Mariette was not of the type that sorrow and loss ennoble. She
was still a handsome woman, particularly in her uniform, but the pink
and white cheeks that once had covered her harsh bones were sunken and
sallow. Her mouth was like a narrow bar of iron. Her eyes were half
closed as if to hide the cold and deadly flame that never flickered;
even her nostrils were rigid. All her hard and sensual nature, devoid of
tenderness, but dissolved with sentimentality while the man who had
conquered her had lived, she had centered on her lover, and with his
death she was a tool to Gisela's hand to wreak vengeance upon the powers
that had sent him out of the world.
"Leave it to me," she said grimly. "There are not only the women in the
towns where I have been stationed these many years, but, here in Berlin,
the wives of men whose money is financing this war: men who permitted
the war because they hoped for infinite riches but are now terrified
that they will not have a pfennig if the war goes on much longer. They
dare not rebel, for they would be shot, and their fortunes be
confiscated: their banks, industries, shops, run by cowed minor
officials. But the women--I can count on many of them. Even if their
husbands suspected, they would wink at it, willing that the women should
take the risk and they reap the benefit.
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