CHAPTER XVII
The short honeymoon was spent at Interlaken, which Gerome had chosen because of the quiet as well as the beauty. He wanted Marie to himself.
As he threw the long windows wide, the morning after their arrival, he uttered an involuntary exclamation at the scene of beauty spread before him. They had arrived late the night before and the full wonder of an Alpine sunrise shone out before their eyes.
Marie came to his side.
"How marvelous!" she whispered, her eyes wide with the splendor of the scene.
He put his arm about her shoulders, and together they stepped out onto the tiny balcony outside the window. Below them, the busy little Aa purled and gurgled on its way to the lake. Some sleek, spotted cows ambled lazily across the bridge, their bells tinkling musically through the still morning air. A small, red-cheeked boy prodded them idly with a long, crooked stick.
Above them, the mighty peaks flung themselves high into the clear blue sky, like huge giants supplicating the morning sun. Here and there along their sides the mists filled tiny valleys, here and there lay deep impenetrable shadows, but the snow on their summits glittered and sparkled with the pink of the Alpine glow.
To Marie, as she stood with her husband's arm about her, came a swift, half conscious premonition that her own life would be something like this vast panorama spread before her; that she, too, would be called upon to climb through the mist-filled valleys, to fight her way through dark, impenetrable shadows, up, up into the glow of the shining heights.
They had their breakfast out on the tiny balcony, a delicious meal of crisp, crescent rolls and little hollow swirls of sweet butter, clear golden honey and steaming, fragrant coffee.
The buxom maid who served it, wore a black velvet bodice with silver buttons, and the crisp white folds of her ample apron matched the snow on the summit of the Jungfrau. Her cheeks were so red that the blood seemed bursting from them, and her bright eyes sparkled back the happiness in the eyes of the pair she was serving.
Marie had tied her hair back, schoolgirl fashion, with a huge bow, and after the red-cheeked maid had left them, she came and sat on the arm of Gerome's chair.
"What would I have done if you had never found me," she said musingly, as she smoothed his thick hair. "Out of the darkness, we met! You led me into a world of light and love. How wonderful it is!" Her eyes were large and mysterious as they gazed over the far spaces of the valley.
"But we did meet, little Sainte Marie, and we're never going to part, are we?"
She tightened her arm about his neck.
"Nothing or no one shall ever take you from me," she said, and she spoke so earnestly that Gerome turned in his chair and held her off at arm's length.
"How serious you are," he smiled, "as if that could be possible."
"Nothing must separate us, I'd—I'd die without you," she said, and jumping to her feet, she ran into the room.
Marie found amusement and interest in everything and everybody about her. She and Gerome were like two children out on a holiday, and played wonderful games of imagining the life stories of their fellow guests at the quiet little hotel.
Their first meal at the long table d'hôte was one of absorbing interest to her. The maids who served were each an exact counterpart of the red-cheeked girl who had brought them their breakfast, black velvet bodice, silver buttons, white apron and all.
Across from them, sat a very dignified German family. The Baron Von Dieskow, a tall, good-looking old man who looked at Marie with a pair of very sparkling eyes set in a handsome, merry face, burnt quite red, had an explosive way of saying "NO!" to everything one said, as though it was the most wonderful thing in the world. The Baroness—he was her third husband, she told Marie—was a pretty little English woman. She brought forward a young lady daughter, very homely and dowdyish and distinctly German, although she spoke English to Gerome, who liked to air his knowledge of that language, with a pronounced Piccadilly accent. There were also two young children who curtsied and kissed Marie's hand when their mother presented them.
The Baron, it seemed, had met Gerome's father once in Paris, and there were many polite inquiries as to the General's health, and soon he and Gerome were deep in the discussion of mountain climbing and hunting.
"I am not a very good shot," Marie heard the Baron say with his merry little eyes sparkling, "in fact, I'm not at all fatal to the birds. Once, however, I frightened one, but that's all," and he and Gerome laughed heartily.
Next Marie, sat a faded little maiden lady from Yorkshire with a Mona-Lisa smile. She spoke French very slowly and very badly, and hyphenated all her speeches with a nervous little cough.
There was also a sandy-haired, pale-eyed man who made Marie think of nothing so much as a tom-cat with his back up. He was a major something-or-other, of what nationality she could not judge. He smiled at her in a horrid, over-polite way, and confided to her across the table that he had been a monk for fourteen years in the great Certosa at Florence.
"I thought they never let anyone out, who once entered there," ventured Marie timidly.
"I'm sure, Madame, they would never let you out," he said, evidently meaning to be witty, but Marie colored and turned away to watch the other people about the long table.
Gerome's discussion with the Baron was still going on briskly, and she had ample leisure to study the curious combinations of people who drift together, "doing Europe."
At the end of the table sat a group of Americans, whose joyous good humor and interest in everything attracted her attention. She did not understand the laughing sallies which flew back and forth, but their merriment was so infectious that she smiled with them.
In Vienna the people were all of a type. It was easy for her to recognize a foreigner. In Paris also, the people resembled one another, so that she never had any difficulty in distinguishing which were French and which were of an alien race, but no two of these Americans were alike. They all wore something of the same sort of clothes, but there the resemblance ended.
Her curious eyes widened over the quantity of jewelry several of the women wore, no matter what the hour of the day. One of the men in the party, a tall, broad-shouldered individual, with a florid face and a loud laugh, seemed to fill all his conversation with uncomplimentary comparisons of the comforts to be had in Europe with those at home. His fellow countrymen seemed to heartily agree with his sentiments.
One of the women, a stout, elderly person, who boasted neither style nor figure, turned to Marie with a question. Marie shook her head, blushing.
"Pardon me, Madame," she said, "I speak no English."
The shout of laughter from the other Americans that greeted her answer, startled her, until, to her confusion, she discovered that the elderly woman had addressed her in what she fondly imagined was French.
"Isn't it all interesting?" laughed Marie, as clinging to her tall husband's arm, they started for a walk about the countryside. Everything was wonderful to her, and Gerome, watching the sun sparkle on her hair and dance in her bright eyes found everything wonderful too.
They explored the little town, wandered about in all the out-of-the-way corners, took long rambles up the mountain sides, and in the lovely June evenings, sat on the tiny balcony, her cheek against his shoulder, and watched the marvel of the gold, crimson and purple sunsets among the giant peaks upflung against the gleaming sky.
It was a perfect week, and when it drew to a close, and they were leaving for Paris, their boxes and bags strapped and ready in the hall below, in charge of the green-aproned porter, Marie ran back to the room in which she had been so happy. She looked about hastily and lovingly at the plain hotel furniture, the wide, marble-topped dresser, the great chair on the arm of which she had sat so often as Gerome smoked his morning cigar. She went about to each inanimate object and patted it lovingly.
