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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/34034-8.txt b/34034-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a479c25 --- /dev/null +++ b/34034-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,10941 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Belovéd Traitor, by Frank L. Packard + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Belovéd Traitor + +Author: Frank L. Packard + +Release Date: October 4, 2010 [EBook #34034] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BELOVÉD TRAITOR *** + + + + +Produced by Al Haines + + + + + + + + + +_The Belovéd Traitor_ + + +BY + +FRANK L. PACKARD + + +AUTHOR OF "THE MIRACLE MAN," "GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN," ETC. + + + +THE COPP, CLARK CO., LIMITED + +TORONTO + + + + +COPYRIGHT, 1915 + +BY FRANK L. PACKARD + + + + +There is a Valley called the Valley of Illusion, but beyond it, +sun-crowned, is the Peak of Eternal Truth--and the Way from the Valley +to the Peak is sore beset, for the Way is the Understanding of Things +Real, and its Achievement is the Fullness of Life. + + + + +CONTENTS + + +BOOK I: BERNAY-SUR-MER + +CHAPTER + + I THE HOUSE ON THE BLUFF + II THE KEEPERS OF THE LIGHT + III THE BEACON + IV STRANGERS WITHIN THE GATES + V "WHO IS JEAN LAPARDE?" + VI THE GIFT + VII WHERE GLORY AWAITS + VIII SHADOWS BEFORE + IX FORKED ROADS + X A DAUGHTER OF FRANCE + XI THE PENDULUM + + +BOOK II: TWO YEARS LATER + + I THE DUPLICITY OF FATHER ANTON + II 26 RUE VANITAIRE + III IN THE DEAD OF THE NIGHT + IV THE ACCUSATION + V THE SECRET MODEL + VI "JEAN MUST NOT KNOW" + VII MEA CULPA + VIII FLIGHT + IX MYRNA'S STRATEGY + X THROUGH THE FOG + XI THE "DEATH" OF JEAN LAPARDE + XII AT THE "GATEWAY" + XIII DAWN + XIV THE STATUE OF DREAMS + + + + +The Belovéd Traitor + + +BOOK I: BERNAY-SUR-MER + + +-- I -- + +THE HOUSE ON THE BLUFF + +It was a wilder gust than any that had gone before. It tore along the +beach with maniacal fury; and, shrieking in a high, devilishly-gleeful +falsetto, while the joints of the little inn, rheumatic with age, +squeaked in its embrace, shook the Taverne du Bas Rhône much after the +fashion of a terrier shaking a rat. And with that gust, loosening the +dilapidated fastening on the casement, a window crashed inward, +shattering the pane against the wall. + +"_Sacré bleu!_" shouted a man, springing smartly to his feet from his +seat at a small table as the rain lashed him. "What a dog of a night!" + +Against the opposite wall, tilted back in a chair, Papa Fregeau, the +patron, a rotund, aproned little individual, stopped the humming of his +song. + +"_Tiens!_" said he fatuously. "But it is worse than that, Alcide, +since it is bad for business--hah! Not a franc profit to-night--the +Bas Rhône is desolated." And he resumed his song: + + "In Languedoc, where the wine flows free, + We drink to----" + + +"Hold your bibulous tongue, Jacques Fregeau, and get something with +which to fix that window before we are as wet inside as you!"--it was +Madame Fregeau, stout, middle-aged and rosy, already hurrying to the +aid of the first speaker, who was wrestling with the dismantled +fastening. + +Usually the nightly resort of the little fishing village of +Bernay-sur-Mer, the Bas Rhône, inn, cabaret, tavern or cafe, as it was +variously styled, now held but two others in the room that was +habitually crowded to suffocation. One was a young man, sturdily +built, with a tanned, clean-cut face, smooth-shaven save for a small +black moustache, whose rumpled black hair straggled in pleasing +disarray over his forehead; the other was older, a man of forty, whose +skin was bronzed almost to blackness from the Mediterranean sun. Both +were in rough fishermen's dress, sitting at dominoes under the hanging +lamp in the centre of the room. On the table, pushed to one side, were +the remains of a simple meal of bread and cheese; and from the inside +of the loaf, the younger man, somewhat to the detriment of his own game +and to the advantage of his opponent, had plucked out a piece of the +soft bread, which he had kneaded between his fingers into a plastic +lump, and thereafter, with amazing skill and deftness, had been engaged +in moulding into little faces, and heads, and figures of various sorts, +as he played. + +The older man spoke slowly now: + +"It is twenty years since we have had the like--you do not remember +that, Jean? You were too young." + +Jean Laparde, an amused smile lurking in his dark eyes as he watched +Jacques Fregeau waddle obediently to his wife's side, shook his head. + +"I was on the _Étoile_ that night," said the other, pulling at his +beard. "The good God dealt hardly with us--we lost two when we +beached; but not so hardly as with the _Antoinette_--none came to shore +from her. It was a night just such as this." + +"Ay, that is so," corroborated Papa Fregeau, removing his apron and +stuffing it into the broken window pane. "It is, after all, small +blame to any one that they stay indoors to-night and forget my profits." + +"Profits!" ejaculated Madame Fregeau tartly. "You drink them all up!" +She shook her short skirts, damp from her skirmish with the storm, and +turned to Jean's companion at the table. "Pray the blessed Virgin," +she said softly, crossing herself reverently, "that there be no boats +out to-night, Pierre Lachance." + +"And God for pity on them if there are!" returned the fisherman. "But +there are none from Bernay-sur-Mer, that is sure." He played the last +domino before him with a little triumphant flourish. "Ah, Jean, +count--you are caught, my boy! It will teach you to pay more attention +to the game, and less to the waste of Madame Fregeau's good bread!" + +"She is used to that!" smiled Jean Laparde good-naturedly, as he faced +his dominoes, disclosing the measure of his defeat, and, pushing back +his chair, stood up. + +"But," protested the other, "you are not going! We will play again. +See, it is early, the clock has but just struck eight." + +"Not to-night, Pierre," said Jean, laughing now, as he began to button +his jacket around his throat. "Play with Alcide there." + +"Chut!" cried Madame Fregeau, bustling forward, her eyes twinkling. +"The little minx will not expect you a night like this--Marie-Louise is +too sensible a girl to be piqued for that. You are not going out +to-night, Jean, _ma foi_!" + +"And why not?" asked Jean innocently. "Why not, Mother Fregeau? What +is a little wind, and a little rain, and a little walk along the beach?" + +"But a night like this!" sighed Papa Fregeau dolorously, as he joined +the group, his forefinger laid facetiously against the side of his +stubby little nose. "_Nom d'un nom_! What constancy--what sublime +constancy!" + +"Ah, you laugh at that, _mon petit bête_!" exclaimed Madame Fregeau +sharply, instantly changing front. "You are an old fool, Jacques +Fregeau!" + +"But I was a young one once, _ma belle_--eh?" insinuated Jacques, +pinching his wife's plump cheek, and winking prodigiously at Jean +Laparde. "It is of that you are thinking, eh?" + +"You are ridiculous!" declared Madame Fregeau, blushing and pushing him +away. + +"You see, Jean?" said Jacques Fregeau plaintively, shrugging his +shoulders. "You see, eh, _mon gaillard_? You see what you are coming +to! Oh, _là, là_, once I was young like you, and Lucille, _ma chérie_, +here, was like--eh?--like Marie-Louise. You see, eh? You see what you +are coming to!" + +There was a roar of laughter from the man at the table in the rear, +that was echoed in a guffaw by Pierre Lachance, as Jean, leaning +suddenly forward, caught Madame Fregeau's comely, motherly face between +his hands and kissed her on both cheeks. + +"I'd ask for no better luck, Jacques!" he cried--and ran for the door. + +Laughing, and with a wave of his hand back at the little group, he +opened the door, closed it behind him with a powerful wrench against +the wind; and then, outside, stood still for a moment, as though taken +utterly by surprise at the abandon of the night. He had not been out +before that day. Like all, or nearly all of Bernay-sur-Mer he had +remained snugly indoors--for what was a fisherman to do in weather like +that! Mend nets? Well, yes, he had mended nets. One must do that. +He shrugged his shoulders, making a wry grimace. Nets! But the night +was bad--much worse than he had imagined. And yet--yes--the storm was +at its height now, but the wind had changed--by morning, thank the +saints, it would be better. + +It was black about him, inky black--all save a long, straggling, +twinkling line of lights from the cottage windows that bordered the +beach, and the dull yellow glow from the windows of the Bas Rhône at +his side. Around him a veritable bedlam seemed loosed--the wind, like +a horde of demons, shrieking, whistling and howling in unholy jubilee; +while heavier, more ominous, in a deeper roar came the booming of the +surf from where it broke upon the beach but little more than a hundred +yards in front of him. + +Jean Laparde stood hesitant. It was quite true; Mother Fregeau had +been right! Marie-Louise would not expect him to-night, and it was a +good mile from the village to the house on the bluff, and yet--he +smiled a little, and suddenly, head down, struck out into the storm. + +A flash of lightning, jagged, threw the night into a strange, tremulous +luminance--the headlands of the little bay; the mighty combers, shaking +their topped crests like manes, hurling themselves in impotent fury at +the shore, then spreading in thin creamy layers to lick up wide, +irregular patches of the beach; the sweep of the Mediterranean, so slow +to anger, but a tumbling rage of waters now as far as the eye could +reach; the whitewashed cottages; boats, dark objects without form or +shape, drawn far up on the sand; the pale, yellowish-green of the sward +stretching away behind the village; the road beneath his feet a pool of +mud--and then blackness again, utter, impenetrable, absolute. + +Jean passed the last of the cottages--there were but four on that side +of the Bas Rhône--and kept on, following the curve of the beach toward +the eastern headland. But now, the lightness of spirit that had been +with him but a few moments before was gone, and a restlessness, +bordering on depression, took its place. What was it? The storm? No; +it could not very well be that, for it had come often to him before, +unbidden, unwelcomed, that same mood--even in the glorious sunlight, +even in the midst of song as he fished the blue, sparkling waters that, +more than anything else, had been his home ever since he could +remember. It seemed, and it was a very strange and absurd fancy, but +it was always the same, that a voice, wordless, without sound, talked +speciously to him, talked him into a state of discontent that robbed +him of all delight in his work, his environment and his surroundings, +and, arrived at that stage, would suddenly bid him peremptorily to +follow--and that was all. Follow! Where? He did not know. It made +him angry, but it did not in any way lighten the mood that was forced +upon him in spite of himself. + +And now, as it always came, unsought and unexpected, this mood was upon +him again; and, as he plunged through the storm, drawing the collar of +his jacket more closely around his throat against the sheets of rain, +he fought with himself to shake it off. It was absurd. And why should +he be unhappy for something that was absurd? That was still more +absurd! He was not sick, there was nothing the matter with him. He +was strong--none was stronger than he, and he had matched himself +against them all in Bernay-sur-Mer. True, it was a hard life, and +there were not riches to be found in the nets--but there were +friends--he was rich in friends--all Bernay-sur-Mer was his friend. +There were the Fregeaus, with whom he had lived at the Bas Rhône for +over ten years now since his father had died. Madame Fregeau was a +mother to him, and Jacques was the biggest-hearted man in the whole +south of France. And, _mon Dieu_!--he began to smile now--there +were--should he name every family in the village?--even to the children +for whom he made the clay _poupées_, the dolls that in their play lives +were, in turn, veritable children to them? Ah, to be in ugly mind--it +was no less than a sin! There were candles to burn for that, and the +good Father Anton would have a word to say if he knew! And best of +all--there was Marie-Louise. There was none, none _pardieu_, in the +whole wide sweep of France like Marie-Louise, with her eyes like stars, +and her face fresh as the morning breeze across the sparkling waters, +and a figure so beautiful, so lithe, so strong! What charm to see +those young arms on the oars, the bosom heave, to feel the boat bound +forward under the stroke, and hear her laugh ring out with the pure joy +of life! + +"Marie-Louise!" cried Jean Laparde aloud--and the wind seemed to catch +up the words and echo them in a triumphant shout: "Marie-Louise!" + +It was gone--that mood. And now, with the village well behind him, the +lights blotted out and seeming to have left him isolated even from +human proximity, another came--and he stood still--and this time it was +the storm. And something within him, without will or volition of his, +spontaneous, leapt out in consonance with the wild grandeur of the +night to revel in it, atune with the Titanic magnificence of the +spectacle, as one who gazes upon a splendid canvas and, innate in +appreciation, is lost in the conception to which the master brush has +given life. And so he stood there for a long time immovable, his +shoulders thrust a little forward, the rain streaming from his face, +his eyes afire, wrapt, lost in the clashing elements before him--and +fancy came. The play of the lightning was more vivid now, and the +coast line took on changing shapes, as though seeking by new and +swiftly conceived formations to foil and combat and thrust back and +parry the furious attack of the breakers that hurled themselves onward +in their mad, never-ending charge; while behind again, in sudden +apparitions, like spectre battalions massed in reserve, the white +cottages appeared for an instant, and then, as though seeking a more +strategic position, vanished utterly, until a flame-tongue crackling +across the heavens searched them out again, laying their position bare +once more; and the headlands, vanguards where the fight was hottest, +were lost in a smother of spume and spray, like the smoke of battle +swirling over them--and it was battle, and the thunder of the surf was +the thunder of belching cannon, and the shriek of the wind was the +shriek of hurtling shells. It was battle--and some consciousness +inborn in Jean Laparde awakened and filled him with understanding, and +in the terror; and dismay and awe and strife and fierce elation was the +great allegory of life, and suddenly he knew a lowly reverence for Him +who had depicted this, and a joy, full of a strange indefinable +yearning, in the divine genius of its execution. + +"It is the great art of the _bon Dieu_," said Jean simply. + +And after a little while he went forward on his way again. + +The road led upward now in a gentle slope toward higher land, though +still following the line of the beach. Near the extremity of the +headland was the cottage that the village always called the "house on +the bluff," and in a moment now he should be able to see the light. +There was always a light there every night, in good weather and in +stormy--and never in fourteen years had it been otherwise, not since +the night that Marie-Louise's father, the brother of old Gaston +Bernier, steering for the headland in a gale had miscalculated his +position and been drowned on the Perigeau Reef. From that day it had +become a religion with Gaston, a sacred rite, that light; and, in time, +it had become an institution in Bernay-sur-Mer--not a fisherman in the +village now but steered by it, not one but that, failing to sight it, +would have taken it for granted that he was off his course and would +have put about, braving even the wildest weather, until he had picked +it up. + +The light! Jean smiled to himself. He was very wet, but he had found +a most wonderful joy in the storm--and, besides, what did a little +wetting matter? In a few minutes now Marie-Louise would cry out in +delight at seeing him, and he would fling off his drenched jacket and +pull up a chair to the stove beside old Gaston, and they would light +their pipes, and Marie-Louise would prepare the spiced wine, and--he +halted as though stunned. + +He had reached the big rock where the road made its second turn and ran +directly to the house--and there was no light. It was the exact spot +from which he should first be able to see it--a hundred times, on a +hundred nights, he had looked