‘But, George;—­during all this time you have never mentioned it.’

’There are some things, Madame Faragon, which one doesn’t mention.  And I do not know why I should have mentioned it at all.  But you understand all about it now.  Of course she will marry the man.  It is not likely that my father should fail to have his own way with a girl who is dependent on him.’

’But he—­M.  Urmand; he would give her up if he knew it all, would he not?’

To this George made no instant answer; but the idea was there, in his mind—­that the linen merchant might perhaps be induced to abandon his purpose, if he could be made to understand that Marie wished it.  ’If he have any touch of manhood about him he would do so,’ said he.

‘And what will you do, George?’

’Do!  I shall do nothing.  What should I do?  My father has turned me out of the house.  That is the whole of it.  I do not know that there is anything to be done.’  Then he went out, and there was nothing more said upon the question.  For the next three or four days there was nothing said.  As he went in and out Madame Faragon would look at him with anxious eyes, questioning herself how far such a feeling of love might in truth make this young man forlorn and wretched.  As far as she could judge by his manner he was very forlorn and very wretched.  He did his work indeed, and was busy about the place, as was his wont.  But there was a look of pain in his face, which made her old heart grieve, and by degrees her good wishes for the object, which seemed to be so much to him, became eager and hot.

‘Is there nothing to be done?’ she asked at last, putting out her fat hand to take hold of his in sympathy.

‘There is nothing to be done,’ said George, who, however, hated himself because he was doing nothing, and still thought occasionally of that plan of choking his rival.

‘If you were to go to Basle and see the man?’

’What could I say to him, if I did see him?  After all, it is not him that I can blame.  I have no just ground of quarrel with him.  He has done nothing that is not fair.  Why should he not love her if it suits him?  Unless he were to fight me, indeed—­’

‘O, George! let there be no fighting.’

‘It would do no good, I fear.’

‘None, none, none,’ said she.

‘If I were to kill him, she could not be my wife then.’

‘No, no; certainly not.’

’And if I wounded him, it would make her like him perhaps.  If he were to kill me, indeed, there might be some comfort in that.’

After this Madame Faragon made no farther suggestions that her young friend should go to Basle.

CHAPTER XV.