Part 2 (1/2)

”He will tell you all the truth,--how it all is,” said La Mere. ”We will do all we can, you know, to make you happy, Marie. But you must remember what Monsieur le Cure 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 s.h.i.+rked 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.”