The days passed swiftly for Marie. The kindly hearts of the Le
Grands were won almost immediately by her sweetness and charm, her
appealing air of innocence that seemed to demand protection. They
surrounded her with an atmosphere of love, of generous kindness, and
Marie's nervousness began to leave her. She and the two girls took
long walks through the blossoming _Bois_, or along the beautiful
Champs Elysées. Fleurette and Sidonie never tired of showing their
Austrian cousin the sights of their beloved Paris, and Marie found
herself forgetting the bitter winter in Vienna. It was as though
there had been some horrible nightmare from which she had awakened
into the sunshine of spring.
At first, she used to start up suddenly in the night, shuddering with
the thought of what would happen if her cousins should come to know
the truth. Sometimes, while she was giving a German lesson to
Fleurette and Sidonie, the familiar tones of her own language
recalled the days in Vienna which she was trying to forget, and made
her sink back into her chair, white and shaken.
At such times, Fleurette would pat her hand sympathetically and
comfort her for what she supposed was homesickness, and Sidonie would
jump to her feet.
"Come, Cousin, no more lessons now, the sun is shining, we must walk
in the _Bois_."
Little by little, Marie's fears of their finding out faded away, and
her conscience ceased to trouble her. No one who had known her in
Vienna was ever likely to come here. Old Herr Schultz was dead, his
wife would never leave her native country. Besides these two, there
were only Von Pfaffen and the young Lieutenant, who knew; and they,
she felt sure, would never cross her path again. Little by little
her confidence in people began to return, at least in these cousins
of hers and their friends. Her knowledge of human nature, of
character, began to expand. She was able to put people in their
proper niches, as it were, and hide her own fear and distrust under a
cloak of shyness and reticence.
Happy in this pleasant environment, her cheeks grew round, her color
came back, and the sparkle that was in her eyes in the convent days,
shone from them again. Her cousin Jules, she found, was something of
a personage, and there were always people of more or less importance
coming to see him, but Marie and the two girls seldom met any of
these visitors. Fleurette and Sidonie were still too young, and so
she stayed with them, but on the days when there were no guests, the
little family were all very happy together.
The Le Grands belonged to that class of French people whose family is
the heart of their life, who live only for the development of their
own immediate circle, who are economical, yet generous and
hospitable, and Marie was beginning to realize that here she could
shut away suspicion and be happy.
Monsieur Le Grand always insisted on hearing the girls repeat their
German verbs. He would burst into roars of laughter at their
struggles with the heavy gutturals. Madame, on those occasions,
always sat by a little table on which a red-shaded lamp lit up her
dark prettiness and sparkled on her black silk gown, flashing back
from her rings as she knitted or crocheted.
Marie's life was full. She gave the girls their lessons, took long
walks with them and sometimes would go on a bewildering shopping
excursion with Cousin Françine; and so gradually the bitterness of
the past was shut away in a corner of her memory.
One afternoon, Sidonie burst into her room in great excitement,
Fleurette following at her heels.
"Marie," she cried, "we are to be at dinner to-night! There will be
a guest, but the good papa says we may come, because he is young,
like us. We think he's wonderful. We hope you'll like him too."
"I am to wear my white lace dress with the blue sash," said Fleurette.
"And I shall wear mine, also," added Sidonie.
"But," began Marie, "I cannot come, I have nothing to wear!"
"Oh, yes you have," laughed Fleurette. "I unpacked your bag the
night you came. I saw a pretty little white frock in it. It was
badly crushed, but we'll take it to Julie, and she will press it out
as good as new," and skipping to the clothes press, she began
searching.
Marie remembered with a shudder, that she had crumpled the white
dress she had worn at the "Two Eagles," into her bag. She abhorred
the thought of wearing it. It would bring back bitter memories, but
she could not come to dinner when there would be a guest, dressed as
she was.
The girls were examining the simple frock which Fleurette had
unearthed.
"I think it's very nice," decided Sidonie. "I'll take it right down
to Julie and she will press it for you."
"And you must do all this wonderful golden hair in a pretty fluffy
way," said Fleurette, "no flat braids to-night, cousin. We'll all
play that we're grown up. Won't it be fun!" and she danced away with
the crushed white muslin over her arm.
