

Transcribed from the 1864 Chapman & Hall “Tales of All Countries” edition
by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org





                             LA MÈRE BAUCHE.


THE Pyreneean valley in which the baths of Vernet are situated is not
much known to English, or indeed to any travellers.  Tourists in search
of good hotels and picturesque beauty combined, do not generally extend
their journeys to the Eastern Pyrenees.  They rarely get beyond Luchon;
and in this they are right, as they thus end their peregrinations at the
most lovely spot among these mountains, and are as a rule so deceived,
imposed on, and bewildered by guides, innkeepers, and horse-owners, at
this otherwise delightful place, as to become undesirous of further
travel.  Nor do invalids from distant parts frequent Vernet.  People of
fashion go to the Eaux Bonnes and to Luchon, and people who are really
ill to Baréges and Cauterets.  It is at these places that one meets
crowds of Parisians, and the daughters and wives of rich merchants from
Bordeaux, with an admixture, now by no means inconsiderable, of
Englishmen and Englishwomen.  But the Eastern Pyrenees are still
unfrequented.  And probably they will remain so; for though there are
among them lovely valleys—and of all such the valley of Vernet is perhaps
the most lovely—they cannot compete with the mountain scenery of other
tourists-loved regions in Europe.  At the Port de Venasquez and the
Brèche de Roland in the Western Pyrenees, or rather, to speak more truly,
at spots in the close vicinity of these famous mountain entrances from
France into Spain, one can make comparisons with Switzerland, Northern
Italy, the Tyrol, and Ireland, which will not be injurious to the scenes
then under view.  But among the eastern mountains this can rarely be
done.  The hills do not stand thickly together so as to group themselves;
the passes from one valley to another, though not wanting in altitude,
are not close pressed together with overhanging rocks, and are deficient
in grandeur as well as loveliness.  And then, as a natural consequence of
all this, the hotels—are not quite as good as they should be.

But there is one mountain among them which can claim to rank with the Píc
du Midi or the Maledetta.  No one can pooh-pooh the stern old Canigou,
standing high and solitary, solemn and grand, between the two roads which
run from Perpignan into Spain, the one by Prades and the other by Le
Boulon.  Under the Canigou, towards the west, lie the hot baths of
Vernet, in a close secluded valley, which, as I have said before, is, as
far as I know, the sweetest spot in these Eastern Pyrenees.

The frequenters of these baths were a few years back gathered almost
entirely from towns not very far distant, from Perpignan, Narbonne,
Carcassonne, and Bézières, and the baths were not therefore famous,
expensive, or luxurious; but those who believed in them believed with
great faith; and it was certainly the fact that men and women who went
thither worn with toil, sick with excesses, and nervous through
over-care, came back fresh and strong, fit once more to attack the world
with all its woes.  Their character in latter days does not seem to have
changed, though their circle of admirers may perhaps be somewhat
extended.

In those days, by far the most noted and illustrious person in the
village of Vernet was La Mère Bauche.  That there had once been a Père
Bauche was known to the world, for there was a Fils Bauche who lived with
his mother; but no one seemed to remember more of him than that he had
once existed.  At Vernet he had never been known.  La Mère Bauche was a
native of the village, but her married life had been passed away from it,
and she had returned in her early widowhood to become proprietress and
manager, or, as one may say, the heart and soul of the Hôtel Bauche at
Vernet.

This hotel was a large and somewhat rough establishment, intended for the
accommodation of invalids who came to Vernet for their health.  It was
built immediately over one of the thermal springs, so that the water
flowed from the bowels of the earth directly into the baths.  There was
accommodation for seventy people, and during the summer and autumn months
the place was always full.  Not a few also were to be found there during
the winter and spring, for the charges of Madame Bauche were low, and the
accommodation reasonably good.

And in this respect, as indeed in all others, Madame Bauche had the
reputation of being an honest woman.  She had a certain price, from which
no earthly consideration would induce her to depart; and there were
certain returns for this price in the shape of déjeuners and dinners,
baths and beds, which she never failed to give in accordance with the
dictates of a strict conscience.  These were traits in the character of
an hotel-keeper which cannot be praised too highly, and which had met
their due reward in the custom of the public.  But nevertheless there
were those who thought that there was occasionally ground for complaint
in the conduct even of Madame Bauche.

In the first place she was deficient in that pleasant smiling softness
which should belong to any keeper of a house of public entertainment.  In
her general mode of life she was stern and silent with her guests,
autocratic, authoritative and sometimes contradictory in her house, and
altogether irrational and unconciliatory when any change even for a day
was proposed to her, or when any shadow of a complaint reached her ears.

Indeed of complaint, as made against the establishment, she was
altogether intolerant.  To such she had but one answer.  He or she who
complained might leave the place at a moment’s notice if it so pleased
them.  There were always others ready to take their places.  The power of
making this answer came to her from the lowness of her prices; and it was
a power which was very dear to her.

The baths were taken at different hours according to medical advice, but
the usual time was from five to seven in the morning.  The déjeuner or
early meal was at nine o’clock, the dinner was at four.  After that, no
eating or drinking was allowed in the Hôtel Bauche.  There was a café in
the village, at which ladies and gentlemen could get a cup of coffee or a
glass of eau sucré; but no such accommodation was to be had in the
establishment.  Not by any possible bribery or persuasion could any meal
be procured at any other than the authorised hours.  A visitor who should
enter the salle à manger more than ten minutes after the last bell would
be looked at very sourly by Madame Bauche, who on all occasions sat at
the top of her own table.  Should any one appear as much as half an hour
late, he would receive only his share of what had not been handed round.
But after the last dish had been so handed, it was utterly useless for
any one to enter the room at all.

Her appearance at the period of our tale was perhaps not altogether in
her favour.  She was about sixty years of age and was very stout and
short in the neck.  She wore her own gray hair, which at dinner was
always tidy enough; but during the whole day previous to that hour she
might be seen with it escaping from under her cap in extreme disorder.
Her eyebrows were large and bushy, but those alone would not have given
to her face that look of indomitable sternness which it possessed.  Her
eyebrows were serious in their effect, but not so serious as the pair of
green spectacles which she always wore under them.  It was thought by
those who had analysed the subject that the great secret of Madame
Bauche’s power lay in her green spectacles.

Her custom was to move about and through the whole establishment every
day from breakfast till the period came for her to dress for dinner.  She
would visit every chamber and every bath, walk once or twice round the
salle à manger, and very repeatedly round the kitchen; she would go into
every hole and corner, and peer into everything through her green
spectacles: and in these walks it was not always thought pleasant to meet
her.  Her custom was to move very slowly, with her hands generally
clasped behind her back: she rarely spoke to the guests unless she was
spoken to, and on such occasions she would not often diverge into general
conversation.  If any one had aught to say connected with the business of
the establishment, she would listen, and then she would make her
answers,—often not pleasant in the hearing.

And thus she walked her path through the world, a stern, hard, solemn old
woman, not without gusts of passionate explosion; but honest withal, and
not without some inward benevolence and true tenderness of heart.
Children she had had many, some seven or eight.  One or two had died,
others had been married; she had sons settled far away from home, and at
the time of which we are now speaking but one was left in any way subject
to maternal authority.

