The people of Colmar think Colmar to be a considerable place, and
far be it from us to hint that it is not so. It is--or was in the
days when Alsace was French--the chief town of the department of the
Haut Rhine. It bristles with barracks, and is busy with cotton
factories. It has been accustomed to the presence of a prefet, and
is no doubt important. But it is not so large that people going in
and out of it can pass without attention, and this we take to be the
really true line of demarcation between a big town and a little one.
Had Michel Voss and Adrian Urmand passed through Lyons or Strasbourg
on their journey to Granpere, no one would have noticed them, and
their acquaintances in either of those cities would not have been a
bit the wiser. But it was not probable that they should leave the
train at the Colmar station, and hire Daniel Bredin's caleche for
the mountain journey thence to Granpere, without all the facts of
the case coming to the ears of Madame Faragon. And when she had
heard the news, of course she told it to George Voss. She had
interested herself very keenly in the affair of George's love,
partly because she had a soft heart of her own and loved a ray of
romance to fall in upon her as she sat fat and helpless in her
easy-chair, and partly because she thought that the future landlord
of the Hotel de la Poste at Colmar ought to be regarded as a bigger
man 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 people
of Basle, and he didn't think so much then of a peddling buyer of
sheetings and shirtings.' Madame Faragon was rather fond of
alluding 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'Or
at Granpere, instead of the Poste at Colmar. George never quite
believed the boast, as he knew that Madame Faragon was at least ten
years older than his father. 'He used to think,' continued Madame
Faragon, 'that there was nothing better than a good house in the
public line, with a well-spirited woman inside it to stand her ground
and hold her own. But everything is changed now, since the railroads
came up. The pedlars become merchants, and the respectable old
shopkeepers must go to the wall.' George would hear all this in
silence, though he knew that his old friend was endeavouring to
comfort him by making little of the Basle linen-merchant. Now, when
Madame Faragon learned that Michel Voss and Adrian Urmand had gone
through Colmar back from Basle on their way to Granpere, she
immediately foresaw what was to happen. Marie's marriage was to be
hurried on, George was to be thrown overboard, and the pedlar's pack
was to be triumphant over the sign of the innkeeper.
'If I were you, George, I would dash in among them at once,' said
Madame Faragon.
George was silent for a minute or two, leaving the room and
returning to it before he made any answer. Then he declared that he
would 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 and
I can be very dear friends when we meet each other.'
'You won't have any fighting? O, George, if I thought there was
going to be fighting, I would go myself to prevent it.' Madame
Faragon no doubt was sincere in her desire that there should be no
fighting; but, nevertheless, there was a life and reality about this
little affair which had a gratifying effect upon her. 'If I thought
I 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 in
truth long before the morning had dawned, George had started upon
his journey, following his father and M. Urmand in their route over
the mountain. This was the third time he had gone to Granpere in
the course of the present autumn, and on each time he had gone
without invitation and without warning. And yet, previous to this,
he had remained above a year at Colmar without taking any notice of
his family. He knew that his father would not make him welcome, and
he almost doubted whether it would be proper for him to drive
himself direct to the door of the hotel. His father had told him,
when they were last parting from each other, that he was nothing but
a trouble. 'You are all trouble,' his father had said to him. And
then his father had threatened to have him turned from the door by
the servants, if he should come to the house again before Marie and
Adrian were married. He was not afraid of his father; but he felt
that he had no right to treat the Lion d'Or as his own home unless
he was prepared to obey his father. And he knew nothing as to Marie
and her purpose. He had learned from her that, were she left to
herself, she would give herself with all her heart to him. But she
would not be left to herself, and he only knew now that Adrian
Urmand was being taken back to Granpere,--of course with the
intention that the marriage should be at once perfected. Madame
Faragon had, no doubt, been right in her advice as to dashing in
among them at once. Whatever was to be done must be done now. But
it was by no means clear to him how he was to carry on the war when
he found himself among them all at Granpere.
