Mothers of men

CHAPTER XII

The taxi rolled along the Champs Elysées and finally, turned into the Avenue Victor Hugo and stopped at Number Five Bis.

"Behold, we have arrived, Mademoiselle," smiled the driver genially, as he turned about and looked down at her from his seat.

Marie rose hurriedly and stepped to the street. As she opened her purse to pay the man, she suddenly realized that she had nothing but Austrian money.

"I have no French money. Will you—can you take this?" and she held out a small handful of hellers and kronen.

The man looked dubiously at the unfamiliar coins, and lifted expressive shoulders.

"But Mademoiselle, what can I do with those?" he said. "Go in the house and get it from your friends."

Marie's heart sank. Suppose the Le Grands no longer lived here! Suppose a thousand things! But realizing that the man must be paid, she decided to do as he suggested. She stooped to pick up her bag, but he stopped her.

"Oh no, Mademoiselle, allow me," and taking it from her, he followed her to the door. It was a long way from the Gare du Nord. He was not anxious to lose sight of his fare.

A stout, red-haired man with weak eyes and a green apron tied loosely about him, opened the door.

"Does Monsieur Le Grand, Monsieur Jules Le Grand live here?" asked Marie nervously.

It seemed an age to her before he answered.

"But yes," he said at last, "they have been living here this long time."

"Will you take me to them, please?" Marie could have thrown her arms about his thick neck.

The man bowed politely, and picking up her bag, led the way.

She turned to the waiting driver.

"I'll send down your money. Wait, please!" she said, and followed the red-haired man through the doorway into the courtyard.

He handed her into the little ascenseur, and touching the button, bowed as he closed the door.

On the way up, Marie repeated a prayer of gratitude over and over to herself, adding one with the hope that these cousins would be glad to see her.

As she got out at the door of the Le Grand apartment, a neat little maid opened it.

"Is Monsieur Le Grand at home?" she asked timidly, and as the girl answered in the affirmative, she added, "tell him his cousin from Vienna—his cousin Marie Helmar is here!"

Almost as she spoke, a tall stout man with a heavy black beard appeared in the doorway of what seemed to be a little salon.

He looked at Marie a moment and then came toward her with both hands extended.

"Ah, my little cousin," he cried in a cheerful bass voice. "My little cousin! But I'm glad to see you. Welcome to Paris!" He kissed her resoundingly on both cheeks, and drew her in through the door which the neat little maid closed after her.

"Oh, Cousin Jules," and Marie let the foolish tears run down her cheeks as they would, "I was so afraid you wouldn't remember me! I was so afraid you wouldn't live here any more!"

"Maman," called Monsieur Le Grand, "come and see who is here!"

"Please, cousin Jules," hesitated Marie, "the taxi driver is waiting. My money is all Austrian—could you——?" and she displayed her purse with its foreign coins.

The big man laughed.

"Surely, little cousin," he said, as he drew a leather bag from his pocket, and extracted the necessary francs. "Here, Julie, run and pay the man," and picking up Marie's bag he led the way into the salon.

Madame Le Grand was a pretty little woman, round and dimpled, her hair and eyes as black as the shining silk of her gown. Two tall, slim girls stood beside her, their eyes dark like their mother's, their straight hair loose over their shoulders.

"This is the little Marie, Maman," smiled the big man, "this is the little blond cousin from Vienna," and he led the girl forward.

Madame Le Grand kissed her affectionately as did both the girls. Monsieur Le Grand and Maman, who she found was to be called Cousin Françine, asking questions volubly. How long had she to stay? Why had she not let them know? Why had they not heard from her since the lawyer had written of her poor papa's death? Did she know how much she looked like her poor papa? Or was it her poor mamma she resembled? And so on, and so on, until finally for sheer want of breath, they stopped, and Marie began.

"I didn't decide to come until the day before yesterday," she said in her careful French; "but now, I am not going back. I expect to make my home in Paris. I must find employment."

Monsieur Le Grand looked at her in surprise.

"You must earn your own living?"

"Yes; poor papa left me very little, and it is all gone."

Her cousins looked at each other sadly.

"Never mind," soothed the big black-bearded man, "to-day you will be comfortable and have a good rest. To-morrow we will discuss your affairs."

"Fleurette, my angel," said Madame to one of the girls, "show Cousin Marie into the little blue room. You can arrange your toilette, my dear, and afterward Sidonie will come and get you for luncheon."

Marie smiled gratefully. How wonderful things were. Madame patted her kindly on the arm as she turned and followed one of the two tall girls.

The blue room proved to be very pretty, dainty and sweet as the one Marie had had in her father's house. The sight of it brought back the thought of him bitterly, and tears welled into her eyes.

Fleurette comforted her shyly, and after refreshing her face and brushing out her soft hair with Fleurette's interested assistance, she opened her bag and shook out a fresh blouse which she proceeded to put on.

"What should I have done if you had moved away?" she asked, and Fleurette shrugged expressive and sympathetic shoulders.

Presently, Sidonie, the second of the two sisters, came in to say that luncheon was ready, and with one of her young cousins on either arm, Marie went into the dining-room.

It was a happier meal than she had eaten for some time. Truly, she was born again. Here, no one knew anything about her, excepting that she had been raised in a convent and was her father's daughter. The girl found herself wondering if she were dreaming, if suddenly she should awaken and find that all these cheerful, black-eyed cousins had disappeared, and Von Pfaffen's hard, cruel face was opposite her.

But one thing she had learned from him was that her face must be a mask to conceal emotions, not a window to let them shine through.

She had learned that her "convent eyes" as Von Pfaffen used to call them, were a useful asset, and though her faith and trust in the world had died, she shut her resentment resolutely away and smiled.