for it, and found it there--by the +turning at the big rock. He dashed the rain from his face with a sweep +of his hand, and strained his eyes into the blackness. There was +nothing there--only the blackness. He reached out mechanically and +touched the rock, as though to assure himself that it was there--and +then he laughed a little unnaturally. There must be some mistake--for +fourteen years that light had burned in the window, and it could be +seen from this point on the road--there must be some mistake. Perhaps +just another step would bring it into view! + +And then, as he moved forward, something cold gripped at Jean's heart. +There was no mistake--the light was out for the first time in fourteen +years! The light that old Gaston had never failed to burn since the +night his brother died, the light that had become a part of the man +himself--was out! Was he ill--sick? Why, then, had Marie-Louise not +lighted it? She had done it before, often and often before. But now +neither one nor the other had lighted it, and they, just the two of +them, were the only occupants of the house--Marie-Louise and her old +uncle. Just the two of them--and the light was out! + +Jean was running now, smashing his way along the road through the +clayey mud and water, splashing it to his knees, buffeting against the +wind; and, with every step, the sense of dread that had settled upon +him grew heavier. It was no ordinary thing this! Old Gaston would +have lighted the lamp while there remained strength in his body to do +it; it was a sacred trust that he had imposed upon himself which had +grown more inviolable as the years had crept upon him and he had grown +older. It brought fear to Jean, and the greater stab at the thought of +Marie-Louise. Things were wrong--and what was wrong with one was wrong +with both. Was it not Marie-Louise who polished the great lamp chimney +so zealously every morning and filled the big, dinted brass bowl of the +lamp with oil; and was it not Marie-Louise who watched with +affectionate understanding each evening as her uncle lighted it? + +A shadowy mass, the house, loomed suddenly out of the darkness before +him. It seemed to give him added speed, and in another moment he was +at the door--and the door was open, wide open, blown inward with the +wind. + +"Marie-Louise!" he shouted, as he rushed inside. "Gaston! Gaston!" +And again: "Marie-Louise!" + +There was no answer--no sound but the shriek of wind, the groaning of +the house timbers in travail with the storm. He pushed the door shut +behind him, and something like a sob came from Jean's lips--and then he +shouted once more. + +Still there was no answer. + +He felt his way to the kitchen, and across the kitchen to the shelf by +the rear wall, found a candle, and lighted it. He held the flame above +his head, sweeping the light about him, and, discovering nothing, ran +back into the front room--and, with a low cry, stood still. On the +floor the great lamp lay broken, the chimney shattered into splinters. +He stared at it in a frightened, almost superstitious way. The great +lamp broken! Did it mean that--no, no, it could not mean that! It was +the wind that had blown it there in bursting in the door. See, there +was no disorder anywhere! He ran into Gaston's room. Nothing! +Nothing anywhere to indicate that anything had happened--and yet, +apparently, the house was empty--and that was enough! Out? They had +gone out somewhere, even in the storm, on some homely errand, to pay a +visit perhaps? Impossible! With the lamp for the first time in +fourteen years unlighted, and broken now upon the floor? It was +impossible! While Gaston Bernier lived the light would burn! + +He climbed the stairs and stood on the threshold of the little attic +room, the flickering candle playing timorously with the darker shadows +where the roof in its sharp angle spread into an inverted V. It was +the first time he had ever looked into that room. It was +Marie-Louise's room. It was all white, scrupulously white, from the +bare floor to the patched quilt on the little bed. There was a +freshness, a sweetness about it that seemed to personify Marie-Louise, +to fill the room with her--and it swept him now with a sudden numbing +agony, and his face, wet with the rain that dripped from the hair +straggling over his forehead, showed grey and set as it glistened +curiously in the yellow, sputtering candle light. + +And then, half mad with anxiety, the sure, intuitive knowledge of +disaster upon him, he rushed downstairs again; and, hurriedly +exchanging his candle for a lantern, went out into the night. + +A search around the house revealed no more than within. He ran then +down the path to the beach, to where, well up under the protection of +the low bluff and away from the reach of the highest tide, old Gaston +stored his boats and fishing gear. And there, as Jean flashed his +lantern around him, a low, strained cry, for the second time, came from +his lips. Three boats old Gaston owned--who should know better than +he, Jean Laparde, who fished with the other season after season!--but +of the three boats only two were there upon the beach. + +As a man wounded then and dazed with his hurt, Jean stood there. They +had gone--out into that--Marie-Louise and old Gaston--and they had not +come back. It was not true--it was beyond belief! No; it was not +true--something only had happened to the boat--no man in Bernay-sur-Mer +would have been so mad as to have ventured out! + +Far to the south the heavens opened in a burst of flame, and, +travelling far and fast, a zigzag tongue of lightning, like the +venomous thrust of a serpent's fang, leaped across the skies. It +lighted up the beach, and, further out over the waters, a quarter of a +mile away, played upon the smother of spray that like a shroud flung +itself over the Perigeau Reef--and the cry that came from Jean Laparde +was wild, hoarse-throated now. What was that he had seen! + +It was dark again out there. He swung his lantern, signalling +frantically--then, holding it high and rigid, waited for the next flash. + +It came. + +"Marie-Louise," he whispered through white lips. + +Far out on the extremity of the reef, a figure stood silhouetted +against the spray for an instant--and blackness fell again. + + + + +-- II -- + +THE KEEPERS OF THE LIGHT + +For a moment's space Jean stood there measuring, as it were, the sweep +of waters, as one might measure the strength of some antagonist thrust +suddenly upon him--and then, turning, he ran back to the boats, and +began to drag one down the beach. + +No man in all Bernay-sur-Mer would dare to venture out. He had said +that himself--but there was no thought of that now. Marie-Louise was +on the Perigeau Reef. He was strong, strong as a young bull, and he +tugged now at the heavy boat with the added nervous strength of a man +near mad with desperation, heaving it swiftly across the sand. At high +tide even in calm weather the Perigeau was awash--in storm, far better +to plunge into the water than to be pounded to death upon those +_diable_ rocks, lifted up and pounded upon the rocks, and lifted up and +pounded again, when the water should be high. At ten o'clock it would +be full tide. Thanks to the _bon Dieu_ it was not eight o'clock when +the water would be at its height, or else-- + +"_Sacré nom d'un nom, d'un nom_"--Jean was grinding words from between +his teeth. They came utterly without volition, utterly meaningless, +utterly spontaneous from the brain afire. + +It was the lee of the headland, and it was the mercy of the _Sainte +Vierge_ that it was so; otherwise, _baptême de baptême_! no boat could +live where a fish would drown. But it was the smoother water of a +mill-race--in with the tide, out with the tide--between the headland +and the Perigeau it was like that. + +With a wrench, Jean swung the boat around--he had been dragging it by +the stern--and, at the water's edge now, the dying efforts of a spent +and broken wave wrapped and curled around the bow in creamy foam. +Then, racing up the beach once more to the shelter of the bluff, he +knelt there to plant his lantern in the sand, ballasting it securely +with rocks, flung his jacket down beside it, and ran back to the +water's edge again. + +He shoved the boat further out until it was half afloat, shipped the +oars--and waited, steadying the craft with an iron grip on the +gunwales. A wave lifted her, the water swirled around his knees, +seethed behind him, rushed back hissing sharply in its retreat--and +Jean, bending, shoved with all his strength, as he sprang aboard. + +The boat shot out on the receding wave, and, as he flung himself upon +the seat, smashed into the next oncoming breaker, wavered, half turned, +righted under a mighty tug at the oars, engulfed herself in a sheet of +spray--and slid onward down into the bubbling hollow. + +None in Bernay-sur-Mer was a better boatman than Jean Laparde, and +Bernay-sur-Mer in that respect held its head above all Languedoc; for +at the water fêtes now for three years had not Jean Laparde secured to +it the coveted _prix_! But to-night it was a different race that lay +before him. + +For a little way, while the lee of the headland held, a child almost, +once the boat was free of the broken surf on the beach, might have held +the craft to her course--but only for that little way. For fifty yards +perhaps the boat leapt forward, straight as an arrow, heading well +above the Perigeau Reef--and then suddenly the lighted lantern on the +beach seemed to travel seaward at an incredible speed, as the onrush of +tide, wind and sea through the narrows caught the boat, twisted it like +a cork, and, high-borne on a wave-crest, hurled it along past the +shoreline toward the lower end of the bay--and the twinkling lantern +was blotted out from sight. Tight-lipped, his muscles cracking with +the strain, Jean forced the boat around again, and the tough oars bent +under his strokes. + +There were two ways to the Perigeau Reef--he had thought of both of +them. One, to go down in the shelter of the headland to the lower end +of the bay, circuit the shore-line there until he was free of the +mill-race through the narrows, then pull straight out for the +Perigeau--only, the _bon Dieu_ knew well, no man was strong enough for +that; it was too far, for the bay on this side, deeper than on the +other side of the headland by Bernay-sur-Mer, extended inward for +nearly two miles, and to pull back that distance against the full force +of the storm--only a madman would try it, and no boat would live! The +other way was the only chance--the quarter mile across the narrows. + +A quarter mile! He pulled on and on, minute after minute that were as +endless periods of time; and whether he was making progress or losing +it he did not know, only that with each minute his strength was being +taxed to the utmost, until it seemed to be ebbing from him, until his +arms in their sockets caused him brutal pain. And it was all like a +black veil that wrapped itself about him now, blacker than it had ever +been before that night--the loss of that tiny guiding light he had left +upon the beach seemed to make it so, and seemed to try to rob him of +his courage because it was gone. The never-ending roar of buffeting +sea and surf was in his ears until his head rang with the sound--the +waves pounded his boat and tossed it like a chip upon their crests, and +slopped aboard and sloshed at his feet--and they thundered upon the +shore, and upon the headland, and they were mocking at him. The +lightning came again--it lighted up the house upon the bluff and with +bitter dismay he saw that, too, was sweeping seaward--it flickered a +ghostly radiance upon dancing shore shapes--it played upon a tumbling +wall of water, onrushing, towering above his head from where the boat +quivered in the trough far down below. And at sight of this, like a +madman, Jean Laparde pulled then--up--up--up--the crest was curling, +snarling its vengeance before it broke--and then it seethed away in a +great trail of murmuring foam that lapped at the boat's sides and crept +in over the gunwales. And there were many more like that, so many that +they were countless--and they never stopped--and they were stronger +than he--and there was always another--and each was greater than the +one before--and he sobbed at last in utter weakness over the oars. + +Marie-Louise, Gaston, the Perigeau, all were living before him in a +daze now--the brain became subordinate to the bodily exhaustion. There +was only a jumbled medley of hell and death and eternal struggle around +him, and a subconsciousness that for him too the end had come--the good +Father Anton would say a requiem mass for him--and Bernay-sur-Mer would +tell its children that Jean would never make any more of the clay +_poupées_ for them--and the children would cry--and it was all very +droll. + +He pulled on, mechanically, doggedly. His face was wrinkled where the +muscles twisted in pain, drops that were not rain nor spray stood out +in great beads upon his forehead, his back seemed breaking, his arms +useless things that writhed with the strain upon them. + +Wild thoughts came to him. Why should he struggle there against the +pitiless strength that was greater than his, until he could no longer +even meet the waves with the bow of his boat, until they would turn him +over and over and afterwards roll him upon the shore, where Papa +Fregeau, perhaps, would find him! See, it would be a very easy matter +to stop while he had yet a little strength left to guide the boat--and +run with the waves--and it would rest him--and by the time he got to +the shore he would be quite strong enough again to fight his way +through the breakers. His lips moved, teeth working over them, biting +into them, tinging them with blood. It came out of this hell and these +storm devils around him, that thought! Marie-Louise was waiting, was +she not, upon the Perigeau--and when the tide was high and the sea was +calm one could row over the Perigeau, and sometimes see a _dragonet_, +with the beautiful blue and yellow marking on its white scaleless body, +looking for food in the rock crevices out of its curious eyes that were +in the top of its head! + +A flicker of light! Yes--yes--the lantern! He was abreast of it +again. The good God had not deserted him! He was still strong--there +was iron in his arms again--the torture of pulling was gone. He could +feel the boat lift now to the stroke. + +He pulled, taking his breath in catchy sobs. The boat swept downward +into a great trough, rose again, trembling, balancing on the next +crest--and the light had disappeared. A cry gurgled from Jean's +throat, impotent, full of anguish. It was an hallucination, a torture +of the devil! No! There it was once more--he caught it on the next +rise, and each succeeding one now. And he, not it now, was making +headway seaward. He was across the tide-race, it was the Madonna who +had prayed for him! and in another little while, soon now, just as soon +as the lantern showed a little further astern, he would get the lee of +the Perigeau itself--it would be broken water, but it would be like a +child's effort then. And that!--what was that! + +"Jean!"--it came ringing down with the wind, a brave, strong voice. +"_Jean!_" + +It was Marie-Louise! His strength was the strength of a god again. He +shot a hurried glance over his shoulder--it was done--but one had need +for care that the boat should not thrash itself to pieces on the rocks. +Yes; he saw her now--like a dark, wind-swept wraith. + +"To the right, Jean--there is landing to the right!" she called. + +"Ay!" he shouted back; and, standing, swung in the boat. + +The bow touched the edge of the rocks, grated, pounded, receded, and +came on again--there was no beach here--only the vicious swirl and chop +of the back-eddy. But as the keel touched again, Jean sprang over into +the water; and as he sprang, a figure from the rocks rushed in waist +deep to grasp the boat's gunwale on the other side--and across the bow, +very close to him, Marie-Louise's white face was framed in the night. +It was very dark, he could not see her features distinctly, but he had +never seen Marie-Louise look like that before--it was not that her face +was aged, nothing, _bon Dieu_! could take the springtime from that +face, but it was very tired, and frightened, and glad, and full of +grief. + +"Jean, ah, Jean, you--" the wind carried away her words. Then she +shouted louder, a curious break, like a half sob, in her voice. "Uncle +Gaston is hurt--very, very badly hurt. He is up there a little way on +the reef. You must carry him. And if you hurry, Jean, I can hold the +boat." + +"Gaston--hurt!" he cried in dismay. "You are sure then you can hold +the boat, and--" + +"Yes, yes, if you hurry, Jean--he is there, a few yards back, a little +to the left." + +"Guard yourself then that it does not pull you off your feet!" he +cautioned anxiously, and began to scramble from the water and up the +slippery, weeded rocks. + +And then, a few yards back on the ledge, as she had said, just out of +the reach of the spray that lashed the windward side of the Perigeau, +he came upon an outstretched form--and, kneeling, called the other's +name: + +"Gaston! It is I--Jean Laparde!" He bent closer--one could not hear +for the _diable_ wind! "Gaston!" There was only a low moaning--the +man was unconscious. "_'Cré nom d'une forte peine!