The General called with Gerome the next day and the two were closeted
for some time with Monsieur Le Grand.
Marie had seen them arrive from her window. Nervously, she walked up
and down her room, waiting to be sent for.
When at last Fleurette and Sidonie came in for her, their faces were
glowing with excitement.
"They want you at once in papa's study," cried Fleurette.
"But you shan't go until you tell us why," announced Sidonie. Marie
was flushed and eager.
"Let me by, you bad children," she laughed, trying to push them
aside. "How should I know why they want me?"
Fleurette threw her arms about her neck.
"Don't be angry, dear," she said. "We were only teasing, of course
we'll let you go," and the way clear, she went into the little salon.
Gerome came forward to greet her as she stood shyly at the door, and
the light in his eyes was such a happy one that Marie felt as though
she were lifted into Heaven.
"My little wife that is to be," he whispered, and led her into the
room.
Madame was busy arranging on a small table the tray of wine and cakes
which the maid had just brought in. Monsieur Le Grand took both her
hands in his.
"Well," he laughed in his big rumbling voice, "what is this I hear
about your leaving us?"
The General kissed her on both cheeks.
"She is a rather nice little daughter for an old man to have, isn't
she now?" and he smiled quizzically.
Marie's cup of happiness was too full. Was she the little orphan,
who only a few months ago had stood irresolutely on the corner of a
street in Vienna, wondering where she was going, what was to become
of her? To have all this love, this joy, showered on her, was too
wonderful, too much. She hid her face on Gerome's convenient
shoulder.
It seemed that Monsieur Le Grand's talk with the General had been
more than satisfactory and all that now remained, was to arrange for
the marriage to take place as soon as possible.
Gerome insisted on an early date. His suggestion was that now since
the family were all in Paris, why not have the wedding immediately.
Marie felt curiously like a detached witness of all this, not at all
as though she were one of the principals. It seemed so like a dream,
that she let them discuss arrangements, and sat happily silent, her
hand held tightly in Gerome's.
It was finally decided that as the de la Motte family were to go back
to the country the third week in June, Gerome and Marie should be
married a few days before they left. That would give Cousin Françine
at least ten days to get the little bride ready.
While her new relatives and her cousins were drinking each other's
health and wishing each other many felicitations and a better
acquaintance; while the General was toasting Cousin Françine's pretty
face and the two tall girls; while Monsieur was beaming on everybody
collectively, Gerome drew Marie into the window seat.
"Are you happy, dear?" he asked as they settled themselves.
Marie could not answer, her heart was too full. She looked up into
his glowing face and smiled.
Gerome, unlike most Frenchmen of his class, had taken the world
seriously. He had always looked forward to the day when he should
meet the One Woman. His life had been well-ordered and clean, so
that when he came to her, he should be able to lay the pages of that
life before her and say, "Dearest, I have lived for you and for the
day of our meeting." His fellow officers had twitted and laughed at
him for a purist. They said that he had been born into the wrong
world, no woman was worth it. But Gerome had gone his way, taking
their chaffing. He had smiled into the eyes of many pretty women,
flirted lightly with others, but never let his life be touched. "I'm
really a henpecked bachelor," he used to tell his companions,
laughing. "I haven't yet met the girl whom I am going to marry, but
she keeps me from a lot of mischief into which I might otherwise
fall."
When he had met Marie, her blond loveliness, her simplicity and
shyness, had won him at once, and he had told himself that first day,
that here was the woman for whom he had been waiting, for whom he had
kept himself clean and fine.
When he had spoken to his family of her, the General, with his
characteristic clear-sightedness, had realized that Romance had found
his son, and that whatever he or Madame might say against one of whom
they knew almost nothing, would only serve to bring unhappiness to
them all. They were a singularly united family and the thought of
disagreement coming among them, was impossible to realize.
The General and his wife had discussed the matter quietly by
themselves and had come to the conclusion not to give an opinion for
or against, till they had seen this girl who had so suddenly come
into Gerome's life.
Paulette, however, had demurred. Her brother was so much to her, she
hated to think of giving him up to another woman, dreaded a stranger
being brought into their midst. Her fiancé had been raised with them
all. She could never remember a time when Maurice had not been near.
But this was different, and a girl from a strange country, too,
Paulette demurred.
The General and Madame de la Motte had asked Gerome to bring Marie to
see them, and her sweetness and simplicity had won their hearts.
Besides, the General knew and respected Monsieur Le Grand, and he
stood sponsor for the little stranger.
"She is the daughter of a great scholar," he had told the General,
"the husband of a cousin of mine. The girl has been raised in a
convent. She is an orphan. Her father lost his fortune, and she
tried to support herself giving piano lessons and teaching French in
Vienna. She could not succeed, so she came to us. That is her
life," and he added that Madame was planning to give the girl her
_trousseau_ as a wedding gift.