The time passed pleasantly, and that night Marie slept soundly for the first time in many days. When she opened her eyes the next morning, the sun was streaming into her room. She felt it to be a happy omen, a harbinger of better things.

That afternoon Monsieur Le Grand called her to him.

"We have been talking, the good Maman and I," he said in his rumbling bass voice. "Would you like to stay here with us, even after your visit is over, and, well, teach Fleurette and Sidonie the German language, a little painting, and perhaps some music? Would you like that?"

Maman smiled into her eyes.

"Would you, little cousin?" she asked.

Marie's heart was full. This was almost too good a fortune to be true, but she managed to answer them gratefully.

"You are so kind, so good, what would I have done if I had not found you? What I can, I will gladly do."

This past year was one that had shaken her faith in every one and everything, but surely these people must be genuine. She was afraid, however, to give way to the feeling of comfort and trust that filled her, her experiences had taught her suspicion of those about her. Sadly she realized that convention sometimes requires people to do and say things to impress the ear and the eye only. She knew now, that real personalities were guarded jealously. One's real self must be carefully concealed from the knowledge and the eyes of those with whom one came in contact. She was afraid to trust what seemed so sincere, so kindly. She must weigh even her seemingly generous cousins. She must try and analyze even their motives and be on her guard. But she also knew she must let none of these thoughts be seen.

She held out her hands to her cousin and his wife and looked into their eyes with her own wide blue ones, and so her new life, the life that was born again, began.

CHAPTER XIII

The days passed swiftly for Marie. The kindly hearts of the Le Grands were won almost immediately by her sweetness and charm, her appealing air of innocence that seemed to demand protection. They surrounded her with an atmosphere of love, of generous kindness, and Marie's nervousness began to leave her. She and the two girls took long walks through the blossoming Bois, or along the beautiful Champs Elysées. Fleurette and Sidonie never tired of showing their Austrian cousin the sights of their beloved Paris, and Marie found herself forgetting the bitter winter in Vienna. It was as though there had been some horrible nightmare from which she had awakened into the sunshine of spring.

At first, she used to start up suddenly in the night, shuddering with the thought of what would happen if her cousins should come to know the truth. Sometimes, while she was giving a German lesson to Fleurette and Sidonie, the familiar tones of her own language recalled the days in Vienna which she was trying to forget, and made her sink back into her chair, white and shaken.

At such times, Fleurette would pat her hand sympathetically and comfort her for what she supposed was homesickness, and Sidonie would jump to her feet.

"Come, Cousin, no more lessons now, the sun is shining, we must walk in the Bois."

Little by little, Marie's fears of their finding out faded away, and her conscience ceased to trouble her. No one who had known her in Vienna was ever likely to come here. Old Herr Schultz was dead, his wife would never leave her native country. Besides these two, there were only Von Pfaffen and the young Lieutenant, who knew; and they, she felt sure, would never cross her path again. Little by little her confidence in people began to return, at least in these cousins of hers and their friends. Her knowledge of human nature, of character, began to expand. She was able to put people in their proper niches, as it were, and hide her own fear and distrust under a cloak of shyness and reticence.

Happy in this pleasant environment, her cheeks grew round, her color came back, and the sparkle that was in her eyes in the convent days, shone from them again. Her cousin Jules, she found, was something of a personage, and there were always people of more or less importance coming to see him, but Marie and the two girls seldom met any of these visitors. Fleurette and Sidonie were still too young, and so she stayed with them, but on the days when there were no guests, the little family were all very happy together.

The Le Grands belonged to that class of French people whose family is the heart of their life, who live only for the development of their own immediate circle, who are economical, yet generous and hospitable, and Marie was beginning to realize that here she could shut away suspicion and be happy.

Monsieur Le Grand always insisted on hearing the girls repeat their German verbs. He would burst into roars of laughter at their struggles with the heavy gutturals. Madame, on those occasions, always sat by a little table on which a red-shaded lamp lit up her dark prettiness and sparkled on her black silk gown, flashing back from her rings as she knitted or crocheted.

Marie's life was full. She gave the girls their lessons, took long walks with them and sometimes would go on a bewildering shopping excursion with Cousin Françine; and so gradually the bitterness of the past was shut away in a corner of her memory.

One afternoon, Sidonie burst into her room in great excitement, Fleurette following at her heels.

"Marie," she cried, "we are to be at dinner to-night! There will be a guest, but the good papa says we may come, because he is young, like us. We think he's wonderful. We hope you'll like him too."

"I am to wear my white lace dress with the blue sash," said Fleurette.

"And I shall wear mine, also," added Sidonie.

"But," began Marie, "I cannot come, I have nothing to wear!"

"Oh, yes you have," laughed Fleurette. "I unpacked your bag the night you came. I saw a pretty little white frock in it. It was badly crushed, but we'll take it to Julie, and she will press it out as good as new," and skipping to the clothes press, she began searching.

Marie remembered with a shudder, that she had crumpled the white dress she had worn at the "Two Eagles," into her bag. She abhorred the thought of wearing it. It would bring back bitter memories, but she could not come to dinner when there would be a guest, dressed as she was.

The girls were examining the simple frock which Fleurette had unearthed.

"I think it's very nice," decided Sidonie. "I'll take it right down to Julie and she will press it for you."

"And you must do all this wonderful golden hair in a pretty fluffy way," said Fleurette, "no flat braids to-night, cousin. We'll all play that we're grown up. Won't it be fun!" and she danced away with the crushed white muslin over her arm.

Marie stood by her window thinking. She hated to put on the white dress, to pile her hair up under a high comb. It all seemed as though she were going to the "Two Eagles" again to sing. She wouldn't, she couldn't do it. She would tell the girls when they came in, that she was ill. She would make any excuse so as to stay in her room. She would destroy that dress. She wondered why she had ever brought it.

