There had been very little said between Michel Voss and Urmand on their journey towards Granpere till they were at the top of the Vosges, on the mountain road, at which place they had to leave their little carriage and bait their horse. Indeed Michel had been asleep during almost the entire time. On the night but one before he had not been in bed at all, having reached Basle after midnight, and having passed the hours ‘twixt that and his morning visit to Urmand’s house in his futile endeavours to stop poor Marie’s letter. And the departure of the travellers from Basle on this morning had been very early, so that the poor innkeeper had been robbed of his proper allowance of natural rest. He had slept soundly in the train to Colmar, and had afterwards slept in the little caleche which had taken them to the top of the mountain. Urmand had sat silent by his side,— by no means anxious to disturb his companion, because he had no determined plan ready to communicate. Once or twice before he reached Colmar he had thought that he would go back again. He had been, he felt, badly treated; and, though he was very fond of Marie, it would be better for him perhaps to wash his hands of the whole affair. He was so thinking the whole way to Colmar. But he was afraid of Michel Voss, and when they got out upon the platform there, he had no resolution ready to be declared as fixed. Then they had hired the little carriage, and Michel Voss had slept again. He had slept all through Munster, and up the steep mountain, and was not thoroughly awake till they were summoned to get out at the wonderfully fine house for refreshment which the late Emperor caused to be built at the top of the hill. Here they went into the restaurant, and as Michel Voss was known to the man who kept it, he ordered a bottle of wine. ‘What a terrible place to live in all the winter!’ he said, as he looked down through the window right into the deep valley below. From the spot on which the house is built you can see all the broken wooded ground of the steep descent, and then the broad plain that stretches away to the valley of the Rhine. ‘There is nothing but snow here after Christmas,’ continued Michel, ‘and perhaps not a Christian over the road for days together. I shouldn’t like it, I know. It may be all very well just now.’

But Adrian Urmand was altogether inattentive either to the scenery now before him, or to the prospect of the mountain innkeeper’s winter life. He knew that two hours and a half would take them down the mountain into Granpere, and that when there, it would be at once necessary that he should begin a task the idea of which was by no means pleasant to him. He was quite sure now that he wished he had remained at Basle, and that he had accepted Marie’s letter as final. He told himself again and again that he could not make her marry him if she chose to change her mind. What was he to say, and what was he to do when he got to Granpere, a place which he almost wished that he had never seen in spite of those profitable linen-buyings? And now when Michel Voss began to talk to him about the scenery, and what this man up in the mountain did in the winter,— at this moment when his terrible trouble was so very near him,— he felt it to be an insult, or at least a cruelty. ‘What can he do from December till April except smoke and drink?’ asked Michel Voss.

‘I don’t care what he does,’ said Urmand, turning away. ‘I only know I wish I’d never come here.’

‘Take a glass of wine, my friend,’ said Michel. ‘The mountain air has made you chill.’ Urmand took the glass of wine, but it did not cheer him much. ‘We shall have it all right before the day is over,’ continued Michel.

‘I don’t think it will ever be all right,’ said the other.

‘And why not? The fact is, you don’t understand young women; as how should you, seeing that you have not had to manage them? You do as I tell you, and just be round with her. You tell her that you don’t desire any change yourself, and that after what has passed you can’t allow her to think of such a thing. You speak as though you had a downright claim, as you have; and all will come right. It’s not that she cares for him, you know. You must remember that. She has never even said a word of that kind. I haven’t a doubt on my mind as to which she really likes best; but it’s that stupid promise, and the way that George has had of making her believe that she is bound by the first word she ever spoke to a young man. It’s only nonsense, and of course we must get over it.’ Then they were summoned out, the horse having finished his meal, and were rattled down the hill into Granpere without many more words between them.

One other word was spoken, and that word was hardly pleasant in its tone. Urmand at least did not relish it. ‘I shall go away at once if she doesn’t treat me as she ought,’ said he, just as they were entering the village.

Michel was silent for a moment before he answered. ‘You’ll behave, I’m sure, as a man ought to behave to a young woman whom he intends to make his wife.’ The words themselves were civil enough; but there was a tone in the innkeeper’s voice and a flame in his eye, which made Urmand almost feel that he had been threatened. Then they drove into the space in front of the door of the Lion d’Or.

