“We can be true and honest, and we can wait,” she said, coming close up to him and taking hold of his arm. “I do not fear it; and she is not my mother, Adolphe. You need not fear your own mother.” “Fear! no, of course I don’t fear. But I don’t see how the very devil we can manage it.” “Will you let me tell her that I will not marry the capitaine; that I will not give up your promises; and then I am ready to leave the house?” “It would do no good.” “It would do every good, Adolphe, if I had your promised word once more; if I could hear from your own voice one more tone of love. Do you not remember this place? It was here that you forced me to say that I loved you. It is here also that you will tell me that I have been deceived.” “It is not I that would deceive you,” he said. “I wonder that you should be so hard upon me. God knows that I have trouble enough.” “Well, if I am a trouble to you, be it so. Be it as you wish,” and she leaned back against the wall of the rock, and crossing her arms upon her breast looked away from him and fixed her eyes upon the sharp granite peaks of Canigou. He again betook himself to walk backwards and forwards through the cave. He had quite enough of love for her to make him wish to marry her; quite enough now, at this moment, to make the idea of her marriage with the capitaine very distasteful to him; enough probably to make him become a decently 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.”