The window stood open to the soft June air. She leaned her head against the casing and let the breeze fan her hot cheeks.

She squared her shoulders. Why should the dress bring back memories? That life was dead and buried. It had never been! She turned from the window, and began to let down her fair hair as Fleurette and Sidonie came in carefully carrying the freshened muslin. It was beautifully pressed. They laid it primly across the bed.

"You will look just like one of the angels, all yellow hair and white wings," said Fleurette, coming over to her, and drawing her shining tresses through her fingers.

"A little Sainte Marie," said Sidonie, and then glancing at her own reflection, she added, "I wish I were a blonde. Nobody ever thinks of a black Saint," and she made a grimace at her own image in the mirror.

"It is late now," reminded Marie. "Better go and dress. When you are ready, come back for me. I shall be frightened to meet a stranger alone."

The girls laughed and hurried away.

Marie closed the door after them. Then she went over to the bed and stood looking down on the fluffy whiteness in which she had been so miserable.

"What a horrible time I had when I wore you last," she said to it. "I wonder what will happen to-night," and half fearfully, she began arranging the wavy masses of her hair.

When the girls came back for her later, resplendent in their soft frocks, each with its pale blue sash tied in exactly the same manner, they uttered little shrieks of delight over Marie.

"But you are lovely, cousin," cried Fleurette. "Your shoulders are like snow." She looked very fair and golden in contrast to their vivid coloring.

"When I am grown, I shall do my hair like that," said Sidonie, "only it isn't the right color."

Marie laughed.

"Your hair is just the color it should be for you. Are you really pleased with me?"

They assured her joyously that she was perfection itself, and indeed she was a dainty figure; rounder, more mature than on that day not so many months before, when she had donned the white frock to go to the "Two Eagles." There was a flush on her cheeks which had not been there the last time she had worn it.

"Come," she said, "let us go and see the good parents," and giving a hand to each of the girls they started sedately for the drawing-room.

"How charming you look this evening," smiled Le Grand. "You will like my young friend; he is an officer in the army. His parents live in a fine old chateau somewhere near the frontier."

Almost as he spoke, the maid opened the door and announced Captain de la Motte.

Fleurette and Sidonie, suddenly shy, stepped back of their mother, while Monsieur went forward to greet his guest.

He was a tall, slender man of about thirty, very sunburnt, with a lighter line across his forehead, where his cap had rested. His eyes were wide and brown, and his dark hair combed straight back from his forehead, had a slight wave in it. His mouth was full and almost Greek in outline, and the lean, strong lines of his face were clean shaven.

Monsieur Le Grand made the presentation in the graceful manner of the cultured Frenchman.

The visitor smiled a flashing smile that lit up his face and showed a row of very white, even teeth.

Marie sat shyly quiet through the evening, but her mind and eyes were alert. There was a boyish ingenuousness about this man that was refreshing. It seemed to deny his knowledge of certain phases of life, seemed to stamp him as different from the men with whom she had come in contact. Surely there must be some men who could be trusted. She wondered if it were possible that back of those clear eyes, might lurk deception, whether the smile that seemed so worthy of trust, hid falseness. But in spite of the involuntary distrust that was the result of her experience, her interest was aroused. His frank camaraderie with her two young cousins, the amusing tales he told of the barracks, his keen sense of humor that was expressed in clear, hearty laughter, put her wonderfully at her ease, and above all things he had unmistakably that distinctive manner which proclaimed him a gentleman. It was a very pleasant evening, and when at last he rose to go, deep in her heart was a half-formed wish that here, at least, she might be off the guard she had so strictly imposed upon herself.

CHAPTER XIV

In her room that night, after he had left, Marie slipped off the white frock, shook out the folds almost tenderly and hung it carefully away. She stood for a moment in deep thought, then she went to the dressing-table and picking up the hand-mirror, began examining her delicate profile, the way her hair grew about the nape of her white neck. The blue ribbons in her dainty camisole outlined her slim shoulders and matched the blueness of her eyes. It was a very lovely face that looked back at her from the mirror. Marie had never thought of her personal appearance as a vital asset before; now, however, with the memory of a flashing smile, a frank boyish face before her, she examined herself closely. Was she really attractive, she wondered? She lacked the egotism, the self-knowledge which is able to catalogue its own charms. The desire to be appreciated, however, was strong in her. Her sensitive nature was instinctively conscious of approval or disapproval.

She rested her elbows on the dressing-table and propped her chin in her cupped hands. Could she dare hope for happiness such as came into the lives of other girls?

This was the sort of man that had filled her dreams at the convent, tall and straight, with the supple slimness of a man of action. But she had only dreamed. In actual life she had found men very different. Might not his pleasing manner and boyish friendliness be only another sort of mask, hiding perhaps as much calculation, as much designing selfishness, as had that other of paternal kindness?

Her experience had been too bitter. She dared not lower the barriers a second time. She was in that most unhappy state of mind which follows the loss of faith and trust in others.

What was the matter with her, she wondered? Was it because the sight of a uniform had brought back recollections, or was it something she had read in the wide dark eyes as they looked into hers when he had said good-night?

She undressed slowly, and shook out her long hair. The window was open to the soft June night, and the breeze lifted the golden strands and blew them against her flushed cheeks. She switched off the light and stood for awhile looking out over the sleeping city. She looked almost like the Saint Genevieve of Puvis de Chavannes, in her straight nightrobe, her hair parted and drawn down into a long yellow braid, her bare feet white against the polished floor. The flashing smile that lit up the dark face shone across her mental vision. Would she see this man again, she wondered? Did she want to? She pulled the curtains across the window and crept into bed. For a long while she lay staring up through the velvety darkness.

She did want to see him again. She lived over the moment when their eyes had met, the blue ones and the brown ones that seemed to strike fire. Could this face too, with its clean lines and flashing smile, grow distorted and evil as she had seen the other?

