CHAPTER VI
Marie stood a moment at the door of her little dressing-room, before running the gauntlet between its shelter and the platform, where, through the wreaths of smoke, she could see old Schultz's thick shoulders hunched over the piano keys. Familiarity had not begotten any feeling of comfort or tolerance for the conditions of this cheap, tawdry place. She hated the timbered walls with the trite phrases stenciled on them in black letters, the bare tables with rings, left by many steins, indelibly stamped on them, the shrill-voiced women, the men. She hated it all. But one must live.
Her rent at the Schultz's must be paid. They had scarcely enough for themselves. Her thoughts reverted to the one pleasant memory, the tall officer who had intervened between her and the insults of Frau Brower.
She had been made painfully conscious of the woman's enmity, which was shown in a score of ways, and left her wondering what the next annoyance would be.
In a far corner, she suddenly caught a glimpse of the man of whom she had been thinking. He was engaged in earnest conversation with the proprietor. His face was black, his jaw angrily set, and he was emphatically pounding the palm of one hand with the fist of the other. Brower, unlike his usual truculent self, was listening in a meek, half-frightened way.
Who was this man, she wondered? What was he? Had he a permanent place in her life, or would he too, disappear into the darkness where so much that she had known had vanished?
She saw him turn from the door, and make his way to the table that was always reserved for him. She peered through the swinging smoke wreaths. Her eyes brightened as she watched him. His square, thin shoulders stooped a little as he took his seat, and in a moment he was in deep conversation with the same young lieutenant, who was always with him. His presence gave her a certain feeling of pleasure, though what it was, or why she felt it, it would have been difficult for her to define. She walked swiftly between the tables and mounted the platform.
After his courteous intervention in her behalf, she had reproached herself for the feeling of distrust that she had when she first saw him. The graying hair at his temples, increased her confidence, she could see it quite plainly from where she stood at the side of the piano. She found herself hoping that he would look in her direction, and was pleased when he turned from his companion and nodded cheerfully to her.
The pale-faced violinist whispered to her as she sorted her music.
"The Captain bows, Fräulein, that is nice, yes?"
She could not tell why she resented the tone, and gave no answer, but she was conscious of being disappointed when for a long time he paid no more attention to her. There were other beckoning fingers, however, other welcoming smiles, and Brower was always near to see that she was "nice to his friends," and being "nice to his friends" meant sometimes being obliged to sit at the tables and smiling at people she loathed. But no matter how her soul revolted at her task, she was always comforted when she could meet across the room, the brilliant eyes that held a smile for her, and seemed to say, "Never mind, I am here! And I am your friend!"
While he was there, she was sure of her songs being appreciated, for, although the Captain did not deign to applaud, Franz did and then curiously enough seemed to forget her.
The two men were always together. Sometimes they came in late, sometimes, they would be at their table when Marie arrived and would stay just long enough to hear one song. She noticed the deference the proprietor paid to them.
In some intangible way, the Captain managed to stamp himself upon her consciousness as her champion, unnoticeably to others, but plainly visible to the girl, whose horizon was so empty of anyone to whom she could turn for help or understanding. His methods were those of the man who understands women well enough to know that in order to achieve his ends, he must be as nearly as possible like the personality admired by the particular woman, in whom he is, for the moment, interested. But to Marie, sick of the coarse brutality about her, revolted by the covert insults that she only half understood, he seemed the personification of chivalry and thoughtfulness.
She was particularly grateful for his protection against the rough, boisterous men upon whom it was part of her task to smile. Various little incidents in which he proved his wish to protect and befriend her, were treasured in her memory.
One night, the fat man, whose cascading chin had so revolted her the first time she sang, called her to his table, and afraid to disobey, lest Brower should be angry, Marie accepted his invitation.
"You're a nice little girl," he wheezed, putting his flabby hand with its flashing diamond, over hers. "We'll have a bottle of real wine together, not beer, like the rest of these," indicating with his thumb the drinking students. "You and I are going to be friends, and we're going to enjoy ourselves." He smelled horribly of beer and tobacco smoke, and Marie tried to draw her hand away, but he leaned heavily forward and tilted her chin up to him with a thick forefinger. "You're a little thin," he appraised, "but I like them like that!"
Marie drew away, frightened, when suddenly Brower tapped her tormentor on the shoulder.
"The Captain wants the Fräulein to sing another song before he goes. You will excuse her, yes?"
The fat man's face turned almost purple and he muttered an oath under his breath, but he drew back, and Marie, her heart rejoicing at the authority of her champion, hurried to the platform, smiling gratefully as she passed his table.
This might have been an accident, but it happened again and again. Each time some noisy student or boisterous young officer progressed too far in his attentions to her, Marie was sure of some subtle interference from the Captain that would put a stop to the insults and unkindness which, without realizing why, she knew meant some terrible danger to her.
Gradually and almost imperceptibly, his strong mind and dominant personality took hold of her naturally clinging nature. He seemed so much older, that to her inexperience, it was as though her father were watching over her, and she gave him the gratitude and admiration a child might give.
Frequently, during the long days, as she bent over her sewing with Frau Schultz, his dark profile rose before her eyes, his quick smile flashed across her vision, and at night, when she brushed her yellow hair by the little window, trying to shake out in the faint breeze, the heavy scent of tobacco, which clung to it, she would remember gratefully how he had averted again some unpleasantness.
But no matter from what angle she viewed his attitude toward herself, she could find nothing that seemed to warrant the faintly indefinite sense of danger of which she was vaguely conscious, and which she tried to reason away.
One night, a greasy waiter came to the door of her dressing-room with a twisted tissue paper parcel in his hand.
"The Captain sends these, Fräulein," he mumbled, and shuffled off, leaving the parcel on a chair. Marie unfolded the wrappings and found two lovely roses, dewy and fragrant. She adored flowers. It was long since she had seen any excepting through the glass of some florist's window, and she pressed her flushed cheek against their cool petals. Her father had seldom gone for his feeble walk without bringing her one or two blossoms on his return, and the memory brought the ready tears to her eyes.
How good this man was, she thought, as she pinned the flowers in among the white laces of her blouse. In every woman's heart there is the inherent desire for masculine admiration. Little convent-bred Marie was innocent of any thoughts of coquetry. She only felt the natural pleasure that youth does when it is noticed and appreciated.
Old Schultz shook his head when she showed him the two roses nestling against her breast, but there was no time for comment. The smile Marie sent toward the Captain's table, was a very bright one, and the young Lieutenant nudged his companion as he noticed it, but he was answered by so forbidding a frown, that he took refuge in his mug of beer.