_" muttered Jean, +with a sinking heart, and picked up the other tenderly in his arms. + +But it was not easy, that little way back to the boat. Burdened now, +the wind behind his back sent him staggering forward before he could +find footing, and ten times in the dozen steps he lurched, slipped and +all but fell before, close to the boat again, he laid Gaston down upon +the rocks. + +"We must bale out the boat, Marie-Louise," he shouted, wading quickly +into the water; "or with what we take in on the way back she will not +ride. See, I will hold it while you bale--it will be easier for you." + +She answered something as she set instantly to work, but her words were +lost in the storm. And Jean, through the darkness, as he gripped at +the boat, watched her, his mind a sea of turmoil like the turmoil of +the sea about him. Gaston was hurt--yes, very badly hurt, it would +seem--how had it happened?--how had they come, Marie-Louise and Gaston, +to be upon the Perigeau?--and he, who had given up hope, who had +thought to perish out there in that crossing, he, too, was on the +Perigeau--the way to get back was to run straight in with the bay--it +would not be so hard if they could out-race the waves--if the waves +came in over the stern it would be to swamp and--God had been very good +to let them live and-- + +Marie-Louise's hand closed over his on the gunwale. + +"It is done, Jean--what I could do," she said. "I will hold the boat +again while you lift Uncle Gaston in." + +And suddenly Jean's heart was very full. + +"Marie-Louise, Marie-Louise!" he said hoarsely--and while her hands +grasped the rocking boat, his crept around the wet shoulders for an +instant, and to her face, and turned the face upward to his, and, in +that wild revelry of storm, kissed her; and with a choked sob he went +from her then and picked up the unconscious form upon the rocks. + +And so they started back. + +There was no sweep of tide to battle with now--the waves bore them high +and shot them onward, shoreward; and the storm was wings to them. But +there was danger yet; on the top of the crests it was like a pivot, +each one threatening to whirl them broadside and capsize them on the +breathless rush down the steep slope that yawned below--that, and the +fear that the downward rush, breathless as it was, would not be fast +enough to escape the crest itself, which, following them always, +hanging over them like hesitant doom far up above, trembling, twisting, +writhing, might break in a seething torrent and, sweeping over them, +engulf them. It was not so hard now, the way back, there was not the +pitiless current that numbed the soul because the body was so frail; +but all the craft Jean knew, all the strength that was his was in play +again. + +The boat swept onward. Marie-Louise was crouched in the stern +supporting Gaston's head upon her lap. Jean could not see her face. +When he dared take his eyes for an instant from the racing waves behind +her, he looked at her, but he could not see her face--it was bent +always over Gaston's head. And a fear grew heavy in Jean's heart--the +old fisherman had not moved since he, Jean, had found the other on the +reef. Once he shouted at Marie-Louise, shouted out the fear that was +upon him--but she only shook her head. + +The rain had stopped--he noticed the fact with a strange shock of +surprise--surprise that he had not noticed it before, as though it were +something extraneous to his surroundings. And then he remembered that +as he had stood outside the Bas Rhône he had seen that the wind had +changed, and had told himself that by morning it would be better +weather. He glanced above him. The storm wrack was still there; but +it was broken now, and the low, flying clouds seemed thinner--yes, by +morning it would be bright sunshine, and of the storm only the heavy +sea would be left. + +He gave his eyes to the tumbling waters again--and, suddenly, with a +great cry, began to pull until it seemed his arms must break. Roaring +behind them, a giant wave was on the point of breaking--closer it +came--closer--he yelled to Marie-Louise: + +"Hold fast, Marie-Louise! Hold fast!" + +And then it was upon them. + +For a moment it was a vortex--a white, swirling flood of water churned +to lather. It hid the stern of the boat, hid Marie-Louise and Gaston +at her feet, as it poured upon them--and the boat, lifted high up, hung +dizzily for an instant, poised as on the edge of an abyss, then the +wave rolled under them, and the boat swept on in its wake, the shipped +water rushing now this way now that in the bottom. + +It was an escape! The blessed saints still had them in their keeping! +Jean sucked in his breath. A foot nearer when the wave had broken, +and, instead of the few bucketsful they had taken, the boat would have +filled! And now Marie-Louise, already baling at the water, cried out +to him. + +"See! It was a mercy!"--her voice rang with a glad uplift. "It was +sent by the _bon Dieu_, that wave! It has brought life to Uncle +Gaston!" + +It was true. The deluge of water had, temporarily at least, restored +the old fisherman to consciousness, for he raised himself up now, and +Jean heard him speak. + +After that, time marked no definite passing for Jean. Occasionally he +heard Marie-Louise's voice as she spoke to her uncle; and occasionally +he heard the old fisherman reply--but that was all. In nearer the +shore, where the current rushing through the narrows had lost its +potency, he edged the boat across the heavy sea, gained the comparative +calm under the lee of the headland, and began to work back to the upper +end--it was easier that way, difficult and slow as the progress was, +than to land and carry old Gaston along the beach. An hour? It might +have been that--or two--or half an hour--when he and Marie-Louise, in +the water beside him again, and close by where the lantern under the +bluff still burned as he had left it, were dragging the boat free from +the breakers and up upon the sand. + +And then, while Marie-Louise ran for the lantern, Jean leaned over into +the boat. + +"Gaston!" he called. "See, we are back! Can you hear me?" + +"Yes," Gaston answered feebly. + +"Then put your arms around my neck, _mon brave_, and I will lift you +up." + +The arms rose slowly, clasped; and Jean, straightening up, was holding +the other as a woman holds a child. Gaston's head fell on his +shoulder, and the old fisherman whispered weakly in his ear. + +"My side, Jean--hold me--lower--down." + +"But, yes," Jean answered cheerily. "There--is that better. We shall +get easily to the house like this, and Marie-Louise"--she was back +again now--"will lead the way with the lantern." + +Gaston's only answer was a slight pressure of his arm around Jean's +neck--but now, as the lantern's rays for an instant fell upon the +other's features, Jean's own face set like stone. The old fisherman's +eyes were closed, and the skin, where it showed through the grizzled +beard, wet and tangled now, was a deathly white--and Jean, motioning to +Marie-Louise, started hurriedly forward. + +Only once on the way to the house, as Jean followed Marie-Louise up the +path from the beach, did Gaston speak again; and then it was as though +he were talking to himself, his tones low and broken, almost like the +sobbing of a child. Jean caught the words. + +"René--René, my brother--the light is out, René--the light is out." + +And with the words, something dimmed suddenly before Jean's eyes, and +the path, for a moment, and Marie-Louise were as a mist in front of +him. The light! For fourteen years the man he held in his arms had +burned that light--and the light was out now forever. + +He hurried on, and, reaching the house, laid Gaston on the bed in the +little room off the kitchen that belonged to the other; then turned +swiftly to Marie-Louise, for the old fisherman had lost consciousness +again. + +"Cognac, Marie-Louise!" he said quickly. + +She ran for the brandy--and while Jean forced a few drops through +Gaston's lips, holding up the lantern to watch the other, she went from +the room again and brought back a lamp. + +"Jean," she cried pitifully, as she set it upon the table, "he is not--" + +Jean shook his head. + +"No; he will be better in a minute now. It is but a little fainting +spell." + +She did not answer--barefooted, the short skirt just reaching to the +ankles, her black hair, loosened, tumbling about her shoulders in a +sodden mass, she came a little closer to the bed, her hands clasped, +the dark eyes wide with troubled tenderness, the red lips parted, the +white cheeks still glistening with spray; and, unconscious of her pose, +the wet clothes, untrammelled in their simplicity, clinging closely to +her limbs and her young rounded bosom, revealed in chaste freedom the +perfect contour and beauty of her form. + +Something stirred Jean's spirit within him, and for a moment he was +oblivious to his surroundings; for, as he looked, she seemed to stand +before him the living counterpart of a wondrous piece of sculpture, in +bronze it was, marvellously conceived, that he had dreamed of again and +again in vague, restless dreams--the statue, for it was always the same +statue in his dreams, that was set in the midst of a great city, in a +great square, and-- + +"Marie-Louise!" he said aloud unconsciously. + +But she shook her head, pointing to the bed. + +Gaston had stirred, and, opening his eyes now, fixing them on the glass +still held in Jean's hand, he motioned for more brandy. And Jean, his +moment of abstraction gone as quickly as it had come, bent hastily +forward and gave it to him. + +The raw spirit brought a flush to the old fisherman's cheeks. + +"Father Anton," he said. "Go for Father Anton." + +"_Bien sûr!_" responded Jean soothingly. "I will go at once. It was +what I thought of when I was carrying you up the beach. I said: 'Since +there is no doctor in Bernay-sur-Mer, I will get Father Anton, who is +as good a doctor as he is a priest, and he will have Gaston here on his +feet again by morning.'" He moved away from the bed--but Gaston put +out his hand and stopped him. + +"Not you, Jean; I want to talk to you--Marie-Louise will go." + +"Marie-Louise!" exclaimed Jean, shaking his head. "But no! You have +forgotten the storm, Gaston--and, see, she is all wet and tired, and +she has been, I do not know how many hours, exposed out there on that +curséd Perigeau." + +A smile, half stubborn, half of pride, struggled through a twist of +pain on the old fisherman's lips. + +"And what of that! She has been brought up to it. A dozen times and +more she has been longer in a storm than this. She is not of the +milk-and-water breed is Marie-Louise, she is a Bernier, and, the _bon +Dieu_ be praised, the Berniers do not stop for that! Is it not so, +Marie-Louise?" + +"Yes, uncle," she answered softly. "I will go; and I will not be long." + +"Go then, Marie-Louise," he said. "I wish it." + +She bent and kissed him, and picked up the lantern, and shook her head +in a pretty gesture at Jean, as though half to tease him for the +perturbed look upon his face, and half in grave wistfulness to charge +him with the sick man's care--and then she went from the room, and +presently the front door closed behind her. + +The lamp flickered with the inrush of wind from the opening of the +door--flickered over a spotless bare floor, an incongruous high-poster +bed that had been a wedding gift to Marie-Louise's father and mother +from the man who lay upon it now, flickered over the raftered ceiling, +the scant furnishings which were a single chair and a table, flickered +over a crucifix upon the wall--and then burned on once more in a steady +flame. It was like the shrug of Jean's shoulders, the flicker of that +lamp; for, with the shrug, he resumed again his former position over +Gaston--it was true after all, Marie-Louise would come to no harm, they +were used to that, they fisherfolk of Bernay-sur-Mer. + +"_Tiens_, Gaston!" he said. "See, we will get off your wet clothes, +and you will tell me how it happened this _misère_, and about the hurt. +But first this--_mon Dieu!_--but I did not guess it was like that--a +clean bandage, eh?--that is first--I will find something"--he had +unbuttoned the other's jacket, disclosing a rent shirt, and, on the +left side, a wad of cloth, blood-soaked now, where Marie-Louise +evidently had made a pad for the wound with her underskirt, and had +tied it in place with long strips torn from the garment. He began to +loosen one of the strips; but Gaston, who until then had lain passive +with eyes closed, caught his hand. + +"Let it alone, Jean--you will only make it bleed the more." + +"Ay," agreed Jean thoughtfully; "perhaps that is so. It would be +better maybe to leave it for Father Anton." + +A wan smile came to Gaston's lips. + +"Father Anton will not touch it either, Jean." + +And then Jean, with a sudden start, stared into the other's eyes. + +"It is destiny!" said Gaston slowly. "Did you, too, like Marie-Louise, +think it was for that I sent for the good father? It is the priest and +Mother Church I need, there is no doctor that could help." + +"But, no!" Jean protested anxiously. "You must not talk like that, +Gaston! It is not so! Wait! You will see! Father Anton will tell +you that in a few days you will be strong again. It is the weakness +now." + +Gaston shook his head. + +"You are a brave man, Jean, but I, too, am brave--and I am not +afraid--not afraid for myself--it is for Marie-Louise--it is for that I +kept you here and sent her for Father Anton. I know--something is hurt +inside--I am bleeding there." + +And now Jean made no answer--no words would come. The utter weakness +in the voice, the feeble movements of the hands, the greyer pallor in +the other's face seemed to dawn upon him with its full significance for +the first time--and for a moment it seemed to stun and bewilder him. + +"It is destiny!" said Gaston again. "Listen! It is fourteen years +since René, my brother, Marie-Louise's father, was drowned on the +Perigeau. I swore that night that through neither God nor devil should +another lose his life as René had--and for fourteen years I burned the +light, and laughed at the Perigeau as it gnawed its teeth in the +storms." He stopped, and touched his lips with the tip of his tongue. +"It is the hand of God," he whispered hoarsely, "The light is out--and +it is the Perigeau again." + +Jean pulled the chair closer to the bed, and took one of Gaston's hands. + +"It means nothing that, Gaston," he said, trying to control his voice. +"It is bad to think such thoughts--and of what good are they? You must +not think of that. Tell me what happened, how you and Marie-Louise +came to be out there to-night." + +Gaston lay quiet for a little while--so long that Jean thought the +other had not heard the question. Then the old fisherman spoke again. + +"Marie-Louise will tell you. I have other things to say, and I have +not strength enough for all. It is hard to talk. Give me the cognac +again, Jean." + +He drank almost greedily this time, and, as Jean held up his head that +he might do so the more readily, the grim old lips and unflinching eyes +smiled back their thanks. + +"Listen to me well, Jean," he went on earnestly. "Marie-Louise is very +dear to me. I love the little girl. All her life she has lived with +me--for two years after she was born in this house here, her mother and +René and I--and two years more with René and I--and then, after that, +it was just Marie-Louise and I alone. She had no one else--and I had +no one else. I have taught her as the _bon Dieu_ has shown me the way +to teach her to be a true daughter of France--to love God and be never +afraid. Jean"--he reached out his other hand suddenly and clasped it +over Jean's--"do you love Marie-Louise?" + +"Yes," said Jean simply. + +"She will be alone now," said Gaston, and his eyes filled. "She is a +good girl, Jean. She is pure and innocent, and her heart is so full of +love, there was never such love as hers, and she is so gay and bright +like the flowers and like the birds--and happy--and sorrow has not come +to her." He stopped once more, and the grey eyes searched Jean's face +as though they would read to the other's soul. "Jean," he