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 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 sign was vouchsafed to her. Now that she thirsted for the touch of his lip upon her cheek, 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 the 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 armchair 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. She 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.