Mothers of men

CHAPTER XXIV

The night was warm for October, and a late moon was just rising. The garden seemed so peaceful, only the distant muttering of the guns constantly reminded one that not far away the Red Dragon lay in wait, its maw insatiable.

Must all the youth, the beauty of France, be offered up, before this monster was satisfied? Would this home with its pleasant orchards, its fertile gardens, be trampled under ruthless heels, laid waste as so many others had? And when it was all over, and nothing remained but smoking ruins and wasted fields, deep scars on the country's breast that time itself could scarcely heal, when all the youth and flower had become only a memory to be cherished in the bitter hearts of a saddened people, what then? What would have been accomplished? Could any price that might be paid to the victor, be great enough to compensate for this?

Some such thoughts as these went through the General's mind as he turned from the window to his son. This son, the very apple of his eye, how much longer would that eye behold him?

Gerome came to the table.

"Well, sir?" he began.

The General led the way into his study.

"We can talk more freely here," he said.

They had scarcely entered, when the butler followed with a tray of glasses and a decanter of wine.

"Anything else to-night, Monsieur?" he asked.

The General filled a glass.

"No, Antoine, that is all. You may close the windows. The Colonel will see that the door is latched as he goes out."

The man busied himself with the fastenings.

"They are to meet here to-morrow," began Gerome, but his father, with a lift of his eyebrow, indicated the butler who was just finishing his task.

"Tst!" he said warningly, and then to the man, "That will do, Antoine."

He bowed with that oddly quiet air of his.

"Very well, Monsieur, good-night," he said, and went out softly, but whether by accident or design, the door he closed after him, failed to catch and remained ever so slightly ajar.

Gerome was impatient to impart his information, and the man had scarcely gone, when he began.

"I have been given orders to notify the commanding officers of all the brigades of our division to meet here to-morrow," he said. "I must leave for St. Quentin to-night."

"The others have been informed?"

"Yes!"

The General tapped his pursed lips with his forefinger as he always did when thinking.

"H'm," he said, "by nine they should all be here."

"I have also been instructed to hand you this." Gerome took a folded paper in a long blue cover from his pocket and put it into his father's hand, much as though he were handing him the wealth of the world. "It is the plan of location of our batteries."

"This is very important, my boy," said the General, as he took the packet. "I wonder what their intelligence bureau would say if they could get their hands on this? Let us study the situation."

He pulled open a drawer and took out a leather case. They drew up chairs on either side of the table, and under the lamp light, the two heads, father's and son's, bent over the maps which the General unrolled.

The room was silent as they studied the drawings. Only the clock on the mantel, ticking out the passing minutes and the occasional rustle of the papers, broke the stillness. They were both too absorbed to have heard the sound, if there had been a sound to hear, of the door behind them, as it slowly opened the merest trifle, too intent on their work to see the lean face of Antoine as it peered through, the meekness gone from the watchful eyes, the humility from the thin, hard lips.

"I hope we can make this blow a decisive one," said Gerome.

The General flattened his finger over a spot on the map and referred to the papers his son had brought.

"It is about here, I would say," he began.

Gerome looked at him in astonishment.

"Isn't that one of the most strongly fortified parts of their line?" he asked.

"And therefore, the place where attack will be least expected."

Gerome nodded, and the General went on.

"Our artillery is being heavily engaged along the whole line, but it is at this point," and his finger tapped the map, "that the infantry will be massed for the thrust."

"How many men will be used?" asked Gerome, leaning closer to study the situation.

"About five corps with the necessary reserves."

The young Colonel leaned back in his chair.

"It seems logical," he said, "it should succeed."

The face behind them smiled evilly and melted into the darkness back of it, and as quietly as it had opened, so quietly the door was closed.

"It's a hard game we've been playing," said the General, "but we are holding them now. They have taught us a great deal, but if this plan results as we hope," the great head went up triumphantly, "it is the beginning of the end!" His face lit up with a proud smile. "You will be the youngest officer here to-morrow."

"I am honored to be present at a conference that may decide the fate of France," said Gerome earnestly, as he rose.

His father pushed back the maps, rose to his feet, and laid a hand on his shoulder.

"My boy," he said, and his voice was full of love, the love that a fine father gives to a fine son, "I believe you are worthy of the honor. Now go and kiss your pretty wife good-night. You have a long ride before you. I am going into the garden to smoke."

Gerome looked into the kindly old eyes.

"Good-night, sir!" he said, his shoulders squared to meet the trust he saw there. "Good-night."

For a moment after his son had gone, the General stood under the lamp-light looking over the papers, his shaggy brows were pulled down over his eyes, his lower lip pursed out. There was a wordless prayer in his heart, that this might be the end. Soldier though he was, born and bred to the sword, the red flood that was sweeping the world was nauseating, sickening. He, like many others, as bravely fighting, as unflinchingly facing the storm of war, longed for the peace that must come.

He started to roll the paper with his maps in their case, but suddenly he stopped, reconsidering, and shaking his head, placed the case carefully in his pocket. This was of too much importance to be trusted away from his keeping. From the humidor on the table he carefully selected a cigar, bit off the end, and lit it leisurely, then opening one of the long windows, strolled out into the garden to think as he smoked.

CHAPTER XXV

The light of the General's cigar had scarcely disappeared when the door opened softly, and a head was cautiously thrust in. After a careful look about, Von Pfaffen entered. His humility was gone, and the slight stoop of his shoulders had lifted into a straight military line. He went directly to the table and began eagerly searching among the papers. Once or twice he stopped, his head raised, alertly listening, but the house was quiet and the General's walk had carried him far into the garden.

