When there has been a shade or promise of evil hanging over our
lives, when we have waked each morning with the dread of what the day
may bring, and go to bed at night to toss and turn in fear of the
morrow, and then, suddenly, we find that the thing we feared has
happened, instead of the appalling terror and the horror of its
consequences that we anticipated, very often there is a sense of
infinite relief, that now no worse can come, for the worst has
happened.
So it was with Marie. With the closing and locking of the door on
the dead body of Von Pfaffen, a great, numb calmness enveloped her.
He was dead. She had killed him. Nothing mattered. There was
nothing to matter. The world, for her, was finished. She wondered
in a curious subconscious way why she did not care. She had taken a
human life, yet she felt no remorse, no fear. All emotion was dead
in her heart. She only knew that she was tired, terribly tired. Her
knees seemed to give way under her. She stumbled, dragged herself
with the help of her icy hands, hanging onto the chairs, groping
along the edge of the table. She only knew she must reach the couch,
which seemed so far away, where she could rest. Her mouth was dry,
her tongue felt swollen. It was an effort to close or raise the
heavy lids over her burning eyes. A dreadful sense of dizzy nausea
struck her. Suffocating waves of blackness seemed to beat up from
her heart and surge across her vision.
With a supreme effort she made a last tottering step toward the haven
she was trying to reach, and pitched headlong across the couch, a
great darkness wrapping her close.
The day wore on, the cannonading had rumbled off into silence, the
frightened birds had come back, and here and there, through the
garden, they twittered nervously to one another.
The sky was overcast now, the air had grown heavy with the promise of
a storm. Every now and then a little gust of wind, pungent with the
smell of powder, blew in along the terrace and through the shattered
windows. It shook the curtains, fluttered across the unconscious
head of the woman, lifted a lock of disheveled hair, eddied among the
papers on the little desk, stirred about the disordered room and died
away.
Marie was mercifully shut away from the world, her strained nerves
had snapped. She could bear no more.
Outside in the hall, behind the locked door, the dead man lay,
staring horribly, a tiny stream of blood staining the marble floor.
* * * *
When Gerome jumped from his dusty, battered motor, late in the
afternoon, it was with a heart full of foreboding that he found the
great gates open. The terrible havoc wrought by the bursting shell
frightened him. He dared not ask himself what he might find.
He hurried up the gravel walk, his head splitting and pounding from a
gash across his brows, which had been bound up hastily. His face was
grimy, and there were discolored circles about his eyes. He ran
along the terrace and past the entrance door, knowing he would find
whoever was left in the house here, in the little salon.
At the window he paused, his quick eye took in the disorder, the
signs of the struggle, the body of the girl lying inert across the
couch, her dress crumpled and torn, her yellow hair, loose from its
pins, hanging in a long loop over her shoulder. With a cry he ran
across to her and lifted her in his arms.
"Marie," he cried, but her head fell back heavily against his breast.
Gently he laid her down on the cushions, a dreadful fear in his heart
that this might mean death. The bowl of water and the bandages that
had been brought for Jacques were on the table. Hastily he wet a
cloth, and kneeling by the girl's side brushed back the hair from her
brow and moistened her closed eyes and lips.
Presently she stirred, her lids fluttered.
"Marie darling!" he said. "Tell me, what is it?"
The girl opened her eyes and looked into his.
"Gerome," she whispered, "is it really you?" Her eyes were devouring
him hungrily, lovingly, the man she had never hoped to see again.
Suddenly she became conscious of the bandage around his head.
"Gerome!" she cried, "you are hurt!"
"It's nothing," he hastened to assure her, "only a scratch. I have
glorious news! We have won! It's victory for France!"
"Victory!" she repeated dully, then after a moment, "God is good to
us!"
He drew her to him tenderly.
"I had word that mother and the servants were safe," he said, "but
when I learned that you were not with them, I was mad with fear that
you might be injured. I got leave to come and find you, and thank
God, I have!"
He had come back to her, but it was too late, her hands were stained
with blood. An overwhelming sense of what she had lost swept over
her. She turned her face against his sleeve, weeping hopelessly.
