CHAPTER XIII

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.