Adolphe Bauche was the only one of her children of whom much was
remembered by the present denizens and hangers-on of the hotel, he was
the youngest of the number, and having been born only very shortly before
the return of Madame Bauche to Vernet, had been altogether reared there.
It was thought by the world of those parts, and rightly thought, that he
was his mother’s darling—more so than had been any of his brothers and
sisters,—the very apple of her eye and gem of her life.  At this time he
was about twenty-five years of age, and for the last two years had been
absent from Vernet—for reasons which will shortly be made to appear.  He
had been sent to Paris to see something of the world, and learn to talk
French instead of the patois of his valley; and having left Paris had
come down south into Languedoc, and remained there picking up some
agricultural lore which it was thought might prove useful in the valley
farms of Vernet.  He was now expected home again very speedily, much to
his mother’s delight.

That she was kind and gracious to her favourite child does not perhaps
give much proof of her benevolence; but she had also been kind and
gracious to the orphan child of a neighbour; nay, to the orphan child of
a rival innkeeper.  At Vernet there had been more than one water
establishment, but the proprietor of the second had died some few years
after Madame Bauche had settled herself at the place.  His house had not
thrived, and his only child, a little girl, was left altogether without
provision.

This little girl, Marie Clavert, La Mère Bauche had taken into her own
house immediately after the father’s death, although she had most
cordially hated that father.  Marie was then an infant, and Madame Bauche
had accepted the charge without much thought, perhaps, as to what might
be the child’s ultimate destiny.  But since then she had thoroughly done
the duty of a mother by the little girl, who had become the pet of the
whole establishment, the favourite plaything of Adolphe Bauche, and at
last of course his early sweetheart.

And then and therefore there had come troubles at Vernet.  Of course all
the world of the valley had seen what was taking place and what was
likely to take place, long before Madame Bauche knew anything about it.
But at last it broke upon her senses that her son, Adolphe Bauche, the
heir to all her virtues and all her riches, the first young man in that
or any neighbouring valley, was absolutely contemplating the idea of
marrying that poor little orphan, Marie Clavert!

That any one should ever fall in love with Marie Clavert had never
occurred to Madame Bauche.  She had always regarded the child as a child,
as the object of her charity, and as a little thing to be looked on as
poor Marie by all the world.  She, looking through her green spectacles,
had never seen that Marie Clavert was a beautiful creature, full of
ripening charms, such as young men love to look on.  Marie was of
infinite daily use to Madame Bauche in a hundred little things about the
house, and the old lady thoroughly recognised and appreciated her
ability.  But for this very reason she had never taught herself to regard
Marie otherwise than as a useful drudge.  She was very fond of her
protégée—so much so that she would listen to her in affairs about the
house when she would listen to no one else;—but Marie’s prettiness and
grace and sweetness as a girl had all been thrown away upon Maman Bauche,
as Marie used to call her.

But unluckily it had not been thrown away upon Adolphe.  He had
appreciated, as it was natural that he should do, all that had been so
utterly indifferent to his mother; and consequently had fallen in love.
Consequently also he had told his love; and consequently also Marie had
returned his love.

Adolphe had been hitherto contradicted but in few things, and thought
that all difficulty would be prevented by his informing his mother that
he wished to marry Marie Clavert.  But Marie, with a woman’s instinct,
had known better.  She had trembled and almost crouched with fear when
she confessed her love; and had absolutely hid herself from sight when
Adolphe went forth, prepared to ask his mother’s consent to his marriage.

The indignation and passionate wrath of Madame Bauche were past and gone
two years before the date of this story, and I need not therefore much
enlarge upon that subject.  She was at first abusive and bitter, which
was bad for Marie; and afterwards bitter and silent, which was worse.  It
was of course determined that poor Marie should be sent away to some
asylum for orphans or penniless paupers—in short anywhere out of the way.
What mattered her outlook into the world, her happiness, or indeed her
very existence?  The outlook and happiness of Adolphe Bauche,—was not
that to be considered as everything at Vernet?

But this terrible sharp aspect of affairs did not last very long.  In the
first place La Mère Bauche had under those green spectacles a heart that
in truth was tender and affectionate, and after the first two days of
anger she admitted that something must be done for Marie Clavert; and
after the fourth day she acknowledged that the world of the hotel, her
world, would not go as well without Marie Clavert as it would with her.
And in the next place Madame Bauche had a friend whose advice in grave
matters she would sometimes take.  This friend had told her that it would
be much better to send away Adolphe, since it was so necessary that there
should be a sending away of some one; that he would be much benefited by
passing some months of his life away from his native valley; and that an
absence of a year or two would teach him to forget Marie, even if it did
not teach Marie to forget him.

And we must say a word or two about this friend.  At Vernet he was
usually called M. le Capitaine, though in fact he had never reached that
rank.  He had been in the army, and having been wounded in the leg while
still a sous-lieutenant, had been pensioned, and had thus been
interdicted from treading any further the thorny path that leads to
glory.  For the last fifteen years he had resided under the roof of
Madame Bauche, at first as a casual visitor, going and coming, but now
for many years as constant there as she was herself.

He was so constantly called Le Capitaine that his real name was seldom
heard.  It may however as well be known to us that this was Theodore
Campan.  He was a tall, well-looking man; always dressed in black
garments, of a coarse description certainly, but scrupulously clean and
well brushed; of perhaps fifty years of age, and conspicuous for the
rigid uprightness of his back—and for a black wooden leg.

This wooden leg was perhaps the most remarkable trait in his character.
It was always jet black, being painted, or polished, or japanned, as
occasion might require, by the hands of the capitaine himself.  It was
longer than ordinary wooden legs, as indeed the capitaine was longer than
ordinary men; but nevertheless it never seemed in any way to impede the
rigid punctilious propriety of his movements.  It was never in his way as
wooden legs usually are in the way of their wearers.  And then to render
it more illustrious it had round its middle, round the calf of the leg we
may so say, a band of bright brass which shone like burnished gold.

It had been the capitaine’s custom, now for some years past, to retire
every evening at about seven o’clock into the sanctum sanctorum of Madame
Bauche’s habitation, the dark little private sitting-room in which she
made out her bills and calculated her profits, and there regale himself
in her presence—and indeed at her expense, for the items never appeared
in the bill—with coffee and cognac.  I have said that there was never
eating or drinking at the establishment after the regular dinner-hours;
but in so saying I spoke of the world at large.  Nothing further was
allowed in the way of trade; but in the way of friendship so much was
now-a-days always allowed to the capitaine.

It was at these moments that Madame Bauche discussed her private affairs,
and asked for and received advice.  For even Madame Bauche was mortal;
nor could her green spectacles without other aid carry her through all
the troubles of life.  It was now five years since the world of Vernet
discovered that La Mère Bauche was going to marry the capitaine; and for
eighteen months the world of Vernet had been full of this matter: but any
amount of patience is at last exhausted, and as no further steps in that
direction were ever taken beyond the daily cup of coffee, that subject
died away—very much unheeded by La Mère Bauche.

But she, though she thought of no matrimony for herself, thought much of
matrimony for other people; and over most of those cups of evening coffee
and cognac a matrimonial project was discussed in these latter days.  It
has been seen that the capitaine pleaded in Marie’s favour when the fury
of Madame Bauche’s indignation broke forth; and that ultimately Marie was
kept at home, and Adolphe sent away by his advice.