It was now October, and the morning on the mountain was very dark
and cold. He had started from Colmar between three and four, so
that he had passed through Munster, and was ascending the hill
before six. He stopped, too, and fed his horse at the Emperor's
house at the top, and fortified himself with a tumbler of wine and a
hunch of bread. He meant to go into Granpere and claim Marie as his
own. He would go to the priest, and to the pastor if necessary, and
forbid all authorities to lend their countenance to the proposed
marriage. He would speak his mind plainly, and would accuse his
father of extreme cruelty. He would call upon Madame Voss to save
her niece. He would be very savage with Marie, hoping that he might
thereby save her from herself,--defying her to say either before man
or God that she loved the man whom she was about to make her
husband. And as to Adrian Urmand himself--; he still thought that,
should the worst come to the worst, he would try some process of
choking upon Adrian Urmand. Any use of personal violence would be
distasteful to him and contrary to his nature. He was not a man who
in the ordinary way of his life would probably lift his hand against
another. Such liftings of hands on the part of other men he
regarded as a falling back to the truculence of savage life. Men
should manage and coerce each other either with the tongue, or with
money, or with the law--according to his theory of life. But on
such an occasion as this he found himself obliged to acknowledge
that, if the worst should come to the worst, some attempt at choking
his enemy must be made. It must be made for Marie's sake, if not
for 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 of
the road before the hotel. The stable-servant, who was hanging
about, 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 he
had expected that his father would have been away from home, as was
his custom at that hour. But the innkeeper's mind was at present
too full of trouble to allow of his going off either to the
woodcutting or to the farm.
Adrian Urmand, after his failure with Marie on the preceding
evening, had not again gone down-stairs. He had taken himself at
once to his bedroom, and had remained there gloomy and unhappy, very
angry with Marie Bromar; but, if possible, more angry with Michel
Voss. Knowing, as he must have known, how the land lay, why had the
innkeeper brought him from Basle to Granpere? He found himself to
have been taken in, from first to last, by the whole household, and
he would at this moment have been glad to obliterate Granpere
altogether from among the valleys of the Vosges. And so he went to
bed in his wrath. Michel and Madame Voss sat below waiting for him
above an hour. Madame Voss more than once proposed that she should
go up and see what was happening. It was impossible, she declared,
that they should be talking together all that time. But her husband
had stayed her. 'Whatever they have to say, let them say it out.'
It seemed to him that Marie must be giving way, if she submitted
herself to so long an interview. When at last Madame Voss did go
up-stairs, she learned from the maid that M. Urmand had been in bed
ever so long; and on going to Marie's chamber, she found her sitting
where she had sat before. 'Yes, Aunt Josey, I will go to bed at
once,' she said. 'Give uncle my love.' Then Aunt Josey had
returned to her husband, and neither of them had been able to
extract any comfort from the affairs of the evening.
Early on the following morning, M. le Cure was called to a
consultation. This was very distasteful to Michel Voss, because he
was himself a Protestant, and, having lived all his life with a
Protestant son and two Roman Catholic women in the house, he had
come to feel that Father Gondin's religion was a religion for the
weaker sex. He troubled himself very little with the doctrinal
differences, having no slightest touch of an idea that he was to be
saved because he was a Protestant, and that they were in peril
because they were Roman Catholics. Nor, indeed, was there any such
idea on either side prevalent in the valley. What M. le Cure
himself may have believed, who can say? But he never taught his
parishioners that their Protestant uncles and wives and children
were to be damned. Michel Voss was averse to priestly assistance;
but now he submitted to it. He hardly knew himself how far that
betrothal was a binding ceremony. But he felt strongly that he had
committed himself to the marriage; that it did not become him to
allow that his son had been right; and also that if Marie would only
marry 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. le
Cure was quite as hot in favour of the marriage as were the other
persons concerned. It was, in the first place, infinitely
preferable in his eyes that his young parishioner should marry a
Roman Catholic. But he was not able to undertake to use any special
thunders of the Church. He could tell the young woman what was her
duty, and he had done so. If her guardians wished it, he would do
so 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 how
well Marie was acquainted with all the bearings of the case.
