away, as it were, by force to the scene of his disgrace, and now—­threw him over!  He, at any rate, he, Michel Voss, should, as Adrian Urmand felt very bitterly, have been true and constant; but Michel, whose face could not lie, whatever his words might do, was clearly as anxious to be rid of his young friend as were any of the others in the hotel.  Urmand himself would have been very glad to be back at Basle.  He had come to regard any farther connection with the inn at Granpere as extremely undesirable.  The Voss family was low.  He had found that out during his present visit.  But how was he to get away, and not look, as he was going, like a dog with his tail between his legs?  He had so clear a right to demand Marie’s hand, that he could not bring himself to bear to be robbed of his claim.  And yet he had come to perceive how very foolish such a marriage would be.  He had been told that he could do better.  Of course he could do better.  But how could he be rid of his bargain without submitting to ill-treatment?  If Michel had not come and fetched him away from his home the ill-treatment would have been by comparison slight, and of that normal kind to which young men are accustomed.  But to be brought over to the house, and then to be deserted by everybody in the house!  How, O how, was he to get out of the house?  Such were his reflections as he sat solitary in the long public room drinking his coffee, and eating an omelet, with which Peter Veque had supplied him, but which had in truth been cooked for him very carefully by Marie Bromar herself.  In her present frame of mind Marie would have cooked ortolans for him had he wished for them.

And while Urmand was eating his omelet and thinking of his wrongs, Michel Voss and his son were standing together at the stable door.  Michel had been there some time before his son had joined him, and when George came up to him he put out his hand almost furtively.  George grasped it instantly, and then there came a tear into the innkeeper’s eye.  ’I have brought you a little of that tobacco we were talking of,’ said George, taking a small packet out of his pocket.

’Thank ye, George; thank ye; but it does not much matter now what I smoke.  Things are going wrong, and I don’t get satisfaction out of anything.’

‘Don’t say that, father.’

’How can I help saying it?  Look at that fellow up there.  What am I to do with him?  What am I to say to him?  He means to stay there till he gets his wife.’

’He’ll never get a wife here, if he stays till the house falls on him.’

’I can see that now.  But what am I to say to him?  How am I to get rid of him?  There is no denying, you know, that he has been treated badly among us.’

‘Would he take a little money, father?’

‘No.  He’s not so bad as that.’

’I should not have thought so; only he talked to me about his lawyer.’

’Ah;—­he did that in his anger.  By George, if I was in his position I should try and raise the very devil.  But don’t talk of giving him money, George.  He’s not bad in that way.’