At the thought, she buried her face fiercely in the pillow.

"No," she whispered to herself in the darkness. "No, I'll never see him again! I never want to! Men are all alike, I hate them!" and she began to tremble with cold under the covers on this warm June night.

After awhile, she fell into a troubled sleep and dreamed that she was singing again at the "Two Eagles" and that Captain de la Motte came and took her by the hand and led her to an open window, through which she could see a broad, beautiful landscape. It seemed to her that a great storm had just passed, the last clouds disappearing in the distance, and across the arch of the heavens stretched a wonderful rainbow. Birds were singing, and the air was sweet with the perfume of flowers. Just as she was about to start out with him into the sunlight, Von Pfaffen came between them and she awoke, weeping bitterly.

But de la Motte called again and yet again, and soon it became a matter of course that Marie and the two girls should meet him on their walks in the Bois and walk home together.

The young soldier's interest was perhaps accentuated by her very reticence, the difficulty he found in drawing her out, in making her believe in his friendship. Without letting him quite see her purpose, she set herself the task of making him prove himself in every way, and though her suspicious eyes were always seeking for a flaw, he withstood all her tests.

This was the beginning of many happy days. Madame, with the love of match-making, which lies in every Latin heart, smiled and dimpled at young de la Motte every time he came, and managed to see that he and Marie were thrown together as much as possible.

Gradually, her shyness wore off and she found herself talking of the years spent at the convent, of her days with her father. But she always stopped short with his death, and de la Motte attributed the silences that followed, to her bereavement. He would change the subject to some trivial matter and soon the smiles would come back again.

He was like a big, carefree boy with the three girls, and as the days wore on, Marie began to realize that her happiness lay where he was.

The thought frightened her. She tried to reason with herself, to bring her experience to her aid. How could he, the sort of man who could win any girl, the son of General de la Motte, ever think of her, the penniless little cousin in his friend's household?

But after awhile, she hushed the voice of reason, and let herself drift along in a dream that had as its awakening the days between his visits.

One afternoon de la Motte called early. He had not been expected, and Madame Le Grand and the two girls had gone for a shopping tour, leaving Marie at home alone.

When the maid showed him into the salon where she was, the girl rose hastily from beside the little work-table where she had been stringing beads for the purse Madame was knitting. Her cheeks flushed prettily as she held out her hand to him.

"Cousin Françine and the girls will be disappointed," she said, "but they will be home shortly. You will sit down awhile?"

He laughed as he drew a chair up beside her.

"Do you know, Mademoiselle, I suppose it's rude to say, but I can't feel badly that they are not here. I'm glad I find you alone!"

There was something in his manner that startled, almost frightened her. The smile faded from her lips. She dropped her eyes over her work and sat silent.

He watched her uneasily. What a difficult little person she was. The smile that had greeted him was so encouraging that he had almost uttered the words that were now nearly always at his tongue's end, yet here she was, frozen stiff again, safely ensconced behind the bars she so seldom let down. Her very diffidence spurred him to discover what lay back of those clear, wide eyes, those eyes that were so like a child's, and yet a child that had been badly frightened at something.

He leaned forward and covered her hand with his.

"Please put down your work, Mademoiselle."

She drew her hand away and hastily rose to her feet. Her fears had been well grounded. He was like the rest.

"I'm sorry, Monsieur," she said breathlessly. "I'm sorry—I—I thought we were such good friends. I'm sorry to have it spoiled!"

He rose too, puzzled.

"Mademoiselle, what have I done to make you think I want to spoil something for which I have been striving?"

She raised her eyes that wanted so to believe in some one. The look she saw in his, made her flush with a new, ecstatic wonder. If she could only believe it.

He seemed to read her doubts, to understand the fear that tore at her heart.

"Marie," he said softly, "love to me is a very wonderful thing, so wonderful and precious that I am old-fashioned enough to think it must only be offered where one wishes to give one's life. Some day, perhaps, you will let me speak to you again of this," and stooping, he touched his lips for a moment to her fingers and left the room.

Marie sat for a long while after he had gone, with her hands idle in her lap, her eyes filled with a vision of what might be. Confidence, faith, where she so longed to bestow it! If it only could be true! She began to realize that here was a different love than had been offered her before, a love that had respect for its foundation.

When her cousins returned, they found her sitting in the gloaming, dreaming, with so little of her work done, that they laughed and called her "lazy one," and said she must come with them and see all their purchases, and with her mind singing over the hope of that "some day" that he had spoken of, she went with Fleurette and Sidonie.

CHAPTER XV

For some time after this, de la Motte did not come to the Avenue Victor Hugo. Cousin Jules reported that he was busy with his military duties. There was some activity at the caserne. Soldiers were drilling for a review, but he sent his kindest greetings and promised to be with them again as soon as it might be possible. But he was never absent from Marie's thoughts, and she dreamed the glad dreams that youth knows when love has come.

When he came again, it was to ask Marie to meet his family. They were in Paris for a few weeks, while his sister, who was to be married shortly, bought some of her trousseau.

"I want them to meet you," he said. "I want you to know my sister Paulette; I know you will be friends."

Marie lifted her eyes to his. Could she dare to hope that what she saw there was true? She was almost afraid to dream it, afraid to let him tell her so. He was so different from any she had known, with his flashing smile, his clear eyes that looked so steadily into hers. She wanted, above all things, to believe in him.

So it was arranged that Monsieur and Madame Le Grand were to take her to call on his family.

The girls helped her with her simple toilet. Her hat must be set just at the right angle, her gloves, her shoes, must all be perfect. They were as excited as she was over the prospective visit. Madame also was dreaming dreams.

"You will like the General," she said. "He is a very gallant old soldier. He will not frighten you, cousin; and Madame and Paulette are charming."