Things had shaped themselves beautifully, but as Gerome sat with
Marie's small hand in his on the window seat, while his father and
her cousins toasted one another, he knew that even if things had
developed differently, he had come to his journey's end. He had
found the One Woman.
When they had left, and the family had excitedly talked over
everything, and Marie had been affectionately kissed, she had begged
them to excuse her, and had hurried away to dream of her happiness in
the quiet of her room. Her cousins' promises of the gifts they were
to give her had stirred her deeply.
These good people, how wonderful they were to her, and she--she was
going to Gerome empty handed. She drew out from under the neat pile
of clothing in the dresser drawer, the purse she had brought from
Vienna. She shook out the few _hellers_ and _kronen_ and the two
thin bank notes which she had never touched since her arrival. That
was all the dowry she could bring her husband. She stared down at
the little heap of Austrian money lying on the white cover of her
bureau.
Suddenly, she seemed to see Von Pfaffen's nervous fingers stirring
among the bank notes, and the realization of what that money meant,
rushed over her in a wave of shame. She picked up the thin pieces of
paper and tore them frantically into shreds. Then she gathered the
bits of other money together with the scraps and threw them all as
far as she could out of her window. The coins tinkled along the
sidewalk, wheeling in half circles on their edges before they settled
in the gutter. There was scarcely any breeze stirring, and the thin
scraps of paper zig-zagged slowly in the air. She watched them
scatter along the pavement, her hands held out, her fingers spread
apart. She had thrown from her the last of her life in Vienna.
The days that followed were spent in a whirl. There were clothes to
buy, there was the little apartment to see in the Avenue d'Antin,
which Gerome had selected, there was so much to do, that it left
Marie dizzy.
Madame Le Grand was in her element. She hurried the girl from one
shop to another, planned and fussed and rushed about from morning
till night, the two girls at her heels, eager and flushed, and filled
with vague dreams of the time when all this excitement should be for
them.
The day before the wedding, she came to Marie as she was dressing for
the dinner her cousins were giving for the two families, and sat down
for a few minutes to chat.
"It's wonderful that this has come to you, Marie," she said. "You
know we are sending the two girls to the convent next fall, and your
Cousin Jules and I had thought of a winter on the Riviera. We
haven't had a vacation together for so long. There would be nothing
for you to do then, would there?"
Marie was arranging her hair as she answered.
"You have been very good to me, Cousin Françine, I can never thank
you enough."
Madame made a little denying gesture.
"Don't speak of that, dear child," she said rising. "Now I must go,
my guests will soon be here. You will go to confession to-night, of
course."
Marie looked up at her startled. Since her arrival here in Paris,
she had gone regularly with the family to mass, but as yet she had
not been to confession. She had kept away, promising herself and the
_Curé_, Père Gaspard, who was the family friend and advisor, that
soon she would go to him. Once, when the _Curé_ had reminded her of
her duty, she had turned so white, that he had patted her hand
reassuringly.
"There, there, Mademoiselle," he had told her, "you can wait till you
know me better. I'm sure the sins on your soul are not such that we
need worry over them."
When Madame had left the room, Marie sat staring into her mirror.
She saw nothing of the confusion of the simple bridal finery about
her, nothing of her own image reflected in the glass. Her only
thought was that now she must go to confession. What should she say?
When she went at last into the salon, the family and their guests
were all assembled, Madame de la Motte, looking very regal in her
shimmering gray satin with a string of handsome pearls about her
throat, kissed her cordially as the girl came to her side.
In Paulette's bright eyes was still the vague suspicion that Marie
had read there that first day, but she held out her hand and flashed
her brilliant smile.
Marie, of course, knew no one in Paris and it had been decided to
have the marriage as simple as possible, so there were only the two
families, Père Gaspard and Maurice le Cerf, Paulette's fiancé, who
had come to see the _corbeille de mariage_ and to the dinner which
the Le Grands were giving the little cousin as a farewell.
Madame Le Grand smiled and dimpled at her guests, radiant in a new
shining silk, and the two girls, their slim legs in black silk
stockings, their white frocks encircled with huge blue sashes, stood
stiffly behind their mother, looking at Marie with a new interest.
Maurice le Cerf, never far from the side of his pretty fiancée,
welcomed Marie into their midst with a boyish cordiality that won her
heart immediately. He was a slender, brown-skinned young officer,
his long, delicate features giving him something of a Spanish cast.
A small mustache shaded a rather full red mouth, and the light gray
eyes shone out curiously from his dark face.
Marie was happy, deliriously happy. Her terror of confession was
forgotten. She was content to sit with her hand in Gerome's, her
eyes on his. Just to know that he was near, was comfort, to realize
that he was hers, left her dizzy and breathless.
Both families had been generous with the gifts they had given the
young people, and the wonders of the _corbeille de mariage_ having
been duly investigated and exclaimed over, they all sat down to dine
in a happy, joyful frame of mind. Even Fleurette and Sidonie forgot
their shyness and began to giggle over whispered remarks, and to
nudge each other surreptitiously.