The man turned the papers over and over. Evidently he failed to find what he sought. His brows bent in disappointment, but loath to give up easily, he went on with the search.

Suddenly, the door opened again, and he turned with a start to face Nanine.

"What are you jumping for?" she laughed, her broad Breton face wrinkling curiously like one of her native russet apples.

"What do you want?" he snarled, furious at being interrupted. "I thought you were gone."

"You did, did you?" she asked suspiciously. "What difference would it make to you? I came back when the young Colonel and his wife arrived, I'm needed."

"But you're not needed here," the man's voice was shaking with impatience and anger. He had borne the insolence of this Breton peasant woman long enough. Nanine, however, was impervious to his dislike.

"Madame wants you to take some tea and biscuits to the Colonel's wife," she said stolidly, and Antoine, with a scowl, turned back to the table.

There was so little time. Through the window he could see the red tip of the General's cigar moving back and forth as his steps carried him nearer the house.

"I can't go now, I'm busy," he said.

Nanine put her hands on her heavy hips and stood facing him insolently.

"Is the General talking, or the butler?" she mocked.

"Don't be impertinent," Antoine's brow darkened, "it's your work!"

"My work!" sneered the old woman. "It is my work to clean up about the house. What are you bothering in here for anyway?" and her small eyes narrowed suspiciously.

It did not suit Von Pfaffen's plans to have her ill-will just now. She must be cajoled.

"Look here," he said more graciously, "if you take up the tea and biscuits, I'll give you two francs."

"Two francs! H'm!" Nanine's scorn was unbounded.

"Five francs," he bargained.

Nanine looked at him out of the corner of her eye. Five francs was five francs in these hard times. It might pay to be good-natured.

"Well then," she mumbled grudgingly. "I'll do it; five francs and a bottle of Burgundy for Jacques."

The man dived into his pocket hurriedly.

"There's your money," he said thrusting it into her hand. "I'll get you the wine later. Run along, run along now, it is late," and he urged her toward the door, his eyes on the window and the ever-nearing red spark of the General's cigar.

Nanine shook his hand from her arm.

"Don't be pushing me," she grumbled, "I'll go fast enough," but Von Pfaffen fairly shoved her through the door, and shutting it tightly after her, hurried back to the table.

Once more, he searched among the maps and scattered papers. All these weeks spent here in this menial position must not be wasted. This paper was the crowning point of his work, it must be found, but the sound of the General's step on the terrace, sent him to the fireplace, where, his shoulders once more stooping in the meekness of the servant, he busied himself with the dying embers.

As the General came through the window, he glanced hastily from the man by the grate to the scattered papers on the table.

"I thought you had gone to bed," he said sharply.

"No, Monsieur," answered the man, turning to him mildly. "I have been waiting to let the Colonel out, I don't like leaving the doors unlatched these nights."

The man looked so humble, so harmless, as he rose and faced him, the sagging lines of his thin face were so pitiful, that the General was ashamed of his suspicions.

"I suppose, Antoine," he said kindly, going over to the table and beginning to gather the papers together, "you regret not being at the front?"

The man's eyes sparkled a moment, as they rested on the General's bent head.

"Yes, Monsieur," he said, with a meaning of his own, "but in serving you, I am serving my country."

This was a sentiment the old soldier could appreciate. How loyal all these men were, he thought. It was true, one could serve one's country in being of service to those who could give their blood for her.

"It must be hard for a patriot like you," he said, beginning to roll up his maps, "not to be engaged in active service."

The man dropped his eyes discreetly.

"It is, Monsieur," he said quietly, "but at present I can only watch and wait."

"Our cause must not fail, Antoine," said the General as he fastened the straps of his map case, and the man answered vehemently.

"That is what I have been saying to myself, Monsieur."

The words had such an earnest ring to them, that the General looked up curiously.

"You have been in the army, Antoine?"

"Yes, Monsieur, when I was younger. I hope to serve my country soon again."

The other sighed. At the rate France was needing men, age would soon be no barrier.

"The time may come before you expect, Antoine," he said.

The man's eyes sparkled again, and a curious smile played about his thin lips.

"I am patiently awaiting that opportunity, Monsieur," he replied.

The General looked at him with approval.

"I admire your patriotism, Antoine," he said, and the man bent in his slight, servile bow, as he answered:

"I shall endeavor to live up to it, Monsieur."

His master gathered the map cases and turned to the door.

"Well," he said a little sadly, "France may need you before the war is over."

Von Pfaffen smiled ruefully.

"I hope not, Monsieur," he said, and then added hastily, "that is—I trust it will not be necessary."

"Well," said the General, turning to the door, "see that the lights are down. Good-night," and with the map case carefully under his arm, he left the room.

Von Pfaffen stood watching him go, his eyes fixed covetously on the packet he carried. Then he shrugged his shoulders contemptuously and came back to the table, but after another fruitless look, he decided that what he was in search of was out of his reach for the time being. How to get it, that was the problem, for get it he must. For a moment he stood thinking, then carefully locking the windows, he turned out the lights and went slowly out of the room.

CHAPTER XXVI

Madame, all kindness and solicitude, showed Marie to her room. Everything she could, she did to make the girl forget the sting of Paulette's words. She insisted upon her tasting the tea and biscuits which old Nanine brought, although Marie could scarcely swallow. She helped her out of her dusty traveling dress into a loose robe, and while Nanine brushed out the long, golden hair and plaited it loosely for her, Madame talked of the trip from Paris, asked regarding their mutual friends, and spoke of their own affairs.