"Everybody will love you, little Sainte Marie," said Fleurette, "everybody must"; and Sidonie added, "But, of course, how can it be otherwise?"

The de la Motte family were staying at a hotel on the Place Vendôme, one of those hotels whose unpretentious exterior gives no indication of the refined comfort to be had within. It was the hotel at which the family always lived when in Paris, and its proximity to the Rue de la Paix made it particularly convenient now for the purchasing of Paulette's trousseau.

She was to be married to a young Belgian officer, Gerome had explained, Maurice le Cerf. They had grown up together, and both families had been looking forward to this event for years. Maurice's home was not far from the Château de la Motte, which was situated close to the border, and the young lovers, were seldom separated. Their marriage was to take place some time in August.

Gerome opened the door of his father's suite for them.

Back of him smiled the General, who held out a cordial hand to Marie as they entered. He was a tall, well built man of about sixty, his gray hair was brushed back from his forehead, a heavy grayish mustache hid his mouth, and over his keen blue eyes hung thick, grizzled eyebrows, one of which was lifted a trifle, giving him a kindly, quizzical expression. There was a strong resemblance between father and son, but the elder's features were more massive. He was taller, heavier, more powerfully built.

As the visitors came into the room, a lady rose from a chair by the window. She was tall and beautifully poised, and the simple lines of her dark dress set off her figure. Her hair was almost white and rolled back from her face in a smartly dressed coiffure. Her wide, dark eyes were so like Gerome's that Marie did not need his words to confirm the fact that she was his mother.

She greeted her with cordial grace, her sweet informality, immediately putting the girl at her ease.

There was some little conversation between Madame Le Grand and the hostess, concerning various mutual acquaintances and things that interested them, and then Gerome's mother turned again to Marie.

They talked awhile of many things, of the charm of Vienna, of how she liked Paris; and when they found she knew no more of France, they promised her that she should see all of their beautiful country. Monsieur Le Grand told some anecdotes of her father, and his wife smiled fondly at Marie as she spoke of the days with them since she had come to Paris.

Presently a very pretty girl came in from another room. She was, perhaps a year younger than Marie, slender, with dark hair which waved softly back from a smooth, white forehead. From under her straight black brows her eyes looked out with just a hint of superciliousness. If there could be any criticism of the lovely face, it was perhaps, that the features were too regular, for beauty is accentuated by some slight defect that enhances it by comparison.

She was dressed for the street in a smart, dark brown walking suit and a wide-brimmed sailor hat. Her slender feet and trim ankles were cased in bronze shoes and silk stockings.

Gerome rose to greet her.

"Paulette," he said, "this is Mademoiselle Helmar."

Paulette smiled her brother's flashing smile.

"Gerome has told us much about you," she said. "We have been looking forward to your visit," and after shaking hands with the Le Grands, she crossed the room and sat on the arm of her mother's chair. Her words had been gracious, her manner all that it should be, but there was a subtle something that took Marie's ease from her and brought back her nervousness. The almost too classic face held a vague suspicion of her, a vague challenge. It was as though she were saying, "Who are you? What is it in you that has captured my brother? I resent it. I'm not sure whether you are good enough for him. I am not sure anyone is!"

The family were to be in Paris another week, it seemed, and the General made plans for them to go to the theatre together, "so that we may grow to know one another," he explained.

Marie blushed as she thanked him, and it was decided that early in the week she should dine with them and they would go to the Opéra Comique, or perhaps the Théâtre Française afterward.

Monsieur Le Grand, in his deep bass voice, rumbled out plans for them to come to the Avenue Victor Hugo; Madame smiled and dimpled as she seconded his invitation, and presently they rose to go.

"We will see you very soon, I hope," she smiled, as she made her adieux, and turning to Paulette, she wished her again much happiness.

Marie smiled timidly as she bade Madame de la Motte good-bye.

"It has made me happy to meet you," she said.

Madame kissed her cheek.

"Gerome's friends are ours," she said kindly.

The Le Grands pleaded another engagement, so Gerome was to see Marie home.

It was a beautiful June day and the Paris streets through which they drove sparkled in the sunshine. The motor was well on its way along the Champs Elysées before either of them spoke.

Marie was nervously silent, and he, too, sat staring straight ahead of him. Every now and then she stole a glance at the brown profile beside her. She was conscious of an almost irresistible longing to put out her hand and touch him. She grasped her parasol handle tightly and dropped her eyes.

At last Gerome turned to her.

"You like my family?" he asked.

"Your mother is wonderful," she said. "You have her eyes."

"I resemble the General more, they tell me. He is fond of saying how much I am like he was at my age."

"You are like him," she answered, as though reviewing his qualities. "He is very splendid!"

"And Paulette?" asked Gerome.

Marie's eyes dropped.

"She is very pretty," she said non-committally. She was still feeling the girl's appraising eyes, the subtle something that had put a wall between them.

Gerome laughed.

"I was afraid you wouldn't understand her," he said. "She is very badly spoiled, and just now nothing or no one exists outside of Maurice and her trousseau. You will love Paulette when you know her better."

"I am certain I will," she hastened to assure him.

Gerome looked at her steadily.

"I am glad you like them, Marie," he said seriously, his voice shaking a little. "It means much to me."

He was silent the rest of the way, and the girl's heart beat happily. He cared for her. There was no doubting the look in his eyes. Love, real love, the kind she had dreamed of, had prayed for, was coming into her life. For a moment she grew cold with the fear that something might come to take it away. She remembered the dream she had had the night she had first met him, and the thought that perhaps some shadow of her life in Vienna might come between them, sent the blood from her cheeks and lips and left her still and white.

The torturing thought came to her again as it had so many times since she began to realize the seriousness of his intentions. Could she in honor accept this happiness if it were offered? Had she the right to accept it from any man?

