Nothing was said to Marie about her sins on that afternoon after her
uncle had started on his journey. Everything in the hotel was
blank, and sad, and gloomy; but there was, at any rate, the negative
comfort of silence, and Marie was allowed to go about the house and
do her work without rebuke. But she observed that the Cure--M. le
Cure Gondin--sat much with her aunt during the evening, and she did
not doubt but that she herself and her iniquities made the subject
of their discourse.
M. le Cure Gondin, as he was generally called at Granpere,--being
always so spoken of, with his full name and title, by the large
Protestant portion of the community,--was a man very much respected
by all the neighbourhood. He was respected by the Protestants
because he never interfered with them, never told them, either
behind their backs or before their faces, that they would be damned
as heretics, and never tried the hopeless task of converting them.
In his intercourse with them he dropped the subject of religion
altogether,--as a philologist or an entomologist will drop his
grammar or his insects in his intercourse with those to whom grammar
and insects are matters of indifference. And he was respected by
the Catholics of both sorts,--by those who did not and by those who
did adhere with strictness to the letter of their laws of religion.
With the former he did his duty, perhaps without much enthusiasm.
He preached to them, if they would come and listen to him. He
christened them, confessed them, and absolved them from their sins,--of
course, after due penitence. But he lived with them, too, in a
friendly way, pronouncing no anathemas against them, because they
were not as attentive to their religious exercises as they might
have been. But with those who took a comfort in sacred things, who
liked to go to early masses in cold weather, to be punctual at
ceremonies, to say the rosary as surely as the evening came, who
knew and performed all the intricacies of fasting as ordered by the
bishop, down to the refinement of an egg more or less, in the whole
Lent, or the absence of butter from the day's cookery,--with these
he had all that enthusiasm which such people like to encounter in
their priest. We may say, therefore, that he was a wise man,--and
probably, on the whole, a good man; that he did good service
in his parish, and helped his people along in their lives not
inefficiently. He was a small man, with dark hair very closely cut,
with a tonsure that was visible but not more than visible; with a
black beard that was shaved every Tuesday, Friday, and Saturday
evenings, but which was very black indeed on the Tuesday and Friday
mornings. He always wore the black gown of his office, but would go
about his parish with an ordinary soft slouch hat,--thus subjecting
his appearance to an absence of ecclesiastical trimness which,
perhaps, the most enthusiastic of his friends regretted. Madame
Voss certainly would have wished that he would have had himself
shaved at any rate every other day, and that he would have abstained
from showing himself in the streets of Granpere without his clerical
hat. But, though she was very intimate with her Cure, and had
conferred upon him much material kindness, she had never dared to
express her opinion to him upon these matters.
During much of that afternoon M. le Cure sat with Madame Voss, but
not a word was said to Marie about her disobedience either by him or
by her. Nevertheless, Marie felt that her sins were being
discussed, and that the lecture was coming. She herself had never
quite liked M. le Cure--not having any special reason for disliking
him, but regarding him as a man who was perhaps a little deficient
in spirit, and perhaps a trifle too mindful of his creature
comforts. M. le Cure took a great deal of snuff, and Marie did not
like snuff taking. Her uncle smoked a great deal of tobacco, and
that she thought very nice and proper in a man. Had her uncle taken
the snuff and the priest smoked the tobacco, she would probably have
equally approved of her uncle's practice and disapproved that of the
priest;--because she loved the one and did not love the other. She
had thought it probable that she might be sent for during the
evening, and had, therefore, made for herself an immensity of
household work, the performance of all which on that very evening
the interests of the Lion d'Or would imperatively demand. The work
was all done, but no message from Aunt Josey summoned Marie into the
little parlour.
Nevertheless Marie had been quite right in her judgment. On the
following morning, between eight and nine, M. le Cure was again in
the house, and had a cup of coffee taken to him in the little
parlour. Marie, who felt angry at his return, would not take it
herself, but sent it in by the hands of Peter Veque. Peter Veque
returned in a few minutes with a message to Marie, saying that M. le
Cure wished to see her.
'Tell him that I am very busy,' said Marie. 'Say that uncle is
away, and that there is a deal to do. Ask him if another day won't
suit as well.'