Marie sang well that night. The clear, sweet voice held a note of joyousness, missing before. Deep in her heart, was the hope that the Captain might send the greasy waiter with a message asking her to step down to his table for a minute or so, but no message came, and to her disappointment, just after her first song, the Captain and his young friend pushed back their chairs and left.
Who was this man, she wondered, for the hundredth time. Everybody in the "Two Eagles," she had noticed, paid him marked deference. Once or twice before, she had seen him leave abruptly when some orderly had come in quietly and touched him on the shoulder. What was his place in this world of which she was beginning to see so many sides?
On the way home that night, old Schultz for the first time, was cross. He only grumbled when Marie tried to talk about the roses she was so carefully guarding from the cold, under her coat. He growled something about no good coming from such things, but she scarcely heard him. Her feet tripped along, two steps to each of his, her heart full of gratitude for the kindness that had been shown her.
When she was in her own little room, she put the blossoms tenderly in one of the painted mugs that adorned her bureau, and began slipping quickly out of her white frock. As it fell about her feet in a soft, shapeless heap, Frau Schultz came in.
"Fräulein," she said, "Shatzi tells me that Captain Von Pfaffen gave you some flowers to-night."
Marie stepped out of her dress and hung it carefully in the clothes press.
Von Pfaffen, so that was his name!
"Yes," she smiled, "two lovely roses! Oh, Frau Schultz, that was just what my father used to do. Sometimes it was one lily, sometimes a spray of hyacinths, sometimes a rose. It made me think of my father!"
The blue eyes were moist and Frau Schultz kissed the girl tenderly as she bade her good-night.
"Shatzi," she told her husband later, as arrayed in carpet slippers and a tattered dressing-gown he sat smoking a good-night pipe, "Shatzi, there is no cause to worry, the girl is still only a child, she is grateful for something her father would have done for her. You must not suspect everybody!" and she vigorously pounded the already plump pillows of the mountainous connubial couch before climbing into it.
CHAPTER VII
Marie began to sing only for one table, for the one pair of ears for whose appreciation she cared. Love had not entered her thoughts, only a deep interest. This man was so unlike the others who frequented the "Two Eagles." His stern face that could break into a smile for her, the lines about his thin mouth, the graying hair, his straight military shoulders, all meant to the girl the protection she might have had from her father. She would have laughed had she known the thoughts that were worrying the good people with whom she lived.
The fact, however, that some one was interested in her, brought more color into her cheeks, more vivacity into her manner. She was developing, the lines of her figure were rounder. She was more mature. The promise of fair young womanhood was beginning to be fulfilled, so that now as she hurried along the short aisle between her dressing-room and the platform, more eyes followed her, more hands were stretched out to detain her. Brower was pleased with his investment.
One night she left the platform earlier than usual. The Captain and his companion had already gone, and she whispered to old Schultz that she would wait for him in her dressing-room. Once in the shelter of its dirty walls, she pinned on her hat, threw her cloak about her and sat down till the old man should be ready to come for her. She leaned her elbows on the board which served as a dressing-table and looked at herself in the square of looking-glass that hung above it. It was cracked and splotched with mildew, and the light of the one gas jet flickered and marked queer shadows under her eyes and chin. But even so, she smiled at the pleasing image that smiled back at her.
The opening of the door startled her, and turning, she found herself facing Brower. The proprietor of the "Two Eagles" had never entered the little room before. Her heart sank. Was he coming to tell her she was not needed?
"What——" she began, but Brower stopped her.
"Don't get frightened, Kleine. I didn't come to tell you I thought I could get along without you." His voice was thick, and his coarse face redder than usual. He leered at her with his small, swinish eyes. She saw that he had been drinking heavily. "You're looking prettier these days, and I think I'll stretch a point and let you have an extra krone if you want it. Now, who says I'm not kind-hearted, eh? Come, little one, give me a kiss!" and before the girl quite realized what he was doing, he had grabbed her by the shoulders and planted a rough kiss on her cheek.
Marie screamed and pushed him from her with all her force.
"How dare you?" she gasped. "How dare you?"
Brower chuckled. "You're prettier when you're mad! Gott! I think I'll have another!" but as he started toward her, the girl struck him full in the face with her little clenched fist and ran from the room.
The indignity of it, the horrible feel of his flabby lips against her cheek, made her shudder as at the touch of some loathsome reptile. She ran sobbing through the passage, but just as she was about to open the door and go out into the street, a hand was laid on her arm.
She shrank back, shivering into the shadow, but as she turned, she found herself face to face with the Captain.
"Fräulein," he said, "what is wrong?"
Marie hid her face against his coat sleeve as a child might have done.
"He kissed me," she sobbed, "the awful creature!"
"Who?" his low voice shook with rage.
"Brower! I was waiting for Schultz to take me home, he came into the room and kissed me! It was horrible!"
Von Pfaffen started down the passage.
"I'll settle with him," he raged, but Marie caught at his hand.
"Please," she whispered frightened, "please!" and he turned and patted her shoulder.
"Very well," he said, "I'll see him later. Come, let me take you home," and with gentle fingers, he fastened her coat collar about her throat, and before Marie realized it, he had swept her into a fiakre and they were whirling away.
The thought of this man's kindness to her overwhelmed her again, and she huddled into her corner crying as though her heart would break.
"Come, Fräulein," urged her companion, "you really mustn't. I'll see that the brute is punished. You mustn't cry so," and he put a protecting arm about her shoulders.
Marie sobbed against the rough cloth of his heavy military coat. All the sorrow and struggle, all the misery of the past months seemed to pour from her heart, but presently, mingled with the rumble of the wheels, she seemed to hear the query, "where are you going?"
She straightened herself suddenly and her companion made no effort to detain her.
"You haven't even asked me where I live," she said, surprise quieting her sobs. "Where are you taking me?"
Von Pfaffen drew her against his shoulder again.
"I knew you would tell me when you were calmer," he said. "In the meantime, it is early; we're here at my place. Come in for a minute. You are frightened and nervous. Come in, my old housekeeper will make you a cup of coffee, and by the time old Schultz reaches home, you'll be there too."
"Oh no," began Marie, "Frau Schultz will be worried, I can't," but the brakes were already jerking against the wheels and in another second the fiakre had drawn up in front of a brown-stone apartment house.
"I can't, they'll worry," and Marie drew back in the shelter of the cab as Von Pfaffen stepped onto the sidewalk and held out his hand to help her alight.
"Nonsense," he assured her, "I'll telephone the 'Two Eagles' as soon as we get in and have them tell Schultz. Come, Fräulein, just a cup of coffee."
His arm steadied her across the icy pavement, and the warmth of the apartment hall was comforting, but Marie stepped into the lift with a beating heart.