"Dear room," she whispered, "where I have been so happy. How I have loved each one of all these things!"
The long windows were open, and she stepped out for a moment onto the balcony. She looked up at the glistening Jungfrau. Its majesty, its whiteness filled her with wonder.
"Beautiful mountain," she said softly. "You have looked down on my happiness, I shall always remember you." Then she turned and went to meet Gerome where he was waiting in the hall.
The proprietor of the hotel was at the door. He was a queer, thin little man who almost wept over their hands as he bade them good-bye.
"Oh, but you must not go, really, you must not go! I am desolated to see you go," he said, and they would probably have been highly flattered had they not heard him say the same thing to each departing guest.
Back in Paris, the Le Grands, Monsieur, Madame and the two tall girls were at the little apartment in the Avenue d'Antin to greet them. They had engaged Suzanne, Julie's younger sister, to come and take charge of the small household, and she it was who, very important and smiling in white cap and apron, opened the door to the young couple when they arrived.
The trip from Geneva had been a long dusty one, and Marie was tired, but her joy was very real at seeing these kind faces again.
Monsieur nearly shook Gerome's hand off and patted him vigorously on the shoulder.
"We're glad you're both back," he rumbled. "How well you look, how brown! Even Marie has been kissed by the sun."
The two girls must show Marie everything. She must see her room with its dainty gray furniture, the delicate lavender hangings. She must be taken into Gerome's room beyond. Wasn't it charming? Didn't she like the way it was arranged? And the white and gold salon, the tiny dining-room with its shining silver and china. The kitchen, wasn't it all wonderful?
Marie let them lead her from room to room. She couldn't be too grateful, too happy. Her dream was growing in loveliness.
Suzanne had spread a dainty meal in the dining-room, coffee, little cakes, wine and some cold meat and rolls, and as they sat about the table, they all chattered at once.
At last Monsieur looked at his watch.
Dear me, how late it was, they mustn't keep these tired travelers awake any longer.
Suzanne, all smiles, brought Madame's wrap and the girl's coats.
Monsieur, his walking-stick under one arm and Madame under the other, led the way out, after kissing Marie resoundingly on both cheeks and patting Gerome on the shoulder and telling him what a lucky dog he was.
Later, Gerome came to the door of his wife's dainty gray and lavender room. She was letting down her heavy golden braids, and the sleeves of her negligée fell away from her white arms, as she raised them to her hair. She looked very lovely against the misty background of the pretty room, and his eyes swept her fondly. She let her hair fall about her shoulders and held her arms out to him.
"My dearest," she said, "welcome, welcome home!"
Gerome held her against his breast.
"My little Sainte Marie," he whispered.
CHAPTER XVIII
The little apartment in the Avenue d'Antin shone like a carefully kept doll's house. Marie, indulging her fancy for dainty clothes, went about the tiny rooms dressed in the prettiest frocks in her modest trousseau.
There were visits back and forth between her cousins and herself. Fleurette and Sidonie spent long afternoons with her, which she did her best to fill with interest and enjoyment for them, getting out her finest china for the afternoon chocolate. They never ceased to wonder at her new dignity, her staid little air of matronliness, secretly promising themselves to copy it when they should be married. When the time came for Julie to call for them, it always seemed too soon, and Marie used to stand at her window and wave good-bye to them till they had turned the corner.
There were afternoons, too, when she would take her sewing in a dainty reticule and go sedately up to the apartment in the Avenue Victor Hugo. Her life was full and overflowing. Occasionally Gerome would bring one of his fellow-officers and his wife to dine, and sometimes these visits were returned.
So the days slipped by, peacefully, calmly, each filled with more happiness than Marie ever dreamed life could hold.
Then into this peaceful, contented atmosphere, gradually, imperceptibly, out of the nowhere, vague rumors began to shape themselves. A curious palpitating unrest made itself felt. The air seemed charged with something strange, alive, too formless to guess at, until one momentous day, that was to stand forever a grim milestone in the world's history. The papers were full of a terrible happening. The Austrian Archduke had been assassinated, a shot had been fired at the royal carriage in a far-away country. Through the Paris streets, the news was cried.
Intangible menace seemed to quiver in the air, filling the heart with vague apprehensions of coming danger, like the glare of a great conflagration that is seen on the far horizon.
When she questioned her husband, he quieted her fears, though his own brow was anxious. This was all too remote, it would never come near enough to destroy.
There were long discussions over the little dining-table when the Le Grands or any of Gerome's fellow officers came to dine. She heard her own Austria discussed unfavorably. She wondered that Germany, whom she had always been brought up to look upon as the Great Protector, should here be viewed as the Arch-Conspirator, the Menacing Tyrant, bloodthirstily eager to get the whole world in the grip of its mailed fist.
Looking at her husband's uniform, it was brought home to her, with a gasping fear, what war might mean to her. But Gerome, seeing the look in her eyes, would reach across the table and pat her hand, and Monsieur Le Grand would rumble his assurances that everything would surely blow over, Germany was too wise to set all Europe against her.
And then the distant conflagration seemed to grow clearer. It was as though the bright tongues of flame one had only imagined, became suddenly visible, leaping, advancing, devouring everything in their course.
The formless something that had palpitated in the air, took shape, and began to spell out the dread word, "WAR."
Every hour extras came out with news. Every hour it was denied.
From the windows of the little apartment in the Avenue d'Antin, Marie, with a white face, stood at Gerome's shoulder, watching the bonfires blazing where the police were burning the false newspapers.
"What does it all mean?" she shuddered. "What can it all mean?"
Gerome held her close.
"It may mean dreadful things, dear, we can only wait and see," he told her.
She was frightened every moment he was away from her, though the Avenue d'Antin was quiet and peaceful. On her way to visit the Le Grands, she had seen the huge placards posted along the Boulevards ordering the men to the casernes.
Gerome was with his regiment nearly always now, and she was much alone. Terror of what it might mean, fear of she knew not what, enveloped her. Here and there, she was beginning to hear the street gamins shout out their hatred of the Boches. Once or twice they had called the name at her. She began to fancy she could even see in the kindly faces of her cousins a certain resentment of her origin.
Once she had spoken to Fleurette in German, and the girl had raised her arm as though warding off a blow.
"Don't speak that language," she had cried, and Marie, white-faced and wide-eyed, had looked into their serious faces, terror-stricken.
