CHAPTER XVII

The short honeymoon was spent at Interlaken, which Gerome had chosen because of the quiet as well as the beauty. He wanted Marie to himself.

As he threw the long windows wide, the morning after their arrival, he uttered an involuntary exclamation at the scene of beauty spread before him. They had arrived late the night before and the full wonder of an Alpine sunrise shone out before their eyes.

Marie came to his side.

"How marvelous!" she whispered, her eyes wide with the splendor of the scene.

He put his arm about her shoulders, and together they stepped out onto the tiny balcony outside the window. Below them, the busy little Aa purled and gurgled on its way to the lake. Some sleek, spotted cows ambled lazily across the bridge, their bells tinkling musically through the still morning air. A small, red-cheeked boy prodded them idly with a long, crooked stick.

Above them, the mighty peaks flung themselves high into the clear blue sky, like huge giants supplicating the morning sun. Here and there along their sides the mists filled tiny valleys, here and there lay deep impenetrable shadows, but the snow on their summits glittered and sparkled with the pink of the Alpine glow.

To Marie, as she stood with her husband's arm about her, came a swift, half conscious premonition that her own life would be something like this vast panorama spread before her; that she, too, would be called upon to climb through the mist-filled valleys, to fight her way through dark, impenetrable shadows, up, up into the glow of the shining heights.

They had their breakfast out on the tiny balcony, a delicious meal of crisp, crescent rolls and little hollow swirls of sweet butter, clear golden honey and steaming, fragrant coffee.

The buxom maid who served it, wore a black velvet bodice with silver buttons, and the crisp white folds of her ample apron matched the snow on the summit of the _Jungfrau_. Her cheeks were so red that the blood seemed bursting from them, and her bright eyes sparkled back the happiness in the eyes of the pair she was serving.

Marie had tied her hair back, schoolgirl fashion, with a huge bow, and after the red-cheeked maid had left them, she came and sat on the arm of Gerome's chair.

"What would I have done if you had never found me," she said musingly, as she smoothed his thick hair. "Out of the darkness, we met! You led me into a world of light and love. How wonderful it is!" Her eyes were large and mysterious as they gazed over the far spaces of the valley.

"But we did meet, little Sainte Marie, and we're never going to part, are we?"

She tightened her arm about his neck.

"Nothing or no one shall ever take you from me," she said, and she spoke so earnestly that Gerome turned in his chair and held her off at arm's length.

"How serious you are," he smiled, "as if that could be possible."

"Nothing must separate us, I'd--I'd die without you," she said, and jumping to her feet, she ran into the room.

Marie found amusement and interest in everything and everybody about her. She and Gerome were like two children out on a holiday, and played wonderful games of imagining the life stories of their fellow guests at the quiet little hotel.

Their first meal at the long _table d'hôte_ was one of absorbing interest to her. The maids who served were each an exact counterpart of the red-cheeked girl who had brought them their breakfast, black velvet bodice, silver buttons, white apron and all.

Across from them, sat a very dignified German family. The Baron Von Dieskow, a tall, good-looking old man who looked at Marie with a pair of very sparkling eyes set in a handsome, merry face, burnt quite red, had an explosive way of saying "NO!" to everything one said, as though it was the most wonderful thing in the world. The Baroness--he was her third husband, she told Marie--was a pretty little English woman. She brought forward a young lady daughter, very homely and dowdyish and distinctly German, although she spoke English to Gerome, who liked to air his knowledge of that language, with a pronounced Piccadilly accent. There were also two young children who curtsied and kissed Marie's hand when their mother presented them.

The Baron, it seemed, had met Gerome's father once in Paris, and there were many polite inquiries as to the General's health, and soon he and Gerome were deep in the discussion of mountain climbing and hunting.

"I am not a very good shot," Marie heard the Baron say with his merry little eyes sparkling, "in fact, I'm not at all fatal to the birds. Once, however, I frightened one, but that's all," and he and Gerome laughed heartily.

Next Marie, sat a faded little maiden lady from Yorkshire with a Mona-Lisa smile. She spoke French very slowly and very badly, and hyphenated all her speeches with a nervous little cough.

There was also a sandy-haired, pale-eyed man who made Marie think of nothing so much as a tom-cat with his back up. He was a major something-or-other, of what nationality she could not judge. He smiled at her in a horrid, over-polite way, and confided to her across the table that he had been a monk for fourteen years in the great Certosa at Florence.

"I thought they never let anyone out, who once entered there," ventured Marie timidly.

"I'm sure, Madame, they would never let you out," he said, evidently meaning to be witty, but Marie colored and turned away to watch the other people about the long table.

Gerome's discussion with the Baron was still going on briskly, and she had ample leisure to study the curious combinations of people who drift together, "doing Europe."