The General, his quizzical eyebrow more quizzically raised than ever,
at his place next his jovial host, was full of entertaining anecdotes
about Morocco, Tunis and the savages along the Congo, where he had
served as a young man.
Monsieur Le Grand laughed his rumbling bass chuckle in appreciation,
and capped the Congo stories with bits of curious doings in the city
offices.
Cousin Françine smiled and dimpled and gave whispered orders to the
two hired waiters who were assisting Julie, the maid.
Madame de la Motte patted Marie's hand as she now and then added a
laughing word to the General's reminiscences.
Paulette and Maurice whispered together at their side of the table.
Marie let her eyes wander away from the beloved brown ones at her
side. She was conscious of a feeling of well-being, a sense of
protection, until her eyes came to rest on the black coat of the
_Curé_. It came over her again in a terrifying flash, that Père
Gaspard was the symbol of what might stand between her and all this
happiness. She lost her sense of what was going on about the table,
as she stared at the old man's wrinkled face with its high nose and
thin, white hair. It was a kindly, sympathetic face, but to Marie,
the deep lines about the mouth, looked sinister, the furrows between
the eyes, stern and unrelenting. She drew her breath sharply and
tightened her fingers on Gerome's hand.
She couldn't go to confession, she couldn't tell about Vienna, about
the café and Von Pfaffen and all the rest, she couldn't. Then she
remembered, how during that long journey, she had murmured over and
over, "When I reach Paris, I shall be born again, I shall be born
again! Nothing of this has really ever happened!"
Père Gaspard smiled at her across the table. With an effort she
turned her eyes away.
"I have been born again," she told herself desperately. "I have no
sins to confess!"
* * * * * * *
The next morning early, she was awakened by Fleurette's kiss.
"Lazy little Sainte Marie," she laughed. "This is your wedding day.
Sidonie and I are going to communion with you now, so hurry."
Marie sprang out of bed and threw open her curtains.
"What a wonderful wedding day," she laughed joyously, "the whole
world is happy with me."
When she was ready in her simple blue walking suit and hat, the two
girls, both dressed exactly alike, clung one to each arm, as they
started light-heartedly toward the church.
"Marie, just think, by noon to-day you will be Madame," said Sidonie
wonderingly, "aren't you frightened?"
"I'm sure I shouldn't be, only I should be wild with excitement,"
said Fleurette.
"Marie isn't even that, are you?" and Sidonie gently pinched her arm
to get her attention, for the girl's thoughts had been far away from
these two little inquisitive chatterboxes, tripping by her side,
through the lovely June sunshine along the Champs Elysées.
"Not even excited," she whispered, coming back to her surroundings,
"only very, very happy!"
Communion over and the tears brushed away that the words of the
kindly old priest had brought to her eyes, they hurried back to the
Avenue Victor Hugo to make ready for the wedding.
Marie was lovely in the white frock that Madame had taken such pains
in selecting for her. Her golden hair shone round her face like a
saint's halo, and the filmy masses of the white veil, floated mistily
about her. Gerome had given her a small bar of diamonds which she
wore among the laces at her throat, and her eyes, deep blue,
unclouded and happy, shone like stars. Marie was lovely.
As they drove to the _Mairie_ in the flower-decorated carriage,
Gerome leaned toward her, the pride of possession lighting up his
radiant face.
"I know why they call you little Sainte Marie," he said softly; "you
look as though you had just stepped down from heaven." He lifted her
fingers to his lips, "and you are mine, all mine!"
The ceremony at the Mairie was short and quickly over and they went
directly to the Madelaine. As she followed the huge Swiss in his
scarlet coat and great black hat, down the dim aisle, her heart
seemed to stop beating. She was unconscious of everything, excepting
the gleam of light on the tip of his staff, and the soft crunching of
his great black patent leather boots as he plodded on ahead of them.
Everything was a confusion of dim shadows, of tall candles flickering
and flashing, of masses of flowers and swaying wreathes of incense.
Almost in a dream, she knelt at Gerome's side, exaltedly she made her
responses and kissed the Host. The low, deep tones of the organ
thrilled through the dim aisles, mounted in an ecstatic burst of
melody, up, up into the very heights of the great church.
The huge Swiss swung his staff and started majestically back toward
the vestry room. Gerome took her hand, and still in a dream, she
followed. It wasn't until they were once more out in the sunlight
standing on the broad steps of the Madelaine, as they waited for
their white cockaded coachman to answer the signal of the dignified
Swiss, that Marie woke suddenly to a realization of what had taken
place.
The June sunshine touched her lovingly with its golden rays, and sent
little blue and crimson lights dancing in the diamonds of the pin at
her throat as it trembled with the throbbing of her heart. She
looked up at the tall figure at her side in its resplendent uniform,
the quiet strength of the handsome profile, the confident lift of the
broad shoulders. Her heart was full of a great thanksgiving, an
adoring love beyond words.
Gerome, her husband!