It couldn't be true! There couldn't be war! To-day, when mankind had grown so civilized, so filled with a sense of culture as she had heard it preached, it couldn't be true! The Fatherland, her Austria, and the country she had made her own? It was too horrible, too terrible to think of, it couldn't be! These weren't the days of the dark ages! This was the enlightened twentieth century! It would all blow over! It must!
Gerome soothed her.
"Marie, dear," he said seriously, "we are on the edge of grave things. I am not asking you to give up your love for your home land, but your allegiance belongs here now. We must be very careful. Everywhere there is suspicion, distrust of those who are not of our own blood. We must be very cautious."
Marie threw herself into his arms, frightened at his gravity.
"Nothing matters but you," she said; "nothing! There won't be war! There can't be! Nothing shall take you away from me!"
Her husband shook his head sadly above her trembling shoulders.
"Poor little one," he sighed, "there shouldn't be war! But there may be. We must all do our best, whatever comes!"
A few days later, came a wild letter from Paulette.
"What is Paris saying?" it began. "What is Paris doing? Are we to let our country be overrun? Our beloved France insulted, reviled? Papa is drilling men every day here at the caserne, and Maurice is at home in Belgium now, but he will come as soon as France needs him and fight for the flag he loves almost as well as his own. Maman, too, is busy teaching the peasants what to do in case of the worst. Robert, the butler, has left to enlist if he is needed, and we have a new man. He is over age, they do not need him to fight. He seems very good. Even old Nanine is going to send her three sons. Oh, Gerome, my brother, I wish I were a man, so that I could go with you and fight for France if she needs me." And then in a paragraph all by itself had followed the line: "What about Marie—is she one of us?"
Marie looked up startled from the letter Gerome had handed her.
Paulette's vague distrust was voiced now. She was an alien, an enemy. She seemed to hear the cries of the street gamins, "yah! Boche!" To her there was neither France nor Germany, peace nor war. There was only Gerome, her husband. He was her world, her all, without him, Chaos! It was all a horrible nightmare; such things did not happen to-day. Husbands would not leave wives who loved them, to fight husbands of other wives who loved them equally well. They were living in a civilized world, a world that had outlived the horrors of Barbarian times. Such things did not happen!
* * * * * * *
And then the sun had risen on the fourth of August and Belgium lay ravished and bleeding. The world rocked and groaned and was torn asunder. The skies thundered to the echo and re-echo of devastating guns. One after another, the nations shook off the security of peace, girded themselves in the red garb of war, and clashed their shields one on the other. Such things did happen! Civilization had perished!
France was called to arms. France was responding with all the joyousness, the brilliancy with which she had lived in peace. France was lifting her proud head, her brave, indomitable spirit against that ever-advancing gray wall of deadliness, that gray wall that for forty years, had builded and prepared itself, had seen that no chink or cranny should be left in it when The Day arrived. And against this menace, as it came closer and closer, France, pitifully unprepared, unexpectedly called from her playtime, was taking her stand, brave and full of the courage of the right that knows no defeat.
Everywhere was the sound of the Marseillaise, the tramp of marching feet. Marie went with the Le Grands to watch the soldiers pass along the Champs Elysées. The music of the band, as they swung along, the fluttering tri-color that caught the sunlight, the eager glow of patriotism shining from each young face as it swept by, tightened her throat, misted her eyes, and she found herself forgetting that they were marching against her own people, her own Fatherland.
She saw herself in each mother, each wife, each sweetheart, trudging along by the side of the swinging troops. She felt her own heart bleed with these weeping ones, sending their best to fight for what, they loved more, La Patrie! When she could bear it no longer, she turned with streaming eyes and begged Fleurette and Sidonie to take her home.
Gerome was not to leave yet, he had other work to do; but she knew the day was not far distant when she would be sending him out as those other mothers, wives and sweethearts were doing.
The days swept on into those terrible ones, when all Paris waited anxiously for the result of the battles being waged, when all Paris shuddered with the approach of invading feet. Breathless excitement, wild joy at the reports of victory, of the foe vanquished, ran like wild-fire through the streets. Then followed those other rumors, alarming, terrible, later confirmed by official reports. The Army was falling back! The Enemy was advancing!
Gerome was with her less and less now. Marie kept safely hidden in her little apartment. When he came home, it was only for hurried, brief visits, assurances that he would see to her safety, but that his place and duty was with his regiment which had been detailed to guard the city.
One morning, Marie was awakened by an ominous rumbling, far away, deep-toned and menacing.
Suzanne ran in trembling with fright.
"Madame," she gasped, "it is the guns! Do you not hear them?"
She went to the window and looked down into the street. People ran past, terrified, shouting that the city would be taken. She saw some of her neighbors leave their houses, with only such of their belongings as they could conveniently carry with them.
Toward noon, the Le Grands came, dressed for traveling, Madame's eyes were red with weeping, and the two girls whimpered like frightened babies. Monsieur, his swarthy face yellowish from a long night of vigil and the knowledge of what this might mean to Paris, bade Marie pack a few things and come with them.
"We are leaving for Bordeaux," he said. "The Government has been moved there. I go with my office. You must come with us, Marie, you will be safer there."
Marie stared from one to the other, frightened.
"How can I go," she said. "Gerome is with his regiment at the Fortifications. He bade me stay here, close, indoors."
Nothing could move her, and weeping bitterly, the girls clinging about her neck, and Madame kissing her sadly, they said good-bye.
The cloud that hung over everything deepened, grew blacker. Terror, horror, and a dreadful sorrow stalked the streets. Defeat was approaching, defeat by a foe who had once before marched triumphantly down these broad avenues, under these stately arches built as the memorial of a proudly victorious nation. Men and women stopped each other in the streets, asking if this were going to happen again.
Invasion, and all that it meant, hung like a black pall over the city called the gayest, the happiest in the world, covering, enveloping it with a dreadful menace.
A tragic figure, Paris waited its doom.
Then, suddenly, across the blackness came a message. The enemy was halted. Louder roared the guns, but now, those who listened seemed to hear a note of triumph in their fierce song, a shout that bade them look up, take courage! It was as though the spirit of Jeanne d'Arc had again raised the Oriflamme.
La Patrie lifted her head once more. Bloody, wounded, but proudly undaunted.
Another message! The enemy was retiring!
The flower of France was sweeping onward! Onward! The tide had turned!
Through the streets, the people sang, shouted, wild with joy.
A little stream had marked the high tide of French patriotism and valor; a little stream that would live in the memory of men as long as deeds like these should be written or sung; a little stream which would be forever after endeared to the hearts and the minds of the French nation—the Marne!