Michel had made for himself no plan whatsoever. He led the way at once into the house, and Urmand followed, hardly daring to look up into the faces of the persons around him. They were both of them soon in the presence of Madame Voss, but Marie Bromar was not there. Marie had been sharp enough to perceive who was coming before they were out of the carriage, and was already ensconced in some safer retreat up-stairs, in which she could meditate on her plan of the campaign. ‘Look lively, and get us something to eat,’ said Michel, meaning to be cheerful and self-possessed. ‘We left Basle at five, and have not eaten a mouthful since.’ It was now nearly four o’clock, and the bread and cheese which had been served with the wine on the top of the mountain had of course gone for nothing. Madame Voss immediately began to bustle about, calling the cook and Peter Veque to her assistance. But nothing for a while was said about Marie. Urmand, trying to look as though he were self-possessed, stood with his back to the stove, and whistled. For a few minutes, during which the bustling about the table went on, Michel was wrapped in thought, and said nothing. At last he had made up his mind, and spoke: ‘We might as well make a dash at it at once,’ said he. ‘Where is Marie?’ No one answered him. ‘Where is Marie Bromar?’ he asked again, angrily. He knew that it behoved him now to take upon himself at once the real authority of a master of a house.

‘She is up-stairs,’ said Peter, who was straightening a table-cloth.

‘Tell her to come down to me,’ said her uncle. Peter departed immediately, and for a while there was silence in the little room. Adrian Urmand felt his heart to palpitate disagreeably. Indeed, the manner in which it would appear that the innkeeper proposed to manage the business was distressing enough to him. It seemed as though it were intended that he should discuss his little difficulties with Marie in the presence of the whole household. But he stood his ground, and sounded one more ineffectual little whistle. In a few minutes Peter returned, but said nothing. ‘Where is Marie Bromar?’ again demanded Michel in an angry voice.

‘I told her to come down,’ said Peter.

‘Well?’

‘I don’t think she’s coming,’ said Peter.

‘What did she say?’

‘Not a word; she only bade me go down.’ Then Michel walked into the kitchen as though he were about to fetch the recusant himself. But he stopped himself, and asked his wife to go up to Marie. Madame Voss did go up, and after her return there was some whispering between her and her husband. ‘She is upset by the excitement of your return,’ Michel said at last; ‘and we must give her a little grace. Come, we will eat our dinner.’

In the mean time Marie was sitting on her bed up-stairs in a most unhappy plight. She really loved her uncle, and almost feared him. She did fear him with that sort of fear which is produced by reverence and habits of obedience, but which, when softened by affection, hardly makes itself known as fear, except on troublous occasions. And she was oppressed by the remembrance of all that was due from her to him and to her aunt, feeling, as it was natural that she should do, in compliance with the manners and habits of her people, that she owed a duty of obedience in this matter of marriage. Though she had been able to hold her own against the priest, and had been quite firm in opposition to her aunt,— who was in truth a woman much less strong by nature than herself,— she dreaded a farther dispute with her uncle. She could not bear to think that he should be enabled to accuse her with justice of ingratitude. It had been her great pleasure to be true to him, and he had answered her truth by a perfect confidence which had given a charm to her life. Now this would all be over, and she would be driven again to beg him to send her away, that she might become a household drudge elsewhere. And now that this very moment of her agony had come, and that this man to whom she had given a promise was there to claim her, how was she to go down and say what she had to say, before all the world? It was perfectly clear to her that in accordance with her reception of Urmand at the first moment of their meeting, so must be her continued conduct towards him, till he should leave her, or else take her away with him. She could not smile on him and shake hands with him, and cut his bread for him and pour out his wine, after such a letter as she had written to him, without signifying thereby that the letter was to go for nothing. Now, let what might happen, the letter was not to go for nothing. The letter was to remain a true fact, and a true letter. ‘I can’t go down, Aunt Josey; indeed I can’t,’ she said. ‘I am not well, and I should drop. Pray tell Uncle Michel, with my best love and with my duty, that I can’t go to him now.’ And she sat still upon her bed, not weeping, but clasping her hands, and trying to see her way out of her misfortune.

The dinner was eaten in grim silence, and after the dinner Michel, still grimly silent, sat with his friend on the bench before the door and smoked a cigar. While he was smoking, Michel said never a word. But he was thinking of the difficulty he had to overcome; and he was thinking also, at odd moments, whether his own son George was not, after all, a better sort of lover for a young woman than this young man who was seated by his side. But it never occurred to him that he might find a solution of the difficulty by encouraging this second idea. Urmand, during this time, was telling himself that it behoved him to be a man, and that his sitting there in silence was hardly proof of his manliness. He knew that he was being ill-treated, and that he must do something to redress his own wrongs, if he only knew how to do it. He was quite determined that he would not be a coward; that he would stand up for his own rights. But if a young woman won’t marry a man, a man can’t make her do so, either by scolding her, or by fighting any of her friends. In this case the young lady’s friends were all on his side. But the weight of that half hour of silence and of Michel’s gloom was intolerable to him. At last he go............