CHAPTER XXIII

After the door had closed on Nanine and her son, the General patted the brown head resting on his shoulder.

"Isn't it glorious news, Paulette?"

"It's wonderful how cheaply these men hold their lives," Madame said musingly. "Chances that would have seemed madness in normal times have now become part of the day's work."

Paulette nestled closer in her father's arms. "If he only reaches the frontier safely," she murmured, "if he only is not discovered and taken back."

Madame's face was sad as she comforted the girl. Her own sorrow and foreboding were kept close shut in her heart. But self-command is measured by those rare occasions when the evidence of inward struggle is seen through the cloak of restraint. Something of what she felt, shook for a moment her outward calm, trembled in her voice, shone through the sudden mist in her eyes.

"Poor _Maman_," said Paulette, "you have so much to think of! I have been a selfish little beast!"

The gilt clock on the mantle chimed out nine. It would soon be time for Gerome to arrive. She remembered with what happiness she had always looked forward to his visits, their days of comradeship. Now all this was to be changed. She knew she was unjust. But still there lingered in her heart the resentment against this stranger whom she instinctively distrusted. If her brother might only have been coming alone. All his time must now be given to this woman of alien blood. She knew she was unjust, that she had no grounds on which to base her dislike, excepting the fact that she belonged to a nation which was at war with her own. Her thoughts were interrupted by the honking of a motor-horn, and the swift-following sounds of clutching brakes and mingling voices.

"Here they come now," she cried, her anger and bitterness against Marie, which she had tried to crush, surging back.

Madame rose to her feet.

"Ring for Antoine to get their bags," she said quickly.

Paulette pulled the old-fashioned bell rope that hung by the mantle, and then turned and stood staring sullenly into the fire.

The General hurried to the long windows and threw them open. He could see the white light of the motor lamps cutting a path through the darkness. Gerome's voice, as he gave orders to the chauffeur, came to him clearly, and presently he saw him come swinging along the terrace, the light from the window brightening the colors of his uniform. Marie, swathed in motor veils and wrapped in a heavy coat, clung to his arm. The lamp light silhouetted the General's fine figure and Gerome called gayly as he saw him.

"Here we are, father!" and he stood aside to let Marie enter.

For a moment she stood in the window, almost afraid to venture in. All the way from Paris, she had been torturing herself with the thought of how her husband's people would receive her, how much they would let the knowledge of her enemy blood mar their love for her. She looked about her apprehensively, but the General's kind voice dispelled her fears.

"My daughter," he said as he led her in, "welcome home!"

Marie threw back her veils, their soft gray framing her sweet face and golden bands of hair.

"My dear," said Madame, "how happy we are to have you with us!"

"You are all so good to take me in," faltered the girl, her eyes full of tears. Gratefully, she looked from one to the other, and turning to Paulette, smiled wistfully into the handsome face, but Paulette's greeting was ungracious and perfunctory, and the smile died on Marie's lips.

Gerome's arm was about his mother's shoulders. She drew his head down to hers and kissed him tenderly, and then turned to his wife.

"Come dear, rest here," she said with sweet hospitality. "You must be tired after your long ride from Paris."

Marie sank into the chair the General brought forward for her.

"There has been so much to weary me," she sighed.

"Yes, dear, we all realize that, and each of us, in his own way, has tried to lighten the burden," and Madame helped the girl unfasten her wraps.

"It is good to be here," Marie looked about her gratefully, "it's--it's almost like peace again."

"I knew you would be happy," said Gerome, coming over and sitting on the arm of her chair. "I told you they would be glad to have you with them."

The General beamed upon her. In the code of the gallant old soldier, a pretty woman was meant to be taken care of.

"We will do our best to make you feel at home with us," he assured her.

"And to make you happy," added Madame; but at her words, Marie broke down.

"Happy?" she sobbed, "how can I be happy? He is going away to-morrow."

Gerome turned helplessly to his mother.

"What can I do for her?" he asked.