“But Adolphe cannot always stay away,” Madame Bauche had pleaded in her
difficulty.  The truth of this the capitaine had admitted; but Marie, he
said, might be married to some one else before two years were over.  And
so the matter had commenced.

But to whom should she be married?  To this question the capitaine had
answered in perfect innocence of heart, that La Mère Bauche would be much
better able to make such a choice than himself.  He did not know how
Marie might stand with regard to money.  If madame would give some little
“dot,” the affair, the capitaine thought, would be more easily arranged.

All these things took months to say, during which period Marie went on
with her work in melancholy listlessness.  One comfort she had.  Adolphe,
before he went, had promised to her, holding in his hand as he did so a
little cross which she had given him, that no earthly consideration
should sever them;—that sooner or later he would certainly be her
husband.  Marie felt that her limbs could not work nor her tongue speak
were it not for this one drop of water in her cup.

And then, deeply meditating, La Mère Bauche hit upon a plan, and herself
communicated it to the capitaine over a second cup of coffee into which
she poured a full teaspoonful more than the usual allowance of cognac.
Why should not he, the capitaine himself, be the man to marry Marie
Clavert?

It was a very startling proposal, the idea of matrimony for himself never
having as yet entered into the capitaine’s head at any period of his
life; but La Mère Bauche did contrive to make it not altogether
unacceptable.  As to that matter of dowry she was prepared to be more
than generous.  She did love Marie well, and could find it in her heart
to give her anything—any thing except her son, her own Adolphe.  What she
proposed was this.  Adolphe, himself, would never keep the baths.  If the
capitaine would take Marie for his wife, Marie, Madame Bauche declared,
should be the mistress after her death; subject of course to certain
settlements as to Adolphe’s pecuniary interests.

The plan was discussed a thousand times, and at last so far brought to
bear that Marie was made acquainted with it—having been called in to sit
in presence with La Mère Bauche and her future proposed husband.  The
poor girl manifested no disgust to the stiff ungainly lover whom they
assigned to her,—who through his whole frame was in appearance almost as
wooden as his own leg.  On the whole, indeed, Marie liked the capitaine,
and felt that he was her friend; and in her country such marriages were
not uncommon.  The capitaine was perhaps a little beyond the age at which
a man might usually be thought justified in demanding the services of a
young girl as his nurse and wife, but then Marie of herself had so little
to give—except her youth, and beauty, and goodness.

But yet she could not absolutely consent; for was she not absolutely
pledged to her own Adolphe?  And therefore, when the great pecuniary
advantages were, one by one, displayed before her, and when La Mère
Bauche, as a last argument, informed her that as wife of the capitaine
she would be regarded as second mistress in the establishment and not as
a servant, she could only burst out into tears, and say that she did not
know.

“I will be very kind to you,” said the capitaine; “as kind as a man can
be.”

Marie took his hard withered hand and kissed it; and then looked up into
his face with beseeching eyes which were not without avail upon his
heart.

“We will not press her now,” said the capitaine.  “There is time enough.”

But let his heart be touched ever so much, one thing was certain.  It
could not be permitted that she should marry Adolphe.  To that view of
the matter he had given in his unrestricted adhesion; nor could he by any
means withdraw it without losing altogether his position in the
establishment of Madame Bauche.  Nor indeed did his conscience tell him
that such a marriage should be permitted.  That would be too much.  If
every pretty girl were allowed to marry the first young man that might
fall in love with her, what would the world come to?

And it soon appeared that there was not time enough—that the time was
growing very scant.  In three months Adolphe would be back.  And if
everything was not arranged by that time, matters might still go astray.

And then Madame Bauche asked her final question: “You do not think, do
you, that you can ever marry Adolphe?”  And as she asked it the
accustomed terror of her green spectacles magnified itself tenfold.
Marie could only answer by another burst of tears.

The affair was at last settled among them.  Marie said that she would
consent to marry the capitaine when she should hear from Adolphe’s own
mouth that he, Adolphe, loved her no longer.  She declared with many
tears that her vows and pledges prevented her from promising more than
this.  It was not her fault, at any rate not now, that she loved her
lover.  It was not her fault—not now at least—that she was bound by these
pledges.  When she heard from his own mouth that he had discarded her,
then she would marry the capitaine—or indeed sacrifice herself in any
other way that La Mère Bauche might desire.  What would anything signify
then?

Madame Bauche’s spectacles remained unmoved; but not her heart.  Marie,
she told the capitaine, should be equal to herself in the establishment,
when once she was entitled to be called Madame Campan, and she should be
to her quite as a daughter.  She should have her cup of coffee every
evening, and dine at the big table, and wear a silk gown at church, and
the servants should all call her Madame; a great career should be open to
her, if she would only give up her foolish girlish childish love for
Adolphe.  And all these great promises were repeated to Marie by the
capitaine.

But nevertheless there was but one thing in the world which in Marie’s
eyes was of any value; and that one thing was the heart of Adolphe
Bauche.  Without that she would be nothing; with that,—with that assured,
she could wait patiently till doomsday.

Letters were written to Adolphe during all these eventful doings; and a
letter came from him saying that he greatly valued Marie’s love, but that
as it had been clearly proved to him that their marriage would be neither
for her advantage, nor for his, he was willing to give it up.  He
consented to her marriage with the capitaine, and expressed his gratitude
to his mother for the pecuniary advantages which she had held out to him.
Oh, Adolphe, Adolphe!  But, alas, alas! is not such the way of most men’s
hearts—and of the hearts of some women?

This letter was read to Marie, but it had no more effect upon her than
would have had some dry legal document.  In those days and in those
places men and women did not depend much upon letters; nor when they were
written, was there expressed in them much of heart or of feeling.  Marie
would understand, as she was well aware, the glance of Adolphe’s eye and
the tone of Adolphe’s voice; she would perceive at once from them what
her lover really meant, what he wished, what in the innermost corner of
his heart he really desired that she should do.  But from that stiff
constrained written document she could understand nothing.

It was agreed therefore that Adolphe should return, and that she would
accept her fate from his mouth.  The capitaine, who knew more of human
nature than poor Marie, felt tolerably sure of his bride.  Adolphe, who
had seen something of the world, would not care very much for the girl of
his own valley.  Money and pleasure, and some little position in the
world, would soon wean him from his love; and then Marie would accept her
destiny—as other girls in the same position had done since the French
world began.

And now it was the evening before Adolphe’s expected arrival.  La Mère
Bauche was discussing the matter with the capitaine over the usual cup of
coffee.  Madame Bauche had of late become rather nervous on the matter,
thinking that they had been somewhat rash in acceding so much to Marie.
It seemed to her that it was absolutely now left to the two young lovers
to say whether or no they would have each other or not.  Now nothing on
earth could be further from Madame Bauche’s intention than this.  Her
decree and resolve was to heap down blessings on all persons
concerned—provided always that she could have her own way; but, provided
she did not have her own way, to heap down,—anything but blessings.  She
had her code of morality in this matter.  She would do good if possible
to everybody around her.  But she would not on any score be induced to
consent that Adolphe should marry Marie Clavert.  Should that be in the
wind she would rid the house of Marie, of the capitaine, and even of
Adolphe himself.

She had become therefore somewhat querulous, and self-opinionated in her
discussions with her friend.

“I don’t know,” she said on the evening in question; “I don’t know.  It
may be all right; but if Adolphe turns against me, what are we to do
then?”