When they reached the Avenue Victor Hugo, her cousins had not yet arrived and the two girls were out with Julie for their walk.

They sat in the little salon, talking for a moment or so, and then Gerome rose.

"I must go on now," he said. "I shall see you to-morrow."

Marie nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She knew her voice would shake and tremble as she was trembling.

She gave him her hand. Gerome took it, and held it tight. For a moment they looked into each other's eyes, and then suddenly, he drew her to him, crushing her in his arms.

"Marie," he whispered, "I love you! I want you! Say yes to me! Say yes!" and in the dizzy ecstacy that his nearness brought her, her resolutions, her fears melted away. Her heart throbbing wildly, she could only cling close to him, murmuring, "Yes."

Then followed long silences, broken by murmured vows, happy anticipation, hopes, plans, promises. The old, old story ever new.

When he was gone she shut herself in her room. She was glad the family were out. She didn't want to see anyone just now. She didn't want to have to answer their eager questions as to how she liked Gerome's people, and how they had liked her. She didn't want to discuss things with her cousins yet. Her happiness was too great, too wonderful. It seemed a sacred thing.

Now she knew that though there was grief, sorrow, pain in the world, cruelty and villainy, still, there was real love, love and the sacrifices love will make. It came over her with a great surge of joy, that after all, everything she had always dreamed of, hoped for, was in the world, just as bitter experience had taught her that other things existed as well.

There was love and all that is part of perfect, reciprocated affection. With a great wonder, she asked herself, did Fate really mean to be kind? Had she escaped the consequences of her inexperience?

She looked at her face in the mirror. Was this the same girl, she wondered, who had come to Paris so short a while ago, eyes red from weeping, and a heart bitterly sore with the world? The face that shone back from the mirror, was radiant with the mysterious glow that comes to a woman when she loves and is loved. She looked at the deep blue of her eyes, sparkling with happiness. She looked at her parted red lips, that could still feel his kisses, and then, suddenly, the light went out of her eyes, the smile died, and she threw herself face down on her bed. What would he do if he knew, she wondered. She couldn't lose him, she couldn't give him up. Her imagination showed her the lovelight killed in his eyes and a look of loathing taking its place.

"I couldn't bear it," she sobbed dryly. "I won't bear it!" She could still feel his heart beating against her breast, his breath warm on her check.

"Dear God in heaven," she prayed, "don't take him from me! I love him! I love him! Keep him from ever knowing! Dear God in Heaven!"

She jumped to her feet and brushed her hair out of her eyes.

"He'll never know!" she said between her teeth. "He can't ever find out! I won't give him up! I won't!"

That life was a chapter to be closed forever. She had been swept into it not against her will, but because she had had no will in the matter, no power of choice or discrimination.

Those months at the café, and with Von Pfaffen, shuddered across her memory like some horrible nightmare.

She would sponge them from her very mind, erase them from her imagination.

Squaring her shoulders, and holding her chin high, Marie looked at her image again in the mirror, and as she saw the color coming back to her cheeks, the light in her eyes, she knew that she had chosen the path that she was to follow, and that whatever came, she would fight to hold this love that had come into her life, to put herself in tune with him, to make herself worthy.

CHAPTER XVI

The General called with Gerome the next day and the two were closeted for some time with Monsieur Le Grand.

Marie had seen them arrive from her window. Nervously, she walked up and down her room, waiting to be sent for.

When at last Fleurette and Sidonie came in for her, their faces were glowing with excitement.

"They want you at once in papa's study," cried Fleurette.

"But you shan't go until you tell us why," announced Sidonie. Marie was flushed and eager.

"Let me by, you bad children," she laughed, trying to push them aside. "How should I know why they want me?"

Fleurette threw her arms about her neck.

"Don't be angry, dear," she said. "We were only teasing, of course we'll let you go," and the way clear, she went into the little salon.

Gerome came forward to greet her as she stood shyly at the door, and the light in his eyes was such a happy one that Marie felt as though she were lifted into Heaven.

"My little wife that is to be," he whispered, and led her into the room.

Madame was busy arranging on a small table the tray of wine and cakes which the maid had just brought in. Monsieur Le Grand took both her hands in his.

"Well," he laughed in his big rumbling voice, "what is this I hear about your leaving us?"

The General kissed her on both cheeks.

"She is a rather nice little daughter for an old man to have, isn't she now?" and he smiled quizzically.

Marie's cup of happiness was too full. Was she the little orphan, who only a few months ago had stood irresolutely on the corner of a street in Vienna, wondering where she was going, what was to become of her? To have all this love, this joy, showered on her, was too wonderful, too much. She hid her face on Gerome's convenient shoulder.

It seemed that Monsieur Le Grand's talk with the General had been more than satisfactory and all that now remained, was to arrange for the marriage to take place as soon as possible.

Gerome insisted on an early date. His suggestion was that now since the family were all in Paris, why not have the wedding immediately.

Marie felt curiously like a detached witness of all this, not at all as though she were one of the principals. It seemed so like a dream, that she let them discuss arrangements, and sat happily silent, her hand held tightly in Gerome's.

It was finally decided that as the de la Motte family were to go back to the country the third week in June, Gerome and Marie should be married a few days before they left. That would give Cousin Françine at least ten days to get the little bride ready.

While her new relatives and her cousins were drinking each other's health and wishing each other many felicitations and a better acquaintance; while the General was toasting Cousin Françine's pretty face and the two tall girls; while Monsieur was beaming on everybody collectively, Gerome drew Marie into the window seat.

"Are you happy, dear?" he asked as they settled themselves.

Marie could not answer, her heart was too full. She looked up into his glowing face and smiled.