asked again, +"do you love Marie-Louise?" + +Jean's lips were quivering now. + +"Yes," he answered. "You know I love her." + +The old fisherman lay back, silent, still for a moment, but he kept +pressing Jean's hand. When he spoke again, it seemed that it was with +more of an effort. + +"This house, the land, the boats, the nets, they are hers--it is her +_dot_. But it is not of that, I fear--it is not of that--" his voice +died away. Again he was silent; and then, suddenly, raising himself on +his elbow: "Jean," he asked for the third time, almost fiercely now, +"do you love Marie-Louise?" + +"But yes, Gaston," said Jean gently. "I have loved her all my life." + +"Yes; it is so," Gaston muttered slowly. "I give her to you then, +Jean--she is a gift to you from the sea--from the sea to-night. She +loves you, Jean--she has told me so. You will be good to her, Jean?" + +The tears were in Jean's eyes. + +"Gaston, can you ask it?" he cried out brokenly. + +"Ay!" said Gaston, and his voice rang out in a strange, stern note, and +his form, as he lifted himself up once more, seemed to possess again +its old rugged strength. "Ay--I do more than ask it. Swear it, Jean! +To a dying man and in God's presence, see, there is a crucifix there, +swear that you will guard her and that you will let no harm come to +her." + +"I swear it, Gaston," said Jean, in a choking voice. + +"It is well, then," Gaston murmured--and lay back upon the bed. + +For a little while, Jean, dim-eyed, watched the other, a hundred +reminiscences of their work together stabbing at his heart, and then he +rose and began to remove what he could of the old fisherman's clothing. + +"I will not touch the wound, Gaston," he said; "but the boots, _mon +brave_, and--" + +Gaston did not answer. He appeared to have sunk into a semi-stupor, +from which even the removal of his clothes did not arouse him. Jean +pulled a blanket up around the other's form, and sat down again in the +chair. + +Once, as Gaston muttered, Jean leaned forward toward the other. + +"It is destiny--the Perigeau--the light is out--René, it is--" The +words trailed off into incoherency. + +The minutes passed. Occasionally, with a spoon now, Jean poured a few +drops of brandy between Gaston's lips; otherwise, he sat there, his +head in his hands, tight-lipped, staring at the floor. Outside, that +vicious howl of wind seemed to have died away--perhaps it was hushed +because old Gaston was like this--Marie-Louise had been gone a long +time--presently she and Father Anton would be back, and-- + +He looked up to find Gaston's eyes open and fixed upon him feverishly, +the lips struggling to say something. + +"What is it, Gaston?" he asked. + +"The light, Jean," Gaston whispered. "It is--for--the last time. Go +and--light--the--great lamp." + +"Yes, Gaston," Jean answered, and went from the room--but at the door +he covered his face with his hands, and his shoulders shook like a +child whose heart is broken, as his feet in that outer room crunched on +the shattered glass of the lamp that would never burn again. He dashed +the tears from his eyes, and for a moment stared unseeingly before him, +then turned and went back to Gaston's side again in the inner room. + +Gaston's eyes searched his face eagerly. + +"It burns?" he cried out. + +"It burns," said Jean steadily. + +And Gaston smiled, and the stupor fell upon him again. + +And then after a long time Jean heard footsteps without, then the +opening of the front door--and then it seemed to Jean that a +benediction had fallen upon the room. + +Framed in the doorway, a little worn black bag in his hand, his +_soutane_ splashed high with mud though it was caught up now around his +waist with a cord, stood Father Anton, the beloved of all +Bernay-sur-Mer. And, as he stood there and the kindly blue eyes +searched the figure on the bed, the fine old face, under its crown of +silver hair, grew very grave--and without moving from his position he +beckoned to Jean. + +"Jean, my son," he said softly, "make our little Marie-Louise here put +on dry clothing. I will be a little while with Gaston alone." + +Marie-Louise was standing behind the priest. Father Anton stepped +aside for Jean to pass--and then the door dosed quietly. + +"Jean!"--she caught his arm. "Jean tell me!" + +Jean did not answer--there were no words with which to answer her. + +"Oh, Jean!" she said--and a little sob broke her voice. + +"Go and put on dry things, Marie-Louise," he said. + +"No--not now," she answered. "Give me your hand." + +They stood there in the darkness. He felt her hand tremble. Neither +spoke. Father Anton's voice, in a low, constant murmur, came to them +now. + +Her hand tightened. + +"I know," she said. "It is the Sacrament." + +"He said he had taught you to be never afraid," said Jean. + +Her hand tightened again. + +It was a long while. And then the door behind them opened, and Father +Anton came between them, and drew Marie-Louise's head to his bosom and +stroked her hair, and placed his other arm around Jean's shoulders--and +for a moment he stood like that--and then he drew them to the window. + +"See, my children," he said gently, "there are the stars, and there is +peace after the storm. It is so with sorrow, for out of the blackness +of grief God brings us comfort in His own good pleasure. He has called +Gaston home." + + + + +-- II -- + +THE BEACON + +It was half clay, half mud; but out of it one could fashion the little +_poupées_, the dolls for the children. They would not last very long, +it was true; but then one fashioned them quickly, and there was delight +in making them. + +Jean dug a piece of the clay with his sheaf knife, leaned over from the +bank of the little creek, and moistened it in the water. He dug +another, moistened that, moulded the two together--and Marie-Louise +smiled at him a little tremulously, as their eyes met. + +The tears were very near to those brave dark eyes since three days ago. +Jean mechanically added a third piece of clay to the other two. Much +had happened in those three days--all Bernay-sur-Mer seemed changed +since that afternoon when Gaston, so Marie-Louise had told him, seeing +a boat adrift and fearing there might be some one in it, had tried +during a lull in the storm to reach it with her assistance, and an oar +had broken, and the tide on the ebb had driven them close to the +Perigeau where they had swamped, and somehow Gaston had been flung upon +the outer edges of the reef, and the boat, sodden, weighted, following, +had crushed him against the rocks. + +Jean looked at Marie-Louise again. She was all in black now--she and +good Mother Fregeau had made the dress between them for the church that +morning, when Father Anton had said the mass for Gaston. But +Marie-Louise was not looking at him--her elbows were on the ground, her +chin was cupped in her hands, and the long black lashes veiled her +eyes. She had not told him any more of the story--Jean could picture +that for himself. How many times must she have risked her life to have +pulled Gaston to the rocks higher up upon the reef! A daughter of +France, Gaston had called her. _Bon Dieu_, but she was that, with her +courage and her strength! One would not think the strength was there, +but then the black dress did not cling like the wet clothes that other +night to show the litheness of the rounded limbs. + +His fingers began to work into the clay, unnaturally diffident and +hesitant at first, not with the deft certainty of their custom, but as +though groping tentatively for something that was curiously intangible, +that eluded them. Marie-Louise, as she had been that night, was living +before him again--the lines of her form so full of grace and so +beautiful, so full of the virility of her young womanhood, the shapely +head, the hair streaming in abandon about her shoulders--and it was +like and yet not like that great bronze statue so often in his dreams, +imaginary and yet so real, that was set in the midst of that great city +in a great square. And then suddenly, strangely, of their own +volition, it seemed, his fingers, where they had been hesitant before, +began now to work with a sure swiftness. + +His eyes were drinking in the contour of Marie-Louise's face in a rapt, +eager, subconscious way. There was something deeper there than the +mere prettiness of feature, something that was impressing itself in an +absorbing, insistent way upon him. Her face made him think of the face +of that statue--there was a hint of masculinity that brought with it no +coarseness, nor robbed it of its sweetness or its charm, but like that +massive face of bronze that towered high, that people with uplifted +heads stood and gazed upon, that none passed by without a pause, +stamped it with calm fearlessness; and courage and resolve outshone all +else and alone was dominant there. + +Marie-Louise sat up suddenly from the ground and turned toward him, her +brows gathered in a pretty, puzzled way. + +"Why do you look at me like that, Jean?" she demanded abruptly. "And +what are you doing there? It is not the doll you promised to make for +little Ninon Lachance--it is much too big." She leaned forward. "What +are you making?" + +"_Ma foi_!" Jean muttered, with a little start--and stared at the lump +of clay. "I--I do not know." + +"Well, then," said Marie-Louise gravely, "don't do any more. I want to +talk to you, Jean." + +"How, not do any more!" protested Jean whimsically. "Was it not you +who said, 'We will go to the creek this afternoon and make _poupées_'? +And look"--he jerked his hand toward a large basket on the ground +beside him--"to do that I shall perhaps not keep my promise to meet the +_Lucille_ when she comes in and bring a panier of fish to Jacques +Fregeau at the Bas Rhône. And now you say, 'Don't do any more'!" + +"Yes; I know," admitted Marie-Louise. "But I want to talk to you. +Listen, Jean. To-morrow Mother Fregeau must go back to the Bas Rhône. +She has been too long away in her kindness now. You know how she came +to me the next morning after Uncle Gaston died, and put her arms around +me and has stayed ever since." + +Jean shifted the lump of clay a little away from Marie-Louise, but his +fingers still worked on. + +"She has a heart of gold," asserted Jean. "Who should know any better +than I, who have lived with her all these years?" + +Marie-Louise's eyes travelled slowly in a half tender, half pensive way +over Jean. His coat was off; the loose shirt was open at the neck +displaying the muscular shoulders, and the sleeves were rolled up over +the brown, tanned arms; the powerful hands, powerful for all their +long, slim, tapering fingers, worked on and on; the black hair +clustered truantly, as it always did, over the broad, high forehead. +She had known Jean all her life, as many years as she could remember, +and her love for him was very deep. It had come to seem her life, that +love; and each night in her prayers she had asked the _bon Dieu_ to +bless and take care of Jean, and to make her a good wife to him when +that time should come. It was so great, that love, that sometimes it +frightened her--somehow it was frightening her now, for there was a +side to Jean that, well as she knew him, she felt intuitively she had +never been able to understand. + +She spoke abruptly again, a little absently. + +"I do not know yet what I am to do. There is the house, and Father +Anton says I must not live there alone." + +"But, no!" agreed Jean. "Of course not! That is what I say, too. It +is all the more reason why we should not wait any longer, you and I, +Marie-Louise." + +A tinge of colour crept shyly into Marie-Louise's face, as she shook +her head. + +"No; we must wait, Jean. It is too soon after--after poor Uncle +Gaston." + +"But it was Gaston's wish, that," persisted Jean gently. "Have I not +told you what he said, _petite_?" + +Again Marie-Louise shook her head. + +"But one is sad for all that," she answered. "And to go to the church, +Jean, when one is sad, when one should go so happy! Oh, I want to be +happy then, Jean. I do not want to think of anything that day but only +you, Jean--and sing, and there must be sunshine and fête. But now, for +a little while, it is Uncle Gaston. You do not think that wrong?" + +"No," said Jean slowly, "it is not wrong, and I understand; but then, +too, Gaston would understand, for it was his wish." + +Marie-Louise bent forward with a strange little impulsive movement. + +"That is twice you have said that, Jean," she said. "I--I almost wish +Uncle Gaston had not said what he did to you that night. Jean, it--it +is not what he said, nor what you said to him. That must not make any +difference. Never, never, Jean! One does not marry for that--it is +only if there is love." + +"_Mais, 'cré nom_!" exclaimed Jean, suddenly setting aside his clay and +catching Marie-Louise's face between his hands. "Why do you talk like +that? What queer fancies are in that little head? Now, tell me"--he +kissed her lips, while the blood rushed crimson to her cheeks--"tell +me, is that not answer enough? And have we not loved each other long +before that night, and does not all Bernay-sur-Mer know that it will +dance at the _noces_?" + +"Yes," whispered Marie-Louise, a little breathlessly. + +"Ah, then," said Jean tenderly, "you must not talk like that. What, +Marie-Louise, if I should say to myself, 'now perhaps Marie-Louise has +not loved me all these years, and--'" + +She drew hurriedly away. + +"Don't, Jean!" she said quickly. "It hurts, that! I love you so much +that sometimes I am afraid. And to-day I am afraid. I do not know +why. And sometimes it is so different. That night on the reef when I +thought that soon the rocks would be covered and that there was no help +for Uncle Gaston and myself, and that no one could come to us even if +we were seen, I saw your lantern and the _bon Dieu_ told me it was you +and I had no more fear. I was so sure then--so sure then. Oh, Jean, +you must be very good to me to-day. It--it was so hard"--the dark eyes +were swimming now with tears--"to say good-bye to Uncle Gaston. +Perhaps it is that that is making me feel so strangely. But sometimes +it seems as though it could never be, the great happiness for you and +me, it is so great to think about that--that it frightens me. And I +have wanted to talk to you about it, Jean, often and often. Does it +make you very glad and happy, too, to think of just you and me together +here, and our home, and the fishing, and--and years and years of it?" + +"But, yes; of course!" smiled Jean; and, picking up the clay again, +began to scrape at it with his knife. + +"But are you sure, Jean?"--there was a little tremor in her voice. "I +do not mean so much that you are sure you love me, but that you are +sure you would always be happy to stay here in Bernay-sur-Mer. You are +not like the other men." + +"How not like them?" Jean demanded, surveying in an absorbed sort of +way the little clay figure that was taking on rough outline now. "How +not like them?" + +"Well--that!"--Marie-Louise pointed at the clay in his hands. "That, +for one thing--that you are always playing with, that it seems you +cannot put aside for an instant, even though I asked you to a moment +ago. You are always making the _poupées_, and if not the _poupées_ +with mud and dirt, then you must waste the inside of Mother Fregeau's +loaves that she bakes herself, or steal the dough before it reaches the +oven to keep your fingers busy making little faces and droll things out +of it." + +Jean looked up to stare at Marie-Louise a little perplexedly. + +"_Mais, zut_!" he exclaimed. "And what of that! And if I amuse myself +that way, what of that? It is nothing!" + +"Nevertheless," Marie-Louise insisted, nodding her head earnestly, "it +is true what I have said--that you are not like the other men in +Bernay-sur-Mer. Do you think that I have not watched you, Jean? And +have you not said little things to show that you grow tired of the +fishing?" + +"But that is true of everybody," Jean protested. "Does not Father +Anton say that all the world is poor because there is none in it who is +contented? And if I grumble sometimes, do not all the others do the +same? Pierre Lachance will swear to you twice every hour that the +fishing is a dog's life." + +She shook her head. + +"It is different," she said. "You are not Pierre Lachance, Jean, and I +want you to be happy all your life--that is what I ask the _bon Dieu_ +for always in my prayers. And I do not know why these thoughts come, +and I do not understand them, only I know that they are there." + +"Then--_voilà_! We will drive them away, and they must never come +back!" Jean burst out, half gaily, half gravely. "See, now, +Marie-Louise"--he caught her hand in both of his, putting aside the +lump of clay again--"it is true that sometimes I am like that, and I do +not understand either; but one must take things as they are, is that +not so?" + +She nodded--a little doubtfully. + +"Well, then," cried Jean, "why should I not be happy here? Have I not +you, and is that not most of all? And as for the rest, do I not do +well with the fishing? Is there any who does better? Do they not +speak of the luck of Jean Laparde? _'Cré nom_! Different from the +others! Who is a fisherman if it is not I, who have been a fisherman +all my life? And of what good is it to wish for anything else? What +else, even if I wanted to, could I do? I do not know anything else but +the boats and the nets. Is it not so, Marie-Louise?" + +"Y-yes," she said, and her eyes lifted to meet his. + +"And happy!" he went on. "Ah, Marie-Louise, with those bright eyes of +yours that belong all to me, who could be anything but happy? _Tiens_! +You are to be my little wife, and Bernay-sur-Mer and the blue water is +to be our home, and we will fish together, and you shall sing all day +in the boat, and--well, what more is there to ask for?" + +"Oh, Jean!"