"Come, come," and the General patted Marie's hand, "we each have our part to do, my child," and then for the first time, Paulette joined in the conversation.

"You are not the only one who is sending some one to fight the enemy." She flung the word at Marie as though it were her own name, and her sister-in-law cowered under it.

Gerome was angry. He had foreseen trouble with Paulette, but had hoped that the assurance of his wife's loyalty, would have banished all resentment.

"Paulette----!" he began, but his mother interrupted.

"Don't mind, dear," she said softly. "Paulette's heart is in Belgium. Maurice is still a prisoner."

Marie looked at her pityingly. She could understand. She remembered the young, laughing-eyed officer who had been so kind at her wedding. She remembered the happiness of these two young people, and her heart bled for Paulette. But the girl looked at her defiantly, ignoring the pity in her eyes.

"They'll find they can't keep him!" she said so bitterly, that the General hastened to break in.

"I'll ring for Antoine to help you with your bags."

He was about to pull the bell-rope, when the door opened and the butler stood on the threshold. His thin shoulders stooped slightly with characteristic deference.

At the sound of his voice, Marie felt a horrible fear gripping at her heart. Her throat seemed to tighten as though cold fingers clutched it. She turned slowly, the blood in her veins suddenly frozen, for the man standing in the doorway wearing the livery of a servant, the humility of a menial, was Von Pfaffen.

For a tense moment they faced one another. The man's eyes were like live coals in a face that was otherwise dead. Marie's hand went to her throat. There was such a look of terror in her face, that the attention of all was directed to her, and the butler's imperturbable mask, which for one swift moment had slipped aside, had time to adjust itself. He stood watching her closely, as the family gathered about, all solicitude.

"She is faint," cried Madame, "some water--quick!" but Marie motioned them away.

"No, no," she said breathlessly. "It is nothing! Thanks!" and by a supreme effort, she regained her self-control.

The butler was still standing in the doorway quietly waiting for his orders, his thin face set and expressionless.

"Get Madame's bags, Antoine," directed the General, and the man turned with a slight bow and left the room.

Gerome's eyes followed him.

"What has become of François?" he asked.

"François was young enough to be called," the General answered. "He left us a week ago."

"Antoine came to us highly recommended," Madame assured him, disturbed for a moment by the doubt in his eyes. "He is over age for the army, but seems an intelligent, faithful servant."

As she spoke, the man returned carrying the bags, and stood awaiting orders.

"Where are these to go, Madame?" he asked quietly, and at his voice, Marie again turned and stared into his face, like a bird that watches a snake.

The man paid no heed to her, however, but waited respectfully for Madame to answer.

"Put them in the East room, Antoine," she told him, and with a slight inclination of his head, he crossed the room and went out into the hall.

Marie's eyes followed him, her lips apart, her fingers tightly clenched.

Paulette, from her chair by the mantel, where she had subsided after the speech flung at her sister-in-law, watched her under sullen brows. She hated Germans. They couldn't make her like this one. She wouldn't!

As the door closed after Antoine, Marie gave a little gasp, and Madame, frightened, came to her side.

"Marie," she said, "are you ill?"

The girl's eyes were still on the door.

"I--I----" she began, and then turned piteously to her husband. "Oh, Gerome!"

The blow had come so suddenly, so unexpectedly. She felt as one stricken blind, groping in the dark. This man, here, where she had come for protection and shelter? Her mind could scarcely grasp the full horror of the situation. Waves of nausea passed over her, she was sick with unutterable terror. Was it possible they could not hear the wild beating of her heart, the voice of conscience crying her guilt? Surely those about her must have seen that she knew him! The security into which she had lulled herself, was shattered and fallen away. But why had he not recognized her? What mission had he here in this house? Oh, God, how was it to end? But her brain refused her further service. Her face grew white as marble, and her head fell on Gerome's shoulder.

He put his arm about her quickly.

"Marie, my darling, what is it? Mother, bring some cognac! Quick!"

