CHAPTER L
Michael did not see Rose Marie in England, for her father had taken her away that same evening, after the acquittal, and journeyed with her forthwith to Paris.
And it was in the little room of the Rue de l'Ancienne Comédie that Michael once more beheld his snowdrop. It was December now and the room was filled with Christmas roses. Outside, the snow lay heavy on the ground. Maman Legros, with sleeves well rolled up over her sturdy arms, was stirring the contents of her stock-pot. Papa—a little more grey, a little more bent, mayhap, than he had been a year ago—was staring silently into the fire.
Rose Marie sat at her harpsichord in the window embrasure, and sang to her own accompaniment. Through the panes of the leaded window the pale rays of a December sun lit up the golden radiance of her hair, and rested on her hands as they wandered over the ivory keys.
Thus Michael saw her again after all these months of suffering. He stood for a moment in the doorway, for happiness at times is more difficult to bear than grief. But Love was triumphant at last. The splendid blackguard, the reckless adventurer, was only an humble lover now. He gazed on his snowdrop with eyes wherein ardent passion mingled with deep reverence.
Let the veil of oblivion be drawn across those leaded windows; let it shut out all light which comes from the outer world. Michael at Rose Marie's feet forgot all save that he had won her—the pure, stainless girl—even through the infinity of her pity which had first called into being her infinite love.
Papa and Maman Legros, looking on their child's exquisite face, suffused now with the glow of perfect love and perfect trust, exchanged a knowing look.
Then they very softly tiptoed out of the room.
THE END