Marie recognized and appreciated her kindness, knowing that she was trying to give her an opportunity to regain her composure, but she had to bite her lips till they almost bled, to refrain from giving way to her emotion.

When Nanine had tied the long plaits with ribbons and hung up Marie's clothes, she took the almost untouched tray and courtesied good-night.

After she had left, Madame kissed the girl tenderly.

"Sleep well, my daughter," she said, "we must help one another in whatever may come."

Marie's eyes overflowed, and for a moment she clung to the older woman desperately.

"Love me," she whispered, "I want you to love me in spite of anything, and oh, please remember I have never known a mother of my own!"

Madame soothed her.

"Gerome will be here in a moment, dear," she said. "I must say good-night to my boy, too," and with a parting kiss, she left her.

Marie stood a moment gazing about the large, old-fashioned room—the great bed with its sombre draperies of faded blue, the heavy black walnut dresser, in the tall mirror of which the two candles, in their silver sconces, reflected her own tear-stained face, the small white stove with a vase of flowers standing on its cold top, the long blue curtains which Nanine had carefully pulled across the windows. It was very stately, but very cold, and Marie shivered as she looked about her.

Gerome had brought her here among his own people for protection, to insure her safety and comfort when he was away. But almost her first step across the threshold, had brought her face to face with all that was horrible in her past. What a plaything Fate had made of her, first to hold out so much that was wonderful and beautiful, and then—suddenly it came over her with sickening horror what it would mean if this man, into whose eyes she had looked not more than an hour ago, should tell what he knew.

She had thought herself so secure, the past had seemed utterly obliterated, and here, on the very brink of her shelter, that past had reared its hideous head. And now, when she had all the world to lose! If he should tell! If he should, even now, be talking to Gerome or the General! She almost screamed aloud with the terror of it.

The horror and shock of finding herself face to face with the man whom she thought had gone from her life forever, convulsed her with fear so terrible, as almost to deprive her of reason, but she must think, or go mad.

Why was he here in the garb of a servant? Would it suit his purpose to expose her or to try to force her back to him? He was in disguise here. He had refrained from recognizing her before the others. What could it all mean? Had he failed to recognize her because he feared to? Was there some power she might have over him now? If so, how could she use it?

The thought of facing him, of living under the sane roof, was agony. In her bag was a small bottle of chloral which the doctor had given her to quiet her nerves before she left Paris. With shaking fingers, she rummaged among her clothes to find it. But suddenly she threw the bag from her. A quick flutter at her heart called loudly her need to live. With the knowledge that she must go on, whatever came, she paced the floor in an agony of suspense and terror.

When Gerome knocked, she could scarcely answer, her voice died in her throat. Did he know? Had he guessed? Had her terror shown itself too plainly in her face?

He came in smiling, and as she looked at him, her chin trembled like an unhappy child's.

"Sweetheart," her husband took her in his arms, "you must not mind Paulette." So he thought it was Paulette's words that hurt, he didn't know, oh, the relief, the blessed relief. She scarcely heard him, as he explained.

"My little sister and Maurice love each other so very much, she is really the dearest sister in the world. Be patient with her, for my sake."

Marie lifted her eyes to his.

"When you made me your wife," she said, "your people became my people; your ways, my ways; your country, my country!"

He held her close.

"We are truly one, are we not, ma chérie?" he whispered.

Marie's answer was passionately earnest.

"Forever and ever!" she cried.

For a long time they were silent, content to be here with one another, to know how much each meant to the other.

Presently he spoke.

"Dearest," he said, "I'll be back in the morning; you're going to be a brave little woman, aren't you?"

Marie turned away from him with a half sob.

"Oh Gerome," she stammered, "I—I need you—more than ever!"

Something in her voice, in the flush on her cheek as she turned from him, startled him. He put his hands on her shoulders and drew her face close to his.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"There's something—something I've been waiting to tell you," she whispered.

Gerome stared at her. Her cheeks were glowing with the flush that illumines the sky at dawn, and in her deep blue eyes shone a light he had never seen there before.

"Don't you know?" she asked, "can't you guess?"

And then, in a blinding flash, he understood.

For a long moment they stared into each other's eyes, a happiness too great for words transfiguring them. The world that was bent on destroying itself, did not exist for them. It was as though God had only just spoken the words, "let there be light!" With just such wonder and awe might the first man have looked into the eyes of the first woman when she had told him the miracle.

Tenderly, very tenderly, he drew her into his arms.

"Marie, my darling," he whispered, "is it true?"

"Yes," she breathed; then fearfully, "it does make you happy?"

He led her to the couch and drew her down beside him.

"Now, every one must be kind to you, so gentle with you."

Marie hid her face against his shoulder.

"You understand now why I dread to have you leave me," she moaned.

"I'll be back to-morrow!"

"But after to-morrow——" and she began to weep bitterly.

Miserably, he sat and held her close. That this should come now, when he was going, perhaps to his death. Perhaps he should never even see this child of his. Well, if he must die, it would be in such a manner that a son of his would remember with pride!

"When I knew what was to be," she said, staring straight ahead of her, "I wanted you to take me to your home, so that if you had to be away when our baby came, I could still have the care and protection of your family, but," and the memory of the sinister face that had looked into hers, and all that it meant, sent the blood from her lips, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

Gerome turned to her in wonder.