--she was smiling now. + +"There, you see!" said Jean, and burst out laughing. "Marie-Louise is +herself again, and--_pouf_!--the blue devils are blown away. And now +wait until I have finished this, and I will show you something"--he +picked up the clay once more. "Only you must not look until it is +done." + +"Mustn't I? Oh!"--with a little _moue_ of resignation. "Well, then, +hurry, Jean," she commanded, and cupped her chin in her hands again, +her elbows propped upon the ground. + +It was playfully that Jean turned his back upon her, hiding his work, +but as his fingers began again to draw and model the clay and his knife +to chisel it, the smile went slowly from his face and his lips grew +firmly closed. It was strange that Marie-Louise should have known! It +was true, the fishing grew irksome too often now; for those moods, like +the mood in the storm, came very often, much more often than they had +been wont to do. He had laughed at her, but that was only to pretend, +to chase the sadness away and make her eyes shine again. It was true, +too, as he had told her, that one must take things as they were. +Whether he wanted to fish or not, he must fish--_voilà_! How else +could one make the _sous_ with which to live? + +Oh, yes, he had laughed to make her laugh; but now, _pardieu_! it was +bringing that mood upon himself. Where was that great city and that +great square, and what was that great statue before which the people +stood rapt and spellbound, and why should it come so often to his +thoughts and be so real as though it were a very truth and not some +queer imagination of his brain? There were wonderful things in the +face of that bronze figure. He leaned a little forward toward the clay +before him, his lips half parted now, his fingers seeming to tingle +with a life, throbbing, palpitant, that was all their own, that was +apart from him entirely, for they possessed a power of movement and a +purpose that he had nothing to do with. He became absorbed in his +work, lost in it. Time passed. + +"Jean," Marie-Louise called out, "let me see it now." + +"Wait!" he said almost harshly. "Wait! Wait! Wait!" + +"_Jean_!"--it was a hurt little cry. + +He did not hear her. There was something at the base of that statue of +his dreams that always troubled him, that the people always pointed at +as they gazed; but he had never been able to make out what it was there +at the base of the statue. It was very strange that he was never able +to see that, when he could see the figure of the woman with the +wonderful face so plainly! + +He worked on and on. There were neither hours nor minutes--the +afternoon deepened. There was no creek, no Marie-Louise, no +Bernay-sur-Mer, nothing--only those dreams and the little clay figure +in his hands. + +And then Marie-Louise, her face a little white, timidly touched his arm. + +"Jean!" she said hesitantly. + +Her voice roused him. It seemed as though he was awakened from a +sleep. He brushed the hair back from his eyes, and looked around. + +"_Mon Dieu_," he said, "but that was, strange!" And then he smiled, +still a little dazed, and lifted around the clay figure for her to see. +"I do not know if it is finished," he said, staring at it; "but perhaps +I could do no better with it even if I worked longer." + +Marie-Louise's eyes, puzzled, anxious, on Jean's face, shifted to the +little clay figure--and their expression changed instantly. + +"But, Jean!" she cried, clasping her hands. "But, Jean, that is not a +_poupée_ you have made there. It--it will never do at all! Ninon +Lachance would break the arms off at the first minute, and it is too +_charmante_ for that. Oh, but, Jean, it--it is _adorable_!" + +Jean was inspecting the figure in a curiously abstracted way, as though +he had never seen it before, turning his head now to this side, now to +that, and turning the clay around and around in his hands to examine it +from all angles, while a heightened colour crept into his face and dyed +his cheeks. It was a small figure, hardly a foot and a half in +height--the figure of a fisherwoman, barefooted, in short skirts, the +clothes as though windswept clinging close around her limbs, her arms +stretched out as to the sea. He laughed a little unnaturally. + +"Well, then, since it will not do for Ninon Lachance, and you like it, +Marie-Louise," he said a little self-consciously; "it is for you." + +"For me--Jean? Really for me?" she asked happily. + +"And why not?" said Jean. "Since it _is_ you." + +"Me!"--she looked at him in a prettily bewildered way. + +"But, yes," said Jean, holding the figure off at arm's length. "See, +it is a beacon--the welcome of the fisherman home from the sea. And +are you not that, Marie-Louise, and will you not stand on the shore at +evening and hold out your arms for me as I pull home in the boat? Are +you not the beacon, Marie-Louise--for me?" + +Her hand stole over one of his and pressed it, but it was a moment +before she spoke. + +"I will pray to the _bon Dieu_ to make me that, Jean--always," she said +softly. + +He drew her close to him. + +"It is the luck of Jean Laparde!" he whispered tenderly. + +They sat for a little time in silence--then Jean sprang sharply to his +feet. + +"_Ma foi_, Marie-Louise!" he called out in sudden consternation, +glancing at the sun. "I did not know we had been here so long." He +picked up the little clay figure hastily, placed it in the basket, +threw his coat, that was on the ground, over it, and, swinging the +basket to the crook of his arm, held out his hand to Marie-Louise. +"Come, _petite_, we will hurry back." + +It was not far across the fields and down the little rise to the road +that paralleled the beach; and in some five minutes, walking quickly, +they came out upon the road itself by the turn near the rough wooden +bridge that crossed the creek halfway between the eastern headland and +the white, clustering cottages of Bernay-sur-Mer. But here, for all +their hurry, they paused suddenly of one accord, looking at each other +questioningly, as voices reached them from the direction of the bridge +which, still hidden from their view, was just around the bend of the +road ahead. + + * * * * * + +"But, my dear"--it was a man speaking, his tone a sort of tolerant +protest--"I am sure it is just the place we have been looking for. It +is quiet here." + +"Quiet!"--it was a woman's voice this time, in a wealth of irony. "It +is stagnation! There isn't a single thing alive here--even the sea is +dead! It is enough to give one the blues for the rest of one's life! +And the accommodations at that unspeakable tavern are absolutely +appalling. I can't imagine what you are dreaming of to want to stay +another minute! I'm quite sure there are lots of other places that +will furnish all the rest and quiet required, and where, at the same +time, we can at least be comfortable. Anyway, I'm not going to stay +here!" + +"But, Myrna, you--" + +"There is some one coming," said the girl. + + * * * * * + +Jean and Marie-Louise were walking forward again. + +"What are they saying, Jean?" asked Marie-Louise. + +Jean shook his head. + +"I do not know," he answered. "It is English. See! There they are!" + +An elderly, well-dressed man, grey-haired, clean-shaven, a little +stout, with a wholesomely good-natured, ruddy face, was leaning against +the railing of the bridge; and beside him, digging at the planks with +the tip of her parasol, stood a girl in dainty white, her head bent +forward, her face hidden under the wide brim of a picture hat. + +Jean's eyes, attracted as by a magnet, passed over the man and fixed +upon the girl. At Nice, at Monte Carlo, so they said, one saw many +such as she; but Bernay-sur-Mer was neither Nice nor Monte Carlo, and +he had never seen a woman gowned like that before. _'Cré nom_, what +exquisite harmony of line and poise! If she would but look up! _Bon +Dieu_, but it would be a desecration of the picture if she were not +gloriously pretty! + +The gentleman, nodding pleasantly, greeted them as they approached. + +"Good afternoon!" he said smilingly, in French. + +The girl had raised her head, grey eyes sweeping Marie-Louise with well +bred indifference--and Jean was staring at her. + +"_Bon jour, m'sieu_!"--he spoke mechanically, lifted his cap +mechanically. + +His eyes had not left the girl's face. He could not take his eyes from +her face. It was a wonderful face, a beautiful face, and something in +it thrilled him and bade him feast his eyes upon it to drink in its +beauty. And, his head thrown back exposing the bare rugged neck, the +broad, sturdy shoulders unconsciously squared a little, the fine, dark +eyes wide with admiration and a strange, keen appraisement, the +splendid physique, the strength, the power and vigour of young manhood +outstanding in face and form, he gazed at her. And her eyes, from +Marie-Louise, met his, and from them faded their expression of +indifference, and into them came something Jean could not define, only +that as the blood rushed suddenly unbidden to his face and he felt it +hot upon his cheeks, he saw the colour ebb from hers to a queer +whiteness--and then her hat hid her face again--and he had passed by. + +It was as though his veins were running fire. He glanced at +Marie-Louise. Shyly diffident in the presence of strangers, her head +was lowered. She had seen nothing. Seen nothing! Seen what? He did +not know. His blood was tingling, his brain was confusion. + +He walked on, hurrying unconsciously. + +It was Marie-Louise who spoke. + +"They are of the _grand monde_," she said in a sort of wondering +excitement, when they were out of ear-shot. + +"Yes," said Jean absently. + +"And English or American." + +"Yes," said Jean. + +"But the rich people do not come to Bernay-sur-Mer where there is no +amusement for them," she submitted with a puzzled air. "I wonder what +they are going to do here?" + +Jean's eyes were on the road. He did not raise them. + +"Who knows!" said Jean Laparde. + + + + +-- IV -- + +STRANGERS WITHIN THE GATES + +"Until to-morrow"--the words kept echoing in Jean's ears, as he hurried +now on his way back to the Bas Rhône. "Until to-morrow"--Marie-Louise +had called to him, as he had left the house on the bluff after taking +her home. Well, what was there unusual in that! Though he went often, +he did not go to see Marie-Louise every evening, and it was not the +first time she had ever said it. Why should he be vaguely conscious of +a sort of relief that she had said "until to-morrow" on this particular +occasion? It was a very strange way to feel--but then his mind was in +the most curiously jumbled state! That meeting at the bridge of less +than half an hour ago obsessed him. Where had they come from, these +strangers? How long were they going to stay? Or, perhaps--an +unaccountable dismay suddenly seized him--perhaps they had already +gone! But Papa Fregeau, of course, would know all that--therefore, +naturally, he was impatient to reach the Bas Rhône and Papa Fregeau. + +The empty basket on his arm, for Marie-Louise had taken the beacon and +he had forgotten all about Papa Fregeau's fish, Jean paused as he +reached the bridge. It was here that look had passed between them. He +would never forget that. It meant nothing--he was not a fool--it could +mean nothing. It was only a look, only an instant in which those grey +eyes had met his--but he would never forget it! + +He hurried on again. + +Perhaps he had imagined that expression, that flash, that spark, that +something that was impellingly magnetic in those grey eyes. No, he had +not imagined it; he had felt it, known it, sensed it. In that one +instant something had passed between them that in all his life he would +never forget--it had left him like a man adrift on a shoreless sea with +the startling wonder of it. She was of the _grand monde_--Marie-Louise +had said it. And he was a fisherman. She could have no interest in a +fisherman; and what interest could a fisherman--bah, it was pitifully +laughable! But it was not laughable! If he could only define that +look! It was as if--_bon Dieu_, what was it!--as if she were a woman +and he were a man. Yes; it was that! It was only for a moment, by now +she would have forgotten it; but for that moment it had been that. +Only, whereas she would have forgotten, with him it remained. It was +curious--her form was even more like that dream statue than was +Marie-Louise's. If by any chance she should already have gone! The +thought, recurring, brought once more that twinge of dismay. Was it +strange that he should want to see her again! True, she would never +look at him like that a second time, she had been off her guard for +that little instant when there had been no _grand monde_ and no +fisherman, but she was still the same beautiful woman, glorious in form +and face--and the allurement of her presence was like some rare, +exquisite fragrance stealing upon the senses, enslaving them. + +And now, as he approached the little village, and passed the first +cottage, with the Bas Rhône in sight beyond, he found himself eagerly +searching the beach, the single street for sign of her. But there was +no sign. Everything about the village was as it always was every early +evening in Bernay-sur-Mer, when it was summer and the light held late. +Strewn out along the beach, the men were at work upon their boats and +nets; the children played about the doorways; through the open doors +one could see the women busy over the evening meal--nothing else! And +surely there would have been some stir of excitement if the strangers +were still there, at least amongst the children--it was an event, that, +to Bernay-sur-Mer. They had gone then, evidently! + +Jean's eyes lifted from a fruitless sweep of the beach to fix on the +figure of Papa Fregeau emerging on the run from the Bas Rhône. + +"The fish, Jean! The fish!" the fat little man called out breathlessly. + +"The fish?" repeated Jean--and then, a little sheepishly, stared into +the empty basket. + +Papa Fregeau, who had reached Jean's side, was staring into it too. + +"Yes--the fish! The fish!" he shouted. "Where are the fish you +promised to bring back?" + +And then Jean laughed. + +"Why," said Jean, "I--I think I must have forgotten them." + +Papa Fregeau was excited. He began to dance up and down, his fat +paunch shaking like jelly. + +"Idiot! Imbecile!" he stormed. "Have I not had trouble enough without +this! _Sacré bleu de misericorde_! What an afternoon! And you +laugh--_bête_, that you are! And now what shall I do?" + +"Do?" said Jean---and stopped laughing. "What is the matter?" + +"Matter!" spluttered the patron of the Bas Rhône. "Matter! Have I not +told you what is the matter? The fish!" + +"Yes, but a few fish," said Jean, eyeing the other in a half puzzled +way. "What are a few fish that you--" + +"You do not understand!"--Papa Fregeau was still dancing up and down as +he kept step with Jean, who had now started on again toward the Bas +Rhône. "Listen! They are Americans of Paris, they say! They arrive +in an automobile this afternoon--mademoiselle and her father, the maid +and the chauffeur. It is fine, they stop at the Bas Rhône and engage +rooms. Excellent! Nothing could be better. There is profit in that. +I carry the trunks, the valises, a multitude of effects that are +strapped all over the automobile to the rooms, and am on the point of +sending for Mother Fregeau at Marie-Louise's. _Sapristi_--I do not +pretend to be a cook! They start out for a walk, the mademoiselle and +her father--and the mademoiselle, before they are out of sight from the +window, returns to say that they will not stay, that I shall repack +everything on that accursed car in readiness for their departure on the +return from their walk. _Tourment de Satan_!