Madame, all kindness and solicitude, showed Marie to her room.
Everything she could, she did to make the girl forget the sting of
Paulette's words. She insisted upon her tasting the tea and biscuits
which old Nanine brought, although Marie could scarcely swallow. She
helped her out of her dusty traveling dress into a loose robe, and
while Nanine brushed out the long, golden hair and plaited it loosely
for her, Madame talked of the trip from Paris, asked regarding their
mutual friends, and spoke of their own affairs.
Marie recognized and appreciated her kindness, knowing that she was
trying to give her an opportunity to regain her composure, but she
had to bite her lips till they almost bled, to refrain from giving
way to her emotion.
When Nanine had tied the long plaits with ribbons and hung up Marie's
clothes, she took the almost untouched tray and courtesied good-night.
After she had left, Madame kissed the girl tenderly.
"Sleep well, my daughter," she said, "we must help one another in
whatever may come."
Marie's eyes overflowed, and for a moment she clung to the older
woman desperately.
"Love me," she whispered, "I want you to love me in spite of
anything, and oh, please remember I have never known a mother of my
own!"
Madame soothed her.
"Gerome will be here in a moment, dear," she said. "I must say
good-night to my boy, too," and with a parting kiss, she left her.
Marie stood a moment gazing about the large, old-fashioned room--the
great bed with its sombre draperies of faded blue, the heavy black
walnut dresser, in the tall mirror of which the two candles, in their
silver sconces, reflected her own tear-stained face, the small white
stove with a vase of flowers standing on its cold top, the long blue
curtains which Nanine had carefully pulled across the windows. It
was very stately, but very cold, and Marie shivered as she looked
about her.
Gerome had brought her here among his own people for protection, to
insure her safety and comfort when he was away. But almost her first
step across the threshold, had brought her face to face with all that
was horrible in her past. What a plaything Fate had made of her,
first to hold out so much that was wonderful and beautiful, and
then--suddenly it came over her with sickening horror what it would
mean if this man, into whose eyes she had looked not more than an
hour ago, should tell what he knew.
She had thought herself so secure, the past had seemed utterly
obliterated, and here, on the very brink of her shelter, that past
had reared its hideous head. And now, when she had all the world to
lose! If he should tell! If he should, even now, be talking to
Gerome or the General! She almost screamed aloud with the terror of
it.
The horror and shock of finding herself face to face with the man
whom she thought had gone from her life forever, convulsed her with
fear so terrible, as almost to deprive her of reason, but she must
think, or go mad.
Why was he here in the garb of a servant? Would it suit his purpose
to expose her or to try to force her back to him? He was in disguise
here. He had refrained from recognizing her before the others. What
could it all mean? Had he failed to recognize her because he feared
to? Was there some power she might have over him now? If so, how
could she use it?
The thought of facing him, of living under the sane roof, was agony.
In her bag was a small bottle of chloral which the doctor had given
her to quiet her nerves before she left Paris. With shaking fingers,
she rummaged among her clothes to find it. But suddenly she threw
the bag from her. A quick flutter at her heart called loudly her
need to live. With the knowledge that she must go on, whatever came,
she paced the floor in an agony of suspense and terror.
When Gerome knocked, she could scarcely answer, her voice died in her
throat. Did he know? Had he guessed? Had her terror shown itself
too plainly in her face?
He came in smiling, and as she looked at him, her chin trembled like
an unhappy child's.
"Sweetheart," her husband took her in his arms, "you must not mind
Paulette." So he thought it was Paulette's words that hurt, he
didn't know, oh, the relief, the blessed relief. She scarcely heard
him, as he explained.
"My little sister and Maurice love each other so very much, she is
really the dearest sister in the world. Be patient with her, for my
sake."
Marie lifted her eyes to his.
"When you made me your wife," she said, "your people became my
people; your ways, my ways; your country, my country!"
He held her close.
"We are truly one, are we not, _ma chérie_?" he whispered.
Marie's answer was passionately earnest.
"Forever and ever!" she cried.