Marie stood by her window thinking. She hated to put on the white
dress, to pile her hair up under a high comb. It all seemed as
though she were going to the "Two Eagles" again to sing. She
wouldn't, she couldn't do it. She would tell the girls when they
came in, that she was ill. She would make any excuse so as to stay
in her room. She would destroy that dress. She wondered why she had
ever brought it.
The window stood open to the soft June air. She leaned her head
against the casing and let the breeze fan her hot cheeks.
She squared her shoulders. Why should the dress bring back memories?
That life was dead and buried. It had never been! She turned from
the window, and began to let down her fair hair as Fleurette and
Sidonie came in carefully carrying the freshened muslin. It was
beautifully pressed. They laid it primly across the bed.
"You will look just like one of the angels, all yellow hair and white
wings," said Fleurette, coming over to her, and drawing her shining
tresses through her fingers.
"A little Sainte Marie," said Sidonie, and then glancing at her own
reflection, she added, "I wish I were a blonde. Nobody ever thinks
of a black Saint," and she made a grimace at her own image in the
mirror.
"It is late now," reminded Marie. "Better go and dress. When you
are ready, come back for me. I shall be frightened to meet a
stranger alone."
The girls laughed and hurried away.
Marie closed the door after them. Then she went over to the bed and
stood looking down on the fluffy whiteness in which she had been so
miserable.
"What a horrible time I had when I wore you last," she said to it.
"I wonder what will happen to-night," and half fearfully, she began
arranging the wavy masses of her hair.
When the girls came back for her later, resplendent in their soft
frocks, each with its pale blue sash tied in exactly the same manner,
they uttered little shrieks of delight over Marie.
"But you are lovely, cousin," cried Fleurette. "Your shoulders are
like snow." She looked very fair and golden in contrast to their
vivid coloring.
"When I am grown, I shall do my hair like that," said Sidonie, "only
it isn't the right color."
Marie laughed.
"Your hair is just the color it should be for you. Are you really
pleased with me?"
They assured her joyously that she was perfection itself, and indeed
she was a dainty figure; rounder, more mature than on that day not so
many months before, when she had donned the white frock to go to the
"Two Eagles." There was a flush on her cheeks which had not been
there the last time she had worn it.
"Come," she said, "let us go and see the good parents," and giving a
hand to each of the girls they started sedately for the drawing-room.
"How charming you look this evening," smiled Le Grand. "You will
like my young friend; he is an officer in the army. His parents live
in a fine old chateau somewhere near the frontier."
Almost as he spoke, the maid opened the door and announced Captain de
la Motte.
Fleurette and Sidonie, suddenly shy, stepped back of their mother,
while Monsieur went forward to greet his guest.
He was a tall, slender man of about thirty, very sunburnt, with a
lighter line across his forehead, where his cap had rested. His eyes
were wide and brown, and his dark hair combed straight back from his
forehead, had a slight wave in it. His mouth was full and almost
Greek in outline, and the lean, strong lines of his face were clean
shaven.
Monsieur Le Grand made the presentation in the graceful manner of the
cultured Frenchman.
The visitor smiled a flashing smile that lit up his face and showed a
row of very white, even teeth.
Marie sat shyly quiet through the evening, but her mind and eyes were
alert. There was a boyish ingenuousness about this man that was
refreshing. It seemed to deny his knowledge of certain phases of
life, seemed to stamp him as different from the men with whom she had
come in contact. Surely there must be some men who could be trusted.
She wondered if it were possible that back of those clear eyes, might
lurk deception, whether the smile that seemed so worthy of trust, hid
falseness. But in spite of the involuntary distrust that was the
result of her experience, her interest was aroused. His frank
_camaraderie_ with her two young cousins, the amusing tales he told
of the barracks, his keen sense of humor that was expressed in clear,
hearty laughter, put her wonderfully at her ease, and above all
things he had unmistakably that distinctive manner which proclaimed
him a gentleman. It was a very pleasant evening, and when at last he
rose to go, deep in her heart was a half-formed wish that here, at
least, she might be off the guard she had so strictly imposed upon
herself.