CHAPTER XIX
In ghastly numbers, the wounded began pouring into Paris, a sad and terrible procession. About the railroad stations, crowds were gathered. Mothers, sisters, wives, sweethearts were anxiously scanning each pitiful burden as it was lifted into the waiting ambulances, their hearts torn with the fear that this might be the one they sought. Strong men shook with anguish at the terrible spectacle. These shattered wrecks, who had gone forth in the pride of their youth and strength, fought, suffered, died, so that Liberty might live, their wounds mutely supplicating those who were to take their places not to let their sacrifice be in vain.
As the stretchers were tenderly borne past the waiting people, flowers were flung on the gray blankets, there were cheers and suppressed sobs. But mingling with their tears was a feeling of exultant pride that these man had saved their beloved country from the humiliation of defeat, had kept hope still alive for final victory.
The women of France, those wonderful women who have always risen to every crisis in their country's history flocked to give their services to her now.
With Gerome's permission, Marie offered her aid. Her hands were deft and light, and her heart was full of pity for these poor boys whom she had seen march away so bravely, young, strong, and flushed with the glow of eager patriotism. She was filled with compassion for these people of whom her marriage had made her one, and she worked early and late among them. The fatigue that followed acted as a sort of relief against the terrible anxiety with which she was filled as to Gerome's safety, for now she never knew where he was nor into what danger he was going.
As an assistant nurse, she spent most of her time in the hospitals, going from bed to bed, comforting, consoling, doing as much as her limited training would permit. Her heart bled for the sightless eyes that had so recently smiled back the sunlight; for the useless stumps of arms that could never again hold those they loved; for the helpless young giants shorn of their strength forever. As she went in and out among the terrible flotsam tossed back by the tide of battle, a wondering admiration for the people of her adoption grew in her heart, for torn and racked, bloody and shattered as they were, these men never complained, there was never a word of discouragement. Stronger than their suffering, stronger than the thought of the helpless years ahead, was the joy born of the knowledge that they had fought well and bravely for what they loved most—La Patrie!
There was more than enough to do for all who were willing to lend their aid. Marie's heart was wholly in her work, she toiled unremittingly. She tried to comfort those among her acquaintances whose dear ones lay out beneath the little wooden crosses near the Marne.
But although in the hospitals her gentle hand and sweet face brought comfort to many a pain-racked poilu, gradually among her own circle she seemed to sense a widening breach, a rift in the love and companionship that had always been given her.
One day she overheard Fleurette and Sidonie discussing her.
"Marie is different," said the older, "she isn't really one of the Boches, she belongs to us!"
"She was born there," the other had responded doggedly, "and I heard papa say yesterday, 'Once a German, always a German!'"
She went into their room immediately, and carefully explained to them that all her love and allegiance was with them; that she had given up her own country with her marriage to Gerome, and was now as loyally French as they.
But the tales of brutality, of wanton destruction that were reported in Paris, the cruelty of these people from whom she had sprung, were inconceivable to her. She couldn't believe them. Once she voiced these doubts to Gerome.
He put his hands on her shoulders and looked deep into her eyes.
"Dearest," he said, "I'm afraid these things are true. It will be best for you to believe them, and to forget that the blood of our enemies flows in your veins!"
Once on her way home, she had seen an angry mob stoning the windows of Herr Pappenheim's Rotisserie. Through the door she caught a glimpse of the round face of the proprietor. It was a pasty-white, and there was a swollen lump over one eye where a stone had struck him. The windows were smashed and yelling boys were pillaging among the appetizing stores.
She heard the derisive shouts of "Boches—yah, sale Boche," as the gendarmes dispersed the crowd.
Good Herr Pappenheim, who had so often winked at a generous overweight for some needy customer, and in the warm evenings had always sat happily on the sidewalk before his shop, his fat German wife at his side, and all the children in the neighborhood climbing over his broad, good-humored shoulders! And now, with this new feeling against his race, these same children were stoning his windows!
The return of the government to Paris brought the Le Grands with it. Julie came with a note to the Avenue d'Antin.
"Dear Marie," it said, "we are home again. We shall be very glad to see you when you can spare the time!"
"Spare the time," she looked up startled. The formal phrasing worried her. Were they too, thinking of her as The Enemy?
"They don't trust me," she complained to Gerome on one of his fleeting visits to her. "They look at me as though I am some strange creature that doesn't belong here. They—they whisper about me. Yesterday, at the Red Cross rooms, I heard Madame Dupin say I was an alien, and—and once or twice they spoke about—about spies!"
Gerome, weary with his long vigil and happy to be with her again, drew her close in his arms.
"Dearest," he murmured, "I know it must be very hard for you. This sort of thing is one of the worst phases of this war. But you are one of us now! It is because you are a part of my beloved France, that She means more to me than ever."
Marie nestled closer, her cheek against his brown one.
"I am a part of France, dear, now and forever!"
She felt her words deeply, with a sense of elation in the knowledge that she did belong to this wonderful country whose children could sing their way happily through the sunlit days of peace, and yet when the sky grew overcast with war clouds that obscured the sun and threatened to overwhelm her with destruction, be ready to lay aside their playthings, turn from their laughter and ease, and girding on their armor, stand staunch and firm, fighting to the last drop of their heart's blood.
In the faces about her, she read the exaltation that must have lighted the countenance of the Maid of Orleans, the determination that the proud head of their beloved country should never be bowed beneath a strange yoke.
She forgot Austria, forgot Germany, forgot her alien blood, and gave her waking hours gladly, unreservedly to be as useful as she could.
After the supply of trained nurses increased she was set to making surgical dressings, and, as she rolled the interminable yards of gauze, the room would sometimes blur through her tears of sympathy at the sad stories she heard. But as more and more of the terribly wounded kept pouring into the city, the hatred and resentment against the enemy who was causing all this suffering grew, and she began to see a difference in the faces about her. Women who had been kind and friendly before, who had politely ignored her foreign origin, now began openly to show their disfavor.
Sometimes when she entered the room filled with women busy preparing supplies for the hospitals, there would be a sudden cessation of conversation, as though she had been the subject they were discussing.
As the days wore on, suspicion and distrust became more open, friends of the Le Grands who knew her origin, cut her as they passed her in the street, and even her cousins asked her less and less to the apartment in the Avenue Victor Hugo.
Marie's sensitive nature shrank from the aversion about her. She suffered keenly from the suspicion directed against her. So at last it was decided that she would be safer at the Château de la Motte than here in Paris where she must of necessity be so much alone. Tearfully, she closed the little apartment and prepared to go to her husband's people.
CHAPTER XX
To Paulette, the fourth of August meant the sudden ending of all her happy anticipations, for, shortly after the declaration of war, Maurice had been taken prisoner.
