The Golden Lion of Granpere Part 10

'I choose to say what I please, and think what I please, about my own girl,' he said, with his arm close wound round her. 'I say it's a great match for Adrian Urmand, and I am quite sure that he will not contradict me. He has had sense enough to know what sort of a young woman will make the best wife for him, and I respect him for it. I shall always respect Adrian Urmand because he has known better than to take up with one of your town-bred girls, who never learn anything except how to flaunt about with as much finery on their backs as they can get their people to give them. He might have had the pick of them at Basle,--or at Strasbourg either, for the matter of that; but he has thought my girl better than them all; and I love him for it--so I do. It was to be expected that a young fellow with means to please himself should choose to have a good-looking wife to sit at his table with him. Who'll blame him for that? And he has found the prettiest in all the country round. But he has wanted something more than good looks,--and he has got a great deal more. Yes; I say it, I, Michel Voss, though I am your uncle;--that he has got the pride of the whole country round. My darling, my own one, my child!'

All this was said with many interjections, and with sundry pauses in the speech, during which Michel caressed his niece, and pressed her to his breast, and signified his joy by all the outward modes of expression which a man so demonstrative knows how to use. This was a moment of great triumph to him, because he had begun to despair of success in this matter of the marriage, and had told himself on this very morning that the affair was almost hopeless. While he had been up in the wood, he had asked himself how he would treat Marie in consequence of her disobedience to him; and he had at last succeeded in producing within his own breast a state of mind that was not perhaps very reasonable, but which was consonant with his character.

He would let her know that he was angry with her,--very angry with her; that she had half broken his heart by her obstinacy; but after that she should be to him his own Marie again. He would not throw her off, because she disobeyed him. He could not throw her off, because he loved her, and knew of no way by which he could get rid of his love. But he would be very angry, and she should know of his anger. He had come home wearing a black cloud on his brow, and intending to be black. But all that was changed in a moment, and his only thought now was how to give pleasure to this dear one. It is something to have a niece who brings such credit on the family!

Marie as she listened to his praise and his ecstasies, knowing by a sure instinct every turn of his thoughts, tried to take joy to herself in that she had given joy to him. Though he was her uncle, and had in fact been her master, he was actually the one real friend whom she had made for herself in her life. There had been a month or two of something more than friends.h.i.+p with George Voss; but she was too wise to look much at that now. Michel Voss was the one being in the world whom she knew best, of whom she thought most, whose thoughts and wishes she had most closely studied, whose interests were ever present to her mind. Perhaps it may be said of every human heart in a sound condition that it must be specially true to some other one human heart; but it may certainly be so said of every female heart. The object may be changed from time to time,--may be changed very suddenly, as when a girl's devotion is transferred with the consent of all her friends from her mother to her lover; or very slowly, as when a mother's is transferred from her husband to some favourite child; but, unless self-wors.h.i.+p be predominant, there is always one friend to whom the woman's breast is true,--for whom it is the woman's joy to offer herself in sacrifice. Now with Marie Bromar that one being had been her uncle.

She prospered, if he prospered. His comfort was her comfort. Even when his palate was pleased, there was some gratification akin to animal enjoyment on her part. It was ease to her, that he should be at his ease in his arm-chair. It was mirth to her, that he should laugh. When he was contented she was satisfied. When he was ruffled she was never smooth. Her sympathy with him was perfect; and now that he was radiant with triumph, though his triumph came from his victory over herself, she could not deny him the pleasure of triumphing with him.

'Dear uncle,' she said, still caressing him, 'I am so glad that you are pleased.'

'Of course it will be a poor house without you, Marie. As for me, it will be just as though I had lost my right leg and my right arm.

But what! A man is not always to be thinking of himself. To see you treated by all the world as you ought to be treated,--as I should choose that my own daughter should be treated,--that is what I have desired. Sometimes when I've thought of it all when I've been alone, I have been mad with myself for letting it go on as it has done.'