"Sorry you came here?" he asked. "Have Paulette's words——"

"No, not Paulette," broke in Marie hastily. "She does not really mean to be unkind. It is something else! I—I can't explain, but—I'm afraid—I'm afraid!"

Gerome drew her close to him and gently smoothed her hair.

It was natural, he thought, for women to be frightened at such a time, and Marie was so young, so inexperienced.

"Bien aimée," he whispered, "how happy we are going to be. Our lives are going to be so perfectly attuned to one another, that between us there can be nothing but harmony!"

She was sobbing afresh.

"But you are going away from me."

"Only for a few hours," he assured her, "and in the meantime you will be with my mother and sister. What harm can come to you here?"

But the girl was almost hysterical now, the strain of that sudden meeting was beginning to tell.

"Gerome," she sobbed wildly, "you will love me always? Nothing can make you change?"

"Need you ask that, now?"

But she scarcely heard him. She was thinking of Von Pfaffen, and what she had run away from in Vienna. She was dreading the time when he would tell, for that he would tell when it suited his purpose, she never doubted, nor did she doubt that the knowledge would take from her her husband's love.

"Oh Gerome," she sobbed, "if anything takes you from me! Your love is all I live for!"

Across the garden, sounded the chiming of a village clock. Gerome lifted her to her feet.

"Kiss me, ma chérie" he said. "I must go. Nothing can ever make me change. Are you satisfied?"

Marie clung to him.

"Let me go to the gate with you. I want to be with you as long as I can," she begged, and with his arm about her, Gerome led her down the stair.

The lights were burning dimly in the entrance hall, and the house was quiet. He slipped into his motor coat and opened the hall door. The moon was full now and the garden lay peaceful and shining under its light.

"Good-night, my darling," he said as he stooped and kissed her; "good-night, my boy's mother!"

Marie clung to him.

"Good-night," she whispered, "good-night, my dearest!"

She stood on the step and watched him go, and when the sound of the motor was no longer audible, she closed the door and started up the stairs.

CHAPTER XXVII

"Wait!"

Out of the shadows came the whispered command. Marie staggered back against the wall with a stifled scream as she turned and looked into the face of the man she abhorred. He had thrown off all semblance of the servant and stood confronting her as she had known him in Vienna. In a swift vision, the months she had spent with him flashed by her. That night in the little beer hall when she had gone home with him; and that other night when he had laughed and told her just how little she had meant in his scheme of things. Why had he followed her? He had not wanted her enough to keep her with him always.

To Von Pfaffen, the sight of her when she had thrown back her veils, had been anything but pleasant. He had known for several days that the General's son was bringing his wife to the château, but he was not prepared for the overwhelming surprise to find that it was Marie. He saw at once that she recognized him and his first fear had been that she would betray him. But the moment passed, and she made no sign. He realized instantly that it was fear for herself that had kept her silent. His knowledge of the natural timidity of her nature, coupled with the power he had over her, led him to think out a plan that might put her presence here to his advantage. The deadly fear he saw in her face, as he accosted her now, pleased him. He knew that she was his to do with as he liked. She would prove a useful pawn in the game he was playing.

He reached to the step where she stood and seized her hand roughly.

"Hush," he whispered, "you will not betray me!"

Marie leaned away from him, looking into his eyes with terror.

"What are you doing here?" she breathed.

"You need not ask that! I'm here for my country!" he said proudly.

The meaning of his words dawned upon her slowly. So this was the interpretation of all those strange papers she had been forbidden to touch in Vienna, his secret journeys, his mysterious business! He was a spy! Why hadn't she realized this and screamed it out when she had faced him those few hours ago? They would have taken him away before he had a chance to tell; now it was too late.

He saw that she understood, and bowed coldly.

"Yes," he said, "and you?"

"I——" she faltered. "I am a daughter of the house!"

"You?" the contempt in his voice cut her like a lash, and blindly, she started up the stair again, but his fingers grasped her wrist.

"Wait!"

She turned and looked down at him where he stood on the step below.

"Would you be so welcome if they knew, do you think?" he sneered.

Marie cowered as though against a blow.

"You—you won't tell!" she whispered.

Von Pfaffen went on fiercely.

"Listen to me," he said, "there is something I must know, something for which I have taken their insolence, their patronage," he spat out the words, "but it is for the Fatherland! Your country, and mine! You must help me!"

The girl drew herself up proudly.

"My husband's country is my country," she said, "his people are my people. Let me pass!"

Von Pfaffen dropped her hand.

"Very well," he said slowly. "Then to-morrow I will go to your husband's people, your people, and tell them that the precious wife of their son and brother——" but the girl wheeled in terror:

"Oh, no," she said, "you won't do that, you can't!"

He smiled sardonically.

"I can and will," he said, "unless you do as I wish."

Marie turned toward him piteously.

"It—it would kill him," she pleaded. "They will disown me." Her husband's kiss was still warm on her lips. Would he love her if he knew? Could he?

The man watched her closely. He knew he had struck the right note. Nothing must stand in the way of his getting the information he sought.

"How proud they would be to welcome you as their daughter if they knew!" he went on cruelly.

Marie shuddered.

"You won't tell them," she whispered, "you can't!"

His brilliant eyes narrowed.

"Will you do what I ask?" he bargained, and as she looked into his face, the hard, cold face of the fanatic who would sacrifice everything, including himself, to gain his end, the girl knew that he held her in his grasp.

