“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 ............