She knew when she sent this message that another day would not suit
as well. And she must have known also that her uncle's absence made
no difference in her work. Peter came back with a request from
Madame Voss that Marie would go to her at once. Marie pressed her
lips together, clenched her fists, and walked down into the room
without the delay of an instant.
'Marie, my dear,' said Madame Voss, 'M. le Cure wishes to speak to
you. I will leave you for a few minutes.' There was nothing for it
but to listen. Marie could not refuse to be lectured by the priest.
But she told herself that having had the courage to resist her
uncle, it certainly was out of the question that any one else should
have the power to move her.
'My dear Marie,' began the Cure, 'your aunt has been telling me of
this little difference between you and your affianced husband.
Won't you sit down, Marie, because we shall be able so to talk more
comfortably?'
'I don't want to talk about it at all,' said Marie. But she sat
down as she was bidden.
'But, my dear, it is needful that your friends should talk to you.
I am sure that you have too much sense to think that a young woman
like yourself should refuse to hear her friends.' Marie had it
almost on her tongue to tell the priest that the only friends to
whom she chose to listen were her uncle and her aunt, but she
thought that it might perhaps be better that she should remain
silent. 'Of course, my dear, a young person like you must know that
she must walk by advice, and I am sure you must feel that no one can
give it you more fittingly than your own priest.' Then he took a
large pinch of snuff.
'If it were anything to do with the Church,--yes,' she said.
'And this has to do with the Church, very much. Indeed I do not
know how any of our duties in this life cannot have to do with the
Church. There can be no duty omitted as to which you would not
acknowledge that it was necessary that you should get absolution
from your priest.'
'But that would be in the church,' said Marie, not quite knowing how
to make good her point.
'Whether you are in the church or out of it, is just the same. If
you were sick and in bed, would your priest be nothing to you then?'
'But I am quite well, Father Gondin.'
'Well in health; but sick in spirit,--as I am sure you must own.
And I must explain to you, my dear, that this is a matter in which
your religious duty is specially in question. You have been
betrothed, you know, to M. Urmand.'
'But people betrothed are very often not married,' said Marie
quickly. 'There was Annette Lolme at Saint Die. She was betrothed
to Jean Stein at Pugnac. That was only last winter. And then there
was something wrong about the money; and the betrothal went for
nothing, and Father Carrier himself said it was all right. If it
was all right for Annette Lolme, it must be all right for me as far
as betrothing goes.'
The story that Marie told so clearly was perfectly true, and M. le
Cure Gondin knew that it was true. He wished now to teach Marie
that if certain circumstances should occur after a betrothal which
would make the marriage inexpedient in the eyes of the parents of
the young people, then the authority of the Church would not exert
itself to insist on the sacred nature of the pledge;--but that if
the pledge was to be called in question simply at the instance of a
capricious young woman, then the Church would have full power. His
object, in short, was to insist on parental authority, giving to
parental authority some little additional strength from his own
sacerdotal recognition of the sanctity of the betrothing promise.
But he feared that Marie would be too strong for him, if not also
too clear-headed. 'You cannot mean to tell me,' said he, 'that you
think such a solemn promise as you have given to this young man,
taking one from him as solemn in return, is to go for nothing?'
'I am very sorry that I promised,--very sorry indeed; but I cannot
keep my promise.'
'You are bound to keep it, especially as all your friends wish the
marriage, and think that it will be good for you. Annette Lolme's
friends wished her not to marry. It is my duty to tell you, Marie,
that if you break your faith to M. Urmand, you will commit a very
grievous sin, and you will commit it with your eyes open.'
'If Annette Lolme might change her mind because her lover had not
got as much money as people wanted, I am sure I may change mine
because I don't love a man.'
'Annette did what her friends advised her.'
'Then a girl must always do what her friends tell her? If I don't
marry M. Urmand, I sha'n't be wicked for breaking my promise, but
for disobeying Uncle Michel.'
'You will be wicked in every way,' said the priest.
'No, M. le Cure. If I had married M. Urmand, I know I should be
wicked to leave him, and I would do my best to live with him and
make him a good wife. But I have found out in time that I can't
love him; and therefore I am sure that I ought not to marry him, and
I won't.'
