CHAPTER VI

Marie stood a moment at the door of her little dressing-room, before running the gauntlet between its shelter and the platform, where, through the wreaths of smoke, she could see old Schultz's thick shoulders hunched over the piano keys. Familiarity had not begotten any feeling of comfort or tolerance for the conditions of this cheap, tawdry place. She hated the timbered walls with the trite phrases stenciled on them in black letters, the bare tables with rings, left by many steins, indelibly stamped on them, the shrill-voiced women, the men. She hated it all. But one must live.

Her rent at the Schultz's must be paid. They had scarcely enough for themselves. Her thoughts reverted to the one pleasant memory, the tall officer who had intervened between her and the insults of Frau Brower.

She had been made painfully conscious of the woman's enmity, which was shown in a score of ways, and left her wondering what the next annoyance would be.

In a far corner, she suddenly caught a glimpse of the man of whom she had been thinking. He was engaged in earnest conversation with the proprietor. His face was black, his jaw angrily set, and he was emphatically pounding the palm of one hand with the fist of the other. Brower, unlike his usual truculent self, was listening in a meek, half-frightened way.

Who was this man, she wondered? What was he? Had he a permanent place in her life, or would he too, disappear into the darkness where so much that she had known had vanished?

She saw him turn from the door, and make his way to the table that was always reserved for him. She peered through the swinging smoke wreaths. Her eyes brightened as she watched him. His square, thin shoulders stooped a little as he took his seat, and in a moment he was in deep conversation with the same young lieutenant, who was always with him. His presence gave her a certain feeling of pleasure, though what it was, or why she felt it, it would have been difficult for her to define. She walked swiftly between the tables and mounted the platform.

After his courteous intervention in her behalf, she had reproached herself for the feeling of distrust that she had when she first saw him. The graying hair at his temples, increased her confidence, she could see it quite plainly from where she stood at the side of the piano. She found herself hoping that he would look in her direction, and was pleased when he turned from his companion and nodded cheerfully to her.

The pale-faced violinist whispered to her as she sorted her music.

"The Captain bows, Fräulein, that is nice, yes?"

She could not tell why she resented the tone, and gave no answer, but she was conscious of being disappointed when for a long time he paid no more attention to her. There were other beckoning fingers, however, other welcoming smiles, and Brower was always near to see that she was "nice to his friends," and being "nice to his friends" meant sometimes being obliged to sit at the tables and smiling at people she loathed. But no matter how her soul revolted at her task, she was always comforted when she could meet across the room, the brilliant eyes that held a smile for her, and seemed to say, "Never mind, I am here! And I am your friend!"

While he was there, she was sure of her songs being appreciated, for, although the Captain did not deign to applaud, Franz did and then curiously enough seemed to forget her.

The two men were always together. Sometimes they came in late, sometimes, they would be at their table when Marie arrived and would stay just long enough to hear one song. She noticed the deference the proprietor paid to them.

In some intangible way, the Captain managed to stamp himself upon her consciousness as her champion, unnoticeably to others, but plainly visible to the girl, whose horizon was so empty of anyone to whom she could turn for help or understanding. His methods were those of the man who understands women well enough to know that in order to achieve his ends, he must be as nearly as possible like the personality admired by the particular woman, in whom he is, for the moment, interested. But to Marie, sick of the coarse brutality about her, revolted by the covert insults that she only half understood, he seemed the personification of chivalry and thoughtfulness.

She was particularly grateful for his protection against the rough, boisterous men upon whom it was part of her task to smile. Various little incidents in which he proved his wish to protect and befriend her, were treasured in her memory.

One night, the fat man, whose cascading chin had so revolted her the first time she sang, called her to his table, and afraid to disobey, lest Brower should be angry, Marie accepted his invitation.

"You're a nice little girl," he wheezed, putting his flabby hand with its flashing diamond, over hers. "We'll have a bottle of real wine together, not beer, like the rest of these," indicating with his thumb the drinking students. "You and I are going to be friends, and we're going to enjoy ourselves." He smelled horribly of beer and tobacco smoke, and Marie tried to draw her hand away, but he leaned heavily forward and tilted her chin up to him with a thick forefinger. "You're a little thin," he appraised, "but I like them like that!"

Marie drew away, frightened, when suddenly Brower tapped her tormentor on the shoulder.