Was this wrong, she asked herself? Would her father have approved? But the wonder of it all soon dulled the still small voice that spoke again of that vague sense of danger, and she entered the hallway as Von Pfaffen stood aside before the door he had just opened.
The girl looked about her curiously. So this was where he lived. It was a comfortable apartment, a peculiar mixture of severity and luxury. The great easy chair that held out inviting arms before a bright fire burning in the great kachelofen, and the long bare table with its litter of official-looking papers, contrasted curiously.
Von Pfaffen rang the bell and an old woman came in. Marie instinctively disliked her face, with its pendulous nose and the heavy blue-veined cheeks, but she seemed kindly and the girl was ashamed of her aversion.
"Coffee, Lena," ordered the Captain, and with a peculiar flat-footed shuffle, the old woman turned and left the room.
"She was my nurse when I was a child," said Von Pfaffen, and Marie looked after the ungainly form with a new interest.
"I—I'm ashamed to be giving you all this trouble," she stammered, as he helped her out of her coat; "but I couldn't stay there, could I?"
"Indeed you couldn't, child. Now you must forget all about it. I'm glad it was I who chanced to find you before that beast could do you further harm. To-morrow I shall crush him like a fly!"
"You and the Schultzes are all the friends I have." She looked up at him gratefully. "There isn't anyone else in all the world."
Von Pfaffen took the little hand and patted it.
"There, there," he smiled, "three friends are a great many to have in this world, don't you think?" and he settled her comfortably into one of the big arm-chairs before the fire.
After a little, Lena waddled in, preceded by an appetizing aroma of coffee. She carried a tray on which she had set out a shining urn and a dish of cakes, and pushing aside the scattered papers on the littered table, she made room for her burden.
"Is everything well, Lena?" asked her master.
The old woman grunted and shuffled out, closing the door after her.
"She's not very friendly," apologized Von Pfaffen, "but she takes advantage of having been with me nearly all my life, and besides, she lends an air of respectability to my bachelor establishment."
Marie smiled because he did. It was good to be here in this handsomely furnished apartment, warm and cozy, and with this man, whom she so much admired, beside her. She sipped her coffee luxuriantly and nibbled one of the little cakes.
"I'll telephone that you're safe with me, Fräulein," he said, and rose and left the room.
Marie looked about her. How wonderful Fate was, she mused. If it hadn't been for that horrible Brower, she would not have been here now. The unwonted warmth lulled her. The love of comfort and luxury was strong in her. Her father had catered to it. It had been his happiness to see how readily she had given up the austerity of the convent and revelled in the almost sybaritic ease with which he loved to surround her. She snuggled down into the embrace of the great easy chair with a sigh of content.
This was what her home had been like that short year with her father, and the thought of that and the intervening months with their bitter struggle, sent the slow tears down her cheeks again. She had not time to brush them away when her host entered.
"It's all right, Fräulein," he said. "Schultz came to the phone himself. I told him I'd bring you home later. What? You're not crying again? Fräulein, I call that unkind, when I'm trying to do all I can for you."
"I know you are," there was a catch in Marie's voice. "I'm not going to cry any more."
"That's right," and Von Pfaffen drew his chair up beside her.
"Now, let's have a talk. I've wanted to, ever since I first saw you at the 'Two Eagles.'"
"How wonderful that you should even have noticed me!" Marie was unconscious of any coquetry. It was wonderful to hear that this resplendent being should have picked her out for notice.
The Captain leaned over and took one of her hands in his.
"What a pretty little hand," he said. "What a pity it has had to work so hard. All these rough places," and suddenly he raised her fingers to his lips.
Marie was startled, but at her involuntary movement, he dropped her hand and turned again to the fire.
"Warm enough here?" he asked, so paternally, that the girl was ashamed of her vague fears. But somewhere in the distance she heard a clock striking the hour.
"It must be getting late, Herr Captain," she faltered, "I think I'd better go," and with a half sigh for the comfort about her, she rose to her feet.
The man rose, too, hastily, and put his hands on her shoulders.
"Just a little longer, Fräulein," he begged, "I've thought so often of you sitting here as you are now."
His face frightened Marie. The warmth of his hands burning through the shoulders of her thin gown made her uneasy. His eyes seemed bloodshot in the firelight, and a vein in his forehead suddenly stood out like a cord.
"Herr Captain, let me go," whispered the girl. "I must go."
"No!" His voice shook, "no, little one, you're here and you're mine," and before she really knew what was happening, she found herself crushed against his breast, powerless to struggle, a great dizziness sweeping over her. She seemed to lose all sense of everything excepting that from somewhere immeasurably above her, his mouth drew nearer, and nearer, till it folded over her own in a stifling kiss.
After what seemed an interminable time, consciousness came back to her, power to struggle, and with the strength of youth, she freed herself from his arms.
"Let me go," she panted, "let me go," and blindly she flung herself against the door that stood behind her. Where it led, she did not know, she only knew that she must get away, away from this man as she had run away from the other.
Slipping into the room beyond, she threw herself against the door, striving with desperate force to hold it against the man on the other side. She had only time to realize that she had flung herself into his bedroom for shelter, when the door yielded, and she cowered into a corner.
Von Pfaffen came toward her, his voice thick and unsteady. The vein in his forehead beating, his eyes, even away from the firelight, were bloodshot.
"Little one," he whispered, "you're not going to shut me out—to-night!"
CHAPTER VIII
The huntsman had successfully stalked the doe. With the ingenuity and skill of long experience he had brought her to bay. The trophy won, he had gone, leaving his victim suffering and alone, with a wound that time might heal, but a scar that could never be effaced.
When Marie roused herself from the stupor in which she had lain, the room was flooded with sunlight. She sat up slowly. Her head throbbed with a splitting pain, her eyeballs burned. She was sick with revolt and terror. This man, whom she had trusted, whom she had thought was her friend, was worse than those from whom he had seemed to protect her. One more veil was torn brutally away from her eyes, and the world stared back at her, gaunt, ugly, grim, and altogether pitiless. Phrases heard at the convent, kept repeating themselves over and over in her brain. What would her father have said could he have known? How could she explain her absence to the Schultzes? How could she face them again? That such a thing as this could have happened to her!
"I'll kill myself!" she sobbed. "I want to die!"
After awhile, old Lena shuffled in with breakfast on a tray, her ugly, wooden face, as expressionless as a carven image, her wicked old eyes shifting about the room. The girl buried her head deeper in the pillows.
"Let me alone!" she cried. "Let me alone! I want to die!"
The old woman grunted.
"Don't be a fool!" she said unsympathetically. "What did you come here for?" and setting the tray down, she left her to weep out her horror and remorse alone.