"What is it you want?" she murmured helplessly.

With a swift motion, he seized her wrist again and brought his face close to hers.

"Remember," and he almost hissed the words, "if you betray me, I'll give the proofs—I'll——"

"What do you want!" she asked miserably, "tell me, what do you want?"

Von Pfaffen drew her down and away from the stair. He looked about carefully, and then, sure that they were secure from interruption he began:

"There is to be an important conference here to-morrow," he said in quick, short tones, his voice scarcely above a whisper, "the General and others. They are to decide the time and place where an attack is to be launched; this much I know. You must get me the name of the town—the time."

"I can't—I can't," broke in Marie, horror of what he was asking her, searing her very soul. "I can't betray them, my husband's people!"

He tightened his fingers on her arm till the pain was almost unendurable.

"Would they think twice about you if I told them who you are? What you are?" he sneered.

She stared into his eyes, her own wide with terror.

"It would mean their ruin," she gasped, "perhaps death to my husband! I can't! I can't!"

"It means disgrace to you, and the death of his love if you don't."

Marie broke away from his hold and buried her face in her hands.

"Oh God," she moaned, "and I thought the door had been closed on that part of my life, forever."

Von Pfaffen was impatient.

"Quick," he said, "decide! We may be interrupted. Will you? Remember, I always keep my word. If you get this information, I promise in the name of my government, no one shall know your share in it. Will you? Will you?"

Her slender shoulders shook with the sobs that were breaking her.

"I can't! I can't!"

Was she going to fail him after all?

"Remember," his voice was softer, "it is your country asking this, your own country!"

"My country?" Marie raised her head. "This is my country!"

Von Pfaffen looked at her with hatred in his eyes. This weak little creature, was she going to be the stumbling-block in the great work he was doing?

"Do you realize what it means if you refuse!" he asked coldly.

She knew, alas! she knew only too well what it would mean, not only to her, but to the little life she carried under her heart, the little, new life, that God himself had given into her keeping. It might cost that as well as the love of its father.

"Let me think," she gasped.

Von Pfaffen was quick to see his advantage.

"Get your husband to tell you," he said eagerly. "He will. Write the name of the place and the time where the attack is to be made, on a piece of paper. Put it where I can get it!"

Marie looked about her wildly.

"Where, where?" she asked, bewildered.

The man's face was glowing with the success of his plan.

"You'll find a place," he told her eagerly, "and a way to let me know. That is all. I promise your secret dies with me. I am the only one who knows. Young Franz was killed at the Marne. There is no one else."

Marie covered her face with her hands, but he drew them away and made her look at him.

"I can trust you?" he said, his eyes narrow, his thin mouth set and cruel, "you won't play me false? If you do, remember, it is the end of your happiness forever!"

"Yes," she said dully. "I know. I'll—I'll do it!"

With a sigh of relief, the man dropped her hands, and after a moment, she turned and went slowly up the stair. Her heart seemed dead in her bosom, her eyes were dry and burning. She clung to the balustrade with the dizziness that threatened to engulf her.

Von Pfaffen stood and watched her till she had disappeared, then he turned out the lights and softly left the hall, a smile of triumph on his lean, hard face.

CHAPTER XXVIII

The clock had chimed the hour, the half, and the hour again, and still Marie lay tossing with mental anguish under the heavy blue hangings of the great bed. What terrible thing had she promised to do? Sell her husband's honor to this creature who had taken her own. She tried to look at every side of the problem, to work out in her tortured brain just what would happen if she defied Von Pfaffen. She knew he would not hesitate to go to the General and brand her. She knew he could do that without incriminating himself. He was diabolically clever. She could see the kind look fade from the General's eyes, the flush on Madame's cheek. She could hear Paulette justifying her suspicions of her, and Gerome—she crushed her knuckles against her lips till her teeth cut into them.

To see the lovelight die in his eyes, contempt taking its place, to know that she would become an object of loathing to him! The thought was so terrible that she smothered in the pillows the cry she could not restrain. She would rather see him dead, she thought, and know that he had died loving her, believing in her purity.

What was country, war, people, everything, compared to just this one man who was life itself and all that life could mean to her? She couldn't give him up. She couldn't stand by and let his love and faith in her be killed; she couldn't. She tossed and turned in an agony of despair.

Her imagination swept her on to the hour of her destiny, to the time when Gerome's child should be laid in her arms. If it were a son, could she bear to have him know the blot on his mother's life? Suppose it were a daughter, could she bequeath it this heritage of shame?

She went over, day by day, her life in Vienna since her father's death. In the scorching light of self-condemnation, she realized that she need not have stayed with Von Pfaffen after that one dreadful night. She could have run away then, as she had later. She saw herself as the foolish, inexperienced girl, tired of teaching stupid children, tired of singing for music hall habitués, tired of scrimping in order to live, glad of the haven and the companionship of one of her own class. She knew now that she had not been wholly ignorant of Von Pfaffen's intentions, or rather lack of intentions, toward herself, that she had simply let the days glide by, blinding herself to the situation and hoping against hope that he would marry her.

She realized now that the story, if it had ended after that first night in Von Pfaffen's apartment, would not have been so beyond pardon. But how could she ever explain those long months with him? She knew her husband's high standard of morals. She knew his intolerance of the thing that she had done. She knew his pride in the ancient family name that both he and his father had kept unsullied. And now what a blot on that honored escutcheon this would be!

"I can't bear it!" she sobbed. "I can't bear it!"