When the news came to the château, she refused to believe it; such a thing was impossible! Maurice was to fare forth and fight for France, he was to fly her colors from his helmet as did the knights of old! But he had been obliged to fight the invaders of his own country. The Germans had come! The Germans had conquered! Maurice was a prisoner!
Paulette had never known in all her short life what denial meant. To her parents, her word and whim was law, and her brother idolized her. Her every wish had been gratified. She insisted now that they demand her lover's freedom. She could not be made to understand the futility of even asking. It was impossible that what she wanted so ardently, should be kept from her.
There came a letter, meagre, bloodless, sternly emasculated by the Teuton censor, but it contained one word that sent the blood from her lips—"Wounded." Other letters followed, but they were pitifully empty, so lacking in everything that she wanted to know, that they were more a source of grief than comfort. After awhile, even these stopped.
Old Nanine, the Breton woman, who had nursed Paulette and her brother, shook her head over the shadows under her eyes, the listless droop of her mouth, the hollows in the delicate oval of her cheeks.
The girl was filled with a flame of deep, bitter rage that consumed her day and night. The tears that came to the relief of other women, were denied her. Hate, that most terrible of the children of War, was born in her breast.
"Now dearie," crooned Nanine, "don't take it like that! It can't be long before the French will have driven the Boches away, and the young Monsieur will be back again. Come, calm yourself! What a picture you will be for him to see when he comes, if you go on so."
But Paulette refused to be comforted. The sunniness of her nature changed into a brooding sullenness. She grew to hate the very name of the Germans, and little by little her resentment fastened itself on Marie, her Austrian sister-in-law.
In the midst of her grief and despair, one day one of her school friends, a girl of her own age, came to the château. She wore the white coif of the trained nurse with its little red cross of mercy bound about her forehead. She was filled with wonderful tales of bravery and suffering, and in a flash Paulette knew that this was the work which would fill her time and her heart while waiting for Maurice, and perhaps enable her to help him. She began to dream that it might be her hands that would nurse him back to health. She must make those hands as skillful as possible. She threw herself into the necessary studies with feverish energy.
Though the General had passed the retiring age, he had been recalled to active service and was absent most of the time. When he did come home, it was only for hurried visits. The household was completely changed. One by one, those of the men servants who were young enough, had been called to the colors and had marched away. Old Nanine had seen her two eldest sons go, big, strapping fellows of whom she was justly proud. In company with so many other French mothers, she had said good-bye to them for the last time. Jean had fallen in one of the first skirmishes and Pierre had received his death wound a few weeks later. Now the youngest, Jacques, had just left for the front. Her heart was very heavy, but she stifled her own sorrow to comfort the grieving Paulette.
Madame de la Motte busied herself from early morning to night, gathering supplies and looking after the families of those who had gone with the army.
Of the men about the château, none were left excepting Joseph, the gardener, stooping under his sixty heavy years, and the new butler.
This man was tall and thin, perhaps forty-five, his hair graying at the temples, his dark, watchful eyes looking out steadily from under heavy brows. He was so well spoken of in the letters of recommendation which he presented, that Madame de la Motte considered herself fortunate to have found him.
Antoine—this was his name—and old Nanine, did not agree very well. The Breton peasant distrusted and disliked every one whose ancestry she did not know. Her broad, good-humored face would set in wooden lines when she and Antoine encountered one another, and if he took her to task about even the smallest thing, she would shower upon him a volley of sturdy Breton abuse. So usually the mild and quiet-spoken Antoine avoided her as much as possible.
Nanine was a privileged character. She came and went as she pleased in the household, although her own home was the gate house just at the entrance to the château grounds. Here she lived, with an orphan girl named Angéle, who was to marry Jacques when he came back from the war.
To this cottage of Nanine's, Paulette came nearly every day. She brought her letters as she received them from Maurice, and the two girls would read them over and over, Angéle pointing out where the censor had blotted out a phrase, Paulette, through her tears, trying to supply it. And Jacques' letters were gone over in the same way. When the news came that he, too, was taken prisoner and sent to Belgium, they spent much of their time hoping that he would be near Maurice, and so these two girls, one at each end of the social scale, bridged the gap that separated them and became one in a sorrow common to both. For grief, as well as war, knows no caste.
Old Nanine, her wide Breton skirts billowing about her, the huge wings of her great white Breton cap framing her broad face, trudged back and forth with Paulette on her errands among the peasants, her heart heavy with the sorrow that comes to every mother of men, when men are waging war. She would not trust the girl alone on her own familiar roads, for the armies were nearing their quiet village.
So the days went by, those dreadful August days. Into almost every household about them came the sad news that some loved son who had marched away so bravely, would never return. The faces of the women grew wan and sad. Joy had gone from the world.
And now the air began to tremble with an ominous intonation, a sound filled with grim menace that continued day and night, a harbinger of death and destruction, of devastation and terror. A sound that was never to cease in the long months that followed, sometimes swelling into a deep, distant roar, sometimes dying away in a dull, intermittent muttering.
It was the voice of the guns!
CHAPTER XXI
One day there came a letter from Gerome.
"I am bringing my wife to stay with you," it said. "Paris is growing uncomfortable for her, for though she is as loyal as I am myself, there are those who are unkind because of her foreign birth. I have leave of absence, as I have important business to talk over with you, my father, and so when I leave for the front, I shall know that Marie is in the care of my mother and Paulette. We shall motor from here sometime on Wednesday, and will probably be with you Thursday evening. Until then——" and the letter ended with the loving messages Gerome always sent his parents, for he was a devoted son.
The General, home for a few days, read the letter aloud, Madame closed her eyes quickly for a moment, to hide the sudden mist that rose to them.
"I shall see my boy again," she said softly, but Paulette, her face sullen, sat staring into space.
"It seems a long while since we saw him," said the General, folding the letter, and putting it back into his breast pocket, "and he must be off again almost at once!"
His wife sighed wistfully.
"We must be grateful that we are to see even this much of our son. How many of our friends will never see theirs again!"
Paulette swung about almost fiercely.
"It isn't only death that keeps them away! Think of the prisoners! Oh, I wish I were a man! To have to sit here idly and wait, is maddening!"
She had finished her training and was daily expecting her commission as a qualified nurse. The inaction, the waiting, was wearing her already suffering nerves to a wire edge.
Her mother cast a quick glance at the General and reaching over, put a gentle hand on the girl's arm.
"Dear child," she began, but Paulette went on almost fiercely.
"Sometimes I feel as though I shall go mad thinking of Maurice, a prisoner in some filthy place, suffering from his wound, with perhaps not even enough to eat!" She bowed her head on the arm of her chair and began weeping bitterly.