--very good, I repack it. +And now you bring no fish!" + +Jean shrugged his shoulders. + +"Well, since they are gone, what does it matter?" + +"Gone! _Tonnerre_!"--Papa Fregeau's face was apoplectic, and his fat +cheeks puffed in and out like toy balloons. "Gone! Have I not told +you that they are not gone!" + +"You have told me nothing"--there was a sudden, quick interest in +Jean's voice. "They are gone--and they are not gone! What are you +talking about?" + +"I do not know what I am talking about!" snapped Papa Fregeau fiercely. +"How should I know! It is first this, then that, then this, then +that--it is a _badauderie_! She is crazy, the girl; the father is no +better; the maid, Nanette, is a hussy. She slapped my face when I but +paid her a pretty compliment; and Jules, the chauffeur, is a pig who +lies on his back under the infernal machine and will not lift a finger +with the baggage. Wait! Listen! Come here!" He pulled Jean in +through the door and across the café to the bar at the far end of the +room, where he hastily decanted a glass of cognac and tossed it off. +"See! Listen!" he went on excitedly, replenishing his glass. "I +repack everything on the machine again, which is out there behind the +tavern. I climb the stairs and I descend the stairs three dozen times, +there is always one more package. And then fifteen minutes ago +mademoiselle returns from her walk alone, and waves her +hands--_pouf_!--just like that--and she says: 'Monsieur Fregeau, we +will stay; take the baggage back to the rooms!' _C'est insupportable, +ça_!" Papa Fregeau flung out his arms in abandoned despair. "And now +there is no supper for them. _Sapristi_, I am no cook; but I could +cook fish if you, _misérable_ that you are, had brought them--heh! And +it is too late now to send for Mother Fregeau." + +Jean was paying but slender attention. They had not gone! They were +going to stay! + +"Get Madame Lachance, next door, to help you," he said absently. Then +abruptly: "Mademoiselle returned alone, you say--and what of monsieur, +her father?" + +Papa Fregeau made a gulp at his second glass. + +"He is impossible!" he choked. "With him it is the sunset! Who ever +heard of such a thing! He is on the beach to gaze at the sunset! _Nom +d'un nom_, is it extraordinary that the sun should set! But it is not +him, it is mademoiselle. I am sure he knows nothing of all this, and +concerns himself less. It is mademoiselle's doing. And I have had +enough! I will not any longer be made a fool of!" He banged his pudgy +fist on the _comptoir_. "Is it to stand on my head that I am patron of +the Bas Rhône! _Sacré bleu_! I will not support it! I tell you that +I will not--" Papa Fregeau's mouth remained wide open. + +"Monsieur Fregeau!" a voice called softly in excellent French from the +rear door. "Nanette is struggling with a valise on the back stairs +that is much too heavy for her, and perhaps if you--" + +Papa Fregeau's mouth closed, opened again--and, in his haste to make a +bow, the cognac glass became a shower of tinkling splinters on the +floor. + +"But _immediatement_! Instantly, Mademoiselle!" cried Papa Fregeau +effusively. "On the moment! A valise that is too heavy for her! It +is a sacrilege! It is unpardonable! Instantly, Mademoiselle, on the +instant! On the moment!"--and he rushed from the room. + +She stood in the doorway; and, from under bewitchingly half closed +lids, the grey eyes met Jean's. And under her gaze that was quite +calm, unruffled, self-possessed now, the blood rushed tingling again +through his veins, and again he felt it mounting to his cheeks. She +wore no hat now; and, with the sun's last rays through the doorway +falling softly upon her wealth of hair, it was as though it were a +wondrously woven mass of glinting bronze that crowned her head. + +Jean's cap was in his hand. + +"Oh!" she said. "You are the"--there was just a trace of hesitation +over the choice of the word--"the man who passed us on the bridge a +little while ago, aren't you?" + +There was something, a sort of indefinable challenge, in the voice and +eyes, a carelessness that, well as it was simulated, was not wholly +genuine. Jean's eyes met the grey ones, held them--and suddenly he +smiled, accepting the challenge. + +"It is good of mademoiselle to recognise me," he answered. + +She stared at him for an instant, her eyes opening wide; and then, with +a contagious, impulsive laugh, she came forward into the room. + +"Of course!" she cried. "You would answer like that! I knew it! You +are less like a fisherman, for all your clothes, than any man I ever +saw." + +"I?" said Jean, in quick surprise. It was strange she had said that! +It was only that afternoon that Marie-Louise had said almost the same +thing. Not like a fisherman! Why not? What was this imagined +difference between himself and the other men in Bernay-sur-Mer? + +"Yes; you," she returned briskly. "And now I suppose you will tell me +that you were born here, and have lived here all your life?" + +"But yes, mademoiselle," he smiled again, and shrugged his shoulders; +"since it is so. I have never been anywhere else." + +"And since it is so, it must be so," she nodded. "What is your name?" + +"Jean Laparde," he replied. + +"Jean"--she repeated the word deliberately. "I like Jean," she +decided, nodding her head again. "I like Laparde, too, but I will call +you Jean." + +Jean's eyes met hers a little quizzically. She carried things by +assault, this beautiful American girl! There was a certain element of +intimacy, an air of proprietorship adopted toward him that somehow, at +one and the same time, quickened his pulse at the vague promise that +they would not be strangers if only she should stay in Bernay-sur-Mer, +and piqued his man-mind at the hint of mastery being snatched from him. + +"All call me Jean," he said quietly. + +"Then that is settled!" she announced brightly. "Now tell me--Jean. +Is there any other place in the village besides this impossible Taverne +du Bas Rhône where we could stay for a week--a month--as long as we +liked?" + +"A week--a month!"--Jean leaned suddenly toward her, an incredulous +delight unconsciously spontaneous in his voice. "You are going to stay +that long? But Papa Fregeau said you had no sooner arrived than you +decided to go again, and--" + +"Your Papa Fregeau has a tongue that runs away with him," she +interrupted quickly. "One may change one's mind, I suppose? This +place will do for to-night; but afterwards--surely there is some other +place where we could stay?" + +Jean shook his head. + +"There is only the Bas Rhône," he said slowly. "I--I am afraid--" + +"And now, after all, you are going to be stupid!" she exclaimed +reproachfully. + +What was it? What did she mean? It was not the words--they were +nothing. It was the tone, her eyes, an appeal in the exquisite grace +of the lithe form bending toward him, the touch of the fingers laid +lightly on his sleeve, that look again that levelled all barriers +between them--until she was a woman and he was a man. His mind was in +riot. He was a fool! And yet, fool or no, the thought would come. +Why did she want to stay now? Papa Fregeau had said that almost on +their arrival they had decided to go on. It was during her walk that +she had changed her mind. What had happened on that walk to make her +change her mind? A walk in Bernay-sur-Mer was not full of incident! +It was ridiculous, absurd, fantastical, but it was there, the thought, +sweeping him with a surge of wild emotion--was it that meeting on the +bridge? But why? How? He was a rough-garbed fisherman, and she-- + +She laughed delightedly. + +"What a frown! How fierce you are! Is it then such a terrible affair +to help me a little--Jean?" + +"_Mon Dieu_!" cried Jean--and the words were on his lips with a rush. +"But--_no_!" + +"Oh!" she murmured, and drew back a little; and the colour, rising, +glowed pink through her cheeks. "You _are_ impulsive, aren't you? +Well, then, since you are to help me, what are we to do?" + +Jean's eyes were revelling in that pink flush. It was satisfying to +the man-mind, that--even though she were of the _grand monde_ then, a +woman was a woman after all. It was a sort of turning of the tables, +that added to the magnetism of her presence because it put him suddenly +more at his ease. But to help her--that was another matter. +Bernay-sur-Mer was--Bernay-sur-Mer! _Voilà tout_! Apart from the Bas +Rhône there was no accommodation for strangers, for there was nothing +stranger than strangers in Bernay-sur-Mer. Since then there was no +other place for them to go, he could think of no other place. And yet, +a week, a month--to think that she would spend that time in +Bernay-sur-Mer! _Ciel_! Where were his brains? + +"Well?" she prompted, with alluring imperiousness. + +It was the force of habit. In trouble, in perplexity, in joy, in +sorrow, for counsel, for advice there was but one court of appeal in +Bernay-sur-Mer--the good Father Anton. The rôle of Father Anton was +not only spiritual--it was secular. Bernay-sur-Mer was a child and +Father Anton was its parent--it had always been so. + +"I will ask Father Anton," said Jean. + +"Father Anton? Who is Father Anton?" she demanded. + +"He is the curé," Jean answered. "I do not know of any place, but +Father Anton will know if there is any, and--" + +"Splendid!" she broke in excitedly. "Let us go and ask Father Anton at +once. Come along"--she crossed the café to the front door. "Come +along, Jean, and show me the way." + +Yes, certainly, she carried things by assault this American girl. She +bubbled with life and vivacity. And he was to walk with her now to +Father Anton's--half an hour ago he would as soon have dreamed of +possessing a fortune! It was incredible! It must be a marvellous +world that, where she came from--but no, even the women of her world +could not be like her! The suppleness of her form, it was divine; the +carriage, the poise, the smile--it was intoxication, it went to the +senses! + +"I am mad! It is as though--as though I were drunk with wine!" Jean +muttered--and followed her across the room. + +"Now where is this Father Anton of yours?"--as Jean joined her outside +the tavern. + +"There," said Jean, and pointed along the street. "Do you see the +church--behind the second cottage? Well, it is there--just on the +other side." + +She nodded--and Jean, glancing at her, found that she was not looking +in that direction at all. Instead, she seemed wholly engaged in +watching a boat start shoreward, as it pulled away from the side of a +smack anchored out in the bay. Father Anton might have been the last +thing that concerned her. Jean's eyes, a little puzzled, followed +hers. When he looked up again, the grey eyes were laughing at him. + +"Is it quite safe out there?" she asked, waving her hand. + +"Safe?" repeated Jean, in a bewildered way. + +"Stupid!" she cried merrily. "Yes, of course--safe! If I am to stay +here, I cannot lie all day upon the beach and do nothing. You have a +boat, haven't you, Jean?" + +"But, yes," said Jean. + +"Then I am quite sure it will be safe," she decided. "I must have a +boat, and, of course, a boatman. You will be the boatman, Jean. Oh, I +really believe that, after all, Bernay-sur-Mer will be possible. There +will be places where we can go, little excursions, and heaps of things +like that. There, that is settled! And now I am more eager than ever +to see Father Anton." + +Yes; it was settled! It was phrase of hers, that! To have demurred +would have been as impossible as to have said no. And, besides, he had +no wish to either demur or refuse. It seemed as though he were hurried +forward captive into some strange, unknown land of enchantment. It +staggered him, bewildered him, lured him, fired his imagination--and +there was no desire to rouse himself from what seemed like a wonderful +dream. No woman that he had ever seen, or imagined was like her. To +spend a day where he could feast his eyes upon her!--and did she not +now talk of many days! Even a fisherman might lift his eyes as high as +that--since she gave him leave. Afterwards, she would go away again; +but, _bon Dieu_, one could at least live in the present! It would be +something to remember! Her eyes were on him again. He felt them +studying him. Her hand brushed his arm. There was a faint, enticing +fragrance of violets in the air about her. + +"You are not very gallant, Jean!" she laughed out. "Aren't you pleased +with the suggestion; or would you rather--fish?" + +They had reached the church, and turned. + +"I was thinking," said Jean, with unconscious naïveté, "that I was +afraid Father Anton would not know of any place." + +She looked at him quickly, a flash in the grey eyes--then the lids +lowered. The next instant she was pointing ahead of her. + +"But there!" she cried out. "There is Monsieur le Curé's house, is it +not?" She clapped her hands in sudden delight. "Why, it is a +play-house, only a make-believe one! And how pretty!" + +Behind the church was a little garden, full-flowered; a little white +fence; a little white gate; and, at the end of the garden, a little +cottage, smaller than any, where none were large, in Bernay-sur-Mer, +and which was white in colour, too, if one might hazard a guess for the +vines that grew over it, covering it, submerging it, clothing it in a +clinging mass of green, until only the little stubby chimney peeked +shyly out from the centre of the slanting roof. + +"Yes," said Jean; "and there is Father Anton himself." + +A bare-headed, silver-haired form in rusty black _soutane_, a watering +pot in hand, was bending over a bed of dahlias; but at the sound of +their approach the priest put down the watering pot, and came hurriedly +toward them to the gate. + +"Ah, Jean, my son!" he cried out heartily--and bowed with old-fashioned +courtliness to Jean's companion. "I heard there were strangers in +Bernay-sur-Mer, mademoiselle; but that they had gone on again. You are +very welcome. Won't you come in?" + +She leaned upon the gate, smiling--and shook her head. + +"No, thank you, Monsieur le Curé. I must not stay long, or my father +will be wondering what could have become of me. The truth is, that +I--we are in trouble, and Jean here has brought me to you." + +"Trouble!" exclaimed Father Anton anxiously, and his face grew suddenly +grave. + +She shook her head again, and laughed. + +"Oh, it is not serious! You see--but I must introduce myself. I am +Myrna Bliss. My father is Henry Bliss--I wonder if you have ever heard +of him? We have lived for years and years in Paris." + +Father Anton was genuinely embarrassed. + +"I--I am afraid I never have," he admitted. + +"Oh, well," she cried gaily, "you mustn't feel badly about it. His is +entirely a reflected glory--that is what I tell him. Art! Everything +is art with him, painting, sculpture, literature; and, as he can do +neither one nor the other himself, he endows a school for this, or a +_société_ for that, and money exists for only one reason--the +advancement of art. And since he calls Paris the home of art, we live +in Paris. But now I am prattling like a school girl"--she laughed +infectiously. + +The curé's old face wrinkled into smiles. + +"It is very interesting, mademoiselle," he said. "And here in +Bernay-sur-Mer I fear we know too little of such things." He reached +across the fence and laid his hand affectionately on Jean's shoulder. +"But it is not quite all our fault, is it, Jean? The _sous_ come hard +with the fishing, and we do not have much time for anything outside our +own little world. I should greatly like to talk with monsieur, your +father. Is it possible that you are to stay a little while here?" + +"If we do"--the girl's face was a picture of roguish merriment--"you +will not be able to escape him, I promise you, Monsieur le Curé--so +beware! But that is our trouble. My father is on what he calls a +little holiday--it is really that he needs rest and quiet. For a man +of his age, what with his own affairs and his 'art,' he is far too +active. Very well. Bernay-sur-Mer is ideal, only--except--Monsieur le +Curé, I am sure, will understand--except the Bas Rhône." + +"Ah, the Bas Rhône!" said Father Anton. "It is that, then--the Bas +Rhône?" + +"Exactly!" she smiled. "And so Jean has brought me to you to suggest +something else for us." + +Father Anton joined his finger tips thoughtfully. + +"Yes; I see," he said. "My good friends, the Fregeaus, would do all in +their power for you, they are most excellent people; but, yes--h'm--I +see. It is a café much more than an inn, and for a café it answers +very well; and, after all, it is not their fault that there are not +proper accommodations for guests. Yes; I am afraid the accommodations +must be very inadequate. But you see, mademoiselle"--Father Anton's +voice had a quaint, gentle note of pleading--"we are quite off the