PAGE 16
La Mere Bauche
by
“Then it is decided,” said Marie, returning to her chair.
“And you will marry the capitaine?” said La Mere 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 Mere Bauche had patted Marie, and smiled on her, and called her her dear good little Madame Campan, her young little Mistress of the Hotel 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.”