The General, helpless as so many men are in the sight of a woman's suffering, paced the room with long, military steps, his hands clutching each other behind his back, his lower lip pursed out under his mustache.
Madame tried to comfort the weeping girl.
"Paulette," she said, "you must be calm, your brother and Marie will arrive at any moment."
The girl sprang to her feet, her eyes flashing, her lips drawn back from her white teeth.
"Why did Gerome ever marry her?" she cried. "Why do we have to have her with us?"
"Paulette," chided her mother, "she is your brother's wife."
The General stopped a moment in his pacing.
"He returns to the front to-morrow," he said. "She must not be left unprotected. It is not her fault that she was born on the other side."
But the girl's pent-up emotion would have expression.
"Who was she?" she demanded. "What was she? We know nothing of her, nothing, excepting that she came from Vienna, and God knows, we have no cause to love anyone who comes from there!"
"Paulette," sighed her mother, "you hurt me, dear, when you talk like that"; and the General added, stern for the first time in his life to this beloved child of his: "Paulette, you must promise me you will be kind to your brother's wife."
The girl still faced them defiantly, her breast heaving with the sobs she was trying to repress.
"How can I?" she cried. "How can I bear any good will to one of those fiends who are responsible for all the suffering of Maurice, for all this terrible agony!"
Madame's eyes were misty as she looked into the drawn face which for the moment, rage had robbed of all its charm.
"Dear child," she said softly, "Marie is not to blame."
"She is, she is, I hate her!" and sobbing hysterically, Paulette turned and ran from the room.
The General shook his head sadly as he looked after her.
"One of the terrible evils of war," he said, "is that it engenders hatred and prejudice that live for generations after the war is over."
He paced the room thoughtfully. Now and then he let his eyes rest fondly on Madame as she bent over her knitting. The quiet, the air of peace that seemed to surround them was in sharp contrast to the distant rumbling where war's savage work was going on.
He had spent his days after retiring from the army, here at his château, cultivating its lands, planting his vineyards, receiving from life what was to him its most treasured possession, peace and contentment.
When the children grew up, and Gerome, following his father's career, entered the army, the General revived his youth in his son's letters, while Madame watching Paulette's romance grow and ripen, relived her own love story.
They were the spirit of that people whose civilization had been measured by the hearth and roof-tree, whose love of the home was the nucleus of that impassible barrier which had opposed the Romans and beaten back Attilla's advancing hordes, and who, now that the enemy was again clamoring at their gates, were prepared to prove that the spirit of their fathers' still lived and would fight to the last drop of their blood to preserve that most sacred thing in the hearts of all people—Home!
CHAPTER XXII
Paulette, when she left her parents, threw a scarf about her shoulders and ran across the courtyard to the gate house. She longed for the sympathetic love of old Nanine, on whose bosom she had always found consolation.
The long summer twilight was graying off into night, and the tall black poplars above the garden wall showed black against the darkening sky. From the low window, thrown open to the soft night air, came a yellow shaft of lamp-light that lay in a square patch on the neat gravel walk.
As Paulette's small heels crunched against the pebbles, a figure suddenly started out of the shadows and a man's voice called softly:
"Who comes?"
The girl drew back, startled.
"It is I, Paulette," she answered. He came closer and Paulette stared unbelievingly into his face.
"Jacques!" she cried.
"Yes, Mam'selle," answered the man, grinning broadly, "from Belgium—from prison!"
The girl gave a quick gasp.
"Captain le Cerf—what of him?"
"I have news of him, Mam'selle, but I must report to the General first!"
Paulette swayed, and put out her hand to steady herself against the wall.
"Maurice!" she whispered the name under her breath as though half afraid of what the news might be. "Tell me! Quick!" but Jacques shook his head stolidly.
"First the General," he said, and turning on his heel, started toward the house.
There was nothing for her to do but follow. At the door he stood aside to let her pass.
"Will you tell your father I am here, Mam'selle?" he asked.
She looked at him piteously.
"Give me my news," she begged.
"What I have to say must be said to the General, Mam'selle," and Paulette, the daughter of a soldier, knew he was right. But she was trembling and breathless when she opened the salon door.
Her mother was still sitting as she had left her in the chair near the table, her hands in her lap, the lamp-light accentuating the silver of her hair. Her eyes were closed and there were weary shadows under them.
The girl went softly to her side and laid a loving hand on her shoulder. The knowledge that she soon was to have news of Maurice, had softened her heart for a moment, and driven out the bitterness she felt.
Madame opened her eyes with a start.
The girl's cheeks were flushed, the hand on her mother's shoulder shook. Madame looked at her apprehensively.
"What is it!" she asked. These were days when the most insignificant happenings might have the direst foreboding.
"Jacques is back! He is in the hall. He is waiting to see father!"
Madame rose hastily to her feet.
"Jacques? Is it possible?"
"It is, mother! He is here! He has news of Maurice!"
At the sound of her excited voice, the General opened the door of his study.
Paulette waited for no more than the question in his eyes.
"Jacques is here," she cried, "he is waiting to see you! Oh, father, ask him quickly his news from Maurice!"
The General looked from one to the other in surprise as the boy entered and stood at attention.
The girl clung to her father's arm, and Madame smiled kindly.
"I understand you were a prisoner," began the General.
In the full light of the lamp, they could see how loosely the young soldier's dusty uniform hung on his square shoulders. The skin across his cheek-bones was tightly stretched, and there were lines about his mouth that must have come from suffering. His chin was blue with a week's growth of beard.
"I have a message from Captain le Cerf," he said.
Paulette clung to her father's arm, trembling with expectation.
"What is it?" asked the General patting the shaking hand reassuringly.
"It's a long story, Monsieur."
"Tell it in your own way, then," he said, motioning him to a chair.
Jacques seated himself stiffly, and began.
"We were prisoners in the same camp! It was just outside Liège. Soon after I got there, I saw the Captain. He had been wounded."
Paulette, her eyes black and burning in her white face, followed every word with pitiful eagerness.
"I was given permission to take care of him. There was an English nurse there. She was very kind to the prisoners. She told us how it would be possible for some of us to get away. We made our plans, and yesterday, two others and myself got across the border. The Captain would have come also if he had been strong enough, but he will be here soon," he hastened to add, when he saw the look in the girl's eyes, "and when it has all been arranged, a message will be sent to Division Headquarters at St. Quentin, giving the name of the town and the time when he will reach the frontier."
Paulette was shaking with emotion.
"Escape!" she breathed. "If he only can!"