main +road, and it is rare that a stranger stops in Bernay-sur-Mer, and since +they are poor they could not afford, even if they had the money, to +make an investment that would bring no return. But something +else--h'm! Truly, mademoiselle, I do not know--there is certainly no +other place to board." + +"Well, a little furnished cottage then," she suggested. "I have my own +maid, and, if there were some one else to help a little, nothing would +suit us better. Now, Monsieur le Curé, you are not going to be so +heartless as to tell me there are no cottages either!" + +For a moment Father Anton did not answer--then his face broke suddenly +into smiles. + +"But, no, mademoiselle," he declared quickly, nodding his head +delightedly at Jean, "I shall tell you nothing of the sort. One might +say it was almost providential. Nothing could be better! And the +finest cottage in Bernay-sur-Mer, too! Mademoiselle and her father +will be charmed with it--and all day I have been worrying about what to +do with Marie-Louise. Would it not be just the thing, Jean?" + +"_Ma foi_!" gasped Jean in surprise, staring from one to the other. +"The house on the bluff?" + +"And what else?" said Father Anton enthusiastically. "Listen, +mademoiselle; I will explain to you. It is the house out there on the +headland, where Gaston Bernier lived with his niece, Marie-Louise. +Three days ago in the great storm _le pauvre_ Gaston was hurt, and that +night he died. Marie-Louise can no longer live there alone--it is not +right for a young girl. I thought to bring her here to live with me +and my old housekeeper; but now she can rent the house to you, and can +help with the work for she is a very good cook." + +"Father Anton, you are a treasure!" cried Myrna Bliss vivaciously. "We +will take the house. And the rent? Would, say, two hundred francs a +month be right?" + +"Two hundred francs?" repeated Father Anton incredulously, his eyes +widening. + +"Yes; and another hundred for Marie-Louise." + +Three hundred francs! It was not a large sum of money--it was a +fortune! Father Anton, in his years of ministry at Bernay-sur-Mer, +could not remember ever having seen a sum like that all at one time; +also, it was out of all proportion to what he would have thought +Marie-Louise should demand. The good curé's face was a picture with +its mingled emotions--he was torn between a desire that this good +fortune should come to Marie-Louise, and a fear in his honest heart +that he should be privy to the crime of extortion! + +Myrna Bliss laughed at him merrily. + +"Then that is settled!" she announced. "Three hundred francs. There +is nothing more to be said. The only question is, will Marie-Louise +let us have the house?" + +"Mademoiselle," said the old priest, his eyes twinkling, "may I say +it?--you are charming! As for the arrangements, have no fear. I would +go this evening, only I have some sick to visit. But very early in the +morning I will see Marie-Louise, and by the time mademoiselle and her +father have had breakfast the house will be at their disposal." + +She reached her hand across the gate to thank Father Anton and bid the +curé good evening--but Jean no longer heard a word. His mind seemed to +be clashing discordantly; his thoughts in dissension, in open hostility +one to another. She was to live in the house on the bluff. +Marie-Louise was to stay there, too. One moment he saw no objection to +the plan; the next moment, for a thousand vague, fragmentary reasons, +that in their entire thousand would not form a single concrete whole +that he could grasp, he did not like it at all. + +He answered Father Anton's "_au revoir_" mechanically, as they started +back for the Bas Rhône. She was in a hurry now, all life, all +excitement--half running. + +"Did I not tell you, Jean, that I would find just what I wanted?" she +called out in gay spirits. + +She had told him nothing of the sort. + +"Yes," said Jean. + +They reached the Bas Rhône, and there, in the doorway, she turned. + +"I must find my father, and tell him," she said. There was a smile, a +flash of the grey eyes, a glint from the bronze-crowned head, a quick +little impetuous pressure on his arm, a laugh soft and musical as the +rippling of a brook; and then: "Until to-morrow, Jean." + +And she was gone. + +Until to-morrow! The words were strangely familiar. Papa Fregeau was +hurrying through the café. Jean turned away. He had no wish to talk +to Papa Fregeau--or any one else. He walked down to the beach--and his +eyes, across the bay, fixed on the headland. Yes, that was it! Until +to-morrow--that was what Marie-Louise had said--until to-morrow. + +He went on along the beach, his brain feverishly chaotic. She had been +like a vision, a glorious vision, suddenly gone, as she had stood there +in the doorway. Her name was Myrna Bliss. Why not, since Father Anton +could not go that night, why not go to Marie-Louise himself and tell +her about the house? Yes; he would do that. + +He crossed the beach to the road again, and started on--walking +rapidly. As he neared the little bridge, his pace slowed. At the +bridge he halted. Perhaps it would be better not to go--it would be +better left to Father Anton, that! + +"_Sacré bleu_!" cried Jean suddenly aloud. "What is the matter with +me? What has happened?" + +But he went no further along the road; for, after a moment, he turned, +retracing his steps slowly toward Bernay-sur-Mer. + +And so that night Jean did not go to Marie-Louise. But there, at the +house on the bluff, later on, Marie-Louise, after Mother Fregeau had +gone to bed, took the beacon that Jean had made and placed it upon the +table in the front room where, before, that other beacon, the great +lamp, had stood. And for a long time she sat before it, her elbows on +the table, now looking at the little clay figure, now staring through +the window to the headland's point where sometimes she could see the +surf splash silver white in the moonlight. It had been a happy +afternoon in many ways; but there was something that would not let it +be all happiness, for there was confusion in her thoughts. The house +was lonely now, and Uncle Gaston had gone; it did not seem true, it did +not seem that it could be he would not open that door again and come +thumping in with the nets over his shoulders and the wooden floats +bumping on the floor--and the tears unbidden filled her eyes. And her +talk with Jean somehow had not satisfied her, had not dispelled that +intuition that troubled her, for all that he had laughed at her for it; +and they had not, after all, settled what she was to do now that Uncle +Gaston was gone, for, instead of talking more about it, Jean had +forgotten all about her for ever so long while he had worked at the +little clay figure. + +Her eyes, from the window, fastened on the beacon with its open, +outstretched arms--and, suddenly, confusion went and great tenderness +came. He had made it for her, and he had said that--that it _was_ her. + +"Jean's beacon," she said softly. + +And presently she went upstairs to the little attic room, and +undressed, and blew out the candle; and, in her white night-robe, the +black hair streaming over her shoulders, the moonlight upon her, she +knelt beside the bed. + +"Make me that, _mon Père_," she whispered; "make me that--Jean's beacon +all through my life." + + + + +-- V -- + +"WHO IS JEAN LAPARDE?" + +The mattress was of straw--and the straw had probably been garnered in +a previous generation, if not in a prehistoric age! It was so old that +it was a shifting, lumpy mass of brittle chaff, whose individual units +at unexpected moments punctured the ticking and, nettle-wise, stuck +through the coarse sheet. It was not comfortable. It had not been +comfortable all night. Truly, the best that could be said for the Bas +Rhône was that, as Father Anton in his gentle way had taken pains to +make it clear, its proprietors were well-intentioned--and that was a +source of comfort only as far as it went! + +Myrna Bliss wriggled drowsily into another position--and a moment later +wriggled back into the old one. Then she opened her eyes, and stared +about her. The morning sun was streaming in through the window. She +observed this with sleepy amazement. After all then, she must have +slept more than she had imagined, in spite of the awful bed. + +The _lap-lap-lap_ of the sea came to her. In through the open window +floated the voices of children at play in the street; from down on the +beach the sound of men's voices, shouting and calling cheerily to each +other, reached her; from below stairs some sort of a family reunion +appeared to be in progress. She could hear that absurd Papa Fregeau +talking as though he were a soda-water bottle with the cork suddenly +exploded! + +"Ah, _mignonne--chérie_! You are back! You will go away no more--not +for a day! I have been in despair! It is the Americans! I have been +miserable! _Tiens, embrasse-moi_, my little Lucille!" + +There was the commotion of a playful struggle, then the resounding +smack of a kiss--and then a woman's voice. + +"Such a simpleton as you are, _mon_ Jacques!"--it was as though one +were talking to a child. "So they have put you in despair, these +Americans! Well, then, I am back. And listen!"--importantly. "What +do you think?" + +"Think?" cried Papa Fregeau excitedly. "But I do not think!" + +"That is true," was the response; "so I will tell you. They are going +away this morning." + +"_Merci_!" exclaimed Papa Fregeau fervently. "I am very glad!" + +"They are going to Marie-Louise's." + +"To Marie-Louise's!"--incredulously. "You tell me that they are going +to Marie-Louise's?" + +"Yes; to Marie-Louise's, stupid! Father Anton came an hour ago to make +the arrangements. They are to rent the house, and Marie-Louise is to +remain there _en domestique_. Now what have you to say to that?" + +"_Mon Dieu_!" ejaculated Papa Fregeau, with intense earnestness. "That +I am sorry for Marie-Louise!" + +Myrna Bliss laughed softly, delightedly to herself--and then, with a +sudden little gasp, sat bolt upright in bed. The whole thing, +everything since yesterday afternoon had been inconceivably +preposterous--and she herself preposterous most of all! If her father +ever heard the truth of it, what a scene there would be! + +She got out of bed impulsively, walked to the window, and leaned her +elbows on the sill, her brows gathered in a perplexed little frown. +Just what had happened anyway? She had decided ten minutes after they +had arrived in Bernay-sur-Mer that she would die of ennui if she stayed +there. They had started for a walk, she and her father, and, without +saying anything to him, she had turned back and taken it upon herself +to inform this fat, effervescent little hotel proprietor that they +would go on that afternoon. She had intended, during the walk, to tell +her father what she had done, and, in fact, had told him; and then on +her return after that--yes, that meeting on the bridge--she had +countermanded her orders, and not only countermanded them but had even +rented a cottage! Her father had seen nothing extraordinary in it, +which was natural enough--since he left all travelling arrangements to +her. Indeed, on the contrary, as Bernay-sur-Mer had seemed to appeal +to him, he had been rather taken with the idea--if perhaps a trifle +sceptical as to the success of the housekeeping plan. In a word, if +the discovery of what she believed to be suitable accommodations had +induced her to change her mind and stay in Bernay-sur-Mer, it was +perfectly satisfactory to him. The brows smoothed out. As far as her +father was concerned, that was all there was to it. She had been the +practical manager ever since her mother had died five years before. + +The brows puckered up again. Her father would never give it a second +thought, he would never for an instant imagine there was any ulterior +motive for what she had done. How could he--when the real reason was +so utterly absurd, ridiculous and unheard of! Fancy! What would that +select and ultra-exclusive set in Paris say? What if it ever came to +the ears of New York! Myrna Bliss to bury herself alive in a little +Mediterranean village that was probably not even on the map, and all at +a glance from the eyes of a--fisherman! They wouldn't believe it. Who +would believe it! It was unimaginable! + +Dainty little fingers reached up and drummed with their pink tips on +the window pane; the pucker became more pronounced. Well, she _had_ +done it, nevertheless. And why was it so absurd, so ridiculous, so +impossible after all? She would do exactly the same thing over again +without an instant's hesitation. It was quite true the man was a +fisherman--but he did not _look_ like a fisherman. He was magnificent! +It was not ridiculous at all--it was piquantly delightful. Neither was +it so absurdly impossible--if she did not stay in Bernay-sur-Mer, it +would only be to choose some other place equally as tiresome--and +without even a "fisherman" to compensate for it. What a face the man +had! It was not merely handsome, it was--well, it was the prototype of +what the artist coterie that buzzed around her father day and night was +forever attempting to give expression to, but which, until now, she had +never believed could exist in real life. He would be a refreshing +change this astounding man-creature, this Jean Laparde, after the vapid +attentions of the vapid men who made up her life in the social whirl of +Paris--Count von Heirlich and Lord Barnvegh, for examples, out of a +host of satellites who were constantly at her heels, because, of +course, she was an heiress; and whose attentions she endured because, +of course, some day she must marry, and because, of course again, to +marry anything less than a title, a name, fame, was quite out of the +question. As for that, no one expected anything but a brilliant match +for her--and certainly she expected nothing less for herself. What a +pity that they were not like Jean Laparde, those men of her world! + +The fingers, from the window pane, tossed back a truant coil of hair; +the white shoulders lifted in a little shrug. Paris--New York! That +was all the world she knew. New York once a year--Paris the rest of +the time. Expatriates--for art! That's what they were! Art--her +father was obsessed with it. It was a mania with him; it was the last +thing in the world that interested her. As a matter of fact, she +couldn't seem to think of anything that particularly interested her. +One tired quickly enough of the social merry-go-round--after a season +it became inane. One surely had the right to amuse one's self with a +new sensation--if one could find it! The man had the physique of a +young god. A fisherman--well, what of it? He was splendid. He was +more than splendid. Even the crude dress seemed to enhance him. It +was a face that had made her catch her breath in that long second when +their eyes had met. Yes, of course--why not admit it?--he interested +her. He was rugged, he was strong, and above all he was supremely a +man. Of course, it was only a matter of a week, a month, the time they +chose to stay there; but it would be a decided novelty while it lasted. + +She laughed suddenly aloud--a low, rippling little laugh. Actually the +man was already her slave! Imagine a man like that her slave! +Certainly it would be a new sensation. What a strange thrill it had +given her when she had first caught sight of him on the bridge the +afternoon before. Well, why shouldn't it have done so--a fisherman +with a face like that? It was amazing! Think of finding such a man in +such a situation! Was it any wonder that she had thrilled--even if he +were only a fisherman? In Paris, of course, she could not have done +what she had done, it would have been quite out of the question, there +were the conventions--but then in Paris one didn't see men like that! + +"And since," confided Myrna Bliss to a little urchin running in the +street below, who neither saw nor heard her, "we are not in Paris, but +in Bernay-sur-Mer, which is quite another story, you see it is not +absurd or ridiculous at all, and I and my fisherman--" + +She turned abruptly from the window at the sound of a knock and the +opening of her door. It was Nanette, her maid, with a tray. + +"I have mademoiselle's _déjeuner_," announced Nanette. "Monsieur Bliss +has already finished his, and asks if mademoiselle will soon be ready. +He is waiting with Monsieur le Curé for you." + +"Waiting--with Monsieur le Curé?"--Myrna's eyebrows went up in +well-simulated surprise. + +"To visit the cottage mademoiselle has taken," amplified Nanette, and +her retroussé nose was delicately elevated a trifle higher. Nanette, +very evidently, was one at all events who was not in favour of the plan. + +"Oh, the cottage--of course!" exclaimed Myrna, as though suddenly +inspired. "I had forgotten all about it. Dress me quickly then, +Nanette." + +Nanette tossed a shapely dark head. + +"Is mademoiselle going to stay here long?"