CHAPTER XXXII

When Von Pfaffen came into the salon, the curtains were still drawn across the windows, the chairs still awry, and on the little escritoire papers lay scattered about as they had been left the night before.

Madame had obeyed the General's orders literally, and the servants had been excluded from the house while the conference was going on.

He pushed back the heavy curtains and opened the windows. His shoulders squared as he filled his lungs with the crisp morning air. His cloak of humility was completely cast aside, but at a step in the hall, he turned quickly, again the servant.

Marie opened the door softly. As she saw him, her face blanched. She stepped back, but the man stopped her.

"Shut the door," he said peremptorily, and scarcely conscious of what she did, the girl obeyed him.

He came close to her, his lean face eagerly alight.

"Well," he said, "any news?"

"None!" Marie shrank away from him. "I haven't seen my husband yet."

Von Pfaffen's lips pulled back across his teeth in an oath, and the girl looked up at him piteously.

"Why couldn't you do it?" she pleaded. "It's your work, and honorable, I suppose, for you."

He turned on her fiercely.

"How could I?" he snarled, "with a guard at every door."

Marie looked into his cold eyes.

"Have you no mercy? Was not last night enough to ask of me?" Her memory went back again to those dreadful moments at the General's bedside. "Once I thought he was awake," she whispered, "his eyes staring straight at me. It was all I could do to prevent myself from shrieking aloud."

Von Pfaffen's jaw set, a little muscle in his cheek worked nervously.

"You're not going to fail me now? You haven't let him go without getting me that information?"

Marie shuddered under the hatred in his eyes.

"No, no," she said hastily, "he has only gone as far as the village with the other officers. He'll be back to say good-bye to me," and then she added piteously, "Must I? Must I?"

"There is no other way!" Von Pfaffen clutched her wrist in a grip of iron. "He must not leave before you know," he said almost against her face; "do you hear? If he does, and this information which means so much to our country--yes," as she tried to pull away, "yours as well as mine--if this information slips away from me, I'll----"

She struggled in his grasp.

"Oh, please, please!" she pleaded, but he went on brutally:

"I'll fling your shame in every face I meet. I'll brand you as----"

"Please! Please!"

He flung her hand away from him.

"See then that you do as I tell you, and I give you my word you are safe, otherwise----" There was a step on the gravel outside. "Hush," he whispered, "here he comes," and as Gerome stepped through the window, Von Pfaffen relapsed once more into the manner of a servant.

"Good morning, Monsieur," he said softly.

Gerome smiled into his wife's white face.

"Good morning," he said.

Von Pfaffen turned to Marie, his shoulders stooping with the meekness of Antoine, his eyes blazing with the threat he held for her if she failed him.

"Anything more, Madame?" he asked softly.

She was breathless. Why didn't he go, why couldn't he leave her alone?

"No," she said desperately, "only go!"

"Yes, Madame," adding with deep significance, "I am serving luncheon in the garden to-day," and he turned and left the room, but even while she looked up into her husband's wondering face, she knew that Von Pfaffen would be going back and forth just outside the windows, as he laid the table, going back and forth much as the sentry had done earlier in the morning, watching every move she made, everything she did. She was trapped. Her Judas-hour had come!

Gerome put his arm about her shoulders and lifted her lips to his.

"My dear," he said, "why this impatience? Poor Antoine, what must he have thought?"

She hid her face against his arm, her shoulders quivering.

"I don't know," she sobbed, "I don't care, I only know that you are going to-day--this morning--oh God, am I ever going to see you again?"

Gerome held her close.

"Marie," he murmured, "it is for you and for our beloved country!"

She clung to him. Oh, to have him with her always, to be away from everything and everybody, just they two. Why hadn't some power told her that somewhere this man was waiting for her, so that she might have come to him as pure as he thought her?

"You're all I have," she cried, "what is France, people, armies, the whole world, compared to you?"

His heart was bleeding too, with the tragedy of having to leave her now, of all times, but he must not let her see.

"My dearest," he said unsteadily, "are you a soldier's wife, and send him into battle this way? Are you going to let me go remembering only your tears?"

"I love you, I love you!" Her very soul was shaking with her grief; "you're all I have." He held her away from him and tried to force her to look into his eyes.

"Let me feel that you are sending me to fight for France and you," he pleaded, "with a smile on your lips, pride in your heart, because of the honor done me!"

Marie looked at him, all the love she had to give in her eyes. The pride he asked for was in her heart, the smile struggled to her lips, then through the window she caught sight of Von Pfaffen. He was too far off to hear what they were saying, but his eyes held hers meaningly.