For a long time they were silent, content to be here with one
another, to know how much each meant to the other.
Presently he spoke.
"Dearest," he said, "I'll be back in the morning; you're going to be
a brave little woman, aren't you?"
Marie turned away from him with a half sob.
"Oh Gerome," she stammered, "I--I need you--more than ever!"
Something in her voice, in the flush on her cheek as she turned from
him, startled him. He put his hands on her shoulders and drew her
face close to his.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"There's something--something I've been waiting to tell you," she
whispered.
Gerome stared at her. Her cheeks were glowing with the flush that
illumines the sky at dawn, and in her deep blue eyes shone a light he
had never seen there before.
"Don't you know?" she asked, "can't you guess?"
And then, in a blinding flash, he understood.
For a long moment they stared into each other's eyes, a happiness too
great for words transfiguring them. The world that was bent on
destroying itself, did not exist for them. It was as though God had
only just spoken the words, "let there be light!" With just such
wonder and awe might the first man have looked into the eyes of the
first woman when she had told him the miracle.
Tenderly, very tenderly, he drew her into his arms.
"Marie, my darling," he whispered, "is it true?"
"Yes," she breathed; then fearfully, "it does make you happy?"
He led her to the couch and drew her down beside him.
"Now, every one must be kind to you, so gentle with you."
Marie hid her face against his shoulder.
"You understand now why I dread to have you leave me," she moaned.
"I'll be back to-morrow!"
"But after to-morrow----" and she began to weep bitterly.
Miserably, he sat and held her close. That this should come now,
when he was going, perhaps to his death. Perhaps he should never
even see this child of his. Well, if he must die, it would be in
such a manner that a son of his would remember with pride!
"When I knew what was to be," she said, staring straight ahead of
her, "I wanted you to take me to your home, so that if you had to be
away when our baby came, I could still have the care and protection
of your family, but," and the memory of the sinister face that had
looked into hers, and all that it meant, sent the blood from her
lips, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"
Gerome turned to her in wonder.
"Sorry you came here?" he asked. "Have Paulette's words----"
"No, not Paulette," broke in Marie hastily. "She does not really
mean to be unkind. It is something else! I--I can't explain,
but--I'm afraid--I'm afraid!"
Gerome drew her close to him and gently smoothed her hair.
It was natural, he thought, for women to be frightened at such a
time, and Marie was so young, so inexperienced.
"_Bien aimée_," he whispered, "how happy we are going to be. Our
lives are going to be so perfectly attuned to one another, that
between us there can be nothing but harmony!"
She was sobbing afresh.
"But you are going away from me."
"Only for a few hours," he assured her, "and in the meantime you will
be with my mother and sister. What harm can come to you here?"
But the girl was almost hysterical now, the strain of that sudden
meeting was beginning to tell.
"Gerome," she sobbed wildly, "you will love me always? Nothing can
make you change?"
"Need you ask that, now?"
But she scarcely heard him. She was thinking of Von Pfaffen, and
what she had run away from in Vienna. She was dreading the time when
he would tell, for that he would tell when it suited his purpose, she
never doubted, nor did she doubt that the knowledge would take from
her her husband's love.
"Oh Gerome," she sobbed, "if anything takes you from me! Your love
is all I live for!"
Across the garden, sounded the chiming of a village clock. Gerome
lifted her to her feet.
"Kiss me, _ma chérie_" he said. "I must go. Nothing can ever make
me change. Are you satisfied?"
Marie clung to him.
"Let me go to the gate with you. I want to be with you as long as I
can," she begged, and with his arm about her, Gerome led her down the
stair.
The lights were burning dimly in the entrance hall, and the house was
quiet. He slipped into his motor coat and opened the hall door. The
moon was full now and the garden lay peaceful and shining under its
light.
"Good-night, my darling," he said as he stooped and kissed her;
"good-night, my boy's mother!"
Marie clung to him.
"Good-night," she whispered, "good-night, my dearest!"
She stood on the step and watched him go, and when the sound of the
motor was no longer audible, she closed the door and started up the
stairs.