‘I think it is as good as settled,’ Michel answered.  Before they got back to the inn, George had thanked his father for his liberal offer, had declared that he would accede to Madame Faragon’s proposition, and had made his father understand that he must return to Colmar on the next Monday,—­two days before that on which Urmand was expected at Granpere.

The Monday came, and hitherto there had been no word of explanation between George and Marie.  Every one in the house knew that he was about to return to Colmar, and every one in the house knew that he had been entirely reconciled to his father.  Madame Voss had asked some question about him and Marie, and had been assured by her husband that there was nothing in that suspicion.  ’I told you from the beginning,’ said he, ’that there was nothing of that sort.  I only wish that George would think of marrying some one, now that he is to have a large house of his own over his head.’

George had determined a dozen times that he would, and a dozen times that he would not, speak to Marie about her coming marriage, changing his mind as often as it was formed.  Of what use was it to speak to her? he would say to himself.  Then again he would resolve that he would scorch her false heart by one withering word before he went.  Chance at last arranged it for him.  Before he started he found himself alone with her for a moment, and it was almost impossible that he should not say something.  Then he did speak.

’They tell me you are going to be married, Marie.  I hope you will be happy and prosperous.’

‘Who tells you so?’

‘It is true at any rate, I suppose.’

’Not that I know of.  If my uncle and aunt choose to dispose of me, I cannot help it.’

’It is well for girls to be disposed of sometimes.  It saves them a world of trouble.’

’I don’t know what you mean by that, George;—­whether it is intended to be ill-natured.’

’No, indeed.  Why should I be ill-natured to you?  I heartily wish you to be well and happy.  I daresay M. Urmand will make you a good husband.  Good-bye, Marie.  I shall be off in a few minutes.  Will you not say farewell to me?’

‘Farewell, George.’

‘We used to be friends, Marie.’

‘Yes;—­we used to be friends.’

’And I have never forgotten the old days.  I will not promise to come to your marriage, because it would not make either of us happy, but I shall wish you well.  God bless you, Marie.’  Then he put his arm round her and kissed her, as he might have done to a sister,—­as it was natural that he should do to Marie Bromar, regarding her as a cousin.  She did not speak a word more, and then he was gone!