'It has gone on very nicely, I think, Uncle Michel.' She knew how worse than useless it would be now to try and make him understand that it would be better for them both that she should remain with him. She knew, to the moving of a feather, what she could do with him and what she could not. Her immediate wish was to enable him to draw all possible pleasure from his triumph of the day, and therefore she would say no word to signify that his glory was founded on her sacrifice.

Then again came up the question of her position at supper, but there was no difficulty in the arrangement made between them. The one gala evening of grand dresses--the evening which had been intended to be a gala, but which had turned out to be almost funereal--was over. Even Michel Voss himself did not think it necessary that Marie should come in to supper with her silk dress two nights running; and he himself had found that that changing of his coat had impaired his comfort. He could eat his dinner and his supper in his best clothes on Sunday, and not feel the inconvenience; but on other occasions those unaccustomed garments were as heavy to him as a suit of armour. There was, therefore, nothing more said about clothes.

Marie was to dispense her soup as usual,--expressing a confident a.s.surance that if Peter were as yet to attempt this special branch of duty, the whole supper would collapse,--and then she was to take her place at the table, next to her uncle. Everybody in the house, everybody in Granpere, knew that the marriage had been arranged, and the old lady who had been so dreadfully snubbed by Marie, had forgiven the offence, acknowledging that Marie's position on that evening had been one of difficulty.

But these arrangements had reference only to two days. After two days, Adrian was to return to Basle, and to be seen no more at Granpere till he came to claim his bride. In regard to the choice of the day, Michel declared roundly that no constraint should be put upon Marie. She should have her full privileges, and no one should be allowed to interfere with her. On this point Marie had brought herself to be almost indifferent. A long engagement was a state of things which would have been quite incompatible with such a betrothal. Any delay that could have been effected would have been a delay, not of months, but of days,--or at most of a week or two.

She had made up her mind that she would not be afraid of her wedding. She would teach herself to have no dread either of the man or of the thing. He was not a bad man, and marriage in itself was honourable. She formed ideas also of some future true friends.h.i.+p for her husband. She would endeavour to have a true solicitude for his interests, and would take care, at any rate, that nothing was squandered that came into her hands. Of what avail would it be to her that she should postpone for a few days the beginning of a friends.h.i.+p that was to last all her life? Such postponement could only be induced by a dread of the man, and she was firmly determined that she would not dread him. When they asked her, therefore, she smiled and said very little. What did her aunt think?

Her aunt thought that the marriage should be settled for the earliest possible day,--though she never quite expressed her thoughts. Madame Voss, though she did not generally obtain much credit for clear seeing, had a clearer insight to the state of her niece's mind than had her husband. She still believed that Marie's heart was not with Adrian Urmand. But, attributing perhaps no very great importance to a young girl's heart, and fancying that she knew that in this instance the young girl's heart could not have its own way, she was quite in favour of the Urmand marriage. And if they were to be married, the sooner the better. Of that she had no doubt. 'It's best to have it over always as soon as possible,' she said to her husband in private, nodding her head, and looking much wiser than usual.

'I won't have Marie hurried,' said Michel.

'We had better say some day next month, my dear,' said Madame Voss, again nodding her head. Michel, struck by the peculiarity of her voice, looked into her face, and saw the unaccustomed wisdom. He made no answer, but after a while nodded his head also, and went out of the room a man convinced. There were matters between women, he thought, which men can never quite understand. It would be very bad if there should be any slip here between the cup and the lip; and, no doubt, his wife was right.