For a long time she lay convulsed with sobs. Then the natural reaction of youth and perfect health reasserted itself. She gradually grew quiet. The courage that had made it possible for her to face so many trying experiences in the past year, came to her rescue.
The thing had happened. There was no going back. She must face it as best she could.
Later, her hat pinned on securely, her cloak wrapped about her, she opened the door and went into the library.
Von Pfaffen was sitting in the great easy chair by the fire, evidently waiting for her. He rose as she entered.
"Ah, little one——" he began, but stopped as he saw that she was dressed for the street.
Marie looked at him dully.
"I'm going!"
He laid a gentle hand on her shoulder and smiled into her eyes.
"Where?" The slight note of sarcasm did not escape her.
"I don't know," her voice was almost a whisper, her lips trembled pitifully.
He bent over her with a smile. His long arm drew her close to him.
"Sweetheart," he said softly, "don't be frightened. I love you. You are all mine now."
The girl tried to draw away from him, crying aloud her bitterness, but with the strength that she could not battle against, Von Pfaffen held her firmly against his shoulder.
"Little one," he whispered, "there is nothing to cry about. I love you! As soon as I can arrange my affairs, we'll be married. Everything will be well."
But Marie sobbed with long dry sobs that tore at her throat. How could she face the Schultzes? How could she go back to the "Two Eagles" even if they would take her in? Where was she to go? What was to become of her?
Von Pfaffen soothed and patted her.
"There is nothing to worry about, Liebchen," he whispered. "Don't you trust me?" His brilliant eyes softened into almost sincerity. "The Schultzes will probably not take you in, besides, your place is here with me."
Marie's breath caught in her throat and she shrank away from him.
"No," she stammered, "no—please! You must let me go!"
"But where?" and in her heart the girl echoed his words.
"Where!"
Quick to see his advantage, he put his hands on her shoulders.
"Now listen, I love you! I want you! As soon as my affairs are adjusted, as soon as the work I'm engaged in is finished," and he pointed to the pile of papers on the long table, "you and I will be married!"
Her trembling hands grasped his coat lapels. She shook at them desperately.
"Marry me now," she begged, "marry me now! What would the nuns say—my father—Frau Schultz? Marry me now! You must!"
He drew her cheek against his own.
"Hush, little one," he whispered, "don't worry. There are reasons why I can't arrange things now. Everything will be all right. Can't you trust me?" His eyes smiled into hers, the lines about his mouth were softened, gentle. There was no suggestion of the terrible creature against whom she had tried to bar her door.
The power of his dominant personality over-awed her. She wanted so to trust him.
"But what am I to do?" she faltered. "Where am I to go?"
"You are not going anywhere. You are going to stay here with me, sheltered, taken care of, protected, as I shall protect you, until we can be married. You don't want to leave me, do you?" and in spite of her grief, the warning voice of her conscience, Marie thought of the "Two Eagles," of the swinging wreaths of tobacco smoke, the heavy, fetid air, the leers of the half-drunken students, which she seemed suddenly to understand. She felt again the flabby, sticky kiss of Brower against her cheek, and shuddered as she thought what that, too, might have meant. To go back to the "Two Eagles" was impossible, even if Brower would have taken her, after the blow she had given him, and the Schultzes—the Schultzes would never let her in again. She looked about her half stupidly. The fire crackled comfortably in the stove. The room, in spite of its incongruity, was such a room as her father had taught her to love. This man beside her was, after all, one of her own class.
Through her thoughts, she could hear his voice saying again, softly, kindly, with that subtle charm that held such fascination for her: "You will stay, little one? You don't want to leave me, when I love you so! We'll be married as soon as I can arrange it. Trust me. Little hands like these were never meant to work. Little feet like these should be cased in satin. Let me give you everything, anything! Sweetheart, sweetheart, you don't want to leave me! You can't!"
CHAPTER IX
The days that followed were like a dream to Marie. At first there were tears and misgivings. Wonderment at what the Schultzes were thinking of her staying away so long, racked her with remorse and suffering, but Von Pfaffen quieted her fears, assured her over and over of marriage as soon as his affairs could be arranged, as soon as the work in which he was engaged, should be finished.
There was nowhere to go, nothing to do. She had no money, and so miserably, she stayed on, hoping as each day came, that it would bring the marriage he was promising.
Sometimes she would look at the pile of papers on the littered table and plead with him not to wait till they were finished. Those piles of papers seemed interminable. Her training, her mentality, all her instincts told her, that after what had happened, she was eternally damned unless he married her, and it was that hope which kept her spirit alive. She lived from day to day waiting for this salvation. When he made his work, as he always did, his excuse, she would look up into his eyes and resolve to wait.
He had set her mind at rest as to what the Schultzes would say, by telling her that they knew where she was, that he had told them he had engaged her as his secretary.
"Isn't that a better position for you, than teaching stupid children or singing in a smoky café?" he asked.
He had sent old Lena away to visit her people, and given over his keys and the care of his rooms to Marie. In spite of the thought of whether the convent and her father would have approved of the state of affairs, while waiting for the marriage, her fears were gradually lulled and little by little, she came to take things almost as a matter of course.
She had wanted to go back to her room at the Schultzes for her few belongings. The only clothes she had were her little white dress and the coat which she had worn the night they came here from the "Two Eagles." But Von Pfaffen had laughed.
"Never mind those few rags, Liebchen," he said, "come with me and we'll get some more."
Marie had demurred at this, but he insisted.
"As my future wife, you owe it to me to look as pretty as you can! When I introduce you to my friends, you want me to be proud of you, don't you?"
Reluctantly Marie had come to agree that perhaps after all, this was right, that she could accept these things almost as a marriage gift. Surely it meant that she could trust him. She resolved, however, to select only what was absolutely necessary.
But her eyes sparkled over the lovely clothes which were the result of this decision, for although she had chosen only plain things, Von Pfaffen had insisted on adding one or two dainty dresses from which she had resolutely turned away.
Marie was in that state of her development, where absolute dependence upon other people was a necessity. She had clung to the Schultzes as she now clung to the belief and hope that this man would, in the end, exonerate her in the eyes of her conscience.
The chasm had been crossed, the bridge had been burned. She knew desperately that her only salvation was to cling to the position in which she found herself, she must go on in the hope that soon the wrong that had been done her might be righted.
Sometimes when he was away on this mysterious business of his, she used to sit and brood for hours, either staring into the fire or out of the window, never really seeing anything. She longed so for some one to confide in, some one to advise her. She thought of the good priest at the convent, who used to smile and pat her head after confession. If she could only have gone to him and asked his advice. But Von Pfaffen always laughed when she spoke of going to church, and as for confession, he had absolutely forbidden her that. After each one of these days of brooding, Marie would go to him when he returned home and ask again when they were to be married.