“Mère Bauche,” said the capitaine, sipping his coffee and puffing out the
smoke of his cigar, “Adolphe will not turn against us.”  It had been
somewhat remarked by many that the capitaine was more at home in the
house, and somewhat freer in his manner of talking with Madame Bauche,
since this matrimonial alliance had been on the tapis than he had ever
been before.  La Mère herself observed it, and did not quite like it; but
how could she prevent it now?  When the capitaine was once married she
would make him know his place, in spite of all her promises to Marie.

“But if he says he likes the girl?” continued Madame Bauche.

“My friend, you may be sure that he will say nothing of the kind.  He has
not been away two years without seeing girls as pretty as Marie.  And
then you have his letter.”

“That is nothing, capitaine; he would eat his letter as quick as you
would eat an omelet aux fines herbes.”

Now the capitaine was especially quick over an omelet aux fines herbes.

“And, Mère Bauche, you also have the purse; he will know that he cannot
eat that, except with your good will.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Madame Bauche, “poor lad!  He has not a sous in the world
unless I give it to him.”  But it did not seem that this reflection was
in itself displeasing to her.

“Adolphe will now be a man of the world,” continued the capitaine.  “He
will know that it does not do to throw away everything for a pair of red
lips.  That is the folly of a boy, and Adolphe will be no longer a boy.
Believe me, Mère Bauche, things will be right enough.”

“And then we shall have Marie sick and ill and half dying on our hands,”
said Madame Bauche.

This was not flattering to the capitaine, and so he felt it.  “Perhaps
so, perhaps not,” he said.  “But at any rate she will get over it.  It is
a malady which rarely kills young women—especially when another alliance
awaits them.”

“Bah!” said Madame Bauche; and in saying that word she avenged herself
for the too great liberty which the capitaine had lately taken.  He
shrugged his shoulders, took a pinch of snuff and uninvited helped
himself to a teaspoonful of cognac.  Then the conference ended, and on
the next morning before breakfast Adolphe Bauche arrived.

On that morning poor Marie hardly knew how to bear herself.  A month or
two back, and even up to the last day or two, she had felt a sort of
confidence that Adolphe would be true to her; but the nearer came that
fatal day the less strong was the confidence of the poor girl.  She knew
that those two long-headed, aged counsellors were plotting against her
happiness, and she felt that she could hardly dare hope for success with
such terrible foes opposed to her.  On the evening before the day Madame
Bauche had met her in the passages, and kissed her as she wished her good
night.  Marie knew little about sacrifices, but she felt that it was a
sacrificial kiss.

In those days a sort of diligence with the mails for Olette passed
through Prades early in the morning, and a conveyance was sent from
Vernet to bring Adolphe to the baths.  Never was prince or princess
expected with more anxiety.  Madame Bauche was up and dressed long before
the hour, and was heard to say five several times that she was sure he
would not come.  The capitaine was out and on the high road, moving about
with his wooden leg, as perpendicular as a lamp-post and almost as black.
Marie also was up, but nobody had seen her.  She was up and had been out
about the place before any of them were stirring; but now that the world
was on the move she lay hidden like a hare in its form.

And then the old char-à-banc clattered up to the door, and Adolphe jumped
out of it into his mother’s arms.  He was fatter and fairer than she had
last seen him, had a larger beard, was more fashionably clothed, and
certainly looked more like a man.  Marie also saw him out of her little
window, and she thought that he looked like a god.  Was it probable, she
said to herself, that one so godlike would still care for her?

The mother was delighted with her son, who rattled away quite at his
ease.  He shook hands very cordially with the capitaine—of whose intended
alliance with his own sweetheart he had been informed, and then as he
entered the house with his hand under his mother’s arm, he asked one
question about her.  “And where is Marie?” said he.  “Marie! oh upstairs;
you shall see her after breakfast,” said La Mère Bauche.  And so they
entered the house, and went in to breakfast among the guests.  Everybody
had heard something of the story, and they were all on the alert to see
the young man whose love or want of love was considered to be of so much
importance.

“You will see that it will be all right,” said the capitaine, carrying
his head very high.

“I think so, I think so,” said La Mère Bauche, who, now that the
capitaine was right, no longer desired to contradict him.

“I know that it will be all right,” said the capitaine.  “I told you that
Adolphe would return a man; and he is a man.  Look at him; he does not
care this for Marie Clavert;” and the capitaine, with much eloquence in
his motion, pitched over a neighbouring wall a small stone which he held
in his hand.

And then they all went to breakfast with many signs of outward joy.  And
not without some inward joy; for Madame Bauche thought she saw that her
son was cured of his love.  In the mean time Marie sat up stairs still
afraid to show herself.

“He has come,” said a young girl, a servant in the house, running up to
the door of Marie’s room.

“Yes,” said Marie; “I could see that he has come.”

“And, oh, how beautiful he is!” said the girl, putting her hands together
and looking up to the ceiling.  Marie in her heart of hearts wished that
he was not half so beautiful, as then her chance of having him might be
greater.

“And the company are all talking to him as though he were the préfet,”
said the girl.

“Never mind who is talking to him,” said Marie; “go away, and leave
me—you are wanted for your work.”  Why before this was he not talking to
her?  Why not, if he were really true to her?  Alas, it began to fall
upon her mind that he would be false!  And what then?  What should she do
then?  She sat still gloomily, thinking of that other spouse that had
been promised to her.

As speedily after breakfast as was possible Adolphe was invited to a
conference in his mother’s private room.  She had much debated in her own
mind whether the capitaine should be invited to this conference or no.
For many reasons she would have wished to exclude him.  She did not like
to teach her son that she was unable to manage her own affairs, and she
would have been well pleased to make the capitaine understand that his
assistance was not absolutely necessary to her.  But then she had an
inward fear that her green spectacles would not now be as efficacious on
Adolphe, as they had once been, in old days, before he had seen the world
and become a man.  It might be necessary that her son, being a man,
should be opposed by a man.  So the capitaine was invited to the
conference.

What took place there need not be described at length.  The three were
closeted for two hours, at the end of which time they came forth
together.  The countenance of Madame Bauche was serene and comfortable;
her hopes of ultimate success ran higher than ever.  The face of the
capitaine was masked, as are always the faces of great diplomatists; he
walked placid and upright, raising his wooden leg with an ease and skill
that was absolutely marvellous.  But poor Adolphe’s brow was clouded.
Yes, poor Adolphe! for he was poor in spirit, he had pledged himself to
give up Marie, and to accept the liberal allowance which his mother
tendered him; but it remained for him now to communicate these tidings to
Marie herself.

“Could not you tell her?” he had said to his mother, with very little of
that manliness in his face on which his mother now so prided herself.
But La Mère Bauche explained to him that it was a part of the general
agreement that Marie was to hear his decision from his own mouth.

“But you need not regard it,” said the capitaine, with the most
indifferent air in the world.  “The girl expects it.  Only she has some
childish idea that she is bound till you yourself release her.  I don’t
think she will be troublesome.”  Adolphe at that moment did feel that he
should have liked to kick the capitaine out of his mother’s house.

And where should the meeting take place?  In the hall of the bath-house,
suggested Madame Bauche; because, as she observed, they could walk round
and round, and nobody ever went there at that time of day.  But to this
Adolphe objected; it would be so cold and dismal and melancholy.

