CHAPTER XXVI

Madame, all kindness and solicitude, showed Marie to her room. Everything she could, she did to make the girl forget the sting of Paulette's words. She insisted upon her tasting the tea and biscuits which old Nanine brought, although Marie could scarcely swallow. She helped her out of her dusty traveling dress into a loose robe, and while Nanine brushed out the long, golden hair and plaited it loosely for her, Madame talked of the trip from Paris, asked regarding their mutual friends, and spoke of their own affairs.

Marie recognized and appreciated her kindness, knowing that she was trying to give her an opportunity to regain her composure, but she had to bite her lips till they almost bled, to refrain from giving way to her emotion.

When Nanine had tied the long plaits with ribbons and hung up Marie's clothes, she took the almost untouched tray and courtesied good-night.

After she had left, Madame kissed the girl tenderly.

"Sleep well, my daughter," she said, "we must help one another in whatever may come."

Marie's eyes overflowed, and for a moment she clung to the older woman desperately.

"Love me," she whispered, "I want you to love me in spite of anything, and oh, please remember I have never known a mother of my own!"

Madame soothed her.

"Gerome will be here in a moment, dear," she said. "I must say good-night to my boy, too," and with a parting kiss, she left her.

Marie stood a moment gazing about the large, old-fashioned room--the great bed with its sombre draperies of faded blue, the heavy black walnut dresser, in the tall mirror of which the two candles, in their silver sconces, reflected her own tear-stained face, the small white stove with a vase of flowers standing on its cold top, the long blue curtains which Nanine had carefully pulled across the windows. It was very stately, but very cold, and Marie shivered as she looked about her.

Gerome had brought her here among his own people for protection, to insure her safety and comfort when he was away. But almost her first step across the threshold, had brought her face to face with all that was horrible in her past. What a plaything Fate had made of her, first to hold out so much that was wonderful and beautiful, and then--suddenly it came over her with sickening horror what it would mean if this man, into whose eyes she had looked not more than an hour ago, should tell what he knew.

She had thought herself so secure, the past had seemed utterly obliterated, and here, on the very brink of her shelter, that past had reared its hideous head. And now, when she had all the world to lose! If he should tell! If he should, even now, be talking to Gerome or the General! She almost screamed aloud with the terror of it.

The horror and shock of finding herself face to face with the man whom she thought had gone from her life forever, convulsed her with fear so terrible, as almost to deprive her of reason, but she must think, or go mad.

Why was he here in the garb of a servant? Would it suit his purpose to expose her or to try to force her back to him? He was in disguise here. He had refrained from recognizing her before the others. What could it all mean? Had he failed to recognize her because he feared to? Was there some power she might have over him now? If so, how could she use it?

The thought of facing him, of living under the sane roof, was agony. In her bag was a small bottle of chloral which the doctor had given her to quiet her nerves before she left Paris. With shaking fingers, she rummaged among her clothes to find it. But suddenly she threw the bag from her. A quick flutter at her heart called loudly her need to live. With the knowledge that she must go on, whatever came, she paced the floor in an agony of suspense and terror.

When Gerome knocked, she could scarcely answer, her voice died in her throat. Did he know? Had he guessed? Had her terror shown itself too plainly in her face?

He came in smiling, and as she looked at him, her chin trembled like an unhappy child's.

"Sweetheart," her husband took her in his arms, "you must not mind Paulette." So he thought it was Paulette's words that hurt, he didn't know, oh, the relief, the blessed relief. She scarcely heard him, as he explained.

"My little sister and Maurice love each other so very much, she is really the dearest sister in the world. Be patient with her, for my sake."

Marie lifted her eyes to his.

"When you made me your wife," she said, "your people became my people; your ways, my ways; your country, my country!"

He held her close.

"We are truly one, are we not, _ma chérie_?" he whispered.

Marie's answer was passionately earnest.

"Forever and ever!" she cried.