"Hush, dearest," he whispered, "luck was with us, don't you hear? We
struck just where the enemy's lines were weakest. Our aviators
reported them massing their troops at Sains, but the attack there was
a complete failure. The town must have been warned!"
Sains had been warned!
That was something to weigh against the heavy burden of sorrow she
had to bear!
Holding her close he listened, while she told him of their experience
in the château during the battle, and then for a long while they sat
silent, their arms about one another, cheek against cheek. Death had
been so close to both, might take one of them to-morrow, but he had
her now in his arms, warm, palpitating, trembling with the love he
knew was for him.
The light began to fade, the silence broken only by the distant
muttering of the guns.
"Little Sainte Marie," he whispered, "to me you are symbolic of
everything that is good and pure!"
Across Marie's mental vision flashed the picture of Von Pfaffen's
body lying out beyond the locked door. He was dead. There was no
need that anyone should ever know of her past with him. Everyone
else who knew was dead. Her word would be sufficient. She had only
to say that she had discovered him to be a spy; that he had come back
and, finding her alone, attacked her, and in defense of her honor,
she had killed him.
She had sinned, yet she had suffered. Had she not paid the price in
full? Must she drain the cup of bitterness to the last dregs?
Surely heaven did not expect this sacrifice. Would it not make
Gerome more unhappy to know the truth? Would it not, indeed, be
wrong of her to confess? It was written, "Let the dead past bury its
dead!" Why draw this grisly skeleton into the light of day? She had
suffered enough. She wanted happiness, and to tell Gerome meant to
crucify that happiness. Surely, other women in the past had erred
and then married and lived contentedly, without discovery or
confession. She had been so young, so innocent, so unprepared. It
was her inexperience that was to blame, not she herself. In heart
she had always been pure, her desire had always been to be good. Her
conscience acquitted her. Her decision was made. She would not tell.
Gerome's eyes held hers. At all costs she must keep the love she saw
shining there. She answered his look with one of passionate
adoration.
"Marie," he said softly, "thank God that you are safe. I dare not
even imagine what it would have meant to me if I had come back and
found anything had happened to you."
There was a long silence.
"How wonderful it is," he said at last, "to have an ideal realized.
You are everything I ever dreamed a woman should be. If I should die
to-morrow, it would be with the knowledge that the woman I loved had
been worthy of my implicit faith."
Faith! The word sank into her heart. It stirred and brought to life
again, conscience. What was it to have implicit faith? How did one
deserve that?
He looked gravely into her eyes.
"All human happiness is founded on faith!" he said.
He believed in her. Oh, God, the pity of it! He believed in her,
and how had she repaid his trust?
She had hidden her past from him, and lived a lie all these days of
her marriage, in order to shield herself and keep his faith in her.
To tell him meant to lose his love. But could she go on like this,
living a lie? How glorious, how beautiful it would be, what
inexpressible joy, if she only were the woman he thought her. If she
only had come to him with clean hands. If the exchange had only been
equal. But the fact that this was not so, could not be eradicated.
She was what she was, what circumstances had made her. She knew that
she was cheating him. Again, she brought her soul before the
judgment bar of her conscience, and this time the verdict was
"Guilty!"
Cost what it may, she must tell him.
The pitiful weakness of her character that had made her drift,
postponing the inevitable day of reckoning, had passed. She must
flay her very soul, and stand before him as she was.
She became conscious of his voice telling the story of the battle, of
his love for her, of their future happiness.
Their future happiness!
"Gerome," she said slowly, her voice vibrant with suppressed emotion,
"there is something I must tell you, something I have been too
cowardly to let you know before. I'm tired of lying! Tired of
hiding! Ashamed of accepting your love, when I know it is
undeserved. I am not what you think me!"
He looked at her, startled.
"Marie----" he began.
"No--don't stop me," she said quietly, but firmly, "let me tell you
everything. When you married me you thought me a pure young girl,
coming to you from the convent, untouched by the world. I
wasn't--I--there was another man in Vienna."
He clutched her arm in a grip that made her wince with pain.
"What do you mean?" His voice was hoarse and strange.
She drew away from him.