The capitaine thought that Mère Bauche’s little parlour was the place;
but La Mère herself did not like this.  They might be overheard, as she
well knew; and she guessed that the meeting would not conclude without
some sobs that would certainly be bitter and might perhaps be loud.

“Send her up to the grotto, and I will follow her,” said Adolphe.  On
this therefore they agreed.  Now the grotto was a natural excavation in a
high rock, which stood precipitously upright over the establishment of
the baths.  A steep zigzag path with almost never-ending steps had been
made along the face of the rock from a little flower garden attached to
the house which lay immediately under the mountain.  Close along the
front of the hotel ran a little brawling river, leaving barely room for a
road between it and the door; over this there was a wooden bridge leading
to the garden, and some two or three hundred yards from the bridge began
the steps by which the ascent was made to the grotto.

When the season was full and the weather perfectly warm the place was
much frequented.  There was a green table in it, and four or five deal
chairs; a green garden seat also was there, which however had been
removed into the innermost back corner of the excavation, as its hinder
legs were somewhat at fault.  A wall about two feet high ran along the
face of it, guarding its occupants from the precipice.  In fact it was no
grotto, but a little chasm in the rock, such as we often see up above our
heads in rocky valleys, and which by means of these steep steps had been
turned into a source of exercise and amusement for the visitors at the
hotel.

Standing at the wall one could look down into the garden, and down also
upon the shining slate roof of Madame Bauche’s house; and to the left
might be seen the sombre, silent, snow-capped top of stern old Canigou,
king of mountains among those Eastern Pyrenees.

And so Madame Bauche undertook to send Marie up to the grotto, and
Adolphe undertook to follow her thither.  It was now spring; and though
the winds had fallen and the snow was no longer lying on the lower peaks,
still the air was fresh and cold, and there was no danger that any of the
few guests at the establishment would visit the place.

“Make her put on her cloak, Mère Bauche,” said the capitaine, who did not
wish that his bride should have a cold in her head on their wedding-day.
La Mère Bauche pished and pshawed, as though she were not minded to pay
any attention to recommendations on such subjects from the capitaine.
But nevertheless when Marie was seen slowly to creep across the little
bridge about fifteen minutes after this time, she had a handkerchief on
her head, and was closely wrapped in a dark brown cloak.

Poor Marie herself little heeded the cold fresh air, but she was glad to
avail herself of any means by which she might hide her face.  When Madame
Bauche sought her out in her own little room, and with a smiling face and
kind kiss bade her go to the grotto, she knew, or fancied that she knew
that it was all over.

“He will tell you all the truth,—how it all is,” said La Mère.  “We will
do all we can, you know, to make you happy, Marie.  But you must remember
what Monsieur le Curé told us the other day.  In this vale of tears we
cannot have everything; as we shall have some day, when our poor wicked
souls have been purged of all their wickedness.  Now go, dear, and take
your cloak.”

“Yes, maman.”

“And Adolphe will come to you.  And try and behave well, like a sensible
girl.”

“Yes, maman,”—and so she went, bearing on her brow another sacrificial
kiss—and bearing in her heart such an unutterable load of woe!

Adolphe had gone out of the house before her; but standing in the stable
yard, well within the gate so that she should not see him, he watched her
slowly crossing the bridge and mounting the first flight of the steps.
He had often seen her tripping up those stairs, and had, almost as often,
followed her with his quicker feet.  And she, when she would hear him,
would run; and then he would catch her breathless at the top, and steal
kisses from her when all power of refusing them had been robbed from her
by her efforts at escape.  There was no such running now, no such
following, no thought of such kisses.

As for him, he would fain have skulked off and shirked the interview had
he dared.  But he did not dare; so he waited there, out of heart, for
some ten minutes, speaking a word now and then to the bath-man, who was
standing by, just to show that he was at his ease.  But the bath-man knew
that he was not at his ease.  Such would-be lies as those rarely achieve
deception;—are rarely believed.  And then, at the end of the ten minutes,
with steps as slow as Marie’s had been, he also ascended to the grotto.

Marie had watched him from the top, but so that she herself should not be
seen.  He however had not once lifted up his head to look for her; but
with eyes turned to the ground had plodded his way up to the cave.  When
he entered she was standing in the middle, with her eyes downcast and her
hands clasped before her.  She had retired some way from the wall, so
that no eyes might possibly see her but those of her false lover.  There
she stood when he entered, striving to stand motionless, but trembling
like a leaf in every limb.

It was only when he reached the top step that he made up his mind how he
would behave.  Perhaps after all, the capitaine was right; perhaps she
would not mind it.

“Marie,” said he, with a voice that attempted to be cheerful; “this is an
odd place to meet in after such a long absence,” and he held out his hand
to her.  But only his hand!  He offered her no salute.  He did not even
kiss her cheek as a brother would have done!  Of the rules of the outside
world it must be remembered that poor Marie knew but little.  He had been
a brother to her before he had become her lover.

But Marie took his hand saying, “Yes, it has been very long.”

“And now that I have come back,” he went on to say, “it seems that we are
all in a confusion together.  I never knew such a piece of work.
However, it is all for the best, I suppose.”

“Perhaps so,” said Marie, still trembling violently, and still looking
upon the ground.  And then there was silence between them for a minute or
so.

“I tell you what it is, Marie,” said Adolphe at last, dropping her hand
and making a great effort to get through the work before him.  “I am
afraid we two have been very foolish.  Don’t you think we have now?  It
seems quite clear that we can never get ourselves married.  Don’t you see
it in that light?”

Marie’s head turned round and round with her, but she was not of the
fainting order.  She took three steps backwards and leant against the
wall of the cave.  She also was trying to think how she might best fight
her battle.  Was there no chance for her?  Could no eloquence, no love
prevail?  On her own beauty she counted but little; but might not prayers
do something, and a reference to those old vows which had been so
frequent, so eager, so solemnly pledged between them?

“Never get ourselves married!” she said, repeating his words.  “Never,
Adolphe?  Can we never be married?”

“Upon my word, my dear girl, I fear not.  You see my mother is so dead
against it.”

“But we could wait; could we not?”

“Ah, but that’s just it, Marie.  We cannot wait.  We must decide
now,—to-day.  You see I can do nothing without money from her—and as for
you, you see she won’t even let you stay in the house unless you marry
old Campan at once.  He’s a very good sort of fellow though, old as he
is.  And if you do marry him, why you see you’ll stay here, and have it
all your own way in everything.  As for me, I shall come and see you all
from time to time, and shall be able to push my way as I ought to do.”

“Then, Adolphe, you wish me to marry the capitaine?”

“Upon my honour I think it is the best thing you can do; I do indeed.”

“Oh, Adolphe!”

“What can I do for you, you know?  Suppose I was to go down to my mother
and tell her that I had decided to keep you myself; what would come of
it?  Look at it in that light, Marie.”

“She could not turn you out—you her own son!”

“But she would turn you out; and deuced quick, too, I can assure you of
that; I can, upon my honour.”

“I should not care that,” and she made a motion with her hand to show how
indifferent she would be to such treatment as regarded herself.  “Not
that—; if I still had the promise of your love.”

“But what would you do?”

“I would work.  There are other houses beside that one,” and she pointed
to the slate roof of the Bauche establishment.