The smile faded, leaving her face set and tragic.

"Where are you going?" she began desperately, "where are you going?"

He shook his head.

"That," he said seriously, "I may not tell you."

"I must know, I must know!" Von Pfaffen was watching her. She must go on. The tide was too strong, it swept her on relentlessly. "I must know!"

"Marie," he said, pressing his cheek against her hair, "Don't you know you're asking something that I must guard with my honor?"

For a moment she sobbed aloud against his shoulder. Even with her eyes hidden, she knew that Von Pfaffen was standing just beyond in the garden, meekly laying the table for luncheon, but ready to throw aside the humility of the servant and stand before her, her accuser. She must go on.

"Then it's true," she sobbed, "it's true, what I've been fearing, what I've been dreading. There is to be a terrible battle somewhere, soon. I won't know where."

"Hush, _ma chérie_," soothed Gerome, but she sobbed on.

"I must know! I must know!"

"Marie," it was almost more than he could bear. The agony of her grief frightened him.

"Don't you love me enough to tell me?" she pleaded. "I must know! You may be wounded, you may be killed!"

Gerome's endurance was almost worn away.

"Listen, Marie----" he began, but she shook her head.

"I must know," she begged, "you don't know what it means to me!"

Her sobs were so wild, her form shook so with their force, the man's will broke.

"Darling," he whispered passionately, "I can't bear this! Please--please--if I tell you, will you promise to be brave?"

Marie sprang away from him.

The consciousness of the awful thing she was doing overwhelmed her like a deluge. Now that the information she wanted was trembling on her husband's lips, her soul cried aloud to stop it, to prevent his telling before it was too late.

"Don't tell me," she cried, "don't tell me," but he crushed her close to him.

"Will you remember," he said tenderly, "that it is not only my honor that I am giving into your keeping, but my country's safety?"

He must not tell her, she would not listen. She cowered in his arms, but Gerome went on. It was too late.

"My loved one, listen," he whispered, "I want you to pray as you have never prayed before, that to-morrow, at dawn, before the forts of Draise, God will grant our beloved country victory!"

Marie sank into his arms.

"Ah," she breathed, "Draise--to-morrow--at dawn!"

She had nerved herself for the ordeal and it had come. A cold wave passed over her, she felt her expression alter, her features set. She seemed to hang in a great void, all the natural forces of her nature for the moment were suspended. And then she was looking into his eyes again. As from a great distance, she heard his voice.

"Marie, what is it? Don't look at me like that! I am only one of the millions and for every man who goes there is a woman who mourns. It is hard for you, I know, terribly hard, yet they endure, and so must you. In a great struggle like this, the individual is lost. He is only a stone in the rampart erected against tyranny. We do not serve our own ends, but we are united for a cause that means more to all of us than life or any personal sacrifice that man can make! I would be unworthy of your love if I were not willing to do my duty for my country at no matter what cost to me, and I know that you would do likewise."

His arms were about her, his face close to hers, there was a light in his eyes that she had never seen there before.

A veil that had obscured her clear vision was torn away. For the first time she understood how false, how wrong had been the structure on which she had built. Real sacrifice meant denying oneself so that ideals much greater than can have to do with individual affairs might be served. A country's cause, the saving or the loss of which would make millions happy or miserable, that is what she was about to jeopardize! In her weakness and miserable selfishness she had almost been tempted to do a dreadful deed.

For a moment she shuddered, then she lifted her face to his. The light in his eyes flooded into hers, sank into her heart, transfigured her. Gerome, looking at her, saw a miracle come to pass, for the weak, trembling creature, quaking with terror who had crept into his arms with the kiss of betrayal upon her lips, had passed away leaving a radiant-faced, glowing-eyed, courageous woman.

She had the information that would assure her safety, yet she knew that no matter what the consequences to her, she would never use it.

"My darling," she said, and her voice was clear and firm, "my gift to your country is the most precious thing I have, and I give it proudly!"

There was a tense silence, too sacred for words.

"I must go," he said at last, unsteadily; "kiss me again!"

She lifted her lips to his in a long kiss, wildly, passionately, a kiss that might be their last in this world, but that to her meant the sacred seal of his faith in her.

Then he tore himself away. As long as she could see him from the window, her eyes held their new light of exaltation, but when the gates had closed after him, she sank huddled into a chair, weeping bitterly.

Presently she raised her head. Von Pfaffen stood in the garden watching. His sinister stare had penetrated her consciousness and brought her back to a realization of what lay before her.