What a vindication of her pride in Maurice this would be. To escape, to show the Germans how futile their efforts were to hold him. Her eyes sparkled and the blood surged to her cheeks. To trick the hated enemy that held him, what a triumph!
Then she thought of his wound, and her momentary elation left her. Fear returned.
"Is he better? Are you sure he is better?"
"Yes, Mam'selle, or I would not have left him!"
Madame rose.
"I must tell Nanine," she said, "that her son is here!" She rang, and after a brief interval came the old woman's knock.
For a moment, the Breton peasant woman stood facing them, then with a glad cry, she stumbled toward the young soldier.
"Jacques," she cried, and the joy and love in her voice brought a lump into the boy's throat.
"Mother," he said huskily, as she rocked him in her stout old arms, "Mother!"
Nanine was oblivious of the presence of the others. She was the first mother, the primeval woman with her child. The maternal love that goes out alike from high and low, from civilized and savage, was in her voice and eyes.
Presently she held him away from her.
"I knew they couldn't keep you," she said fondly. "I knew you'd find your way back to me. Are you well? Did they give you enough to eat?" she turned to the others. "He always wanted such a lot to eat!"
Jacques grinned sheepishly. His mates too, had found this out.
Paulette broke in eagerly.
"Tell me about Captain le Cerf, was he comfortable? Were they kind to him?"
The old woman looked at her, surprised.
"What are you saying, Mam'selle? Did the good Lord bring them together?"
Jacques nodded and turned to the General.
"We were all well treated. The hardest part was not getting any news. They told us things were going against us, but we knew they were lying."
His mother's eyes devoured him.
"How were you taken?" asked the General.
"Four others and myself were detailed one night to cut some barbed wire. Their star-shells discovered us to the Boches. Three of our men went down, the other and myself were captured and taken to a prison camp in Belgium. Among the prisoners the men and officers are kept separated, but one day when I was doing some of the work they had set me at, I recognized Captain le Cerf as he passed near me with a hospital orderly. I suppose you've heard that he was taken in the first attack on Liège. He'd been in the hospital a long time when I got there, as his wound had been serious. You will be glad to know, my General, that in Belgium there is a band of men and women whose good work it is to try and smuggle French prisoners and their own men of military age, out of the country. There's an English nurse—one of God's angels we call her—who is at the head of this band. She's helped a lot of us. But you see, when it came to Captain le Cerf's turn to be helped to escape, he was still so weak it was impossible for him to make the attempt. I was next, so it was arranged that if I got through the lines, I was to bring you word that you might expect him. They're going to get him across as soon as they can!"
"When—where?" broke in Paulette.
"That I cannot tell, Mam'selle. The next man that is passed through will know the exact time and place where Captain le Cerf will reach our lines!"
"Good!" said the General. "Now tell us how you made your own escape." And Jacques, a little nervously, though proud of his momentary importance, launched into his story.
"This English nurse was to give me all the particulars, but so that I could get near her, I had to be in the hospital, and I'm a pretty healthy man," his shoulders squared a little. "I was given some medicine and told to take it and pretend to be sick." He made a wry face at the memory. "I didn't have to pretend. They got me to the hospital, and while their doctor was near, my nurse was just like any other nurse, but as soon as he left, she leaned over me and whispered my instructions. You know, sir, that the nurses have to report all deaths; well, I was to die—and when I came to again, she'd have a Boche driver's uniform ready for me. That night they smuggled me out. As far as those Boches know, I'm lying out under one of their little crosses. I reported where I was told to, as an ambulance driver. My uniform and accent were unquestioned, and I was put in charge of an ambulance and detailed to pick up the wounded. A man can feel as sorry for a wounded Boche as for one of his own, and an ambulance driver sees a lot of suffering. I had to make many trips before the time came when our Poilus came charging across No Man's Land. I was in the front trench with my stretcher-bearer at the time. When I saw our men coming, I pretended to be wounded, and dropped. They took the trench. I tore off as much of the field gray as I could and told them who I was. I was ordered to report to my own regiment, and my commanding officer sent me here!" Jacques told his story with the simple directness of the man whose life is action, not words. Paulette had followed eagerly. Her mother's eyes were wet as she listened. Old Nanine, her ample bosom rising and falling with the breathless wonder that this son, who was still a child to her, had come through so much, murmured half aloud, a little prayer of thanks for his safety.
The General nodded his approval.
"Good!" he said. "Report yourself to Colonel Rambeau at St. Quentin. Tell him when word comes from Captain le Cerf, that my orders are that you are to bring it here immediately. Be careful with it, it is important that it does not get into other hands."
Jacques saluted.
"I shall leave word that you may come directly to Mademoiselle," continued the General, smiling indulgently on his daughter. "That is all."
"Nanine," said Madame, rising, "you must want to talk to your boy."
As the mother and son hurried along the path to the gate house, the door opened, and Angéle appeared in the shaft of a light that poured out.
For a moment she stood and watched them, and then with a cry, ran and threw her arms wildly about the boy's neck.
Nanine turned with a sigh and went into the house, leaving the girl to sob in her sweetheart's arms, and it was some time before she called:
"Come in, Jacques is hungry!"
CHAPTER XXIII
After the door had closed on Nanine and her son, the General patted the brown head resting on his shoulder.
"Isn't it glorious news, Paulette?"
"It's wonderful how cheaply these men hold their lives," Madame said musingly. "Chances that would have seemed madness in normal times have now become part of the day's work."
Paulette nestled closer in her father's arms. "If he only reaches the frontier safely," she murmured, "if he only is not discovered and taken back."
Madame's face was sad as she comforted the girl. Her own sorrow and foreboding were kept close shut in her heart. But self-command is measured by those rare occasions when the evidence of inward struggle is seen through the cloak of restraint. Something of what she felt, shook for a moment her outward calm, trembled in her voice, shone through the sudden mist in her eyes.
"Poor Maman," said Paulette, "you have so much to think of! I have been a selfish little beast!"
The gilt clock on the mantle chimed out nine. It would soon be time for Gerome to arrive. She remembered with what happiness she had always looked forward to his visits, their days of comradeship. Now all this was to be changed. She knew she was unjust. But still there lingered in her heart the resentment against this stranger whom she instinctively distrusted. If her brother might only have been coming alone. All his time must now be given to this woman of alien blood. She knew she was unjust, that she had no grounds on which to base her dislike, excepting the fact that she belonged to a nation which was at war with her own. Her thoughts were interrupted by the honking of a motor-horn, and the swift-following sounds of clutching brakes and mingling voices.
"Here they come now," she cried, her anger and bitterness against Marie, which she had tried to crush, surging back.
Madame rose to her feet.