“And for me—I should not have a penny in the world,” said the young man.

She came up to him and took his right hand between both of hers and
pressed it warmly, oh, so warmly.  “You would have my love,” said she;
“my deepest, warmest best heart’s love should want nothing more, nothing
on earth, if I could still have yours.”  And she leaned against his
shoulder and looked with all her eyes into his face.

“But, Marie, that’s nonsense, you know.”

“No, Adolphe, it is not nonsense.  Do not let them teach you so.  What
does love mean, if it does not mean that?  Oh, Adolphe, you do love me,
you do love me, you do love me?”

“Yes;—I love you,” he said slowly;—as though he would not have said it,
if he could have helped it.  And then his arm crept slowly round her
waist, as though in that also he could not help himself.

“And do not I love you?” said the passionate girl.  “Oh, I do, so dearly;
with all my heart, with all my soul.  Adolphe, I so love you, that I
cannot give you up.  Have I not sworn to be yours; sworn, sworn a
thousand times?  How can I marry that man!  Oh Adolphe how can you wish
that I should marry him?”  And she clung to him, and looked at him, and
besought him with her eyes.

“I shouldn’t wish it;—only—” and then he paused.  It was hard to tell her
that he was willing to sacrifice her to the old man because he wanted
money from his mother.

“Only what!  But Adolphe, do not wish it at all!  Have you not sworn that
I should be your wife?  Look here, look at this;” and she brought out
from her bosom a little charm that he had given her in return for that
cross.  “Did you not kiss that when you swore before the figure of the
Virgin that I should be your wife?  And do you not remember that I feared
to swear too, because your mother was so angry; and then you made me?
After that, Adolphe!  Oh, Adolphe!  Tell me that I may have some hope.  I
will wait; oh, I will wait so patiently.”

He turned himself away from her and walked backwards and forwards
uneasily through the grotto.  He did love her;—love her as such men do
love sweet, pretty girls.  The warmth of her hand, the affection of her
touch, the pure bright passion of her tear-laden eye had re-awakened what
power of love there was within him.  But what was he to do?  Even if he
were willing to give up the immediate golden hopes which his mother held
out to him, how was he to begin, and then how carry out this work of
self-devotion?  Marie would be turned away, and he would be left a victim
in the hands of his mother, and of that stiff, wooden-legged militaire;—a
penniless victim, left to mope about the place without a grain of
influence or a morsel of pleasure.

“But what can we do?” he exclaimed again, as he once more met Marie’s
searching eye.

“We can be true and honest, and we can wait,” she said, coming close up
to him and taking hold of his arm.  “I do not fear it; and she is not my
mother, Adolphe.  You need not fear your own mother.”

“Fear! no, of course I don’t fear.  But I don’t see how the very devil we
can manage it.”

“Will you let me tell her that I will not marry the capitaine; that I
will not give up your promises; and then I am ready to leave the house?”

“It would do no good.”

“It would do every good, Adolphe, if I had your promised word once more;
if I could hear from your own voice one more tone of love.  Do you not
remember this place?  It was here that you forced me to say that I loved
you.  It is here also that you will tell me that I have been deceived.”

“It is not I that would deceive you,” he said.  “I wonder that you should
be so hard upon me.  God knows that I have trouble enough.”

“Well, if I am a trouble to you, be it so.  Be it as you wish,” and she
leaned back against the wall of the rock, and crossing her arms upon her
breast looked away from him and fixed her eyes upon the sharp granite
peaks of Canigou.

He again betook himself to walk backwards and forwards through the cave.
He had quite enough of love for her to make him wish to marry her; quite
enough now, at this moment, to make the idea of her marriage with the
capitaine very distasteful to him; enough probably to make him become a
decently good husband to her, should fate enable him to marry her; but
not enough to enable him to support all the punishment which would be the
sure effects of his mother’s displeasure.  Besides, he had promised his
mother that he would give up Marie;—had entirely given in his adhesion to
that plan of the marriage with the capitaine.  He had owned that the path
of life as marked out for him by his mother was the one which it behoved
him, as a man, to follow.  It was this view of his duties as a man which
had I been specially urged on him with all the capitaine’s eloquence.
And old Campan had entirely succeeded.  It is so easy to get the assent
of such young men, so weak in mind and so weak in pocket, when the
arguments are backed by a promise of two thousand francs a year.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” at last he said.  “I’ll get my mother by
herself, and will ask her to let the matter remain as it is for the
present.”

“Not if it be a trouble, M. Adolphe;” and the proud girl still held her
hands upon her bosom, and still looked towards the mountain.

“You know what I mean, Marie.  You can understand how she and the
capitaine are worrying me.”

“But tell me, Adolphe, do you love me?”

“You know I love you, only.”

“And you will not give me up?”

“I will ask my mother.  I will try and make her yield.”

Marie could not feel that she received much confidence from her lover’s
promise; but still, even that, weak and unsteady as it was, even that was
better than absolute fixed rejection.  So she thanked him, promised him
with tears in her eyes that she would always, always be faithful to him,
and then bade him go down to the house.  She would follow, she said, as
soon as his passing had ceased to be observed.

Then she looked at him as though she expected some sign of renewed love.
But no such sign was vouchsafed to her.  Now that she thirsted for the
touch of his lip upon her check, it was denied to her.  He did as she
bade him; he went down, slowly loitering, by himself; and in about half
an hour she followed him, and unobserved crept to her chamber.

Again we will pass over what took place between the mother and the son;
but late in that evening, after the guests had gone to bed, Marie
received a message, desiring her to wait on Madame Bauche in a small
salon which looked out from one end of the house.  It was intended as a
private sitting-room should any special stranger arrive who required such
accommodation, and therefore was but seldom used.  Here she found La Mère
Bauche sitting in an arm-chair behind a small table on which stood two
candles; and on a sofa against the wall sat Adolphe.  The capitaine was
not in the room.

“Shut the door, Marie, and come in and sit down,” said Madame Bauche.  It
was easy to understand from the tone of her voice that she was angry and
stern, in an unbending mood, and resolved to carry out to the very letter
all the threats conveyed by those terrible spectacles.

Marie did as she was bid.  She closed the door and sat down on the chair
that was nearest to her.

“Marie,” said La Mère Bauche—and the voice sounded fierce in the poor
girl’s ears, and an angry fire glimmered through the green glasses—“what
is all this about that I hear?  Do you dare to say that you hold my son
bound to marry you?”  And then the august mother paused for an answer.

But Marie had no answer to give.  See looked suppliantly towards her
lover, as though beseeching him to carry on the fight for her.  But if
she could not do battle for herself, certainly he could not do it for
her.  What little amount of fighting he had had in him, had been
thoroughly vanquished before her arrival.

“I will have an answer, and that immediately,” said Madame Bauche.  “I am
not going to be betrayed into ignominy and disgrace by the object of my
own charity.  Who picked you out of the gutter, miss, and brought you up
and fed you, when you would otherwise have gone to the foundling?  And
this is your gratitude for it all?  You are not satisfied with being fed
and clothed and cherished by me, but you must rob me of my son!  Know
this then, Adolphe shall never marry a child of charity such as you are.”

