Books: La Mere Bauche from Tales of All Countries
A >>
Anthony Trollope >> La Mere Bauche from Tales of All Countries
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
Mere 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?"
"Mere 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 Mere 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, Mere 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, Mere 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-a-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 Mere
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 Mere 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
prefet," 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 Mere 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 Mere Bauche's little parlour was the
place; but La Mere 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, Mere Bauche," said the capitaine, who did
not wish that his bride should have a cold in her head on their
wedding-day. La Mere 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 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 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.