Then Von Pfaffen's words echoed in her mind like a siren's song.

"I promise in the name of my government, that no one shall know of your share in this. Your secret dies with me!"

Why hadn't he been killed at the Marne instead of Franz? Why did he have to live on to come here and torture her? Her thoughts were distorted, feverish. She saw herself an outcast, thrust into the streets, jeered at by her husband's people, despised by Gerome, her child taken from her, nothing left!

"God, oh, dear God," she moaned, "I can't let them know, I can't!"

France was her country only by adoption. The people meant nothing to her, their aims, nor this great struggle in which they were involved. Her own country meant little more. Her world was Gerome. If he were killed in battle, she could die too, and happily, if she knew that he had gone to his death loving and trusting her. But the thought that this knowledge would turn him from her, would make him curse her, living or dead, was too much for her to bear.

She hated Von Pfaffen with the deadly hatred of the woman whose betrayer uses his power over her against the man she loves. She was powerless in his grasp. She seemed to feel the steel bars of the trap he had set for her, closing against her tender flesh. Through the darkness, she could see his brilliant eyes, cold and cruel as they had looked into hers to-night. She knew she was helpless, she could only pray that Fate might be kind, might find some avenue of escape.

The down coverlet smothered her. She tossed it to the floor and slipping her bare feet onto the polished boards, began noiselessly pacing up and down the long room. The moonlight came between the heavy curtains and lay in a white streak on the floor. Back and forth, across this, she swung like a prisoned tigress, her nails biting into the flesh of her palms, the dry sobs catching in her throat. She knew that she would do what Von Pfaffen had insisted on her doing. She knew her courage was not great enough to take the consequences if she did not, but she loathed and hated herself, her very soul cried out against what she was going to do, cried out, as it beat against the bars her tormentor had forged for her.

Suddenly, through the stillness, came a slight sound, a faint rustling on the thick carpet of the corridor outside her door.

She stopped her wild pacing to listen. There it was again. Some one was astir, some one, whose stealthy, furtive movements, plainly told of their wish to be unheard.

She slipped into the loose robe Madame had left with her, and softly opened the door. Down the corridor, a spot of light from an electric torch danced uncertainly. Presently it stopped at the door of the General's bedroom, which was opened cautiously. The light was extinguished, and then silence.

Soundlessly she crept along the corridor toward the door which had been left purposely ajar, and through the crack, she could see the spot of light fluttering about the room. It rested for a moment on the fine face of the old soldier lying peacefully asleep, then shifted to the chair at the foot of the bed, over which hung his coat. A hand suddenly sprang out of the darkness and groped through the pockets. She heard a faint rustle of paper and the light was extinguished again.

She had only just time to slip back and flatten herself against the wall, when a man came out and softly closed the door after him.

She watched the light winking on and off, as he went down the stair and across the hall, and then noiselessly, she started to follow.

CHAPTER XXIX

The great stairway took a wide turn at a sort of landing about halfway down, from where the whole length of the hall could be seen, as well as the rooms opening upon the corridor above. Here Marie paused for a moment, and watched the light as it crossed the hallway.

On the left, the double doors of the great dining-room were slightly ajar, and through these it disappeared, leaving the hall in darkness save for the moonlight that came through the tall windows. Without further thought, she hurried down the stair and after the dark figure. As she reached the dining-room, the light had just disappeared through the green baize swinging-door that led into the butler's pantry, and holding her robe close about her, the girl followed.

The dining-room looked very cold and vast in the pale moonlight, the massive chairs and heavy carved table sending black shadows along the polished floor. From around the edges of the swinging-door came a faint light. Cautiously, she put her hand against the panel and pushed the door open the merest trifle. Through the crack she could see a man at the serving-table which stood against the wall. In the faint light of a candle which he had evidently just lit, she recognized Von Pfaffen.

In what fresh evil was he engaged? What was it he had taken from the General's room? She might be of use after all. Apparently satisfied that he was alone, he slipped a paper out of his pocket, and spreading it on the table began making a tracing.

She could not see what this was. She could only distinguish its blue cover and that it appeared to be some sort of a map.

He worked quickly, and with the ease born of long experience.

Wondering, she watched as he rolled the thin tissue paper copy he had made, in a tiny tube and thrust it into what appeared to be a quill. Then she saw him stoop and pick up a basket from the floor. Opening the wicket, he took out a gray pigeon, which fluttered for a moment in his hands. Carefully, he fastened the quill to its leg, his head bent low over the task.

She must see more. Cautiously her hand pressed the door, but the hinge creaked faintly under her light touch, and at the sound he hastily thrust the pigeon back into the basket, secured the wicket, and blew out the candle. Under cover of the darkness the girl pushed the door wide. This time the hinge made no sound, and after a tense moment, Von Pfaffen cautiously turned on his electric torch. The little stream of light struck full in her face.

"You!" he swore hoarsely.

"What are you doing?" she demanded.

He scowled at her. He had thought her safely out of the way for the night.

"My duty!" he said, between his teeth.

She took a step backward, but the man grasped her by the arm, and drew her into the little room. As the green baize door swung shut after them, with a quick movement, he latched it securely.

"You will be silent," he hissed.

She held away from him defiantly.

"Suppose I were to call the General?"

"He would have me shot!" his voice was coldly indifferent. "But before I died, by God, I'd tell a story that would send you into the streets to-night."

Marie gasped and he clutched her arm tighter.

"If you make a sound," he said, "I shall go to the General now, and tell him what you are."