Sometimes he used to laugh as he lifted her chin with a long forefinger.
"What a little doubter!" he would say. "Come, come, have patience, all in good time!" and then he would so adroitly change the conversation that she found herself thinking of other things in spite of herself. Sometimes he would be pleased to take her seriously.
"Marie," he would say, looking deep into her eyes with his magnetically brilliant ones, "you are the same to me as my wife now; do you think a few words spoken by a priest will make me feel any differently? I'm afraid you don't love me, or you wouldn't doubt me!"
There was nothing for it, but resignation. If he said things were all right, they must be. If he said things would adjust themselves, they surely would. She must be content to wait.
Gradually, she came to learn that this man who had so cavalierly linked his life with hers, and who posed before the world as an indolent gentleman of leisure with no other vocation than his military duties, which, however, never seemed to take him to the barracks, had a secret engrossing occupation. Private matters, from the knowledge of which she was sternly shut out, occupied his constant attention and often took him away for long periods. At such times he gave her no knowledge of his destination or when he would return.
At first she felt strange, alone in the quiet apartment, but she grew accustomed to these journeys of his and to the sudden sound of his key in the door, for he would come back as quietly and with as little intimation as he had gone.
There were callers at all sorts of queer hours, men in uniform and men muffled in great coats with hats pulled down over their eyes, and always when they came, he would manage so that she would either go to her room or would remember some little shopping she had to do.
Once she had been awakened in the night by voices. She opened her door softly and looked out. Von Pfaffen and five men were seated about the dining-table. They were drinking, their faces were flushed, their manner excited. She heard one of them ask,
"Are you sure it will come?"
To which the eldest man in the party, a burly, square-jawed officer of high rank, replied with an oath:
"It must come!"
She saw Von Pfaffen rise to his feet and lift his wine glass.
"Here's to the Day!" he said.
The others rose also, and rang their glasses together.
"To the Day!"
She closed her door quietly. What did it mean? What was the day for which they were waiting.
In the evenings that followed she heard this toast again and again, and each time it stirred in her a vague dread of some impending evil.
Once she had had a glimpse of one of these visitors who evidently desired that his identity should not be disclosed. In the dim light, the face seemed strangely familiar.
The Captain's manner as he led his guest to the door was full of a servility she had never known him to show to any one, but while she was still wondering, the visitor caught sight of her and drew his coat collar hastily up over his face. Von Pfaffen turned angrily and slammed the door. She spent a long time puzzling as to where she had seen these features before. It seemed to her that they had been depicted in many photographs, but who he was she could not remember.
When she mentioned this incident later, Von Pfaffen told her unceremoniously to hold her tongue, though afterward, he made up to her with extra caresses for his rudeness.
Once she had overheard a word, a sudden phrase, that, though she was unable to quite understand its meaning, still filled her with breathless dread, a vague apprehension of this engrossing work of his.
One evening when they were alone, Marie spread a dainty little supper on the long table, pushing aside the scattered papers with a careless hand to make room for the tempting dishes. There had been a bottle of Tokay and he was flushed with the glow of its contents, but there was a suppressed exultation in his manner which she could not altogether attribute to the wine he had drunk. She had never seen him quite like this, he was always so much master of himself. She felt instinctively the force of some great underlying excitement that was gripping him.
"Little one," he bragged thickly, "some day you and I will have everything we can wish for. Some day soon, we will stand by and watch all the world rock—and when it settles down again, there will be only one country—the Fatherland!"
She was startled at the expression that came over his face. It glowed with ruthless greed, the will to dominate, to succeed, no matter what the cost.
"How strangely you talk!" she said. "What a wild dream!"
"Dream! Herrgott! It's no dream! It's the truth!" and he brought his fist down on the table so that the empty glasses danced. Then he suddenly turned quiet, sullen, and after vainly trying to bring him back to his gay mood again, Marie gathered the remains of the little feast and left the room.
Sometimes they conversed in French when they were together. The Captain spoke it flawlessly, without a trace of the German guttural, and often he would amuse the girl by imitating Parisian street gamins or French market women. He was an excellent mimic and Marie was secretly amazed at his ability to change his personality at will. It seemed so incongruous with the severe dignity of his character as she knew it.
He always spoke to her as though to a child he was trying to amuse, but as she listened, Marie was conscious of an indefinable apprehension, a vague fear of this man whom she could so little understand.
During the long, monotonous days when she was alone, she turned for solace and company to the books which lined his room. A new world was opened up for her of which she had never dreamed. She spent long hours pouring over Schopenhauer, Kant, Nietzsche, and even some of the Russian writers, Tolstoi, Gorky, Dostoieffsky. She began to see the answers to some of her own problems through the bitter eyes of these great Sad Ones.
One dull, cold day, when Von Pfaffen had been away longer than usual, she curled herself up in the great chair by the fire with a volume of Dostoieffsky's "Letters from the Underworld." It was one of those wild March days, whose fierceness proclaims it as the last gasp of winter, and the glow of the coals was very cheering.
She turned to the story, "Apropos of Falling Sleet." The title seemed appropriate for the day, and was in sharp contrast to the comfort of the fire.
But as she read through the bitter, stinging tirade which is poured out on the head of a poor little Petrograd prostitute, a tirade etched with the biting acid of the great Russian's most caustic pen, her face whitened, her lips trembled, the horror of it shook her with a dreadful fear. This first knowledge, that because men were brutal animals there must be women whose lot it was to suffer so, widened her eyes with a terror like a child must feel in a nightmare. She threw the book away from her and tried to forget it by looking over the scattered papers on the table. They proved uninteresting and unintelligible to her, and so with characteristic neatness, she arranged them in methodical piles. Von Pfaffen, entering in his usual unexpected manner, observed her occupation and was furiously angry with her, so angry that she was frightened. The pages of the book she had read, still clear in her mind, she burst into hysterical weeping.
His anger, however, was short-lived.
"Never mind," he said, "it's of no matter, but remember you are never to go near my papers again"; and Marie, grateful that the storm had blown over, dried her eyes, promising faithfully.
She had thought many times of going to see the Schultzes, but always there was something to prevent. She did send them a letter enclosing a bank note, and telling them that she was well and that soon she and the Captain were to be married, but the letter had come back unopened and she had concluded that for some reason they had given up the little flat and gone elsewhere.
Once she had timidly mentioned the Russian book to Von Pfaffen, but he had taken it from her clinging fingers and said that such books were not for pretty heads like hers to worry over.
Occasionally he took her to the theatre or the opera. She was in the midst of a world she had never known, filled with the color and life of Vienna, the sight of beautiful women in wonderful clothes, of sparkle, light. It was as though she were living in a different sphere. But his business engrossed him more and more as the days went by, and to Marie, his waning interest merely meant that these mysterious affairs of which she knew nothing, were taking up his entire attention.