Marie sat still, stunned by the harshness of these words.  La Mère Bauche
had often scolded her; indeed, she was given to much scolding; but she
had scolded her as a mother may scold a child.  And when this story of
Marie’s love first reached her ears, she had been very angry; but her
anger had never brought her to such a pass as this.  Indeed, Marie had
not hitherto been taught to look at the matter in this light.  No one had
heretofore twitted her with eating the bread of charity.  It had not
occurred to her that on this account she was unfit to be Adolphe’s wife.
There, in that valley, they were all so nearly equal, that no idea of her
own inferiority had ever pressed itself upon her mind.  But now—!

When the voice ceased she again looked at him; but it was no longer a
beseeching look.  Did he also altogether scorn her?  That was now the
inquiry which her eyes were called upon to make.  No; she could not say
that he did.  It seemed to her that his energies were chiefly occupied in
pulling to pieces the tassel on the sofa cushion.

“And now, miss, let me know at once whether this nonsense is to be over
or not,” continued La Mère Bauche; “and I will tell you at once, I am not
going to maintain you here, in my house, to plot against our welfare and
happiness.  As Marie Clavert you shall not stay here.  Capitaine Campan
is willing to marry you; and as his wife I will keep my word to you,
though you little deserve it.  If you refuse to marry him, you must go.
As to my son, he is there; and he will tell you now, in my presence, that
he altogether declines the honour you propose for him.”

And then she ceased, waiting for an answer, drumming the table with a
wafer stamp which happened to be ready to her hand; but Marie said
nothing.  Adolphe had been appealed to; but Adolphe had not yet spoken.

“Well, miss?” said La Mère Bauche

Then Marie rose from her seat, and walking round she touched Adolphe
lightly on the shoulder.  “Adolphe,” she said, “it is for you to speak
now.  I will do as you bid me.”

He gave a long sigh, looked first at Marie and then at his mother, shook
himself slightly, and then spoke: “Upon my word, Marie, I think mother is
right.  It would never do for us to marry; it would not indeed.”

“Then it is decided,” said Marie, returning to her chair.

“And you will marry the capitaine?” said La Mère Bauche.

Marie merely bowed her head in token of acquiescence.  “Then we are
friends again.  Come here, Marie, and kiss me.  You must know that it is
my duty to take care of my own son.  But I don’t want to be angry with
you if I can help it; I don’t indeed.  When once you are Madame Campan,
you shall be my own child; and you shall have any room in the house you
like to choose—there!”  And she once more imprinted a kiss on Marie’s
cold forehead.

How they all got out of the room, and off to their own chambers, I can
hardly tell.  But in five minutes from the time of this last kiss they
were divided.  La Mère Bauche had patted Marie, and smiled on her, and
called her her dear good little Madame Campan, her young little Mistress
of the Hôtel Bauche; and had then got herself into her own room,
satisfied with her own victory.

Nor must my readers be too severe on Madame Bauche.  She had already done
much for Marie Clavert; and when she found herself once more by her own
bedside, she prayed to be forgiven for the cruelty which she felt that
she had shown to the orphan.  But in making this prayer, with her
favourite crucifix in her hand and the little image of the Virgin before
her, she pleaded her duty to her son.  Was it not right, she asked the
Virgin, that she should save her son from a bad marriage?  And then she
promised ever so much of recompense, both to the Virgin and to Marie; a
new trousseau for each, with candles to the Virgin, with a gold watch and
chain for Marie, as soon as she should be Marie Campan.  She had been
cruel; she acknowledged it.  But at such a crisis was it not defensible?
And then the recompense should be so full!

But there was one other meeting that night, very short indeed, but not
the less significant.  Not long after they had all separated, just so
long as to allow of the house being quiet, Adolphe, still sitting in his
room, meditating on what the day had done for him, heard a low tap at his
door.  “Come in,” he said, as men always do say; and Marie opening the
door, stood just within the verge of his chamber.  She had on her
countenance neither the soft look of entreating love which she had worn
up there in the grotto, nor did she appear crushed and subdued as she had
done before his mother.  She carried her head somewhat more erect than
usual, and looked boldly out at him from under her soft eyelashes.  There
might still be love there, but it was love proudly resolving to quell
itself.  Adolphe, as he looked at her, felt that he was afraid of her.

“It is all over then between us, M. Adolphe?” she said.

“Well, yes.  Don’t you think it had better be so, eh, Marie?”

“And this is the meaning of oaths and vows, sworn to each other so
sacredly?”

“But, Marie, you heard what my mother said.”

“Oh, sir!  I have not come to ask you again to love me.  Oh no!  I am not
thinking of that.  But this, this would be a lie if I kept it now; it
would choke me if I wore it as that man’s wife.  Take it back;” and she
tendered to him the little charm which she had always worn round her neck
since he had given it to her.  He took it abstractedly, without thinking
what he did, and placed it on his dressing-table.

“And you,” she continued, “can you still keep that cross?  Oh, no! you
must give me back that.  It would remind you too often of vows that were
untrue.”

“Marie,” he said, “do not be so harsh to me.”

“Harsh!” said she, “no; there has been enough of harshness.  I would not
be harsh to you, Adolphe.  But give me the cross; it would prove a curse
to you if you kept it.”

He then opened a little box which stood upon the table, and taking out
the cross gave it to her.

“And now good-bye,” she said.  “We shall have but little more to say to
each other.  I know this now, that I was wrong ever to have loved you.  I
should have been to you as one of the other poor girls in the house.
But, oh! how was I to help it?”  To this he made no answer, and she,
closing the door softly, went back to her chamber.  And thus ended the
first day of Adolphe Bauche’s return to his own house.

On the next morning the capitaine and Marie were formally betrothed.
This was done with some little ceremony, in the presence of all the
guests who were staying at the establishment, and with all manner of
gracious acknowledgments of Marie’s virtues.  It seemed as though La Mère
Bauche could not be courteous enough to her.  There was no more talk of
her being a child of charity; no more allusion now to the gutter.  La
Mère Bauche with her own hand brought her cake with a glass of wine after
her betrothal was over, and patted her on the cheek, and called her her
dear little Marie Campan.  And then the capitaine was made up of infinite
politeness, and the guests all wished her joy, and the servants of the
house began to perceive that she was a person entitled to respect.  How
different was all this from that harsh attack that was made on her the
preceding evening!  Only Adolphe,—he alone kept aloof.  Though he was
present there he said nothing.  He, and he only, offered no
congratulations.

In the midst of all these gala doings Marie herself said little or
nothing.  La Mère Bauche perceived this, but she forgave it.  Angrily as
she had expressed herself at the idea of Marie’s daring to love her son,
she had still acknowledged within her own heart that such love had been
natural.  She could feel no pity for Marie as long as Adolphe was in
danger; but now she knew how to pity her.  So Marie was still petted and
still encouraged, though she went through the day’s work sullenly and in
silence.

As to the capitaine it was all one to him.  He was a man of the world.
He did not expect that he should really be preferred, con amore, to a
young fellow like Adolphe.  But he did expect that Marie, like other
girls, would do as she was bid; and that in a few days she would regain
her temper and be reconciled to her life.

And then the marriage was fixed for a very early day; for as La Mère
said, “What was the use of waiting?  All their minds were made up now,
and therefore the sooner the two were married the better.  Did not the
capitaine think so?”

The capitaine said that he did think so.