Gerome, unlike most Frenchmen of his class, had taken the world seriously. He had always looked forward to the day when he should meet the One Woman. His life had been well-ordered and clean, so that when he came to her, he should be able to lay the pages of that life before her and say, "Dearest, I have lived for you and for the day of our meeting." His fellow officers had twitted and laughed at him for a purist. They said that he had been born into the wrong world, no woman was worth it. But Gerome had gone his way, taking their chaffing. He had smiled into the eyes of many pretty women, flirted lightly with others, but never let his life be touched. "I'm really a henpecked bachelor," he used to tell his companions, laughing. "I haven't yet met the girl whom I am going to marry, but she keeps me from a lot of mischief into which I might otherwise fall."

When he had met Marie, her blond loveliness, her simplicity and shyness, had won him at once, and he had told himself that first day, that here was the woman for whom he had been waiting, for whom he had kept himself clean and fine.

When he had spoken to his family of her, the General, with his characteristic clear-sightedness, had realized that Romance had found his son, and that whatever he or Madame might say against one of whom they knew almost nothing, would only serve to bring unhappiness to them all. They were a singularly united family and the thought of disagreement coming among them, was impossible to realize.

The General and his wife had discussed the matter quietly by themselves and had come to the conclusion not to give an opinion for or against, till they had seen this girl who had so suddenly come into Gerome's life.

Paulette, however, had demurred. Her brother was so much to her, she hated to think of giving him up to another woman, dreaded a stranger being brought into their midst. Her fiancé had been raised with them all. She could never remember a time when Maurice had not been near. But this was different, and a girl from a strange country, too, Paulette demurred.

The General and Madame de la Motte had asked Gerome to bring Marie to see them, and her sweetness and simplicity had won their hearts. Besides, the General knew and respected Monsieur Le Grand, and he stood sponsor for the little stranger.

"She is the daughter of a great scholar," he had told the General, "the husband of a cousin of mine. The girl has been raised in a convent. She is an orphan. Her father lost his fortune, and she tried to support herself giving piano lessons and teaching French in Vienna. She could not succeed, so she came to us. That is her life," and he added that Madame was planning to give the girl her trousseau as a wedding gift.

Things had shaped themselves beautifully, but as Gerome sat with Marie's small hand in his on the window seat, while his father and her cousins toasted one another, he knew that even if things had developed differently, he had come to his journey's end. He had found the One Woman.

When they had left, and the family had excitedly talked over everything, and Marie had been affectionately kissed, she had begged them to excuse her, and had hurried away to dream of her happiness in the quiet of her room. Her cousins' promises of the gifts they were to give her had stirred her deeply.

These good people, how wonderful they were to her, and she—she was going to Gerome empty handed. She drew out from under the neat pile of clothing in the dresser drawer, the purse she had brought from Vienna. She shook out the few hellers and kronen and the two thin bank notes which she had never touched since her arrival. That was all the dowry she could bring her husband. She stared down at the little heap of Austrian money lying on the white cover of her bureau.

Suddenly, she seemed to see Von Pfaffen's nervous fingers stirring among the bank notes, and the realization of what that money meant, rushed over her in a wave of shame. She picked up the thin pieces of paper and tore them frantically into shreds. Then she gathered the bits of other money together with the scraps and threw them all as far as she could out of her window. The coins tinkled along the sidewalk, wheeling in half circles on their edges before they settled in the gutter. There was scarcely any breeze stirring, and the thin scraps of paper zig-zagged slowly in the air. She watched them scatter along the pavement, her hands held out, her fingers spread apart. She had thrown from her the last of her life in Vienna.

The days that followed were spent in a whirl. There were clothes to buy, there was the little apartment to see in the Avenue d'Antin, which Gerome had selected, there was so much to do, that it left Marie dizzy.

Madame Le Grand was in her element. She hurried the girl from one shop to another, planned and fussed and rushed about from morning till night, the two girls at her heels, eager and flushed, and filled with vague dreams of the time when all this excitement should be for them.

The day before the wedding, she came to Marie as she was dressing for the dinner her cousins were giving for the two families, and sat down for a few minutes to chat.

"It's wonderful that this has come to you, Marie," she said. "You know we are sending the two girls to the convent next fall, and your Cousin Jules and I had thought of a winter on the Riviera. We haven't had a vacation together for so long. There would be nothing for you to do then, would there?"

Marie was arranging her hair as she answered.

"You have been very good to me, Cousin Françine, I can never thank you enough."

Madame made a little denying gesture.

"Don't speak of that, dear child," she said rising. "Now I must go, my guests will soon be here. You will go to confession to-night, of course."

Marie looked up at her startled. Since her arrival here in Paris, she had gone regularly with the family to mass, but as yet she had not been to confession. She had kept away, promising herself and the Curé, Père Gaspard, who was the family friend and advisor, that soon she would go to him. Once, when the Curé had reminded her of her duty, she had turned so white, that he had patted her hand reassuringly.

"There, there, Mademoiselle," he had told her, "you can wait till you know me better. I'm sure the sins on your soul are not such that we need worry over them."

When Madame had left the room, Marie sat staring into her mirror. She saw nothing of the confusion of the simple bridal finery about her, nothing of her own image reflected in the glass. Her only thought was that now she must go to confession. What should she say?

When she went at last into the salon, the family and their guests were all assembled, Madame de la Motte, looking very regal in her shimmering gray satin with a string of handsome pearls about her throat, kissed her cordially as the girl came to her side.

In Paulette's bright eyes was still the vague suspicion that Marie had read there that first day, but she held out her hand and flashed her brilliant smile.

Marie, of course, knew no one in Paris and it had been decided to have the marriage as simple as possible, so there were only the two families, Père Gaspard and Maurice le Cerf, Paulette's fiancé, who had come to see the corbeille de mariage and to the dinner which the Le Grands were giving the little cousin as a farewell.

