The old-fashioned inn at Colmar, at which George Voss was acting as
assistant and chief manager to his father's distant cousin, Madame
Faragon, was a house very different in all its belongings from the
Lion d'Or at Granpere. It was very much larger, and had much higher
pretensions. It assumed to itself the character of a first-class
hotel; and when Colmar was without a railway, and was a great
posting-station on the high road from Strasbourg to Lyons, there was
some real business at the Hotel de la Poste in that town. At
present, though Colmar may probably have been benefited by the
railway, the inn has faded, and is in its yellow leaf. Travellers
who desire to see the statue which a grateful city has erected to
the memory of its most illustrious citizen, General Rapp, are not
sufficient in number to keep a first-class hotel in the glories of
fresh paint and smart waiters; and when you have done with General
Rapp, there is not much to interest you in Colmar. But there is the
hotel; and poor fat, unwieldy Madame Faragon, though she grumbles
much, and declares that there is not a sou to be made, still keeps
it up, and bears with as much bravery as she can the buffets of a
world which seems to her to be becoming less prosperous and less
comfortable and more exacting every day. In her younger years, a
posting-house in such a town was a posting-house; and when M.
Faragon married her, the heiress of the then owner of the business,
he was supposed to have done uncommonly well for himself. Madame
Faragon is now a childless widow, and sometimes declares that she
will shut the house up and have done with it. Why maintain a
business without a profit, simply that there may be an Hotel de la
Poste at Colmar? But there are old servants whom she has not the
heart to send away; and she has at any rate a roof of her own over
her head; and though she herself is unconscious that it is so, she
has many ties to the old business; and now, since her young cousin
George Voss has been with her, things go a little better. She is
not robbed so much, and the people of the town, finding that they
can get a fair bottle of wine and a good supper, come to the inn;
and at length an omnibus has been established, and there is a little
glimmer of returning prosperity.
It is a large old rambling house, built round an irregularly-shaped
court, with another court behind it; and in both courts the stables
and coach-houses seem to be so mixed with the kitchens and
entrances, that one hardly knows what part of the building is equine
and what part human. Judging from the smell which pervades the
lower quarters, and, alas, also too frequently the upper rooms, one
would be inclined to say that the horses had the best of it. The
defect had been pointed out to Madame Faragon more than once; but
that lady, though in most of the affairs of life her temper is
gentle and kindly, cannot hear with equanimity an insinuation that
any portion of her house is either dirty or unsweet. Complaints
have reached her that the beds were--well, inhabited--but no servant
now dares to hint at anything wrong in this particular. If this
traveller or that says a word to her personally in complaint, she
looks as sour as death, and declines to open her mouth in reply; but
when that traveller's back is turned, the things that Madame Faragon
can say about the upstart coxcombry of the wretch, and as to the
want of all real comforts which she is sure prevails in the home
quarters of that ill-starred complaining traveller, are proof to
those who hear them that the old landlady has not as yet lost all
her energy. It need not be doubted that she herself religiously
believes that no foul perfume has ever pervaded the sanctity of her
chambers, and that no living thing has ever been seen inside the
sheets of her beds, except those guests whom she has allocated to
the different rooms.
Matters had not gone very easily with George Voss in all the changes
he had made during the last year. Some things he was obliged to do
without consulting Madame Faragon at all. Then she would discover
what was going on, and there would be a 'few words.' At other times
he would consult her, and carry his purpose only after much
perseverance. Twice or thrice he had told her that he must go away,
and then with many groans she had acceded to his propositions. It
had been necessary to expend two thousand francs in establishing the
omnibus, and in that affair the appearance of things had been at one
time quite hopeless. And then when George had declared that the
altered habits of the people required that the hour of the morning
table-d'hote should be changed from noon to one, she had sworn that
she would not give way. She would never lend her assent to such
vile idleness. It was already robbing the business portion of the
day of an hour. She would wrap her colours round her and die upon
the ground sooner than yield. 'Then they won't come,' said George,
'and it's no use you having the table then. They will all go to the
Hotel de l'Imperatrice.' This was a new house, the very mention of
which was a dagger-thrust into the bosom of Madame Faragon. 'Then
they will be poisoned,' she said. 'And let them! It is what they
are fit for.' But the change was made, and for the first three days
she would not come out of her room. When the bell was rung at the
obnoxious hour, she stopped her ears with her two hands.