"The Captain wants the Fräulein to sing another song before he goes. You will excuse her, yes?"

The fat man's face turned almost purple and he muttered an oath under his breath, but he drew back, and Marie, her heart rejoicing at the authority of her champion, hurried to the platform, smiling gratefully as she passed his table.

This might have been an accident, but it happened again and again. Each time some noisy student or boisterous young officer progressed too far in his attentions to her, Marie was sure of some subtle interference from the Captain that would put a stop to the insults and unkindness which, without realizing why, she knew meant some terrible danger to her.

Gradually and almost imperceptibly, his strong mind and dominant personality took hold of her naturally clinging nature. He seemed so much older, that to her inexperience, it was as though her father were watching over her, and she gave him the gratitude and admiration a child might give.

Frequently, during the long days, as she bent over her sewing with Frau Schultz, his dark profile rose before her eyes, his quick smile flashed across her vision, and at night, when she brushed her yellow hair by the little window, trying to shake out in the faint breeze, the heavy scent of tobacco, which clung to it, she would remember gratefully how he had averted again some unpleasantness.

But no matter from what angle she viewed his attitude toward herself, she could find nothing that seemed to warrant the faintly indefinite sense of danger of which she was vaguely conscious, and which she tried to reason away.

One night, a greasy waiter came to the door of her dressing-room with a twisted tissue paper parcel in his hand.

"The Captain sends these, Fräulein," he mumbled, and shuffled off, leaving the parcel on a chair. Marie unfolded the wrappings and found two lovely roses, dewy and fragrant. She adored flowers. It was long since she had seen any excepting through the glass of some florist's window, and she pressed her flushed cheek against their cool petals. Her father had seldom gone for his feeble walk without bringing her one or two blossoms on his return, and the memory brought the ready tears to her eyes.

How good this man was, she thought, as she pinned the flowers in among the white laces of her blouse. In every woman's heart there is the inherent desire for masculine admiration. Little convent-bred Marie was innocent of any thoughts of coquetry. She only felt the natural pleasure that youth does when it is noticed and appreciated.

Old Schultz shook his head when she showed him the two roses nestling against her breast, but there was no time for comment. The smile Marie sent toward the Captain's table, was a very bright one, and the young Lieutenant nudged his companion as he noticed it, but he was answered by so forbidding a frown, that he took refuge in his mug of beer.

Marie sang well that night. The clear, sweet voice held a note of joyousness, missing before. Deep in her heart, was the hope that the Captain might send the greasy waiter with a message asking her to step down to his table for a minute or so, but no message came, and to her disappointment, just after her first song, the Captain and his young friend pushed back their chairs and left.

Who was this man, she wondered, for the hundredth time. Everybody in the "Two Eagles," she had noticed, paid him marked deference. Once or twice before, she had seen him leave abruptly when some orderly had come in quietly and touched him on the shoulder. What was his place in this world of which she was beginning to see so many sides?

On the way home that night, old Schultz for the first time, was cross. He only grumbled when Marie tried to talk about the roses she was so carefully guarding from the cold, under her coat. He growled something about no good coming from such things, but she scarcely heard him. Her feet tripped along, two steps to each of his, her heart full of gratitude for the kindness that had been shown her.

When she was in her own little room, she put the blossoms tenderly in one of the painted mugs that adorned her bureau, and began slipping quickly out of her white frock. As it fell about her feet in a soft, shapeless heap, Frau Schultz came in.

"Fräulein," she said, "Shatzi tells me that Captain Von Pfaffen gave you some flowers to-night."

Marie stepped out of her dress and hung it carefully in the clothes press.

Von Pfaffen, so that was his name!

"Yes," she smiled, "two lovely roses! Oh, Frau Schultz, that was just what my father used to do. Sometimes it was one lily, sometimes a spray of hyacinths, sometimes a rose. It made me think of my father!"

The blue eyes were moist and Frau Schultz kissed the girl tenderly as she bade her good-night.

"Shatzi," she told her husband later, as arrayed in carpet slippers and a tattered dressing-gown he sat smoking a good-night pipe, "Shatzi, there is no cause to worry, the girl is still only a child, she is grateful for something her father would have done for her. You must not suspect everybody!" and she vigorously pounded the already plump pillows of the mountainous connubial couch before climbing into it.