"Ring for Antoine to get their bags," she said quickly.
Paulette pulled the old-fashioned bell rope that hung by the mantle, and then turned and stood staring sullenly into the fire.
The General hurried to the long windows and threw them open. He could see the white light of the motor lamps cutting a path through the darkness. Gerome's voice, as he gave orders to the chauffeur, came to him clearly, and presently he saw him come swinging along the terrace, the light from the window brightening the colors of his uniform. Marie, swathed in motor veils and wrapped in a heavy coat, clung to his arm. The lamp light silhouetted the General's fine figure and Gerome called gayly as he saw him.
"Here we are, father!" and he stood aside to let Marie enter.
For a moment she stood in the window, almost afraid to venture in. All the way from Paris, she had been torturing herself with the thought of how her husband's people would receive her, how much they would let the knowledge of her enemy blood mar their love for her. She looked about her apprehensively, but the General's kind voice dispelled her fears.
"My daughter," he said as he led her in, "welcome home!"
Marie threw back her veils, their soft gray framing her sweet face and golden bands of hair.
"My dear," said Madame, "how happy we are to have you with us!"
"You are all so good to take me in," faltered the girl, her eyes full of tears. Gratefully, she looked from one to the other, and turning to Paulette, smiled wistfully into the handsome face, but Paulette's greeting was ungracious and perfunctory, and the smile died on Marie's lips.
Gerome's arm was about his mother's shoulders. She drew his head down to hers and kissed him tenderly, and then turned to his wife.
"Come dear, rest here," she said with sweet hospitality. "You must be tired after your long ride from Paris."
Marie sank into the chair the General brought forward for her.
"There has been so much to weary me," she sighed.
"Yes, dear, we all realize that, and each of us, in his own way, has tried to lighten the burden," and Madame helped the girl unfasten her wraps.
"It is good to be here," Marie looked about her gratefully, "it's—it's almost like peace again."
"I knew you would be happy," said Gerome, coming over and sitting on the arm of her chair. "I told you they would be glad to have you with them."
The General beamed upon her. In the code of the gallant old soldier, a pretty woman was meant to be taken care of.
"We will do our best to make you feel at home with us," he assured her.
"And to make you happy," added Madame; but at her words, Marie broke down.
"Happy?" she sobbed, "how can I be happy? He is going away to-morrow."
Gerome turned helplessly to his mother.
"What can I do for her?" he asked.
"Come, come," and the General patted Marie's hand, "we each have our part to do, my child," and then for the first time, Paulette joined in the conversation.
"You are not the only one who is sending some one to fight the enemy." She flung the word at Marie as though it were her own name, and her sister-in-law cowered under it.
Gerome was angry. He had foreseen trouble with Paulette, but had hoped that the assurance of his wife's loyalty, would have banished all resentment.
"Paulette——!" he began, but his mother interrupted.
"Don't mind, dear," she said softly. "Paulette's heart is in Belgium. Maurice is still a prisoner."
Marie looked at her pityingly. She could understand. She remembered the young, laughing-eyed officer who had been so kind at her wedding. She remembered the happiness of these two young people, and her heart bled for Paulette. But the girl looked at her defiantly, ignoring the pity in her eyes.
"They'll find they can't keep him!" she said so bitterly, that the General hastened to break in.
"I'll ring for Antoine to help you with your bags."
He was about to pull the bell-rope, when the door opened and the butler stood on the threshold. His thin shoulders stooped slightly with characteristic deference.
At the sound of his voice, Marie felt a horrible fear gripping at her heart. Her throat seemed to tighten as though cold fingers clutched it. She turned slowly, the blood in her veins suddenly frozen, for the man standing in the doorway wearing the livery of a servant, the humility of a menial, was Von Pfaffen.
For a tense moment they faced one another. The man's eyes were like live coals in a face that was otherwise dead. Marie's hand went to her throat. There was such a look of terror in her face, that the attention of all was directed to her, and the butler's imperturbable mask, which for one swift moment had slipped aside, had time to adjust itself. He stood watching her closely, as the family gathered about, all solicitude.
"She is faint," cried Madame, "some water—quick!" but Marie motioned them away.
"No, no," she said breathlessly. "It is nothing! Thanks!" and by a supreme effort, she regained her self-control.
The butler was still standing in the doorway quietly waiting for his orders, his thin face set and expressionless.
"Get Madame's bags, Antoine," directed the General, and the man turned with a slight bow and left the room.
Gerome's eyes followed him.
"What has become of François?" he asked.
"François was young enough to be called," the General answered. "He left us a week ago."
"Antoine came to us highly recommended," Madame assured him, disturbed for a moment by the doubt in his eyes. "He is over age for the army, but seems an intelligent, faithful servant."
As she spoke, the man returned carrying the bags, and stood awaiting orders.
"Where are these to go, Madame?" he asked quietly, and at his voice, Marie again turned and stared into his face, like a bird that watches a snake.
The man paid no heed to her, however, but waited respectfully for Madame to answer.
"Put them in the East room, Antoine," she told him, and with a slight inclination of his head, he crossed the room and went out into the hall.
Marie's eyes followed him, her lips apart, her fingers tightly clenched.
Paulette, from her chair by the mantel, where she had subsided after the speech flung at her sister-in-law, watched her under sullen brows. She hated Germans. They couldn't make her like this one. She wouldn't!
As the door closed after Antoine, Marie gave a little gasp, and Madame, frightened, came to her side.
"Marie," she said, "are you ill?"
The girl's eyes were still on the door.
"I—I——" she began, and then turned piteously to her husband. "Oh, Gerome!"
The blow had come so suddenly, so unexpectedly. She felt as one stricken blind, groping in the dark. This man, here, where she had come for protection and shelter? Her mind could scarcely grasp the full horror of the situation. Waves of nausea passed over her, she was sick with unutterable terror. Was it possible they could not hear the wild beating of her heart, the voice of conscience crying her guilt? Surely those about her must have seen that she knew him! The security into which she had lulled herself, was shattered and fallen away. But why had he not recognized her? What mission had he here in this house? Oh, God, how was it to end? But her brain refused her further service. Her face grew white as marble, and her head fell on Gerome's shoulder.
He put his arm about her quickly.
"Marie, my darling, what is it? Mother, bring some cognac! Quick!"
Madame hurried for the decanter, the General bent over her, full of solicitude, even Paulette, stirred into action by Marie's helplessness, knelt at her side, and began chafing her wrists, her training as a nurse making her forget her resentment for the moment. As Gerome held the glass to his wife's lips, her blue eyes opened mistily.
"Dearest," he said anxiously. "What is it? Are you better?"