"I knew you would shrink from me! I knew you would loathe me when
you learned the truth. I'm not trying to exonerate myself, not
trying to make excuses. I was young, scarcely more than a child. I
told you I had never known my mother. When my father died, I was
left penniless, without friends, without the knowledge of how to
support myself. I was unused to the fight, unequal to it. One day I
met a man who singled me out, a smile on his lips, black lies in his
heart. He promised me what I longed for, protection, a home,
marriage--and I believed him!"
Her words swept over Gerome in a devastating wave, leaving his face
livid. The bandage across his forehead reddened with the fresh
bleeding of his wound.
"Go on," he whispered hoarsely, "tell me everything!"
"He found me singing in a little Bohemian café; it was the only thing
I could do to earn my living. He befriended me, was kind to me, and
before I knew where I was drifting, it had all happened. Too late, I
realized what I meant in the scheme of his world, a plaything, a new
toy for a day to be tossed aside when my novelty had worn off. When
I knew the truth, I left it all. I came to Paris, where I had
distant relatives. I threw myself on their mercy. They were good
people, as you know. They took me in. I tried to forget! I never
wanted to see anything of the old life again. As the months passed I
believed myself safe, and then you came," her voice lifted, rang
clear; "you, the man I had dreamed of, whom I thought could not exist
outside of dreams. All the love, all the passion, all the adoration
a woman is capable of, I gave to you. The rest of my life you know,
every minute, every thought of it, up to--up to the day you brought
me here. I was so hungry for happiness. You were my world. I
couldn't bear to think of losing you. I decided not to tell you. I
would make amends in a hundred ways for the deception. I tried to!
I thought the past was dead, dead and buried. God, how I deluded
myself! When we arrived here, here in your father's home, all the
sunshine, all the joy went out of my life, for I came face to face
with that man!"
"Here? You're mad!" The gentleness, the refinement had vanished
from his expression, leaving the face of primitive man thirsting to
get his fingers on the throat of his enemy. "Who is he? Tell me his
name!"
She kept her eyes on his.
"He was known in this house as Antoine," she said.
"Antoine!" his lips curled with unutterable loathing, "Antoine! A
servant!"
"He was not a servant. He was a spy in the service of the enemy!"
Gerome dropped her arm as though the touch seared his fingers, horror
and amazement in his face.
"A spy! Good God! Then what are you?"
She nerved herself. The look in his eyes spelled death for her, but
she must go on.
"When I saw him, I was wild with terror. He offered me a price for
his silence. I was to get some information he wanted. What was I to
do? What could I do? I only knew that I loved you, that I wanted to
keep you. I only knew that I was going mad with the fear of losing
you! I promised to do what he asked!"
"What was it?" His voice was low, even, deadly. She knew there
could be no hope for her, but the oblivion of death would be welcome.
"I made you tell me where the attack was to be made. This was the
information he wanted."
He recoiled, his eyes fixed on her with a look of unutterable horror.
"You sold my honor, my country!" he said at last. "You, whom I
trusted with more than my life. Well, there's only one thing to do.
Both of us must die!" Slowly he drew his pistol, his face cold and
white as marble.
"Wait," she whispered. "I'm ready, I'm willing to die, but before, I
want you to know everything." He lowered his arm and looked at her.
"I knew that if I defied him he would get his information some other
way. I knew I must seem to play into his hands, and thwart his
purpose. I gave him information, but wrong, twenty miles wrong! It
was I who sent the warning to Sains! And I know it reached there in
time!"
"How do you know that?"
"Because he told me!"
"Told you? Where? When? Where is he now?" His face worked, his
lips were drawn back from his teeth, his voice hoarse with passion.
For a moment she stood rigid, then she stepped to the hall door and
threw it open.
"He is here!" she said.
Together they looked at the dead man at their feet. Gerome raised
his eyes to hers.
"You----?" he said.
She nodded slowly.
"He came here, just before you did, to be revenged upon me. He said
I had deliberately given him the wrong information. He taunted me
with the past. He, who had caused it all! He threatened my life,
said he would force me out of your arms and into the streets, where I
belonged. So I killed him!"
Gerome threw his arm up across his eyes. His shoulders shook with
dry sobbing.
"Marie, Marie," he cried. "Oh God! my world lies shattered at my
feet!"
"And mine--and mine," she whispered.