Of course you will guess, monsieur, that this awful affair was the
means of putting off our marriage. Marie and I neither of us
complained, but consoled ourselves with the reflection that all would
soon be well. I took up my position in my brother's house, and warmly
kissed my brother's children, now mine. Alphonsine tried to show her
gratitude as well as she could. And so six months slipped away, and
the villagers began talking again about our marriage. I don't know how
it was, but I began to feel very nervous and uneasy about the matter,
and I did not so much as dare broach the subject either to Alphonsine
or Marie's mother. In a little time the latter began the subject
herself.
"Pierre," said she, "you have adopted your brother's children, have
you not?"
"Yes, mother."
"And his wife also?"
"Yes; I must take care of his wife quite as much as her children."
"You have quite made up your mind?"
"Perfectly."
"Am I to understand that you never mean to leave them?"
"I swore I would not to my brother before he died."
Then there was a silence, and my heart beat very quick.
"Listen, Pierre," said the old woman; "don't think that I wish to
deprive the widow or the orphans of one morsel of the sustenance you
intend to set aside for them. Even if I did, your good heart would
hardly listen to me. But you must understand that I know Alphonsine.
{116} My daughter can never live with Alphonsine; and Alphonsine can
never live with me. Never!"
This last word seemed to open an abyss before my very feet. I too knew
Alphonsine. I too began now to understand that either of these
arrangements would be perfectly impracticable.
"Mother," I began--
"I don't wish to hinder jour marriage," replied the old lady, very
slowly; "I simply impose one condition. You must be quite aware that
in this matter my will must be law."
Still I hesitated.
"It will be for you then to decide your own fate," added she; "and my
daughter's as well."
I raised my head. Marie was there, and our eyes met. I must break my
oath or lose her for ever.
It is absolute torture to recall those fearful moments. My head seemed
to swim round, and when I tried to speak, there was something in my
throat which nearly choked me. And still Marie looked at me; and oh,
how tenderly!
"Pierre," said the old lady again, "you must answer; will you remain
alone with Alphonsine, or will you come here alone? Choose for
yourself."
I looked at Marie again, and was on the point of exclaiming, "I must
come here!" but the words again stuck in my throat, and my tongue
refused to speak. And then I began to ease my conscience with the
thought that I could still work for Victoire's wife and children, and
tried to think they would be equally happy, although I was not always
with them. But then I thought of that dreadful night, and the storm,
and the pale face, and the whisper in my ear came back again, and I
fancied I heard my brother say, "It was not that you promised me, my
brother; it was not that!"
At last the bitter words rose to my mouth, and in a hollow voice I
answered:
"I must keep my oath!" And then, like a drunken man, I fell prostrate
on the floor.
When I recovered she was near me still, and her sweet voice whispered
in my ear,
"Thank God, Pierre, you are an honest man!"
Those words were my only comfort in the long dreary year which
followed that fearful day. I was never myself again. I tried to rouse
myself up, and take some interest in my daily work, and did my best to
appear cheerful and contented at home, but I was not the same man that
I used to be. The children were a great comfort to me when I was at
home; but the long hopeless days and the dark dreary nights were
miserable enough, God knows. I seemed to dream away my life.
I thought it best to keep away from Marie, as a meeting would be
painful to both. And so we never met.
At last a report got about the village that Marie was going to be
married.
I could no longer keep away from her now, and she, too, appeared
anxious that we should meet. In a very few days we were once more side
by side.
There was no need of me to speak. She read my question in my eyes: of
her own accord she answered:
"Yes, Pierre, it is quite true."
"But, Pierre," added she in tears, "I am yours, and must be yours for
ever. Unless I can get you to say, Marry Jacques, I will remain single
all my life. But my mother begs me to get married; and what can I do?
She is very old, and very ill just now. I feel I _too_ have got a duty
to fulfil."
I uttered a cry of despair.
"Pierre," said Marie, still weeping, "you must know how dearly I love
you. My fate is that I must love you still. But, for all that, Pierre,
I cannot let my mother die."
I could not bear to hear her weep; but what comfort could I give? At
last the devil entered into my heart, {117} and I broke forth in
bitter curses at my fate, and what I chose to call her inconstancy.
"I don't deserve this," said Marie very softly; "and I hardly expected
that I should ever hear these words from your lips. Still, I believe
you love me, after all. I hope you will feel, when you think over all
that has passed, that I am not heartless, and that I deserve some
answer to the question which my lips almost refuse to ask. You will
give me an answer, I am sure, by-and-by."
And then she left me, half-mad as I was, lying coiled up in a heap at
the roadside.
During the next few days I did reflect. If I could not marry Marie
myself, had I any right to hinder her marriage with another? Was I
justified in preparing for her a life of solitude, and in depriving
her of a mother's care? And then, again, I began to perceive that no
one was at all inclined to take my part in the village. My popularity
was fast declining, since no one could look into my heart, or could
have the least idea what I had suffered, or knew what had actually
taken place. I was pitied, but considered very selfish. I was
continually told that Marie's mother was ailing sadly, and that she
had deserved better treatment at my hands.
At last Father Hermann comforted me, and benefitting by his good
advice and by the help of our holy religion, I began to be in a better
frame of mind.
I made up my mind to give Marie her freedom. But I could not bear to
see her again, and so I wrote.