Madame Le Grand smiled and dimpled at her guests, radiant in a new shining silk, and the two girls, their slim legs in black silk stockings, their white frocks encircled with huge blue sashes, stood stiffly behind their mother, looking at Marie with a new interest.

Maurice le Cerf, never far from the side of his pretty fiancée, welcomed Marie into their midst with a boyish cordiality that won her heart immediately. He was a slender, brown-skinned young officer, his long, delicate features giving him something of a Spanish cast. A small mustache shaded a rather full red mouth, and the light gray eyes shone out curiously from his dark face.

Marie was happy, deliriously happy. Her terror of confession was forgotten. She was content to sit with her hand in Gerome's, her eyes on his. Just to know that he was near, was comfort, to realize that he was hers, left her dizzy and breathless.

Both families had been generous with the gifts they had given the young people, and the wonders of the corbeille de mariage having been duly investigated and exclaimed over, they all sat down to dine in a happy, joyful frame of mind. Even Fleurette and Sidonie forgot their shyness and began to giggle over whispered remarks, and to nudge each other surreptitiously.

The General, his quizzical eyebrow more quizzically raised than ever, at his place next his jovial host, was full of entertaining anecdotes about Morocco, Tunis and the savages along the Congo, where he had served as a young man.

Monsieur Le Grand laughed his rumbling bass chuckle in appreciation, and capped the Congo stories with bits of curious doings in the city offices.

Cousin Françine smiled and dimpled and gave whispered orders to the two hired waiters who were assisting Julie, the maid.

Madame de la Motte patted Marie's hand as she now and then added a laughing word to the General's reminiscences.

Paulette and Maurice whispered together at their side of the table.

Marie let her eyes wander away from the beloved brown ones at her side. She was conscious of a feeling of well-being, a sense of protection, until her eyes came to rest on the black coat of the Curé. It came over her again in a terrifying flash, that Père Gaspard was the symbol of what might stand between her and all this happiness. She lost her sense of what was going on about the table, as she stared at the old man's wrinkled face with its high nose and thin, white hair. It was a kindly, sympathetic face, but to Marie, the deep lines about the mouth, looked sinister, the furrows between the eyes, stern and unrelenting. She drew her breath sharply and tightened her fingers on Gerome's hand.

She couldn't go to confession, she couldn't tell about Vienna, about the café and Von Pfaffen and all the rest, she couldn't. Then she remembered, how during that long journey, she had murmured over and over, "When I reach Paris, I shall be born again, I shall be born again! Nothing of this has really ever happened!"

Père Gaspard smiled at her across the table. With an effort she turned her eyes away.

"I have been born again," she told herself desperately. "I have no sins to confess!"

* * * * * * *

The next morning early, she was awakened by Fleurette's kiss.

"Lazy little Sainte Marie," she laughed. "This is your wedding day. Sidonie and I are going to communion with you now, so hurry."

Marie sprang out of bed and threw open her curtains.

"What a wonderful wedding day," she laughed joyously, "the whole world is happy with me."

When she was ready in her simple blue walking suit and hat, the two girls, both dressed exactly alike, clung one to each arm, as they started light-heartedly toward the church.

"Marie, just think, by noon to-day you will be Madame," said Sidonie wonderingly, "aren't you frightened?"

"I'm sure I shouldn't be, only I should be wild with excitement," said Fleurette.

"Marie isn't even that, are you?" and Sidonie gently pinched her arm to get her attention, for the girl's thoughts had been far away from these two little inquisitive chatterboxes, tripping by her side, through the lovely June sunshine along the Champs Elysées.

"Not even excited," she whispered, coming back to her surroundings, "only very, very happy!"

Communion over and the tears brushed away that the words of the kindly old priest had brought to her eyes, they hurried back to the Avenue Victor Hugo to make ready for the wedding.

Marie was lovely in the white frock that Madame had taken such pains in selecting for her. Her golden hair shone round her face like a saint's halo, and the filmy masses of the white veil, floated mistily about her. Gerome had given her a small bar of diamonds which she wore among the laces at her throat, and her eyes, deep blue, unclouded and happy, shone like stars. Marie was lovely.

As they drove to the Mairie in the flower-decorated carriage, Gerome leaned toward her, the pride of possession lighting up his radiant face.

"I know why they call you little Sainte Marie," he said softly; "you look as though you had just stepped down from heaven." He lifted her fingers to his lips, "and you are mine, all mine!"

The ceremony at the Mairie was short and quickly over and they went directly to the Madelaine. As she followed the huge Swiss in his scarlet coat and great black hat, down the dim aisle, her heart seemed to stop beating. She was unconscious of everything, excepting the gleam of light on the tip of his staff, and the soft crunching of his great black patent leather boots as he plodded on ahead of them. Everything was a confusion of dim shadows, of tall candles flickering and flashing, of masses of flowers and swaying wreathes of incense.

Almost in a dream, she knelt at Gerome's side, exaltedly she made her responses and kissed the Host. The low, deep tones of the organ thrilled through the dim aisles, mounted in an ecstatic burst of melody, up, up into the very heights of the great church.

The huge Swiss swung his staff and started majestically back toward the vestry room. Gerome took her hand, and still in a dream, she followed. It wasn't until they were once more out in the sunlight standing on the broad steps of the Madelaine, as they waited for their white cockaded coachman to answer the signal of the dignified Swiss, that Marie woke suddenly to a realization of what had taken place.

The June sunshine touched her lovingly with its golden rays, and sent little blue and crimson lights dancing in the diamonds of the pin at her throat as it trembled with the throbbing of her heart. She looked up at the tall figure at her side in its resplendent uniform, the quiet strength of the handsome profile, the confident lift of the broad shoulders. Her heart was full of a great thanksgiving, an adoring love beyond words.

Gerome, her husband!