But though there had been these contests, Madame Faragon had made
more than one effort to induce George Voss to become her partner and
successor in the house. If he would only bring in a small sum of
money--a sum which must be easily within his father's reach--he
should have half the business now, and all of it when Madame Faragon
had gone to her rest. Or if he would prefer to give Madame Faragon
a pension--a moderate pension--she would give up the house at once.
At these tender moments she used to say that he probably would not
begrudge her a room in which to die. But George Voss would always
say that he had no money, that he could not ask his father for
money, and that he had not made up his mind to settle at Colmar.
Madame Faragon, who was naturally much interested in the matter, and
was moreover not without curiosity, could never quite learn how
matters stood at Granpere. A word or two she had heard in a
circuitous way of Marie Bromar, but from George himself she could
never learn anything of his affairs at home. She had asked him once
or twice whether it would not be well that he should marry, but he
had always replied that he did not think of such a thing--at any
rate as yet. He was a steady young man, given more to work than to
play, and apparently not inclined to amuse himself with the girls of
the neighbourhood.
One day Edmond Greisse was over at Colmar--Edmond Greisse, the lad
whose untidy appearance at the supper-table at the Lion d'Or had
called down the rebuke of Marie Bromar. He had been sent over on
some business by his employer, and had come to get his supper and
bed at Madame Faragon's hotel. He was a modest, unassuming lad, and
had been hardly more than a boy when George Voss had left Granpere.
From time to time George had seen some friend from the village, and
had thus heard tidings from home. Once, as has been said, Madame
Voss had made a pilgrimage to Madame Faragon's establishment to
visit him; but letters between the houses had not been frequent.
Though postage in France--or shall we say Germany?--is now almost as
low as in England, these people of Alsace have not yet fallen into
the way of writing to each other when it occurs to any of them that
a word may be said. Young Greisse had seen the landlady, who now
never went upstairs among her guests, and had had his chamber
allotted to him, and was seated at the supper-table, before he met
George Voss. It was from Madame Faragon that George heard of his
arrival.
'There is a neighbour of yours from Granpere in the house,' said
she.
'From Granpere? And who is he?'
'I forget the lad's name; but he says that your father is well, and
Madame Voss. He goes back early to-morrow with the roulage and some
goods that his people have bought. I think he is at supper now.'
The place of honour at the top of the table at the Colmar inn was
not in these days assumed by Madame Faragon. She had, alas, become
too stout to do so with either grace or comfort, and always took her
meals, as she always lived, in the little room downstairs, from
which she could see, through the apertures of two doors, all who
came in and all who went out by the chief entrance of the hotel.
Nor had George usurped the place. It had now happened at Colmar, as
it has come to pass at most hotels, that the public table is no
longer the table-d'hote. The end chair was occupied by a stout,
dark man, with a bald head and black beard, who was proudly filling
a place different from that of his neighbours, and who would
probably have gone over to the Hotel de l'Imperatrice had anybody
disturbed him. On the present occasion George seated himself next
to the lad, and they were soon discussing all the news from
Granpere.
'And how is Marie Bromar?' George asked at last.
'You have heard about her, of course,' said Edmond Greisse.
'Heard what?'
'She is going to be married.'
'Minnie Bromar to be married? And to whom?'
Edmond at once understood that his news was regarded as being
important, and made the most of it.
'O dear, yes. It was settled last week when he was there.'
'But who is he?'
'Adrian Urmand, the linen-buyer from Basle.'
'Marie to be married to Adrian Urmand?'
Urmand's journeys to Granpere had been commenced before George Voss
had left the place, and therefore the two young men had known each
other.
'They say he's very rich,' said Edmond.
'I thought he cared for nobody but himself. And are you sure? Who
told you?'
'I am quite sure; but I do not know who told me. They are all
talking about it.'
'Did my father ever tell you?'
'No, he never told me.'
'Or Marie herself?'
'No, she did not tell me. Girls never tell those sort of things of
themselves.'
'Nor Madame Voss?' asked George.
'She never talks much about anything. But you may be sure it's
true. I'll tell you who told me first, and he is sure to know,
because he lives in the house. It was Peter Veque.'
'Peter Veque, indeed! And who do you think would tell him?'
'But isn't it quite likely? She has grown to be such a beauty!
Everybody gives it to her that she is the prettiest girl round
Granpere. And why shouldn't he marry her? If I had a lot of money,
I'd only look to get the prettiest girl I could find anywhere.'