It was Madame Voss at last who settled the day,--the 15th of October, just four weeks from the present time. This she did in concert with Adrian Urmand, who, however, was very docile in her hands. Urmand, after he had been accepted, soon managed to bring himself back to that state of mind in which he had before regarded the possession of Marie Bromar as very desirable. For some four-and-twenty hours, during which he had thought himself to be ill-used, and had meditated a retreat from Granpere, he had contrived to teach himself that he might possibly live without her; but as soon as he was accepted, and when the congratulations of the men and women of Granpere were showered down upon him in quick succession,--so that the fact that the thing was to be became a.s.sured to him,--he soon came to fancy again that he was a man as successful in love as he was in the world's good, and that this acquisition of Marie's hand was a treasure in which he could take delight. He undoubtedly would be ready by the day named, and would go home and prepare everything for Marie's arrival.

They were very little together as lovers during those two days, but it was necessary that there should be an especial parting. 'She is up-stairs in the little sitting-room,' Aunt Josey said; and up-stairs to the little sitting-room Adrian Urmand went.

'I am come to say good-bye,' said Urmand.

'Good-bye, Adrian,' said Marie, putting both her hands in his, and offering her cheek to be kissed.

'I shall come back with such joy for the 15th,' said he.

She smiled, and kissed his cheek, and still held his hand.

'Adrian,' she said.

'My love?'

'As I believe in the dear Jesus, I will do my best to be a good wife to you.' Then he took her in his arms, and kissed her close, and went out of the room with tears streaming down his cheeks. He knew now that he was in truth a happy man, and that G.o.d had been good to him in this matter of his future wife.

CHAPTER X.

'So your cousin Marie is to be married to Adrian Urmand, the young linen-merchant at Basle,' said Madame Faragon one morning to George Voss. In this manner were the first a.s.sured tidings of the coming marriage conveyed to the rival lover. This occurred a day or two after the betrothal, when Adrian was back at Basle. No one at Granpere had thought of writing an express letter to George on the subject. George's father might have done so, had the writing of letters been a customary thing with him; but his correspondence was not numerous, and such letters as he did write were short, and always confined to matters concerning his trade. Madame Voss had, however, sent a special message to Madame Faragon, as soon as Adrian had gone, thinking that it would be well that in this way George should learn the truth.

It had been fully arranged by this time that George Voss was to be the landlord of the hotel at Colmar on and from the first day of the following year. Madame Faragon was to be allowed to sit in the little room downstairs, to scold the servants, and to make the strangers from a distance believe that her authority was unimpaired.

She was also to receive a moderate annual pension in money in addition to her board and lodging. For these considerations, and on condition that George Voss should expend a certain sum of money in renewing the faded glories of the house, he was to be the landlord in full enjoyment of all real power on the first of January following. Madame Faragon, when she had expressed her agreement to the arrangement, which was indeed almost in all respects one of her own creation, wept and wheezed and groaned bitterly. She declared that she would soon be dead, and so trouble him no more.

Nevertheless, she especially stipulated that she should have a new arm-chair for her own use, and that the feather bed in her own chamber should be renewed.

'So your cousin Marie is to be married to Adrian Urmand, the young linen-merchant at Basle,' said Madame Faragon.

'Who says so?' demanded George. He asked his question in a quiet voice; but, though the news had reached him thus suddenly, he had sufficient control over himself to prevent any plain expression of his feelings. The thing which had been told him had gone into his heart like a knife; but he did not intend that Madame Faragon should know that he had been wounded.

'It is quite true. There is no doubt about it. Stodel's man with the roulage brought me word direct from your step-mother.' George immediately began to inquire within himself why Stodel's man with the roulage had not brought some word direct to him, and answered the question to himself not altogether incorrectly. 'O, yes,'

continued Madame Faragon, 'it is quite true--on the 15th of October.

I suppose you will be going over to the wedding.' This she said in her usual whining tone of small complaint, signifying thereby how great would be the grievance to herself to be left alone at that special time.

'I shall not go to the wedding,' said George. 'They can be married, if they are to be married, without me.'

'They are to be married; you may be quite sure of that.' Madame Faragon's grievance now consisted in the amount of doubt which was being thrown on the tidings which had been sent direct to her. 'Of course you will choose to have a doubt, because it is I who tell you.'