For a long time they were silent, content to be here with one another, to know how much each meant to the other.

Presently he spoke.

"Dearest," he said, "I'll be back in the morning; you're going to be a brave little woman, aren't you?"

Marie turned away from him with a half sob.

"Oh Gerome," she stammered, "I--I need you--more than ever!"

Something in her voice, in the flush on her cheek as she turned from him, startled him. He put his hands on her shoulders and drew her face close to his.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"There's something--something I've been waiting to tell you," she whispered.

Gerome stared at her. Her cheeks were glowing with the flush that illumines the sky at dawn, and in her deep blue eyes shone a light he had never seen there before.

"Don't you know?" she asked, "can't you guess?"

And then, in a blinding flash, he understood.

For a long moment they stared into each other's eyes, a happiness too great for words transfiguring them. The world that was bent on destroying itself, did not exist for them. It was as though God had only just spoken the words, "let there be light!" With just such wonder and awe might the first man have looked into the eyes of the first woman when she had told him the miracle.

Tenderly, very tenderly, he drew her into his arms.

"Marie, my darling," he whispered, "is it true?"

"Yes," she breathed; then fearfully, "it does make you happy?"

He led her to the couch and drew her down beside him.

"Now, every one must be kind to you, so gentle with you."

Marie hid her face against his shoulder.

"You understand now why I dread to have you leave me," she moaned.

"I'll be back to-morrow!"

"But after to-morrow----" and she began to weep bitterly.

Miserably, he sat and held her close. That this should come now, when he was going, perhaps to his death. Perhaps he should never even see this child of his. Well, if he must die, it would be in such a manner that a son of his would remember with pride!

"When I knew what was to be," she said, staring straight ahead of her, "I wanted you to take me to your home, so that if you had to be away when our baby came, I could still have the care and protection of your family, but," and the memory of the sinister face that had looked into hers, and all that it meant, sent the blood from her lips, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

Gerome turned to her in wonder.

"Sorry you came here?" he asked. "Have Paulette's words----"

"No, not Paulette," broke in Marie hastily. "She does not really mean to be unkind. It is something else! I--I can't explain, but--I'm afraid--I'm afraid!"

Gerome drew her close to him and gently smoothed her hair.

It was natural, he thought, for women to be frightened at such a time, and Marie was so young, so inexperienced.

"_Bien aimée_," he whispered, "how happy we are going to be. Our lives are going to be so perfectly attuned to one another, that between us there can be nothing but harmony!"

She was sobbing afresh.

"But you are going away from me."

"Only for a few hours," he assured her, "and in the meantime you will be with my mother and sister. What harm can come to you here?"

But the girl was almost hysterical now, the strain of that sudden meeting was beginning to tell.

"Gerome," she sobbed wildly, "you will love me always? Nothing can make you change?"

"Need you ask that, now?"

But she scarcely heard him. She was thinking of Von Pfaffen, and what she had run away from in Vienna. She was dreading the time when he would tell, for that he would tell when it suited his purpose, she never doubted, nor did she doubt that the knowledge would take from her her husband's love.

"Oh Gerome," she sobbed, "if anything takes you from me! Your love is all I live for!"

Across the garden, sounded the chiming of a village clock. Gerome lifted her to her feet.

"Kiss me, _ma chérie_" he said. "I must go. Nothing can ever make me change. Are you satisfied?"

Marie clung to him.

"Let me go to the gate with you. I want to be with you as long as I can," she begged, and with his arm about her, Gerome led her down the stair.

The lights were burning dimly in the entrance hall, and the house was quiet. He slipped into his motor coat and opened the hall door. The moon was full now and the garden lay peaceful and shining under its light.

"Good-night, my darling," he said as he stooped and kissed her; "good-night, my boy's mother!"

Marie clung to him.

"Good-night," she whispered, "good-night, my dearest!"

She stood on the step and watched him go, and when the sound of the motor was no longer audible, she closed the door and started up the stairs.