After this, George said nothing farther to the young man as to the
marriage. If it was talked about as Edmond said, it was probably
true. And why should it not be true? Even though it were true, no
one would have cared to tell him. She might have been married twice
over, and no one in Granpere would have sent him word. So he
declared to himself. And yet Marie Bromar had once sworn to him
that she loved him, and would be his for ever and ever; and, though
he had left her in dudgeon, with black looks, without a kind word of
farewell, yet he had believed her. Through all his sojourn at
Colmar he had told himself that she would be true to him. He
believed it, though he was hardly sure of himself--had hardly
resolved that he would ever go back to Granpere to seek her. His
father had turned him out of the house, and Marie had told him as he
went that she would never marry him if her uncle disapproved it.
Slight as her word had been on that morning of his departure, it had
rankled in his bosom, and made him angry with her through a whole
twelvemonth. And yet he had believed that she would be true to him!
He went out in the evening when it was dusk and walked round and
round the public garden of Colmar, thinking of the news which he had
heard--the public garden, in which stands the statue of General
Rapp. It was a terrible blow to him. Though he had remained a
whole year in Colmar without seeing Marie, or hearing of her,
without hardly ever having had her name upon his lips, without even
having once assured himself during the whole time that the happiness
of his life would depend on the girl's constancy to him,--now that
he heard that she was to be married to another man, he was torn to
pieces by anger and regret. He had sworn to love her, and had never
even spoken a word of tenderness to another girl. She had given him
her plighted troth, and now she was prepared to break it with the
first man who asked her! As he thought of this, his brow became
black with anger. But his regrets were as violent. What a fool he
had been to leave her there, open to persuasion from any man who
came in the way, open to persuasion from his father, who would, of
course, be his enemy. How, indeed, could he expect that she should
be true to him? The year had been long enough to him, but it must
have been doubly long to her. He had expected that his father would
send for him, would write to him, would at least transmit to him
some word that would make him know that his presence was again
desired at Granpere. But his father had been as proud as he was,
and had not sent any such message. Or rather, perhaps, the father
being older and less impatient, had thought that a temporary absence
from Granpere might be good for his son.
It was late at night when George Voss went to bed, but he was up in
the morning early to see Edmond Greisse before the roulage should
start for Munster on its road to Granpere. Early times in that part
of the world are very early, and the roulage was ready in the back
court of the inn at half-past four in the morning.
'What? you up at this hour?' said Edmond.
'Why not? It is not every day we have a friend here from Granpere,
so I thought I would see you off.'
'That is kind of you.'
'Give my love to them at the old house, Edmond.'
'Of course I will.'
'To father, and Madame Voss, and the children, and to Marie.'
'All right.'
'Tell Marie that you have told me of her marriage.'
'I don't know whether she'll like to talk about that to me.'
'Never mind; you tell her. She won't bite you. Tell her also that
I shall be over at Granpere soon to see her and the rest of them.
I'll be over--as soon as ever I can get away.'
'Shall I tell your father that?'
'No. Tell Marie, and let her tell my father.'
'And when will you come? We shall all be so glad to see you.'
'Never you mind that. You just give my message. Come in for a
moment to the kitchen. There's a cup of coffee for you and a slice
of ham. We are not going to let an old friend like you go away
without breaking his fast.'
As Greisse had already paid his modest bill, amounting altogether to
little more than three francs, this was kind of the young landlord,
and while he was eating his bread and ham he promised faithfully
that he would give the message just as George had given it to him.
It was on the third day after the departure of Edmond Greisse that
George told Madame Faragon that he was going home.
'Going where, George?' said Madame Faragon, leaning forward on the
table before her, and looking like a picture of despair.
'To Granpere, Madame Faragon.'
'To Granpere! and why? and when? and how? O dear! Why did you not
tell me before, child?'
'I told you as soon as I knew.'
'But you are not going yet?'
'On Monday.'
'O dear! So soon as that! Lord bless me! We can't do anything
before Monday. And when will you be back?'
'I cannot say with certainty. I shall not be long, I daresay.'
'And have they sent for you?'
'No, they have not sent for me, but I want to see them once again.
And I must make up my mind what to do for the future.'
'Don't leave me, George; pray do not leave me!' exclaimed Madame
Faragon. 'You shall have the business now if you choose to take
it--only pray don't leave me!'
George explained that at any rate he would not desert her now at
once; and on the Monday named he started for Granpere. He had not
been very quick in his action, for a week had passed since he had
given Edmond Greisse his breakfast in the hotel kitchen.