'But both consented to break it off in that case,' said Michel. It
was singular to observe how cruel he had become against the girl
whom he so dearly loved. The Cure explained to him again that
neither the Church nor the law could interfere to make her marry M.
Urmand. It might be explained to her that she would commit a sin
requiring penitence and absolution if she did not marry him. The
Church could go no farther than that. But--such was the Cure's
opinion--there was no power at the command of Michel Voss by which
he could force his niece to marry the man, unless his own internal
power as a friend and a protector might enable him to do so. 'She
doesn't care a straw for that now,' said he. 'Not a straw. Since
that fellow was over here, she thinks nothing of me, and nothing of
her word.' Then he went out to the hotel door, leaving the priest
with his wife, and he had not stood there for a minute or two before
he saw his son's arrival. Marie, in the mean time, had not left her
room. She had sent word down to her uncle that she was ill, and
that 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 wandering
about the house by himself. He also, from the windows of the
billiard-room, had seen the arrival of George Voss.
Michel Voss, when he saw George, did not move from his place. He
was still very angry with his son, vehemently angry, because his son
stood in the way of the completion of his desires. But he had
forgotten all his threats, spoken now nearly a week ago. He was
altogether oblivious of his declaration that he would have George
turned away from the door by the servants of the inn. That his own
son should treat his house as a home was so natural to him, that it
did 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 friend
the innkeeper could see, likely enough to be successful in his
object. Michel stood his ground, with his hands in his pockets,
because he would not even shake hands with his son. But when George
came up, he bowed a recognition with his head; as though he should
have said, 'I see you; but I cannot say that you are welcome to
Granpere.' George stood for a moment or two, and then addressed his
father.
'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 on
the last word, by which he implied that though he was not the keeper
of Adrian Urmand, he was the keeper of somebody else. George stood
awhile, hesitating, by his father's side, and as he stood he saw
through the window of the billiard-room the figure of Urmand, who
was watching them. 'Your mother is in her own room; you had better
go to her,' said Michel. Then George entered the hotel, and his
father went across the court to seek Urmand in his retreat. In this
way the difficulty of the first meeting was overcome, and George did
not find himself turned out of the Lion d'Or.
He knew of course nothing of the state of affairs at the inn. It
might be that Marie had already given way, and was still the
promised bride of this man. Indeed, to him it seemed most probable
that such should be the case. He had been sent to look for Madame
Voss, 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 or
three other servants and hangers-on. It was impossible that he
should speak out before so many persons, and he had not a friend
about the place, unless Marie was his friend. After a few moments
he 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 grandest
woman, the finest girl that had ever been created. If so, would he
not be true to her? If so, with what a true worship would he offer
her all that he had to give in the world! He had come there before
determined to crush her with his thunderbolt. Now he would swear to
cherish her and keep her warm with his love for ever and ever. 'Is
she 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 kind
of treatment to your father; you do indeed. It will make an old man
of him. He has set his heart upon this, and you ought to have
yielded.'
It was at any rate evident that Marie was holding out, was true to
her first love, in spite of that betrothal which had appeared to
George to be so wicked, but which had in truth been caused by his
own fault. If Marie would hold out, there would be no need that he
should lay violent hands upon Adrian Urmand, or have resort to any
process of choking. If she would only be firm, they could not
succeed in making her marry the linen-merchant. He was not in the
least afraid of M. le Cure Gondin; nor was he afraid of Adrian
Urmand. He was not much afraid of Madame Voss. He was afraid only
of his father. 'A man cannot yield on such a matter,' he said. 'No
man yields in such an affair,--though he may be beaten.' Madame
Voss listened to him, but said nothing farther. She was busy with
her work, and went on intently with her needle.
He had asked to see Urmand, and he now went out in quest of him. He
passed across the court, and in at the door of the cafe, and up into
the billiard-room. Here he found both his father and the young man.
Urmand got up to salute him, and George took off his hat. Nothing
could be more ceremonious than the manner in which the two rivals
greeted each other. They had not seen each other for nearly two
years, and had never been intimate. When George had been living at
Granpere, Urmand had only been an occasional sojourner at the inn,
and had not as yet fallen into habits of friendship with the Voss
family.