One day Franz, the young Lieutenant, who had been her first sponsor at the "Two Eagles," walked in and found her busy about the place, a dainty little apron tied over her pretty morning frock, her yellow hair braided neatly about her small head. This was the first time he had seen her since those nights at the "Two Eagles." He stood and looked at her with mouth and eyes open.
"Ach," he said, "so?"
Marie's answer had been filled with dignity. There was something about this heavy-faced boy she always resented.
"I am the Captain's secretary," she said hastily, and then added as she saw the flat face broaden in an understanding grin, "the Captain and I are to be married as soon as all this work is finished," and she waved a small hand toward the table.
The grin on the Lieutenant's face grew into a laugh.
"Married?" he chuckled. "Married! That's good! I congratulate you, Fräulein," and gathering the papers he had come for, he turned on his heel and left.
Marie could hear his noisy chuckle above the sound of his clicking boot heels, as he hurried down the passage.
She was furiously angry at something she had seen in his eyes. His coarse laugh hurt her. All her old doubts, which Von Pfaffen's suave manner had managed to lull, came surging back. This stupid young Lieutenant, he, too, suspected what old Lena had hinted at. She threw herself on the couch and wept in an agony of bitterness and shame.
When Von Pfaffen came in, she ran to him with the tears still wet on her flushed cheeks and clung to him desperately.
"You are going to marry me, aren't you?" she sobbed.
"Of course, we'll be married," he assured her, "of course, but we must wait. When this pressing work is finished, everything will be as you wish!"
CHAPTER X
And so the days flew by bringing little change, excepting that Marie was left more and more to herself as Von Pfaffen's work seemed to accumulate.
She seldom touched the piano when he was near, for although she played well, she lacked the roundness of touch, the depth of tone which pleased his fastidious ear. But during the long hours when he was away, her music was a great solace to her.
Her walks never carried her far from the neighborhood, and brought her little amusement. It was a peculiarly quiet, uneventful location, given over, for the most part, to nurses and their charges.
Von Pfaffen was away from the apartment now for longer periods of time. These journeys came at more and more frequent intervals. His manner toward her began to change, he grew brusque and indifferent, the slightest thing irritated him. He would sit for long periods at the littered table, going over his papers in silence. Fearful of annoying him, she would remain quiet, crocheting endless yards of lace or staring into the coals, and when he had finished his work, he would gather it together, put on his hat and coat and leave her without a word.
Once during his absence, she had ventured another glimpse at those papers which so absorbed him, but they seemed to be mostly tracings of curious lines, columns of cryptic numbers and telegrams in what appeared to be a cypher, and she soon lost all interest as to what might be their import.
Toward spring, old Lena walked in one morning, her pendulous nose red from the brisk winds, her ample form swathed in the enveloping folds of an ancient shawl.
"So you're still here, Fräulein?" was her ungracious greeting, and Marie, who had welcomed her with a smile, was chilled.
"Of course, I'm still here, Lena," she answered, as the old woman laid aside her wraps. "I'm to stay here. The Herr Captain and I are to be married soon."
The old woman looked at her curiously from between her reddish eyelids.
"So," she grunted, "that's what he told you. Well, it's not for me to say," and she ran an inquisitive forefinger along the ledge of the mantle in search of dust.
Marie was angry, but it had been so long since she had spoken with anyone besides the Captain, that she welcomed the return of even this unpleasant creature.
"Lena," she began, "you know the Captain so well, you must know that he always does what he says he will do. Won't you be a little kind to me? I'm a very lonely girl."
The old woman smoothed her scanty hair, which she wore according to an ancient fashion, banded down on either side of her face and rolled under her ears into a hard little knot behind.
"Well, Fräulein," she said grudgingly, "you may be different from the 'others,' I don't know," and that was all the conversation Marie could get from her for the rest of the day, although she followed the old woman about the little apartment as she grumblingly set things back in the order in which she was accustomed to having them, out of which Marie had changed them.
The girl tried to talk to Von Pfaffen that night, but it was very late when he came in and his mood was such as to discourage any effort to continue the conversation, and so she lay awake almost till dawn, worrying. She had been afraid to face this question boldly, even to herself. After his first promises, she believed him because she wanted to believe him, because her peace of mind depended upon it. In the books she had read before she came here, wedding bells always ended the last chapter, journeys always ended in lovers' meeting. But the Captain's books were different. There was that horrible chapter of Dostoieffsky, which she had since read again, and every now and then an unpleasant picture had crossed her mind, of one of the convent girls who had come back weeping to the Mother Superior, and when she allowed herself the memory, she could even now hear the stern voice saying: "My child, you have sinned deeply!"
But Von Pfaffen's kindness, his repeated assurances, at first had shut out all fear of this. Now, however, things looked different, his manner had changed. Old Lena's allusion to those "others," disquieted her.
She thought of the letter that had come back unopened from the Schultzes. She recalled that the address had been crossed out and her own substituted in which she now remembered to resemble Von Pfaffen's handwriting, a fact which had made no impression on her mind at the time.
She lay watching the square of the window grow gray with the morning light. This couldn't come to her, she thought; he had promised. But supposing it were true? What would she do?
She fell asleep at last with the sound of his words in her ears, "Don't you trust me?"
But it was young Franz who added the last straw to her endurance. He came hurrying in one morning several days later to get a portfolio the Captain wanted.
"Good morning, Fräulein," was the young man's greeting as old Lena let him into the living-room, "it's nice and cozy here, I wish I could stay."
Marie pushed one of the big chairs nearer the stove.
"Why not sit down awhile," she smiled.
Usually her manner with him had repelled any advances, but to-day she wanted to talk to some one, anyone, even this flat-faced boy.
Franz (Marie had never learned his last name), sank stiffly into the cushions of the great chair, his hands with their thick fingers spread out on each knee, the toes of his shiny boots turned toward one another, round, pale blue eyes staring fatuously into her face.
"You are very pretty, Fräulein," he began, but Marie interrupted him.
"Don't compliment me, Herr Lieutenant. I want to talk to you if you have a few minutes to spare."
He leaned toward her with a smile that was meant to be ingratiating.
"Indeed yes, Fräulein," he said and cleared his throat. "Indeed yes! My time is at the disposal of so beautiful a young lady."
His manner was such a ludicrous imitation of the suave tones of his chief that Marie almost laughed in his face, but she controlled the impulse and went straight to the heart of her question.
"Tell me, when will all this be finished?" her glance took in not only the littered table, but the yellow portfolio resting at the side of his chair.