'I do not doubt it at all. I think it is very likely. I was well aware before that my father wished it.'

'Of course he would wish it, George. How should he not wish it?

Marie Bromar never had a franc of her own in her life, and it is not to be expected that he, with a family of young children at his heels, is to give her a dot.'

'He will give her something. He will treat her as though she were a daughter.'

'Then I think he ought not. But your father was always a romantic, headstrong man. At any rate, there she is,--bar-maid, as we may say, in the hotel,--much the same as our Floschen here; and, of course, such a marriage as this is a great thing; a very great thing, indeed. How should they not wish it?'

'O, if she likes him--!'

'Like him? Of course, she will like him. Why should she not like him? Young, and good-looking, with a fine business, doesn't owe a sou, I'll be bound, and with a houseful of furniture. Of course, she'll like him. I don't suppose there is so much difficulty about that.'

'I daresay not,' said George. 'I believe that women's likings go after that fas.h.i.+on, for the most part.'

Madame Faragon, not understanding this general sarcasm against her s.e.x, continued the expression of her opinion about the coming marriage. 'I don't suppose anybody will think of blaming Marie Bromar for accepting the match when it was proposed to her. Of course, she would do as she was bidden, and could hardly be expected to say that the man was above her.'

'He is not above her,' said George in a hoa.r.s.e voice.

'Marie Bromar is nothing to you, George; nothing in blood; nothing beyond a most distant cousin. They do say that she has grown up good-looking.'

'Yes;--she is a handsome girl.'

'When I remember her as a child she was broad and dumpy, and they always come back at last to what they were as children. But of course M. Urmand only looks to what she is now. She makes her hay while the sun s.h.i.+nes; but I hope the people won't say that your father has caught him at the Lion d'Or, and taken him in.'

'My father is not the man to care very much what anybody says about such things.'

'Perhaps not so much as he ought, George,' said Madame Faragon, shaking her head.

After that George Voss went about the house for some hours, doing his work, giving his orders, and going through the usual routine of his day's business. As he did so, no one guessed that his mind was disturbed. Madame Faragon had not the slightest suspicion that the matter of Marie's marriage was a cause of sorrow to him. She had felt the not unnatural envy of a woman's mind in such an affair, and could not help expressing it, although Marie Bromar was in some sort connected with herself. But she was sure that such an arrangement would be regarded as a family triumph by George,--unless, indeed, he should be inclined to quarrel with his father for over-generosity in that matter of the dot. 'It is lucky that you got your little bit of money before this affair was settled,' said she.

'It would not have made the difference of a copper sou,' said George Voss, as he walked angrily out of the old woman's room. This was in the evening, after supper, and the greater part of the day had pa.s.sed since he had first heard the news. Up to the present moment he had endeavoured to shake the matter off from him, declaring to himself that grief--or at least any outward show of grief--would be unmanly and unworthy of him. With a strong resolve he had fixed his mind upon the affairs of his house, and had allowed himself to meditate as little as might be possible. But the misery, the agony, had been then present with him during all those hours,--and had been made the sharper by his endeavours to keep it down and banish it from his thoughts. Now, as he went out from Madame Faragon's room, having finished all that it was his duty to do, he strolled into the town, and at once began to give way to his thoughts. Of course he must think about it. He acknowledged that it was useless for him to attempt to get rid of the matter and let it be as though there were no such persons in the world as Marie Bromar and Adrian Urmand. He must think about it; but he might so give play to his feelings that no one should see him in the moments of his wretchedness. He went out, therefore, among the dark walks in the town garden, and there, as he paced one alley after another in the gloom, he revelled in the agony which a pa.s.sionate man feels when the woman whom he loves is to be given into the arms of another.

As he thought of his own life during the past year or fifteen months, he could not but tell himself that his present suffering was due in some degree to his own fault. If he really loved this girl, and if it had been his intention to try and win her for himself, why had he taken his father at his word and gone away from Granpere?