CHAPTER XVI

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!