For some time after this, de la Motte did not come to the Avenue
Victor Hugo. Cousin Jules reported that he was busy with his
military duties. There was some activity at the _caserne_. Soldiers
were drilling for a review, but he sent his kindest greetings and
promised to be with them again as soon as it might be possible. But
he was never absent from Marie's thoughts, and she dreamed the glad
dreams that youth knows when love has come.
When he came again, it was to ask Marie to meet his family. They
were in Paris for a few weeks, while his sister, who was to be
married shortly, bought some of her _trousseau_.
"I want them to meet you," he said. "I want you to know my sister
Paulette; I know you will be friends."
Marie lifted her eyes to his. Could she dare to hope that what she
saw there was true? She was almost afraid to dream it, afraid to let
him tell her so. He was so different from any she had known, with
his flashing smile, his clear eyes that looked so steadily into hers.
She wanted, above all things, to believe in him.
So it was arranged that Monsieur and Madame Le Grand were to take her
to call on his family.
The girls helped her with her simple toilet. Her hat must be set
just at the right angle, her gloves, her shoes, must all be perfect.
They were as excited as she was over the prospective visit. Madame
also was dreaming dreams.
"You will like the General," she said. "He is a very gallant old
soldier. He will not frighten you, cousin; and Madame and Paulette
are charming."
"Everybody will love you, little Sainte Marie," said Fleurette,
"everybody must"; and Sidonie added, "But, of course, how can it be
otherwise?"
The de la Motte family were staying at a hotel on the Place Vendôme,
one of those hotels whose unpretentious exterior gives no indication
of the refined comfort to be had within. It was the hotel at which
the family always lived when in Paris, and its proximity to the Rue
de la Paix made it particularly convenient now for the purchasing of
Paulette's _trousseau_.
She was to be married to a young Belgian officer, Gerome had
explained, Maurice le Cerf. They had grown up together, and both
families had been looking forward to this event for years. Maurice's
home was not far from the Château de la Motte, which was situated
close to the border, and the young lovers, were seldom separated.
Their marriage was to take place some time in August.
Gerome opened the door of his father's suite for them.
Back of him smiled the General, who held out a cordial hand to Marie
as they entered. He was a tall, well built man of about sixty, his
gray hair was brushed back from his forehead, a heavy grayish
mustache hid his mouth, and over his keen blue eyes hung thick,
grizzled eyebrows, one of which was lifted a trifle, giving him a
kindly, quizzical expression. There was a strong resemblance between
father and son, but the elder's features were more massive. He was
taller, heavier, more powerfully built.
As the visitors came into the room, a lady rose from a chair by the
window. She was tall and beautifully poised, and the simple lines of
her dark dress set off her figure. Her hair was almost white and
rolled back from her face in a smartly dressed coiffure. Her wide,
dark eyes were so like Gerome's that Marie did not need his words to
confirm the fact that she was his mother.
She greeted her with cordial grace, her sweet informality,
immediately putting the girl at her ease.
There was some little conversation between Madame Le Grand and the
hostess, concerning various mutual acquaintances and things that
interested them, and then Gerome's mother turned again to Marie.
They talked awhile of many things, of the charm of Vienna, of how she
liked Paris; and when they found she knew no more of France, they
promised her that she should see all of their beautiful country.
Monsieur Le Grand told some anecdotes of her father, and his wife
smiled fondly at Marie as she spoke of the days with them since she
had come to Paris.
Presently a very pretty girl came in from another room. She was,
perhaps a year younger than Marie, slender, with dark hair which
waved softly back from a smooth, white forehead. From under her
straight black brows her eyes looked out with just a hint of
superciliousness. If there could be any criticism of the lovely
face, it was perhaps, that the features were too regular, for beauty
is accentuated by some slight defect that enhances it by comparison.
She was dressed for the street in a smart, dark brown walking suit
and a wide-brimmed sailor hat. Her slender feet and trim ankles were
cased in bronze shoes and silk stockings.
Gerome rose to greet her.
"Paulette," he said, "this is Mademoiselle Helmar."
Paulette smiled her brother's flashing smile.
"Gerome has told us much about you," she said. "We have been looking
forward to your visit," and after shaking hands with the Le Grands,
she crossed the room and sat on the arm of her mother's chair. Her
words had been gracious, her manner all that it should be, but there
was a subtle something that took Marie's ease from her and brought
back her nervousness. The almost too classic face held a vague
suspicion of her, a vague challenge. It was as though she were
saying, "Who are you? What is it in you that has captured my
brother? I resent it. I'm not sure whether you are good enough for
him. I am not sure anyone is!"
The family were to be in Paris another week, it seemed, and the
General made plans for them to go to the theatre together, "so that
we may grow to know one another," he explained.
Marie blushed as she thanked him, and it was decided that early in
the week she should dine with them and they would go to the Opéra
Comique, or perhaps the Théâtre Française afterward.
Monsieur Le Grand, in his deep bass voice, rumbled out plans for them
to come to the Avenue Victor Hugo; Madame smiled and dimpled as she
seconded his invitation, and presently they rose to go.
"We will see you very soon, I hope," she smiled, as she made her
adieux, and turning to Paulette, she wished her again much happiness.
Marie smiled timidly as she bade Madame de la Motte good-bye.
"It has made me happy to meet you," she said.
