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.