"That I do not know, Fräulein. Why do you ask?"
"Because, I am waiting for that, for then the Captain and I are to be married."
The boy threw back his head and laughed.
"Ach, Fräulein, you will have a long, long wait!"
"What makes you say that?" Marie was her own inquisitor now.
"Because," and the boy rose awkwardly, shaking down the tight blue legs of his uniform, "because the Herr Captain's work is never finished."
"Do you mean——?" Marie was on her feet now, the scales were falling fast from her eyes.
He put a clumsy hand on her arm.
"Come Fräulein, you're too pretty to worry," he said. "If the Herr Captain grows too busy, there's always me."
The blood rushed into Marie's face and receded quickly again, leaving her very lips white.
"I think you had better go," she said, and there was that in her manner that made the Lieutenant, after one look into her eyes, turn on his heel and leave the room, closing the door after him with a click.
Marie stood for a long time motionless, unseeing. They were right, Franz and Lena. She had been a fool, but she would give him one more chance. She would put the question to him unfalteringly when he came in. She dragged herself over to the window seat and sat looking down into the square. Her hands clasped and unclasped nervously, her teeth tore at her underlip. She made up her mind she would sit there and watch for him, no matter how long it would be before he came. With dry eyes, she stared down into the deserted street, for even the nurse maids and their charges were absent.
It was one of those windy spring days when the breath of winter still lingers in the air and sends the dust whirling in eddies about the street and around corners. The clouds hung low, and every now and then, a splash of rain moistened the pavement.
Two women were coming toward each other, their skirts blowing against their limbs and outlining them like Greek statues. The one as she came against the wind, held her head low to guard her hat, her white stockings showing above her shoe tops as her skirts ballooned behind her. The other leaned against the gale and almost ran with funny little hurried steps, as the wind pushed her before it, one hand hanging onto her hat, the other trying to steady her flying skirts.
They met, passed, and left the street once more to the wind, the dust eddies and scattered pieces of paper which danced and skittered along the pavement.
Lena came in after awhile to find out if Marie would have some lunch, but the girl paid no heed to her question, and the old woman shuffled out again, crossly.
The fire died down, the burnt coals clicking as they fell through the grate into the graying pile of ashes. The little clock on the mantel struck the hour, the half hour, and again the hour, but Marie sat as she had sat since the Lieutenant left her.
Everything Von Pfaffen had ever said came back to her clearly, stripped of all the glamor, all the fascination, all the hope that had held her these many weeks. She remembered things he had told her that were deliberate lies, lies so cunningly worded that she had never been able quite to accuse him of them. She found herself facing the fact, that almost every statement he had made to her, though made with the positive manner of assurance, and with every semblance of truth, had been utterly false. She was conscious of a great growing anger, a fierce glow of hatred, resentment. Her eyes narrowed, her lips tightened. Once for all, she would know the truth.
Several times the telephone bell shrilled out, but she paid no heed, and then at last a huge chocolate-colored car turned the corner and drew up at the curb. The chauffeur jumped down and threw open the door. Marie flattened her face against the windowpane.
After a second, the Captain stepped onto the pavement and a slender, white-gloved hand in a handsome sable cuff, was held out. He bowed over it, and turning on his heel entered the apartment house. The chauffeur closed the door and with a purr, the car drew away from the curb and went on its way.
Marie waited to hear Von Pfaffen's key in the lock, her heart pounding. No matter what his mood, she must know her fate now. The Lieutenant's laugh and Lena's phrase about the "others" were ringing in her ears.
He came in hurriedly and threw his hat and heavy fur-lined coat on a chair.
"Well, Marie," he said brusquely, "I have only a few seconds. Will you ring for Lena to bring some coffee?"
She came and stood beside him where he sat at the table rummaging among the litter.
"I must speak with you," she said, "there is something I must know."
"I am busy now," he did not raise his eyes from the papers.
"When are we going to be married?"
The Captain let his thin hand rest a moment on the edge of the table.
"Are you worrying about that again?" he asked, looking up at her with a frown. "Haven't I told you as soon as my work is finished?"
"Your work will never be finished!" Marie was echoing the Lieutenant's words in almost the Lieutenant's stolid tone.
Von Pfaffen's face darkened.
"You're nagging again," he said. "I have too much to think about to be bothered about trifles. If you are not satisfied here, I have no doubt the Schultzes will take you in again."
Marie drew in her breath sharply. They were right, and she had believed him. She seized him fiercely by the coat sleeve.
"You lied to me!" she cried. "You lied! You never meant to marry me! You lied to me!" and with all her strength, she shook at his arm as a small terrier might shake at the shaggy coat of a mastiff.
Von Pfaffen turned and held her from him.
"I marry you?" he sneered, "a cabaret singer!"
Marie's mouth was dry, the little pulse in her throat pounded as though it would burst. She drew back her hand and struck Von Pfaffen straight across the face.
He rose to his feet with an oath, his cheek a dull red, excepting where the mark of her blow showed livid.
"You little devil," he said between his teeth. "What do you think you could ever be in the life of a man like me? You want the truth? Well, I'll give it to you. You amused me, filled in long hours, when my nerves were ready to snap. Did you think for a second that a woman like you could hold me? I thought even you had more brains than really to believe that! I've given you comfort, I've taken care of you, I've given you much more than—if I must speak plainly—you have really been worth. There are things of so much more moment in my life that even this explanation is taking valuable time; but I've this to thank you for, you have helped me tell you what I've been meaning to, that as soon as you care to, you are at liberty to go!"
He turned away from the flood of tears he expected to follow his words, but the girl only stood staring at him, terrified.
Her mind was waking slowly to another phase of the world of which she had never dreamed. Unconsciously, the flower of her life was opening, developing, and the development was agony. She had learned grief with the loss of her father, poverty and the struggle for existence in that bitter year, and now this!
She turned with a dry sob and stumbled into her room, shutting and locking the door after her. She must think. She must reason out what to do. Shame, horrible, scourging shame, swept over her. She threw herself in a shuddering heap across the counterpane of her bed.
Spent with the grief and anguish that had followed her awakening, she lay for a long while dully repeating over and over the phrase, "he lied to me!" Presently this gave place to resentment, bitter hatred, which dried her tears. Her mind was swept of all illusions, she saw things clearly as they were. Once more she faced a crisis, and swiftly she made her decision as to what course she must follow. She sat up listening for the sounds that would tell of Von Pfaffen's departure.
She heard him rattle the poker among the dead coals, then old Lena shuffle in and set down the coffee tray, his rough dismissal of her and the old woman's angry grunt. The telephone rang and she heard the click of china, as he hastily set down his cup and went to answer it. She heard him say, "yes, immediately, I'll take a cab, good-bye," and her imagination followed him as he hung up the receiver and shrugged himself into his great coat, and with the sound of the closing door, she jumped to her feet.