And then Marie was asked.  It was all one to her, she said.  Whatever
Maman Bauche liked, that she would do; only she would not name a day
herself.  Indeed she would neither do nor say anything herself which
tended in any way to a furtherance of these matrimonials.  But then she
acquiesced, quietly enough if not readily, in what other people did and
said; and so the marriage was fixed for the day week after Adolphe’s
return.

The whole of that week passed much in the same way.  The servants about
the place spoke among themselves of Marie’s perverseness, obstinacy, and
ingratitude, because she would not look pleased, or answer Madame
Bauche’s courtesies with gratitude; but La Mère herself showed no signs
of anger.  Marie had yielded to her, and she required no more.  And she
remembered also the harsh words she had used to gain her purpose; and she
reflected on all that Marie had lost.  On these accounts she was
forbearing and exacted nothing—nothing but that one sacrifice which was
to be made in accordance to her wishes.

And it was made.  They were married in the great salon, the dining-room,
immediately after breakfast.  Madame Bauche was dressed in a new puce
silk dress, and looked very magnificent on the occasion.  She simpered
and smiled, and looked gay even in spite of her spectacles; and as the
ceremony was being performed, she held fast clutched in her hand the gold
watch and chain which were intended for Marie as soon as ever the
marriage should be completed.

The capitaine was dressed exactly as usual, only that all his clothes
were new.  Madame Bauche had endeavoured to persuade him to wear a blue
coat; but he answered that such a change would not, he was sure, be to
Marie’s taste.  To tell the truth, Marie would hardly have known the
difference had he presented himself in scarlet vestments.

Adolphe, however, was dressed very finely, but he did not make himself
prominent on the occasion.  Marie watched him closely, though none saw
that she did so; and of his garments she could have given an account with
much accuracy—of his garments, ay! and of every look.  “Is he a man,” she
said at last to herself, “that he can stand by and see all this?”

She too was dressed in silk.  They had put on her what they pleased, and
she bore the burden of her wedding finery without complaint and without
pride.  There was no blush on her face as she walked up to the table at
which the priest stood, nor hesitation in her low voice as she made the
necessary answers.  She put her hand into that of the capitaine when
required to do so; and when the ring was put on her finger she shuddered,
but ever so slightly.  No one observed it but La Mère Bauche.  “In one
week she will be used to it, and then we shall all be happy,” said La
Mère to herself.  “And I,—I will be so kind to her!”

And so the marriage was completed, and the watch was at once given to
Marie.  “Thank you, maman,” said she, as the trinket was fastened to her
girdle.  Had it been a pincushion that had cost three sous, it would have
affected her as much.

And then there was cake and wine and sweetmeats; and after a few minutes
Marie disappeared.  For an hour or so the capitaine was taken up with the
congratulating of his friends, and with the efforts necessary to the
wearing of his new honours with an air of ease; but after that time he
began to be uneasy because his wife did not come to him.  At two or three
in the afternoon he went to La Mère Bauche to complain.  “This
lackadaisical nonsense is no good,” he said.  “At any rate it is too late
now.  Marie had better come down among us and show herself satisfied with
her husband.”

But Madame Bauche took Marie’s part.  “You must not be too hard on
Marie,” she said.  “She has gone through a good deal this week past, and
is very young; whereas, capitaine, you are not very young.”

The capitaine merely shrugged his shoulders.  In the mean time Mère
Bauche went up to visit her protégée in her own room, and came down with
a report that she was suffering from a headache.  She could not appear at
dinner, Madame Bauche said; but would make one at the little party which
was to be given in the evening.  With this the capitaine was forced to be
content.

The dinner therefore went on quietly without her, much as it did on other
ordinary days.  And then there was a little time for vacancy, during
which the gentlemen drank their coffee and smoked their cigars at the
café, talking over the event that had taken place that morning, and the
ladies brushed their hair and added some ribbon or some brooch to their
usual apparel.  Twice during this time did Madame Bauche go up to Marie’s
room with offers to assist her.  “Not yet, maman; not quite yet,” said
Marie piteously through her tears, and then twice did the green
spectacles leave the room, covering eyes which also were not dry.  Ah!
what had she done?  What had she dared to take upon herself to do?  She
could not undo it now.

And then it became quite dark in the passages and out of doors, and the
guests assembled in the salon.  La Mère came in and out three or four
times, uneasy in her gait and unpleasant in her aspect, and everybody
began to see that things were wrong.  “She is ill, I am afraid,” said
one.  “The excitement has been too much,” said a second; “and he is so
old,” whispered a third.  And the capitaine stalked about erect on his
wooden leg, taking snuff, and striving to look indifferent; but he also
was uneasy in his mind.

Presently La Mère came in again, with a quicker step than before, and
whispered something, first to Adolphe and then to the capitaine,
whereupon they both followed her out of the room.

“Not in her chamber,” said Adolphe.

“Then she must be in yours,” said the capitaine.

“She is in neither,” said La Mère Bauche, with her sternest voice; “nor
is she in the house!”

And now there was no longer an affectation of indifference on the part of
any of them.  They were anything but indifferent.  The capitaine was
eager in his demands that the matter should still be kept secret from the
guests.  She had always been romantic, he said, and had now gone out to
walk by the river side.  They three and the old bath-man would go out and
look for her.

“But it is pitch dark,” said La Mère Bauche.

“We will take lanterns,” said the capitaine.  And so they sallied forth
with creeping steps over the gravel, so that they might not be heard by
those within, and proceeded to search for the young wife.

“Marie!  Marie!” said La Mère Bauche, in piteous accents; “do come to me;
pray do!”

“Hush!” said the capitaine.  “They’ll hear you if you call.”  He could
not endure that the world should learn that a marriage with him had been
so distasteful to Marie Clavert.

“Marie, dear Marie!” called Madame Bauche, louder than before, quite
regardless of the capitaine’s feelings; but no Marie answered.  In her
innermost heart now did La Mère Bauche wish that this cruel marriage had
been left undone.

Adolphe was foremost with his lamp, but he hardly dared to look in the
spot where he felt that it was most likely that she should have taken
refuge.  How could he meet her again, alone, in that grotto?  Yet he
alone of the four was young.  It was clearly for him to ascend.  “Marie,”
he shouted, “are you there?” as he slowly began the long ascent of the
steps.

But he had hardly begun to mount when a whirring sound struck his ear,
and he felt that the air near him was moved; and then there was a crash
upon the lower platform of rock, and a moan, repeated twice, but so
faintly, and a rustle of silk, and a slight struggle somewhere as he knew
within twenty paces of him; and then all was again quiet and still in the
night air.

“What was that?” asked the capitaine in a hoarse voice.  He made his way
half across the little garden, and he also was within forty or fifty
yards of the flat rock.  But Adolphe was unable to answer him.  He had
fainted and the lamp had fallen from his hands and rolled to the bottom
of the steps.

But the capitaine, though even his heart was all but quenched within him,
had still strength enough to make his way up to the rock; and there,
holding the lantern above his eyes, he saw all that was left for him to
see of his bride.

As for La Mère Bauche, she never again sat at the head of that
table,—never again dictated to guests,—never again laid down laws for the
management of any one.  A poor bedridden old woman, she lay there in her
house at Vernet for some seven tedious years, and then was gathered to
her fathers.

As for the capitaine—but what matters?  He was made of sterner stuff.
What matters either the fate of such a one as Adolphe Bauche?




***