"Listen, Pierre," said the old woman; "don't think that I wish to deprive the widow or the orphans of one morsel of the sustenance you intend to set aside for them. Even if I did, your good heart would hardly listen to me. But you must understand that I know Alphonsine. {116} My daughter can never live with Alphonsine; and Alphonsine can never live with me. Never!" This last word seemed to open an abyss before my very feet. I too knew Alphonsine. I too began now to understand that either of these arrangements would be perfectly impracticable. "Mother," I began-- "I don't wish to hinder jour marriage," replied the old lady, very slowly; "I simply impose one condition. You must be quite aware that in this matter my will must be law." Still I hesitated. "It will be for you then to decide your own fate," added she; "and my daughter's as well." I raised my head. Marie was there, and our eyes met. I must break my oath or lose her for ever. It is absolute torture to recall those fearful moments. My head seemed to swim round, and when I tried to speak, there was something in my throat which nearly choked me. And still Marie looked at me; and oh, how tenderly! "Pierre," said the old lady again, "you must answer; will you remain alone with Alphonsine, or will you come here alone? Choose for yourself." I looked at Marie again, and was on the point of exclaiming, "I must come here!" but the words again stuck in my throat, and my tongue refused to speak. And then I began to ease my conscience with the thought that I could still work for Victoire's wife and children, and tried to think they would be equally happy, although I was not always with them. But then I thought of that dreadful night, and the storm, and the pale face, and the whisper in my ear came back again, and I fancied I heard my brother say, "It was not that you promised me, my brother; it was not that!" At last the bitter words rose to my mouth, and in a hollow voice I answered: "I must keep my oath!" And then, like a drunken man, I fell prostrate on the floor. When I recovered she was near me still, and her sweet voice whispered in my ear, "Thank God, Pierre, you are an honest man!" Those words were my only comfort in the long dreary year which followed that fearful day. I was never myself again. I tried to rouse myself up, and take some interest in my daily work, and did my best to appear cheerful and contented at home, but I was not the same man that I used to be. The children were a great comfort to me when I was at home; but the long hopeless days and the dark dreary nights were miserable enough, God knows. I seemed to dream away my life. I thought it best to keep away from Marie, as a meeting would be painful to both. And so we never met. At last a report got about the village that Marie was going to be married. I could no longer keep away from her now, and she, too, appeared anxious that we should meet. In a very few days we were once more side by side.