Madame hurried for the decanter, the General bent over her, full of solicitude, even Paulette, stirred into action by Marie's helplessness, knelt at her side, and began chafing her wrists, her training as a nurse making her forget her resentment for the moment. As Gerome held the glass to his wife's lips, her blue eyes opened mistily.

"Dearest," he said anxiously. "What is it? Are you better?"

She roused herself with an effort.

"It's nothing--nothing; I'm all right now--I'm sorry--I suppose I was over-tired," and she leaned wearily against his shoulder.

"She has not been quite strong, lately," he explained, "she is nervous, worrying because I must return to the front to-night."

"To-night!" said his mother, startled, "so soon?"

"Yes, _ma mère_," he answered, smoothing his wife's golden hair tenderly; "but," and he turned to his father with a significant look, "I shall be here again in the morning."

The General pursed up his lips and tapped them with his forefinger.

"H'm," he said, "so I supposed--to-morrow--h'm!"

Gerome bent over his wife tenderly.

"Are you well enough to go to your room now, dear? I think you will feel better if you lie down!"

"Nanine will bring you some refreshments," added Madame.

Marie forced a smile to her stiff lips.

"You are very kind," she said. "I--I'll go directly. I'm quite well now. I'm sorry to have been so much trouble!"

Madame gently pressed her hand.

"My dear," she said, "it gives us pleasure to do all we can for you. You must rest and when you have recovered from your fatigue, here, in our wonderful country air, you will soon be yourself again!"

Gerome looked about the room. His mother's eyes smiled back into his. He had seen approval of Marie in the General's face when they had arrived, but Paulette was still unwon. What could he do to overcome this dislike that his sister was making so apparent? He felt sure that if he were near, Paulette could soon be made to see her injustice, but he must leave Marie, and the thought troubled him. His arm tightened about the trembling girl.

"There is no other place where I could leave my little wife," he said. "You can't, any of you, know what she means to me!"

"When you made her your wife, you made her our daughter," said Madame graciously.

Gerome laid his cheek against his wife's, his eyes on Paulette.

"You and Marie must be great friends, little sister," he said; but Paulette shrugged sullenly, and Marie hastily broke in:

"She is unhappy, dear, because her sweetheart is a prisoner."

The last word whipped Paulette's resentment again. She would take no pity from an enemy.

"A prisoner," she repeated, "held by the Germans," and she swung about angrily; "but he's going to get away, he's coming back to me in spite of them!"

"Paulette!" the General was stern, "I must beg of you--" and Madame turned to Gerome in apology.

"She is unhappy, dear," she explained.

Marie lifted her head from Gerome's shoulder and drew away from his arms.

"I can understand, I know what you are suffering," she said tensely. "If Gerome were in the position of Maurice, if he were forcibly withheld from me, I would hate, as you do, those who were responsible. I am of the same blood as they, but I am just as loyal to my husband's cause as you are. Don't you believe me?"

Gerome looked at her fondly.

"Isn't she wonderful?" he asked. "Am I not the most fortunate of men?"

"I do not believe that anyone who has the blood of our enemies in their veins, can ever be truly loyal to France!" said Paulette, and this time, her momentary courage gone, Marie hid her face on her husband's arm.

"Paulette," said Madame, "I am shocked! You grieve me beyond expression!"

The General looked at his daughter in astonishment, this was carrying things too far.

Gerome's face flushed under his tan and a dangerous light came into his eyes.

"Paulette," he said passionately, "Marie is my wife--your sister," and he turned to comfort the trembling girl in his arms.

Madame drew her away tenderly.

"Come, dear," she said, "you are tired. Let me show you your room. Paulette, you had best go to yours, you are nervous. To-morrow you will be yourself."

The girl's face flushed. They were treating her as a bad child. Rising hastily, she hurried out of the room.

Gerome kissed his wife tenderly as he bade her follow his mother.

"Good-bye for awhile, dear," he said. "I'll come to you when I have talked with my father."