Madame kissed her cheek.
"Gerome's friends are ours," she said kindly.
The Le Grands pleaded another engagement, so Gerome was to see Marie
home.
It was a beautiful June day and the Paris streets through which they
drove sparkled in the sunshine. The motor was well on its way along
the Champs Elysées before either of them spoke.
Marie was nervously silent, and he, too, sat staring straight ahead
of him. Every now and then she stole a glance at the brown profile
beside her. She was conscious of an almost irresistible longing to
put out her hand and touch him. She grasped her parasol handle
tightly and dropped her eyes.
At last Gerome turned to her.
"You like my family?" he asked.
"Your mother is wonderful," she said. "You have her eyes."
"I resemble the General more, they tell me. He is fond of saying how
much I am like he was at my age."
"You are like him," she answered, as though reviewing his qualities.
"He is very splendid!"
"And Paulette?" asked Gerome.
Marie's eyes dropped.
"She is very pretty," she said non-committally. She was still
feeling the girl's appraising eyes, the subtle something that had put
a wall between them.
Gerome laughed.
"I was afraid you wouldn't understand her," he said. "She is very
badly spoiled, and just now nothing or no one exists outside of
Maurice and her _trousseau_. You will love Paulette when you know
her better."
"I am certain I will," she hastened to assure him.
Gerome looked at her steadily.
"I am glad you like them, Marie," he said seriously, his voice
shaking a little. "It means much to me."
He was silent the rest of the way, and the girl's heart beat happily.
He cared for her. There was no doubting the look in his eyes. Love,
real love, the kind she had dreamed of, had prayed for, was coming
into her life. For a moment she grew cold with the fear that
something might come to take it away. She remembered the dream she
had had the night she had first met him, and the thought that perhaps
some shadow of her life in Vienna might come between them, sent the
blood from her cheeks and lips and left her still and white.
The torturing thought came to her again as it had so many times since
she began to realize the seriousness of his intentions. Could she in
honor accept this happiness if it were offered? Had she the right to
accept it from any man?
When they reached the Avenue Victor Hugo, her cousins had not yet
arrived and the two girls were out with Julie for their walk.
They sat in the little salon, talking for a moment or so, and then
Gerome rose.
"I must go on now," he said. "I shall see you to-morrow."
Marie nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She knew her voice
would shake and tremble as she was trembling.
She gave him her hand. Gerome took it, and held it tight. For a
moment they looked into each other's eyes, and then suddenly, he drew
her to him, crushing her in his arms.
"Marie," he whispered, "I love you! I want you! Say yes to me! Say
yes!" and in the dizzy ecstacy that his nearness brought her, her
resolutions, her fears melted away. Her heart throbbing wildly, she
could only cling close to him, murmuring, "Yes."
Then followed long silences, broken by murmured vows, happy
anticipation, hopes, plans, promises. The old, old story ever new.
When he was gone she shut herself in her room. She was glad the
family were out. She didn't want to see anyone just now. She didn't
want to have to answer their eager questions as to how she liked
Gerome's people, and how they had liked her. She didn't want to
discuss things with her cousins yet. Her happiness was too great,
too wonderful. It seemed a sacred thing.
Now she knew that though there was grief, sorrow, pain in the world,
cruelty and villainy, still, there was real love, love and the
sacrifices love will make. It came over her with a great surge of
joy, that after all, everything she had always dreamed of, hoped for,
was in the world, just as bitter experience had taught her that other
things existed as well.
There was love and all that is part of perfect, reciprocated
affection. With a great wonder, she asked herself, did Fate really
mean to be kind? Had she escaped the consequences of her
inexperience?
She looked at her face in the mirror. Was this the same girl, she
wondered, who had come to Paris so short a while ago, eyes red from
weeping, and a heart bitterly sore with the world? The face that
shone back from the mirror, was radiant with the mysterious glow that
comes to a woman when she loves and is loved. She looked at the deep
blue of her eyes, sparkling with happiness. She looked at her parted
red lips, that could still feel his kisses, and then, suddenly, the
light went out of her eyes, the smile died, and she threw herself
face down on her bed. What would he do if he knew, she wondered.
She couldn't lose him, she couldn't give him up. Her imagination
showed her the lovelight killed in his eyes and a look of loathing
taking its place.
"I couldn't bear it," she sobbed dryly. "I won't bear it!" She
could still feel his heart beating against her breast, his breath
warm on her check.
"Dear God in heaven," she prayed, "don't take him from me! I love
him! I love him! Keep him from ever knowing! Dear God in Heaven!"
She jumped to her feet and brushed her hair out of her eyes.
"He'll never know!" she said between her teeth. "He can't ever find
out! I won't give him up! I won't!"
That life was a chapter to be closed forever. She had been swept
into it not against her will, but because she had had no will in the
matter, no power of choice or discrimination.
Those months at the café, and with Von Pfaffen, shuddered across her
memory like some horrible nightmare.
She would sponge them from her very mind, erase them from her
imagination.
Squaring her shoulders, and holding her chin high, Marie looked at
her image again in the mirror, and as she saw the color coming back
to her cheeks, the light in her eyes, she knew that she had chosen
the path that she was to follow, and that whatever came, she would
fight to hold this love that had come into her life, to put herself
in tune with him, to make herself worthy.