For a moment, she had a wild thought of running swiftly back the way she had come, of awakening the General, of facing the consequences.

"But if I give the alarm?" she asked, almost under her breath.

He shot a quick look at her, sure of his quarry.

"I'm not afraid of that! You would not dare!" he said, looking at her evilly.

Marie subsided. She could not. He was right.

"Is—is it all so important?" she faltered.

Was the woman mad? Couldn't she be made to understand?

"Important?" His voice was hoarsely eager. "If I get this safely over, it will mean thousands, hundreds of thousands to me, it will mean the Cross, it will mean glory to my country. Why, the Fate of France might depend upon it!"

Marie stared at him, wide-eyed.

"The Fate of France," she echoed. The Fate of France was Gerome's fate, was hers! The Fate of France!

Von Pfaffen held up the long blue envelope.

"This must be returned," he said; "no one must suspect that it has been tampered with." A plan was forming itself in his mind. It was the inspiration of the moment, and his cruel nature gloated over it. He regarded her with a sardonic smile, as he relit the candle. "You have come upon me very opportunely," he said.

She did not hear him, she was staring into vacancy, his phrase, the "Fate of France," echoing over and over in her mind.

Von Pfaffen drew her eyes to his.

"I cannot take this back," he said. "If I were discovered, I could not complete my work here. You must do it," his words cut across her brain clearly, definitely. She shrank away from him, terrified.

"I!" she gasped.

"Yes, you," went on her tormentor, "at once. He sleeps soundly. On a chair by his bed, hangs his coat. You must slip this into the left inside pocket. Do this," there was a deep meaning in his voice, "and we are both safe!"

"My God," she whispered, "I can't do it. I, an alien here, under their roof for the first night! If he waked and found me, what could I say to clear myself? I can't!"

Von Pfaffen's eyes were almost hypnotic as they glittered in the dim light.

"You will take the paper back!" he repeated distinctly.

"I cannot!"

"You must!" his face was very close to hers in the little pool of yellow light.

She wrung her hands. In her fancy, she seemed like the gray pigeon she had seen fluttering in his grasp. She was just as helpless.

"What shall I do? What can I do?" she kept repeating over and over.

Von Pfaffen kept his eyes on hers.

"Do what I say," he answered; "and to-morrow, after you have given me the information that will cap this, I have sworn to you, and I shall keep my word, I go out of your life forever!"

She was groping desperately in her mind for some way out of it, something she could do to save the "Fate of France."

Von Pfaffen turned and went back to the table.

"I'll arrange this again carefully," he said, "no one must suspect."

As he bent over his task, Marie's eyes fell on the wicker basket in the shadow. Through the bars, protruded the edge of the little tube fastened to the bird's leg. She looked at it fascinated, a daring possibility shaping itself in her mind. The Fate of France! She glanced swiftly from the basket to the man silhouetted against the light, her heart beating wildly.

It was the work of an instant to insert her hand in the basket, extract the tracing from the quill and hide it in her bosom.

The next moment, he had finished his work, and was examining it critically before the light.

"There," he said, as he turned to her again, "I think now, even to the eyes of the old fox, it will seem untampered with."

She held out a trembling hand.

"Give it to me," she cried hurriedly. "Give it to me."

"You have grown most anxious suddenly!" Von Pfaffen eyed her suspiciously.

The girl bit her lip. She was in an agony of suspense lest he should discover the absence of the tracing before she could have time to return the original.

"I want to get it over with," she said desperately.

"If you play me false now," his face was terrifying, "I swear that there will be nothing I won't do to make you suffer!"

"Give me the paper," she begged.

Von Pfaffen slipped it into his pocket with a mocking smile. He thought he understood her sudden eagerness.

"It won't do to run any risk. First my copy must be off!"

"But every moment is precious," pleaded Marie, fearful of discovery, "some one may waken."

The man stooped and picked up the basket.

"You are right," he agreed. "Do you know what this paper is? It is the exact location of their batteries. Our aviators have searched and searched, but they have masked them so damn well, we couldn't find them. But I've got it!" In his triumph, his voice rose and his eyes sparkled wildly.

Would he never have done? She felt that her nerves would snap under the strain.

"Oh, hurry, hurry," she breathed.

Von Pfaffen went to the door and opened it softly. She followed close at his heels as he went noiselessly out through the long dining-room and across the hall. Carefully he opened the great door, and, seizing her hand, led her out onto the terrace. Then he opened the little wicket and lifted the cage above his head.

For a moment they waited. There was a faint rustle. The bird had sensed its freedom. It stood poised a moment at the opened cage door, then with a swift whirr, it was out, soaring upward and away through the moonlight.

Von Pfaffen, his square shoulders straight, his lean face lifted to watch the flight, raised his hand in a military salute.

"Take my greetings to the Fatherland," he cried softly, and Marie, her hands pressed tightly against her bosom, where the paper lay hidden, breathed a prayer for France.

When the bird had disappeared, he turned and led her back into the hall, softly closing the door after them.

"Now your work," he said as he handed her the blue envelope, "here is the paper. Remember to put it in the left inside pocket, and for God's sake, be careful!"

She took it eagerly and started toward the stair.

Von Pfaffen handed her the little torch.

"Take this," he said, and with the light held in her hand, she went up the broad stair.

He stood below watching her until she disappeared into the General's room. After what seemed an age to the man below, she came out again noiselessly and closed the door after her. Her bare feet made no sound on the thick carpet. Breathlessly, she leaned against the railing. Up through the darkness, came Von Pfaffen's hoarse whisper.

