all these things took months to say, during which period marie went on with her work in melancholy listlessness. one comfort she had. adolphe, before he went, had promised to her, holding in his hand as he did so a little cross which she had given him, that no earthly consideration should sever them;—that sooner or later he would certainly be her husband. marie felt that her limbs could not work nor her tongue speak were it not for this one drop of water in her cup.

and then, deeply meditating, la mère bauche hit upon a plan, and herself communicated it to the capitaine over a second cup of coffee into which she poured a full teaspoonful more than the usual allowance of cognac. why should not he, the capitaine himself, be the man to marry marie clavert?

it was a very startling proposal, the idea of matrimony for himself never having as yet entered into the capitaine’s head at any period of his life; but la mère bauche did contrive to make it not altogether unacceptable. as to that matter of dowry she was prepared to be more than generous. she did love marie well, and could find it in her heart to give her anything—any thing except her son, her own adolphe. what she proposed was this. adolphe, himself, would never keep the baths. if the capitaine would take marie for his wife, marie, madame bauche declared, should be the mistress after her death; subject of course to certain settlements as to adolphe’s pecuniary interests.

the plan was discussed a thousand times, and at last so far brought to bear that marie was made acquainted with it—having been called in to sit in presence with la mère bauche and her future proposed husband. the poor girl manifested no disgust to the stiff ungainly lover whom they assigned to her,—who through his whole frame was in appearance almost as wooden as his own leg. on the whole, indeed, marie liked the capitaine, and felt that he was her friend; and in her country such marriages were not uncommon. the capitaine was perhaps a little beyond the age at which a man might usually be thought justified in demanding the services of a young girl as his nurse and wife, but then marie of herself had so little to give—except her youth, and beauty, and goodness.

but yet she could not absolutely consent; for was she not absolutely pledged to her own adolphe? and therefore, when the great pecuniary advantages were, one by one, displayed before her, and when la mère bauche, as a last argument, informed her that as wife of the capitaine she would be regarded as second mistress in the establishment and not as a servant, she could only burst out into tears, and say that she did not know.

“i will be very kind to you,” said the capitaine; “as kind as a man can be.”

marie took his hard withered hand and kissed it; and then looked up into his face with beseeching eyes which were not without avail upon his heart.

“we will not press her now,” said the capitaine. “there is time enough.”

but let his heart be touched ever so much, one thing was certain. it could not be permitted that she should marry adolphe. to that view of the matter he had given in his unrestricted adhesion; nor could he by any means withdraw it without losing altogether his position in the establishment of madame bauche. nor indeed did his conscience tell him that such a marriage should be permitted. that would be too much. if every pretty girl were allowed to marry the first young man that might fall in love with her, what would the world come to?

and it soon appeared that there was not time enough—that the time was growing very scant. in three months adolphe would be back. and if everything was not arranged by that time, matters might still go astray.

and then madame bauche asked her final question: “you do not think, do you, that you can ever marry adolphe?” and as she asked it the accustomed terror of her green spectacles magnified itself tenfold. marie could only answer by another burst of tears.

the affair was at last settled among them. marie said that she would consent to marry the capitaine when she should hear from adolphe’s own mouth that he, adolphe, loved her no longer. she declared with many tears that her vows and pledges prevented her from promising more than this. it was not her fault, at any rate not now, that she loved her lover. it was not her fault—not now at least—that she was bound by these pledges. when she heard from his own mouth that he had discarded her, then she would marry the capitaine—or indeed sacrifice herself in any other way that la mère bauche might desire. what would anything signify then?

madame bauche’s spectacles remained unmoved; but not her heart. marie, she told the capitaine, should be equal to herself in the establishment, when once she was entitled to be called madame campan, and she should be to her quite as a daughter. she should have her cup of coffee every evening, and dine at the big table, and wear a silk gown at church, and the servants should all call her madame; a great career should be open to her, if she would only give up her foolish girlish childish love for adolphe. and all these great promises were repeated to marie by the capitaine.

but nevertheless there was but one thing in the world which in marie’s eyes was of any value; and that one thing was the heart of adolphe bauche. without that she would be nothing; with that,—with that assured, she could wait patiently till doomsday.

letters were written to adolphe during all these eventful doings; and a letter came from him saying that he greatly valued marie’s love, but that as it had been clearly proved to him that their marriage would be neither for her advantage, nor for his, he was willing to give it up. he consented to her marriage with the capitaine, and expressed his gratitude to his mother for the pecuniary advantages which she had held out to him. oh, adolphe, adolphe! but, alas, alas! is not such the way of most men’s hearts—and of the hearts of some women?

this letter was read to marie, but it had no more effect upon her than would have had some dry legal document. in those days and in those places men and women did not depend much upon letters; nor when they were written, was there expressed in them much of heart or of feeling. marie would understand, as she was well aware, the glance of adolphe’s eye and the tone of adolphe’s voice; she would perceive at once from them what her lover really meant, what he wished, what in the innermost corner of his heart he really desired that she should do. but from that stiff constrained written document she could understand nothing.

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 mère 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?”

“mère 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 mère 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, mère 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, mère 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-à-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 mère 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 mère 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 préfet,” 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 mère 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 mère bauche’s little parlour was the place; but la mère 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.