With an effort she calmed herself. It was necessary for her to think, to plan. In a few moments he would come for the information. What was she to tell him? There was no doubt that he knew she had obtained it. Would she defy him? Tell him to do his worst and take the consequences? Would she expose him to the General, give him up to arrest, and so make it impossible for him to do further harm? Or was there a better way?

In the whirling tangle of her thoughts a plan was shaping itself. Vague, formless as yet, but a plan the daring of which set her heart throbbing with the magnitude of its possibilities.

Gerome's words echoed and re-echoed in her brain.

"Draise--to-morrow--at dawn!"

Von Pfaffen's instructions had been----

"Write the name of the town and the time on a slip of paper."

Suppose she should substitute the name of some other town for the one which her husband had told her, a place far removed from the point where the attack would actually be made?

If the enemy could be given the wrong information and act upon it, would it not mean that he would turn his forces away from the point where the battle was to be fought and so assure victory for the French?

This man had taken advantage of her inexperience and had wrought evil and unhappiness in her life in the guise of a friend. He was so sure of his power over her, that he was trying to use her as an instrument against her husband and the cause for which at this moment he might be giving his life. Surely she was justified in bringing confusion to his plans which were directed against herself and those who were dear to her.

To outwit him! To make his efforts to crush her be the means of his own undoing. To prove to him that the wife of Gerome, developed and strengthened in the atmosphere of love with which she had been surrounded, was a different woman from the weak, inexperienced Marie of Vienna.

Her gentle heart had never known the desire for revenge, but as her mind reviewed all that she had suffered at the hands of Von Pfaffen, she felt for the first time the flame of bitter hatred. She would crush him as he had thought to crush her. She would give him information, but of such a nature as to ruin his career, defeat the plans of the cause he served.

But what place should she substitute for the right one? She had often heard her little maid in Paris speak of Sains, the town where she was born. She knew it was near the frontier, though some distance from Draise. Why not write Sains instead of Draise?

She well knew the nature of the man with whom she was dealing. He would never rest until he had been revenged upon her. She scarcely dared think what it would mean to her when her husband and his family knew everything. But Gerome had spoken of sacrifice. This would be hers for the cause he loved.

Her cheeks flushed, her eyes were brilliant. She hurried to the little escritoire and wrote hastily on a slip of paper:

"Sains--to-morrow--at daybreak."

As she finished Von Pfaffen entered from the garden. He came toward her, an eager gleam in his eyes, but before he could speak the door opened and Paulette entered.

"Antoine," she said, "father wishes to see you in the library."

He ground his teeth.

"Yes, Mademoiselle," he answered curtly, but as he made no move to go, Paulette, surprised, repeated:

"At once, do you hear? He is waiting!"

Again he answered, his face purple with suppressed rage:

"Yes, Mademoiselle," and with almost a military turn, he left the room.

Marie waited, breathlessly.

Paulette noticed her agitation and attributed it to her rudeness of the night before. She came over to her sister-in-law contritely.

"Marie," she began, "I was unkind yesterday. Forgive me, I can feel for you. I know what you are suffering."

Marie's fear was that the little paper on the desk might fail to serve its purpose, that something might occur to warn Von Pfaffen. She knew that he would leave as soon as he got possession of it. She was in an agony of apprehension lest this interruption now, when every moment was precious, might in some way thwart her plan.

But Paulette saw only in her distress sorrow at Gerome's going. Her heart, naturally kind, warped though it was for the time by the bitter hatred for the enemies of the man she loved, sympathized with her alien sister-in-law. Love she could understand. She must do what she could to help her. Her mother had been right.

"Let us be friends," she said. "Gerome wishes it. Let us comfort one another."

Marie stared at her blindly. Could she tell this girl? Would she have done the same thing? Her eyes looked far away.

"Paulette," she said at last, "there is nothing worth while but the love of the one you care for, is there?"

"That and his honor," answered the girl.

"His honor!" repeated Marie. Thank God she had not betrayed his honor. She took her sister-in-law's hands in hers. Perhaps after all her plan had not been the right one. Perhaps this girl could tell her a better way. "Suppose you had to choose, and you could save only one thing," she said, "Maurice's honor, or his love for you, which would it be?"

Paulette looked at her in surprise.

"I don't understand," she said, "that could not be possible. We can all only pray that they come back to us."

Marie turned away with a catch in her throat.

"Paulette," she said, "if you only understood!"

The girl put her arm about her waist.

"Come," she said soothingly, "let me take you to your room. We can be more quiet there."

With all her heart Marie prayed that the sacrifice she was making might not be in vain, that it would in some small measure make amends for what she had done in the past.

With a sigh she let Paulette lead her away.