'Have you seen your mother?' Michel asked.
'Yes; I have seen her.' Then there was silence for awhile. Urmand
knew not how to speak, and George was doubtful how to proceed in
presence of his father.
Then Michel asked another question. 'Are you going to stay long
with us, George?'
'Certainly not long, father. I have brought nothing with me but
what you see.'
'You have brought too much, if you have come to give us trouble.'
Then there was another pause, during which George sat down in a
corner, apart from them. Urmand took out a cigar and lit it,
offering one to the innkeeper. But Michel Voss shook his head. He
was very unhappy, feeling that everything around him was wrong.
Here was a son of his, of whom he was proud, the only living child
of 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, at
this very moment, was showing himself to be a real man; and yet he
was 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 a
stranger to him, with whom he had no sympathy; when it would have
made him so happy to be leaning on his son's shoulder, and
discussing their joint affairs with unreserved confidence, asking
questions about wages, and suggesting possible profits. He was
beginning to hate Adrian Urmand. He was beginning to hate the young
man, although he knew that it was his duty to go on with the
marriage. Urmand, as soon as his cigar was lighted, got up and
began to knock the balls about on the table. That gloom of silence
was to him most painful.
'If you would not mind it, M. Urmand,' said George, 'I should like
to take a walk with you.'
'To take a walk?'
'If it would not be disagreeable. Perhaps it would be well that you
and 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 at
the innkeeper as though he did not like the proposition, but Michel
took no notice of his look.
'There certainly shall be none on my part,' said George. 'I don't
know what M. Urmand's feelings may be.'
'O dear, no; nothing of the kind,' said Urmand. 'But I don't
exactly see what we are to talk about.' Michel, however, paid no
attention to this, but walked slowly out of the room. 'I really
don't know what there is to say,' continued Urmand, as he knocked
the balls about with his cue.
'There is this to say. That girl up there was induced to promise
that she would be your wife, when she believed that--I had forgotten
her.'
'O dear, no; nothing of the kind.'
'That is her story. Go and ask her. If it is so, or even if it
suits her now to say so, you will hardly, as a man, endeavour to
drive her into a marriage which she does not wish. You will never
do it, even if you do try. Though you go on trying till you drive
her mad, she will never be your wife. But if you are a man, you
will not continue to torment her, simply because you have got her
uncle 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. Is
not that enough? She does love another man; me--me--me. Is not
that enough? Heaven and earth! I would sooner go to the galleys, or
break stones upon the roads, than take a woman to my bosom who was
thinking of some other man.'
'That is all very fine.'
'Let me tell you, that the other thing, that which you propose to
do, is by no means fine. But I will not quarrel with you, if I can
help it. Will you go away and leave us at peace? They say you are
rich and have a grand house. Surely you can do better than marry a
poor 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 is
becoming tired of all the trouble you are making? Surely you will
not 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 and
droop and die, or perhaps go mad, in order that a promise may be
kept to you? Take the matter into your own hands at once, and say
you 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 a
voice that was intended to be indifferent.
'Yes--that is all. But I mean to do something more, if I am driven
to 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 George
Voss in a few minutes followed him down the stairs.
The rest of the day was passed in gloom and wretchedness. George
hardly spoke to his father; but the two sat at table together, and
there was no open quarrel between them. Urmand also sat with them,
and tried to converse with Michel and Madame Voss. But Michel would
say very little to him; and the mistress of the house was so cowed
by 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 was
not well and was in bed. Her uncle had gone to see her twice, but
had made no report to any one of what had passed between them.
It had come to be understood that George would sleep there, at any
rate for that night, and a bed had been prepared for him. The party
broke up very early, for there was nothing in common among them to
keep them together. Madame Voss sat murmuring with the priest for
half an hour or so; but it seemed that the gloom attendant upon the
young lovers had settled also upon M. le Cure. Even he escaped as
early as he could.
When George was about to undress himself there came a knock at his
door, 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!'