There was much more said between them, but M. le Cure Gondin was not
able to prevail in the least. He tried to cajole her, and he tried
to persuade by threats, and he tried to conquer her by gratitude and
affection towards her uncle. But he could not prevail at all.
'It is of no use my staying here any longer, M. le Cure,' she said
at last, 'because I am quite sure that nothing on earth will induce
me to consent. I am very sorry for what I have done. If you tell
me that I have sinned, I will repent and confess it. I have
repented, and am very, very sorry. I know now that I was very wrong
ever to think it possible that I could be his wife. But you can't
make me think that I am wrong in this.'
Then she left him, and as soon as she was gone, Madame Voss returned
to hear the priest's report as to his success.
In the mean time, Michel Voss had reached Basle, arriving there some
five hours before Marie's letter, and, in his ignorance of the law,
had made his futile attempt to intercept the letter before it
reached the hands of M. Urmand. But he was with Urmand when the
letter was delivered, and endeavoured to persuade his young friend
not to open it. But in doing this he was obliged to explain, to a
certain extent, what was the nature of the letter. He was obliged
to say so much about it as to justify the unhappy lover in asserting
that it would be better for them all that he should know the
contents. 'At any rate, you will promise not to believe it,' said
Michel. And he did succeed in obtaining from M. Urmand a sort of
promise that he would not regard the words of the letter as in truth
expressing Marie's real resolution. 'Girls, you know, are such
queer cattle,' said Michel. 'They think about all manner of things,
and then they don't know what they are thinking.'
'But who is the other man?' demanded Adrian, as soon as he had
finished the letter. Any one judging from his countenance when he
asked the question would have imagined that in spite of his promise
he believed every word that had been written to him. His face was a
picture of blank despair, and his voice was low and hoarse. 'You
must know whom she means,' he added, when Michel did not at once
reply.
'Yes; I know whom she means.'
'Who is it then, M. Voss?'
'It is George, of course,' replied the innkeeper.
'I did not know,' said poor Adrian Urmand.
'She never spoke a dozen words to any other man in her life, and as
for him, she has hardly seen him for the last eighteen months. He
has come over and said something to her, like a traitor,--has
reminded her of some childish promise, some old vow, something said
when they were children, and meaning nothing; and so he has
frightened her.'
'I was never told that there was anything between them,' said
Urmand, beginning to think that it would become him to be indignant.
'There was nothing to tell,--literally nothing.'
'They must have been writing to each other.'
'Never a line; on my word as a man. It was just as I tell you.
When George went from home, there had been some fooling, as I
thought, between them; and I was glad that he should go. I didn't
think it meant anything, or ever would.' As Michel Voss said this,
there did occur to him an idea that perhaps, after all, he had been
wrong to interfere in the first instance,--that there had then been
no really valid reason why George should not have married Marie
Bromar; but that did not in the least influence his judgment as to
what it might be expedient to do now. He was still as sure as ever
that as things stood now, it was his duty to do all in his power to
bring about the marriage between his niece and Adrian Urmand. 'But
since that, there has been nothing,' continued he, 'absolutely
nothing. Ask her, and she will tell you so. It is some romantic
idea of hers that she ought to stick to her first promise, now that
she has been reminded of it.'
All this did not convince Adrian Urmand, who for a while expressed
his opinion that it would be better for him to take Marie's refusal,
and thus to let the matter drop. It would be very bitter to him,
because all Basle had now heard of his proposed marriage, and a
whole shower of congratulations had already fallen upon him from his
fellow-townspeople: but he thought that it would be more bitter to
be rejected again in person by Marie Bromar, and then to be stared
at by all the natives of Granpere. He acknowledged that George Voss
was a traitor; and would have been ready to own that Marie was
another, had Michel Voss given him any encouragement in that
direction. But Michel throughout the whole morning,--and they were
closeted together for hours,--declared that poor Marie was more
sinned against than sinning. If Adrian was but once more over at
Granpere, all would be made right. At last Michel Voss prevailed,
and persuaded the young man to return with him to the Lion d'Or.
They started early on the following morning, and travelled to
Granpere by way of Colmar and the mountain. The father thus passed
twice through Colmar, but on neither occasion did he call upon his
son.