.
'Nobody, I daresay,' he replied. The cook was there, and two orthree other servants and hangers-on. It was impossible that heshould speak out before so many persons, and he had not a friendabout the place, unless Marie was his friend. After a few momentshe went into the inner room, and Madame Voss followed him. 'Well,'said he, 'has anything been settled?'
'I am sorry to say that everything is as unsettled as it can be,'said Madame Voss.
Then Marie must be true to him! And if so, she must be the grandestwoman, the finest girl that had ever been created. If so, would henot be true to her? If so, with what a true worship would he offerher all that he had to give in the world! He had come there beforedetermined to crush her with his thunderbolt. Now he would swear tocherish her and keep her warm with his love for ever and ever. 'Isshe here?' he asked.
'She is up-stairs, in bed. You cannot see her.'
'She is not ill?'
'She is making everybody else ill about the place, I know that,'said Madame Voss. 'And as for you, George, you owe a different kindof treatment to your father; you do indeed. It will make an old manof him. He has set his heart upon this, and you ought to haveyielded.'
It was at any rate evident that Marie was holding out, was true toher first love, in spite of that betrothal which had appeared toGeorge to be so wicked, but which had in truth been caused by hisown fault. If Marie would hold out, there would be no need that heshould lay violent hands upon Adrian Urmand, or have resort to anyprocess of choking. If she would only be firm, they could notsucceed in making her marry the linen-merchant. He was not in theleast afraid of M. le Cure Gondin; nor was he afraid of AdrianUrmand. He was not much afraid of Madame Voss. He was afraid onlyof his father. 'A man cannot yield on such a matter,' he said. 'Noman yields in such an affair,--though he may be beaten.' MadameVoss listened to him, but said nothing farther. She was busy withher work, and went on intently with her needle.
He had asked to see Urmand, and he now went out in quest of him. Hepassed across the court, and in at the door of the cafe, and up intothe billiard-room. Here he found both his father and the young man.Urmand got up to salute him, and George took off his hat. Nothingcould be more ceremonious than the manner in which the two rivalsgreeted each other. They had not seen each other for nearly twoyears, and had never been intimate. When George had been living atGranpere, Urmand had only been an occasional sojourner at the inn,and had not as yet fallen into habits of friendship with the Vossfamily.
'Have you seen your mother?' Michel asked.
'Yes; I have seen her.' Then there was silence for awhile. Urmandknew not how to speak, and George was doubtful how to proceed inpresence of his father.
Then Michel asked another question. 'Are you going to stay longwith us, George?'
'Certainly not long, father. I have brought nothing with me butwhat you see.'
'You have brought too much, if you hav
e come to give us trouble.'
Then there was another pause, during which George sat down in acorner, apart from them. Urmand took out a cigar and lit it,offering one to the innkeeper. But Michel Voss shook his head. Hewas very unhappy, feeling that everything around him was wrong.Here was a son of his, of whom he was proud, the only living childof his first wife, a young man of whom all people said good things;a son whom he had always loved and trusted, and who even now, atthis very moment, was showing himself to be a real man; and yet hewas forced to quarrel with this son, and say harsh things to him,and sit away from him with a man who was after all no more than astranger to him, with whom he had no sympathy; when it would havemade him so happy to be leaning on his son's shoulder, anddiscussing their joint affairs with unreserved confidence, askingquestions about wages, and suggesting possible profits. He wasbeginning to hate Adrian Urmand. He was beginning to hate the youngman, although he knew that it was his duty to go on with themarriage. Urmand, as soon as his cigar was lighted, got up andbegan to knock the balls about on the table. That gloom of silencewas to him most painful.
'If you would not mind it, M. Urmand,' said George, 'I should liketo take a walk with you.'
'To take a walk?'
'If it would not be disagreeable. Perhaps it would be well that youand I should have a few minutes of conversation.'
'I will leave you together here,' said the father, 'if you, George,will promise me that there shall be no violence.' Urmand looked atthe innkeeper as though he did not like the proposition, but Micheltook no notice of his look.
'There certainly shall be none on my part,' said George. 'I don'tknow what M. Urmand's feelings may be.'
'O dear, no; nothing of the kind,' said Urmand. 'But I don'texactly see what we are to talk about.' Michel, however, paid noattention to this, but walked slowly out of the room. 'I reallydon't know what there is to say,' continued Urmand, as he knockedthe balls about with his cue.
'There is this to say. That girl up there was induced to promisethat she would be your wife, when she believed that--I had forgottenher.'
'O dear, no; nothing of the kind.'
'That is her story. Go and ask her. If it is so, or even if itsuits her now to say so, you will hardly, as a man, endeavour todrive her into a marriage which she does not wish. You will neverdo it, even if you do try. Though you go on trying till you driveher mad, she will never be your wife. But if you are a man, youwill not continue to torment her, simply because you have got heruncle to back you.'
'Who says she will never marry me?'
'I say so. She says so.'
'We are betrothed to each other. Why should she not marry me?'
'Simply because she does not wish it. She does not love you. Isnot that enough? She does love another man; me--me--me. Is notthat enough? Heaven and earth! I would sooner go to the galleys, orbreak stones upon the roads, than take a woman to my bosom who wasthinking of some other man.'
'That is all very fine.'
'Let me tell you, that the other thing, that which you propose todo, is by no means fine. But I will not quarrel with you, if I canhelp it. Will you go away and leave us at peace? They say you arerich and have a grand house. Surely you can do better than marry apoor innkeeper's niece--a girl that has worked hard all her life?'
'I could do better if I chose,' said Adrian Urmand.
'Then go and do better. Do you not perceive that even my father isbecoming tired of all the trouble you are making? Surely you willnot wait till you are turned out of the house?'
'Who will turn me out of the house?'
'Marie will, and my father. Do you think he'll see her wither anddroop and die, or perhaps go mad, in order that a promise may bekept to you? Take the matter into your own hands at once, and sayyou will have no more to do with it. That will be the manly way.'
'Is that all you have to say, my friend?' asked Urmand, assuming avoice that was intended to be indifferent.
'Yes--that is all. But I mean to do something more, if I am drivento it.'
'Very well. When I want advice from you, I will come to you for it.And as for your doing, I believe you are not master here as yet.Good-morning.' So saying, Adrian Urmand left the room, and GeorgeVoss in a few minutes followed him down the stairs.
The rest of the day was passed in gloom and wretchedness. Georgehardly spoke to his father; but the two sat at table together, andthere was no open quarrel between them. Urmand also sat with them,and tried to converse with Michel and Madame Voss. But Michel wouldsay very little to him; and the mistress of the house was so cowedby the circumstances of the day, that she was hardly able to talk.Marie still kept her room; and it was stated to them that she wasnot well and was in bed. Her uncle had gone to see her twice, buthad made no report to any one of what had passed between them.
It had come to be understood that George would sleep there, at anyrate for that night, and a bed had been prepared for him. The partybroke up very early, for there was nothing in common among them tokeep them together. Madame Voss sat murmuring with the priest forhalf an hour or so; but it seemed that the gloom attendant upon theyoung lovers had settled also upon M. le Cure. Even he escaped asearly as he could.
When George was about to undress himself there came a knock at hisdoor, and one of the servant-girls put into his hand a scrap of paper.On it was written, 'I will never marry him, never--never--never;upon my honour!'