Hastily she rummaged in her bureau drawer. There were two or three bank notes and some gold, besides some small change, housekeeping money. These she stuffed into her purse, they would stand between her and starvation for a little while at least. She took her suit and hat from the clothes press, and slipping off her blue gown, let it lie on the floor where it fell. She kicked off the little satin bedroom slippers and pulled on her shoes.
Once in her clothes, she brought out her small leather traveling case, and regardless of neatness or precision, she tumbled in the necessary things. She hesitated over the few jewels Von Pfaffen had given her, with the thought that they might aid her in escaping. She decided, however, to leave them and placed them where they could easily be seen on her dressing-table. Then, carefully, she locked and strapped the bag.
Her hat was pinned securely, she fastened the collar of her coat, and with a last look about, she picked up her bag and left the house. But it was not until she felt the cold air of the outside world whipping against her cheeks, that she realized that she had nowhere to go.
CHAPTER XI
There was a trolley line along the end of the street where Von Pfaffen lived, and almost without her own volition, Marie found herself making toward it. She boarded the first tram that came along, regardless of the direction. She paid her fare and sat staring ahead of her. What was to become of her? Across the way, a fat market woman sat mumbling her gums. Marie found herself watching the huge, uncorseted figure, quivering with the motion of the car.
At each corner, the tram stopped and people kept getting on and off, continually passing between Marie and the old woman who dozed and woke every once in a while, with a start.
"I'll get off where she does," thought the girl. "I'll leave it to Fate."
After what seemed an interminable time, the old woman pulled herself up with a jerk, gathered her basket and various other bundles and waddled out of the car. Marie jumped to her feet and stumbled after her. She stood and watched the ungainly figure till it disappeared round a corner, then she looked about to see where she was. The houses seemed strangely familiar, and suddenly, she realized that she was near the little flat where she had lived with the Schultzes. Fate was kind.
It was almost with joy that she started toward what had been her home. True, her letters had been unanswered, sent back unopened, but kind Frau Schultz and the old man would surely not turn her away, when she told them everything.
With a beating heart, she climbed the stair. On the second landing, a slatternly old woman put her head out of a door.
"Who are you looking for, Fräulein?" she asked, in a hoarse voice.
Marie told her.
"They're not here any more," croaked the creature. "The old man's dead, he had a stroke or something; the old woman's gone, I don't know where."
Marie choked and staggered back against the wall. Her only friends in all the city—one of them dead, the other vanished.
As the door slammed, the girl started blindly down the stairs. An old Bible lesson came into her mind: "The foxes have holes, and the birds of the air have nests; but the Son of Man hath not where to lay his head."
She was alone, absolutely alone in this great city, with no one to whom she could go for help. She walked up the street aimlessly, slowly, her lips murmuring over and over: "What shall I do? What shall I do?"
On the corner she stopped. She realized she must collect her scattered thoughts, she must form some plan. It was growing late, here and there the street lights were beginning to flicker.
Presently two men came toward her. She watched them as they drew near, half conscious of what she was doing. One was a dark, heavy-set man who wore a plaid traveling coat and carried a shabby valise. The other was younger, quite thin and stoop-shouldered, his hat pulled down over his eyes. As they passed her, Marie heard the thin man say:
"You will arrive at the Gare du Nord, mein Herr. I'm sure they will be there to meet you. Parisians are notably hospitable."
"We must hurry, or we'll miss the train," rumbled the other in a deep voice and they swung into a brisker walk as they passed Marie.
Like a flash she had the answer to her question. In Paris, lived the only relatives she had in the world, some distant cousins of her mother's. She remembered that once her father had brought one of them to the convent to see her. She remembered the kindly sparkle in his eyes, as he playfully pinched her cheek and told her that some day when she was grown, she must come to visit them. They had sent her a letter of sympathy on the occasion of her father's death. She would go to Paris.
She had half forgotten their address, but she would try to remember it on the train. Turning, she almost ran after the two men on their way to the railroad station.
At the ticket office, she emptied her purse. There was very little left when she had paid her fare, but it was with a sense of relief that Marie followed the porter as he went toward the train with her bag. She had taken a second-class ticket and he thrust her into a compartment, holding out a dirty hand for his tip. There was scarcely time to pay him his few hellers, when the train began to move, and with a gasp she realized that she was starting out into an absolutely unknown world, with almost nothing in her purse between herself and starvation.
The compartment was empty. She took off her hat and tried to make herself as comfortable as she could for the long journey and, as the train came to full speed and they left the city behind, she stared out into the darkness.
She tried to remember where this cousin she was setting out to find, lived. His name was Le Grand—Jules Le Grand—the address was—the address was—and Marie, exhausted by the bitter disappointments of the day was sound asleep.
Toward midnight, she awoke. Pain, humiliation, anxiety, returned. The dim emptiness of the swaying railway carriage seemed to symbolize her own life. She was so utterly helpless, so absolutely alone, being carried on swiftly by a force over which she had no control.
She tried to remember the Paris address as she sat and stared at the lamp in the ceiling, swinging with the motion of the train.
"Avenue—Avenue——" she kept repeating, when suddenly it came to her. "Avenue Victor Hugo, Number Five Bis!"
She almost cried aloud with joy. Paris was no longer a desert to her. There was such a place as the Avenue Victor Hugo, Number Five Bis—there was such a person as Monsieur Jules Le Grand. There was some one in the world to whom she could go, and Vienna, Von Pfaffen and all the months she had spent with him, that chapter was closed, finished forever.
She dug her nails in her palms.
"I'm going to bury it all," she whispered to herself. "I'm going to bury it deep. None of it ever happened. I'm going to be born again the day I reach Paris."
Early in the morning the train rumbled into the station at Munich, and a fat guard snapped open the door of her compartment, shouting:
"Aus steigen! München!"
She gathered her wraps and the little bag and followed the ungainly porter to where the Paris train was waiting at the far end of the platform.
This time the compartment was almost filled.
Two English women were already settled for the long journey, each deeply immersed in a small red guide-book. In one corner, a smart little Viennese with penciled eyebrows and reddened lips, smiled to herself as she looked out of the window. The other two corners were also filled. One, by a heavy, over-dressed Jewess. The other, piled with the luggage of the two English women. Marie had not the temerity to ask them to remove it, so she sat silently in the small space allotted her.
The train began to jolt and slowly pulled out of the station, gathering speed, till finally it swung clear of the houses of Munich and out into the country.
It was a drizzly cold day, with a leaden sky, and the landscape, as they flew by, looked cheerless and sodden.