"I swear to you," I at length found words
to explain, "that your daughter is wholly
and perfectly innocent. Think of me as you
will, but at least believe me in this, and
assure yourself that your child is sinless."

He looked at me scrutinisingly for some
seconds; then his face and voice relaxed.
"I believe you! There is but one thing you
can now do, if you are sincere in your wish
to repair this evil. Promise me you will
never see Suzanne again, and that you will,
as soon as possible, quit this neighbourhood."

I promised, and we parted.

How I passed that night it needs not now
to tell, nor all the revolution the thoughts it
brought worked in my heart and in my ideas.
The immediate result was, that next morning
at dawn I rose from my sleepless bed, and
wrote to the pastor, asking his daughter's hand;
not concealing the difficulties of my position,
but adding that if he would overlook present
and material disadvantages he might trust
that no sin of omission or commission on
my part should ever cause him to regret
his having accorded his sanction to our
marriage, and that I feared not but that with
time, patience, and perseverance, I should be
able to secure a means of existence. At nineteen
it is so easy to dispose of these questions
of ways and means; to obtain everything and
to dispense with everything.

The answer came quickly, brought by the
pastor in person.

"You are an honest lad," he said. "I will
not now enter into the question of your youth
and that of Suzanne:—my child's reputation
is at stake, and she is deeply attached to
you. That of your prospects is one we have
yet to discuss; but the first subject to be
entered upon and fully explained is the one
of your father's consent to the marriage. In
the first place, by the law of France, which
is, I believe, different to that of England, no
man or woman, even if of age, can marry
without producing proof of their parents'
acquiescence. In the second, even were
the law otherwise, I should hold myself
bound for conscience sake, not to take advantage
of the most desirable proposal, if it were
made against the wishes and without the
sanction of yours. Are you likely to obtain
this?"

Here was a difficulty I had neither anticipated
nor provided for. I had thrown off all
authority, deeming my own sufficient for my
governance, and here, at the first important
crisis of my life, I found its inefficiency
to get me through my earliest difficulty.
Supposing I made up my mind tacitly to
admit my mistake, and ask my father's consent
to my marriage, was it in the least likely
that he would, under all the circumstances,
accord it?

Never mind, I must make the attempt, and
so admitting to the pastor that I had not as
yet provided for such a contingency, he left
me to write to my father.

A week of agonising suspense passed,
during which I, in accordance with a promise
made to Suzanne's father, never sought to
meet her—nay, to avoid a shadow of suspicion,
never even went to our chestnut-wood,
to get a peep of her in the garden.

At last the letter came, and sick with
agitation, I tore it open. It was brief, grave,
somewhat stern, but yet not different to what
I deserved, and what I expected.

My father said he had reflected much on
my demand:—that he saw many reasons
why he should refuse it, yet he was so
anxious to meet my wishes when they pointed
to any course that was not likely to lead me
into moral mischief, and that afforded me a
chance of obtaining steadiness of conduct,
that if I could provide him proofs of my
intended bride's character and position being
such as I represented them, he would not
withhold his permission.

This was easily done; proud and elate, I
boldly presented myself at the presbytery,
and within a month, we were married, despite
all the delays and difficulties that the French
laws, which seem especially framed to throw
every possible obstacle, hindrance, and petty
vexation in the way of the impatient lover,
could find to circumvent us.

I look back now on the time, and see
through my spectacles—though a little dimmed,
now and then—not myself, and my
Suzanne, the wife of my youth, as I saw her
in those days; but a boy and girl I remember
to have known then. A hopeful, happy,
foolish pair; brimful of youth and life and
love; seeing all things, each other included,
quite other than they were; yet so confident
in themselves, in their experience, their ideas,
their impressions:—living from day to day,
like the birds on the branch, as if all the
world were their storehouse, and no to-morrow
were before them. Quarrelling and making
sweet friends again; fretting about a look or
a word; jesting at questions involving the
most important material interests; averted
looks and murmured reproaches over a flower
presented and lost; not a thought or a care
for gold squandered.

The place was so endeared to me, and
Suzanne, and her father felt so reluctant to
part, that I resolved,—my father, who made
us a small, though reasonable allowance, not
objecting,—to settle, for a time, at all events,
in the neighbourhood of La Rochelle.

So we took a little house in the midst of a
garden, within five minutes' walk of the
presbytery, and there we set up our household,
served by a plump Rochellaise damsel,
whose clear-starched capot* and gold earrings,

* The " Capot " is the head-dress peculiar to La
Rochelle and its neighbourhood. It consists of a framework
fixed upright on the head, round which is loosely
folded a strip some three or four yards long, and about
half a yard wide, of clear muslin, bordered at each edge
with lace, and terminating in a rounded end, pinned in
front. Considerable skill and practice is necessary to
attach the capot properly, as it is arranged on the head.