At the end of the table sat a group of Americans, whose joyous good humor and interest in everything attracted her attention. She did not understand the laughing sallies which flew back and forth, but their merriment was so infectious that she smiled with them.

In Vienna the people were all of a type. It was easy for her to recognize a foreigner. In Paris also, the people resembled one another, so that she never had any difficulty in distinguishing which were French and which were of an alien race, but no two of these Americans were alike. They all wore something of the same sort of clothes, but there the resemblance ended.

Her curious eyes widened over the quantity of jewelry several of the women wore, no matter what the hour of the day. One of the men in the party, a tall, broad-shouldered individual, with a florid face and a loud laugh, seemed to fill all his conversation with uncomplimentary comparisons of the comforts to be had in Europe with those at home. His fellow countrymen seemed to heartily agree with his sentiments.

One of the women, a stout, elderly person, who boasted neither style nor figure, turned to Marie with a question. Marie shook her head, blushing.

"Pardon me, Madame," she said, "I speak no English."

The shout of laughter from the other Americans that greeted her answer, startled her, until, to her confusion, she discovered that the elderly woman had addressed her in what she fondly imagined was French.

"Isn't it all interesting?" laughed Marie, as clinging to her tall husband's arm, they started for a walk about the countryside. Everything was wonderful to her, and Gerome, watching the sun sparkle on her hair and dance in her bright eyes found everything wonderful too.

They explored the little town, wandered about in all the out-of-the-way corners, took long rambles up the mountain sides, and in the lovely June evenings, sat on the tiny balcony, her cheek against his shoulder, and watched the marvel of the gold, crimson and purple sunsets among the giant peaks upflung against the gleaming sky.

It was a perfect week, and when it drew to a close, and they were leaving for Paris, their boxes and bags strapped and ready in the hall below, in charge of the green-aproned porter, Marie ran back to the room in which she had been so happy. She looked about hastily and lovingly at the plain hotel furniture, the wide, marble-topped dresser, the great chair on the arm of which she had sat so often as Gerome smoked his morning cigar. She went about to each inanimate object and patted it lovingly.

"Dear room," she whispered, "where I have been so happy. How I have loved each one of all these things!"

The long windows were open, and she stepped out for a moment onto the balcony. She looked up at the glistening _Jungfrau_. Its majesty, its whiteness filled her with wonder.

"Beautiful mountain," she said softly. "You have looked down on my happiness, I shall always remember you." Then she turned and went to meet Gerome where he was waiting in the hall.

The proprietor of the hotel was at the door. He was a queer, thin little man who almost wept over their hands as he bade them good-bye.

"Oh, but you must not go, really, you must not go! I am desolated to see you go," he said, and they would probably have been highly flattered had they not heard him say the same thing to each departing guest.

Back in Paris, the Le Grands, Monsieur, Madame and the two tall girls were at the little apartment in the Avenue d'Antin to greet them. They had engaged Suzanne, Julie's younger sister, to come and take charge of the small household, and she it was who, very important and smiling in white cap and apron, opened the door to the young couple when they arrived.

The trip from Geneva had been a long dusty one, and Marie was tired, but her joy was very real at seeing these kind faces again.

Monsieur nearly shook Gerome's hand off and patted him vigorously on the shoulder.

"We're glad you're both back," he rumbled. "How well you look, how brown! Even Marie has been kissed by the sun."

The two girls must show Marie everything. She must see her room with its dainty gray furniture, the delicate lavender hangings. She must be taken into Gerome's room beyond. Wasn't it charming? Didn't she like the way it was arranged? And the white and gold salon, the tiny dining-room with its shining silver and china. The kitchen, wasn't it all wonderful?

Marie let them lead her from room to room. She couldn't be too grateful, too happy. Her dream was growing in loveliness.

Suzanne had spread a dainty meal in the dining-room, coffee, little cakes, wine and some cold meat and rolls, and as they sat about the table, they all chattered at once.

At last Monsieur looked at his watch.

Dear me, how late it was, they mustn't keep these tired travelers awake any longer.

Suzanne, all smiles, brought Madame's wrap and the girl's coats.

Monsieur, his walking-stick under one arm and Madame under the other, led the way out, after kissing Marie resoundingly on both cheeks and patting Gerome on the shoulder and telling him what a lucky dog he was.

Later, Gerome came to the door of his wife's dainty gray and lavender room. She was letting down her heavy golden braids, and the sleeves of her negligée fell away from her white arms, as she raised them to her hair. She looked very lovely against the misty background of the pretty room, and his eyes swept her fondly. She let her hair fall about her shoulders and held her arms out to him.

"My dearest," she said, "welcome, welcome home!"

Gerome held her against his breast.

"My little Sainte Marie," he whispered.