"All right?"

Her answer floated down to him, "yes!"

With a muttered exclamation, he turned and left the hall. Quiet settled down once more over the house.

Marie crept softly into her own room, and lit one of the tall candles. Then she locked and barred the door and stood motionless, listening, before the great walnut dresser. She fumbled in the bosom of her robe and brought out the little tracing. Her lips were dry, her eyes dilated, her cheeks scorching. Dimly in the mirror she could see herself outlined partly by the faint moonlight, partly by the flickering candle.

With a strangled sob, she held the paper to the flame. It coiled quickly into a tiny black ribbon and lay a pinch of ashes in her hand, then she blew out the candle and crept into the great bed under the shadow of the heavy blue curtain.

CHAPTER XXX

Up and down, up and down, outside the long study windows marched a sentry. Outside the great gate stood another. Even the house door was guarded.

Angéle, her round arms bare, a great apron tied about her, her feet in wooden sabots, was busy scrubbing the kitchen floor of the gate house when the first company arrived. Soldiers were no new sight to the girl by now, but so many here, what could it mean? She dried her hands and clattered out to open the gates.

"Keep them open, my girl," smiled the Captain. "Others are coming," and leaving her standing round-eyed and open-mouthed, he took his men and stationed them about the place.

"What does it mean?" she asked one of them.

The young soldier left to guard the gate, smiled at her as he shouldered his gun and began pacing up and down, but his Captain was still within ear-shot and so he made no answer.

The girl turned and hurried back into the house.

"Ma mère," she called (Nanine was the only mother she had ever known) "ma mère, war has come even into the château."

"Eh," wheezed the old woman, coming heavily down the stair. "What are you saying?" Angéle bade her look out of the window. By now, several automobiles had arrived and were dislodging their passengers at the great door, care-worn looking men for the most part, grizzled of hair and mustache, their heavy army coats dusty and mud-splashed.

Nanine put her head, in its broad Breton cap, out of the door, only to find herself facing a sentry standing there.

"Orders are to stay indoors this morning, bonne femme," he said cheerily.

If anyone but a French soldier had dared to bar her way, a storm would have broken about his head, but to Nanine, the horizon blue of a poilu's uniform, was never to be gainsaid in anything.

"Eh bien, mon gosse, if you say so, I'll stay in all week!" she answered.

The man grinned and resumed his sentry-go.

The purring motors brought Marie to her window. She had tossed and turned through the dark hours, dreading the task that was before her. Her mind whirled trying to plan a way that might satisfy Von Pfaffen and yet not betray her husband's cause. But like a wild bird, she beat against her prison bars, knowing there was no way out.

As she parted the curtains and looked out on the driveway, Gerome was just stepping from a motor car. There were three other officers with him, a tall thin man with a long nose and a heavy gray mustache, and a fat, red-faced man who wore a general's stars. The third, she could not see, his face was so muffled in his coat collar, although the day, early as it was, was quite warm. Another motor, whose occupants had evidently already entered the house, was just turning from the door.

She pushed the curtains back and stood looking out into the sunshine. How peaceful everything looked, and yet in the room below her, men were planning the best way to surprise and kill thousands of their fellow men, and here was she, her brain whirling, trying to devise a means to discover how they were to accomplish it.

She slipped quickly into her clothes and sat down again by the window to wait until the conference should be over. She knew that Gerome would come to her then. Every nerve was strained with a harrowing expectancy. It was as though she awaited her execution.

The little gilt clock on her dressing-table, cheerily ticked out the minutes as though they had been filled with joy, instead of agony. The sun sparkled and glittered on the dew-wet leaves as brilliantly as though the whole world on which it shone was as peaceful as the château garden. A robin was fluting happily. But up and down, before the door and before the great gate, paced the sentries, and from the distant horizon came the ever-present rumbling of the guns.

She sat staring at the thin lace curtains fluttering gently in the breeze, under the faded blue ones. What was the day to bring her, she wondered?

There was a gentle knock at the door. She turned with a start. In answer to her faint, "Entrez," Madame came in.

"You are awake, dear?" she said gently. "I came to see. The General is having a very important meeting in his study and has asked me not to have the servants come into the house. Will you mind waiting for your breakfast?"

Marie had risen to greet her.

"No, no," she said hastily, "I don't think I shall want anything to eat," and her hands trembled at her throat.

Madame led her back to the chair and made her sit down.

"We must all be brave," she said gently.

As she spoke, they could hear the door of the General's study opening and a murmur of men's voices.

Madame listened attentively for a moment.

"The conference is over," she said, "pray God what they have decided may be successful."

Marie turned miserably back to the window. The time for her task was drawing nearer. There might be some way out of it. There must be.

"I'll order coffee now," said Madame. "Try to be calm, dear, we women live in a man's world," and with a sigh, she left her.

Marie watched the officers come out and get into their motors. She watched the General standing tall and straight in the sunshine, as he shook hands with his confrères. Gerome's voice came up to her, as he told his father he would go as far as the village with them, and then come back, and she knew it meant he was coming back to her.

She watched the motors go down the driveway and out of the great gates. The General saluted the last man as he left, and then turned back into the house. The little band of soldiers mustered under their Captain and started after the chugging cars. Angéle pushed the heavy gates closed after them and clattered back to her scrubbing, and as the sound of the motors died away in the distance, Marie fell on her knees by the bed.

"Oh God," she prayed, "help me! Help me!"