--Nanette at times felt +privileged to take liberties. + +"Gracious, Nanette!" complained Myrna sweetly. "What a question! How +can you possibly expect me to know?" + +Nanette arranged the tray perfunctorily. + +"There was a man who left a message with that imbecile proprietor for +mademoiselle early this morning," she observed. "Mademoiselle has +engaged a boatman?" + +"A boatman? Certainly not!" declared Myrna Bliss. "Not without seeing +the boat--and I have seen no boat!" + +"But mademoiselle engages a cottage without seeing the cottage," +murmured Nanette slyly. + +"That will do, Nanette!" said Myrna severely. "There was but one +cottage; there are dozens of boats. It is quite a different matter. +What did the man say?" + +"That he was obliged to go out for the four o'clock fishing this +morning," said Nanette, pouting a little at the rebuke; "but that he +would go to mademoiselle at the cottage early in the forenoon." + +A row of little white teeth crunched into a piece of crisp toast. + +"Very well, Nanette." Myrna's brows pursed up thoughtfully. "You may +get out that new marquisette from Fallard's; and, I think"--she glanced +out of the window--"my sunbonnet. And, Nanette"--suddenly +impatient--"hurry, please--since father is waiting." + +Myrna's impatience bore fruit. In ten minutes she was ready, and, +running down the stairs, went out to the street, where her father and +the curé, deep in conversation--on art undoubtedly, since her father +was doing most of the talking!--were pacing slowly up and down, as they +waited for her. + +Her sunbonnet was swinging in her hand, the big grey eyes were shining, +the glow of superb health was in her cheeks. + +"Good morning, Father Anton!" she called out gaily. "What a shame to +have kept you waiting!" + +The old priest turned toward her with unaffected pleasure, as he held +out his hand. + +"Good morning to you, mademoiselle"--he was smiling with eyes as well +as lips. "What a radiant little girl! It makes one full of life and +young again; you are, let me see, you are--a tonic!" + +She laughed as she turned to her father. + +"'Morning, Dad! Sleep well?" + +Henry Bliss removed his cigar to survey his daughter with whimsical +reproach; then he patted her cheek affectionately. + +"Fierce, wasn't it?" he chuckled. "Those beds are the worst ever! I +was telling the curé here about them." + +"It is too bad," said Father Anton solicitously. "It is regrettable. +I am so very sorry. But"--earnestly--"you must not think too hardly of +the Fregeaus. Since no guests sleep here, I am sure they can have no +idea that--" + +"No; of course not!" agreed Henry Bliss heartily, and laughed. "The +hard feelings are all in the beds--and we'll let them stay there. Now, +then, Myrna, are you ready to inspect this new domain of yours? And +shall we walk, or take the car? Father Anton says it is not far." + +"We will walk then," decided Myrna. + +It was the walk she had taken yesterday, at least it was the same as +far as the little bridge; and for that distance she walked beside her +father and the curé, chatting merrily, but there she loitered a little +behind them. Half impishly, half with a genuine impulse that she +rather welcomed than avoided, she told herself that it was quite unfair +to pass the little spot so indifferently. Was it not here that this +most bizarre of adventures had begun? She had stood here by the +railing, and he had stood there across on the other side, and--the red +leaped suddenly flaming into her cheeks. She had never looked at a man +like that before--no man had ever looked at her like that before! And +it had been spontaneous, instant, like a flash of fire that had lighted +up a dark and unknown pathway, which, in the momentary blaze of light, +was full of strange wonder; and which, because it was an unknown way, +and because the glimpse had shown so much in so brief an instant that +the brain fused all into confusion and nothing was concrete, resulted, +not in illuminating the way, but, the flash of light gone again, in +transforming the pathway only into a bewildering maze. + +She laughed a little after a while, shaking her head. Such an absurd +fancy! But what an entrancing, alluring little fancy! Decidedly, it +would be a new sensation to be lost in a maze like that--for a time. +She would tire of it soon enough--the thrill probably would not even +last as long as she would want it to. No thrill ever did! She bit her +lip suddenly in pretty vexation. It was stupid of the man to go off +fishing! Had he done it to pique her? The idea! He certainly could +not have the temerity to imagine that it lay within his power to pique +her. The sunbonnet swung to and fro abstractedly from its ribbon +strings. Wasn't it strange that he had--piqued her! + +She went on after her father and the curé. They were quite a way ahead +now, and she hastened to catch up with them. As she drew near, she +caught her father's words. + +"... Peyre on the _Histoire Générale des Beaux-Arts_, Monsieur le Curé, +I recommend it to you heartily. It is a most comprehensive little +volume, embracing in a condensed form the story of the arts from the +time of the Egyptians down to the present day, and--" + +Myrna, in spite of herself, laughed outright, at which both men turned +their heads. Her father, incorrigible, was at it again; and, once +started, there was no stopping him. Poor Father Anton! For the rest +of the way he would listen to art! + +"Did I not tell you to beware, Father Anton?" she cried out in comical +despair--and waved them to go on again. + +She had no desire to listen to art, its relation to nature, its +relation to science, its relation to civilisation, nor, above all, to a +dissertation on the modern school. She had heard it all before; and, +if it had not passed as quickly through one ear as it had come into the +other, her head, she was quite sure, would have driven her to +distraction. Besides, it was much more important to think about +something else--no, not what she had been thinking about a moment ago; +but, for instance, to be practical, about this menage whose wheels, +without knowing whether they were oiled or not, she had impulsively set +in motion. Would the cottage be at all habitable? Would this +Marie-Louise be at all suitable? Would Marie-Louise and Nanette get +along together? Nanette was insanely jealous of Jules--nothing but the +fact that Jules was with them would have induced Nanette, to whom Paris +was the beginning and the end of all things, to have come on such a +trip. Yes, there was a very great deal to think about--now that it +occurred to her! Myrna fell into a brown study, quite oblivious to her +surroundings. + +When she joined her father and the curé again, they had stopped at the +edge of the little wood on the headland, and a cottage, almost as +prettily vine-covered as Father Anton's, lay before them. + +"Well, Myrna," her father called, with a smile, "I must say your plunge +in the dark looks propitious so far." + +"No, no! Not a plunge in the dark!" protested Father Anton quickly, +his eyes full of expectant pleasure on Myrna. "That is not fair, +Monsieur Bliss! It was on my recommendation, was it not, mademoiselle? +And now--eh?--what does mademoiselle think of it?" + +It was like the imaginative conception of some painter. The cottage, +green with climbing vines, spotlessly white where the vines were +sparse, nestled in the trees--in front, as far as the eye could reach, +the glorious, deep, unfathomable blue of the Mediterranean; nearer, the +splash of surf, like myriad fountains, on the headland's rugged point; +while a tiny fringe of beach, just peeping from under the edge of the +cliff at the far side of the cottage, glistened as though full of +diamonds in the sunlight. + +"Father Anton--you are a dear!" Myrna cried impetuously. + +Her eyes roved delightedly here and there. There was a little trellis +with flowers over the back door--that little outhouse would do +splendidly as a garage. And then the front door opened, and her eyes +fixed on a girl's figure on the threshold--and somehow the figure was +familiar. + +"Who is that, Father Anton?" she demanded. + +"But it is Marie-Louise--who else?" smiled the priest. "I will call +her." + +"No," said Myrna; "we will go in." + +Of course! How absurd! She recognised the girl now. It was the girl +who had passed them on the bridge--Myrna's sunbonnet swung a little +abstractedly again--with Jean Laparde. + +Father Anton bustled forward. + +"Marie-Louise," he said, as they reached the door, "this is the lady +and gentleman who are to take the house, and--" + +"Oh, but I think we have seen each other before," interposed Myrna +graciously. "Was it not you, Marie-Louise, who passed us on the bridge +yesterday afternoon?" + +Marie-Louise's dark eyes, deep, fearless, met the grey ones--and +dropped modestly. + +"Yes, mademoiselle," she said. + +"Certainly!" said Henry Bliss pleasantly. "I remember you too, +and--ah!" With a sudden step, quite forgetting the amenities due his +daughter, he brushed by her into the room, and stooped over the clay +figure of the beacon. He picked it up, looked at it in a sort of +startled incredulity, as though he could not believe his eyes; then, +setting it down, went to the window, threw up the shade for better +light, and returned to the clay figure. And then, after a moment, he +began to mutter excitedly. "Yes--undoubtedly--of the flower of the +French school--Demaurais, Lestrange, Pitot--eh?--which? +And--yes--here--within a day or so--it is quite fresh!" He rushed back +to the doorway to Father Anton. "Who has been in the village +recently?"--his words were coming with a rush, he had the priest by the +shoulders and was unconsciously shaking him. "Was it a man with long +black hair over his coat collar and a beak nose? Was it a little short +man who always jerks his head as he talks? Or was it a big fellow, +very fat, and, yes, if it were Pitot he would probably be drunk? +Quick! Which one was it?" + +Father Anton, jaw dropped, dumb with amazement, could only shake his +head. This American! Had he gone suddenly mad? + +"Good heavens, dad, what is the matter?" Myrna cried out. + +He paid no attention to her. + +"You, then!"--he whirled on Marie-Louise, grasping her arm fiercely. +"Who has been here?" + +"But--but, m'sieu," stammered Marie-Louise, shrinking back in affright, +"no one has been here." + +Myrna pressed forward into the room. + +"Dad, what _is_ the--" She got no further. + +"It is true--I am a fool. I was wrong. Look, Myrna!"--his face +flushed, his eyes lighted with the fire of an enthusiast, he was at the +table, lifting up the little clay figure of the fisherwoman with the +outstretched arms, the beacon, in his hands again. "Look, Myrna! No, +I am not mad--I am only a fool. I, who pride myself as a critic, was +fool enough for a moment to think this the work of perhaps Demaurais, +or Lestrange, or Pitot--when no one of the three even in his greatest +moment of inspiration could approach it! There is life in it. You +feel the very soul. It is sublime! But it is more than that--it is a +stupendous thing, for, since it has been freshly done, and no stranger +to these people has been here, the man who did it must be one of +themselves. Don't you understand, Myrna, don't you understand? The +world will ring with it. It is the discovery of a genius. I make the +statement without reservation. _This is the work of the greatest +sculptor France will have ever known_!" + +Father Anton had come forward a little timorously, lacing and unlacing +his fingers. Upon Myrna's face was a sort of bewildered stupefaction. +Marie-Louise, her breath coming in little gasps, was gazing wide-eyed +at the man who held in his hands her beacon, the clay figure she had +seen Jean make. + +"Is--is it true--what you say?" she whispered. + +Henry Bliss looked at her for a moment, startled--as though he was for +the first time aware of her presence. + +"You--yes, of course, you must know about this, as it is in the house +here," he burst out abruptly. "You know who made it?" + +"But, yes," said Marie-Louise, and now there was a sudden new note, a +trembling note of pride that struggled for expression in her voice. +"But, yes--it was Jean Laparde." + +"Laparde--Jean Laparde?"--his voice was hoarse in its eagerness. +"Quick!" he cried. "Laparde--Jean Laparde? Who is Jean Laparde?" + +A flush crept pink into Marie-Louise's face. + +"He is my fiancé," she said. + + + + +-- VI -- + +THE GIFT + +Father Anton, with a smile, his eyes twinkling, looked from one to the +other of the group as much as to say: "There! Is that not an +altogether charming denouement?" Myrna had yet to discover herself in +a situation to whose command she did not rise--inwardly a sudden +confusion upon her, her face expressed a polite interest. As for Henry +Bliss, the words were without any significance whatever--it was not +what he wanted to know. + +It was Marie-Louise, embarrassed, who broke the silence. + +"Will mademoiselle and monsieur look through the house now, and tell me +what rooms they will occupy?" + +Henry Bliss, for answer, caught Father Anton again by the shoulder. + +"This Jean Laparde," he flung out excitedly, "you ought to know all +about him! He must have done other things besides this"--he swept his +hand toward the beacon, which he had now very carefully replaced on the +table. + +"But, of course!" declared Father Anton, still smiling. "Mother +Fregeau will assure you--forever little faces and figures out of her +dough and the inside of her loaves." + +"No, no--good Lord!" exclaimed Henry Bliss. "I mean--" + +"I am telling you," interrupted Father Anton mildly. "He has been +forever at that since he was a boy, and then there are the clay dolls +for the children, of which there would be very many, at least a +hundred." + +"A hundred! A hundred clay _dolls_ by the man who did this!" shouted +Henry Bliss eagerly. "And do you mean to say you never realised--oh, +good Lord! Where are they?" + +Father Anton's eyebrows went up in almost pitying astonishment. + +"But, monsieur," he said patiently, "where would they be? They do not +last long; and, even if the children did not break them almost +immediately, they would soon crumble to pieces like their own mud pies." + +"Mud!" Henry Bliss bent quickly over the beacon again. "Yes, so it +is! It is mostly mud. It is unbelievable! The man did not even have +modelling clay to work with!" He swung again on the curé. "Well, where +is this Jean Laparde? I want to see him at once!" + +Myrna's laugh rippled suddenly through the room. + +"Dad--don't get so excited. Your Jean Laparde won't run away. He's +out fishing now, but he said he would come out here this morning." + +"Out fishing--come out here this morning?" repeated her father, staring +at her. "How do you know?" + +Myrna shook her finger at him in playful severity. + +"If you had paid any more than the merest pretence of attention to me +last night, you would have remembered the name--no"--she laughed +again--"no, perhaps after all I didn't mention it, I'm not sure I +hadn't forgotten it myself; but he is the fisherman who took me to +Father Anton here, you know--the one I told you might possibly do as a +boatman for us while we were here." + +"Great grief! Do as a--_boatman_!" ejaculated Henry Bliss weakly. +"You, Monsieur le Curé, what time do these fishermen return?" + +"But anytime, now," Father Anton answered. "The boats go out very +early in the morning." + +"Good!" Henry Bliss pushed the curé impetuously toward the door. +"Then, you and I, Father Anton, will go right back to the village and +be there when he comes in." + +"But"--Father Anton was quite bewildered--one was literally carried off +one's feet--were they all alike, these Americans! "But," he protested +helplessly, as he was being pulled through the door, "but if the boats +are already in, and since mademoiselle said he was coming here, then--" + +"Then we will meet him on the road"--they were already out of the +house. "Now, then, Monsieur le Curé, if you are a loyal Frenchman, +step out quickly, for this is the greatest day in the history of +France, the greatest day, I tell you, in the"--the voice died away in +the distance. + +Marie-Louise had not moved. She was still standing in the centre of +the room, a strangely spellbound, dumfounded little figure. + +"Mademoiselle," she ventured timidly, "what--what is--" + +"I am sure I do not know," said Myrna languidly. "Have you no shoes or +stockings?" + +Marie-Louise glanced perplexedly at her small, bare feet. + +"But, yes, mademoiselle--for the village sometimes, and when one walks +in the fields." + +"Go and put them on, then," directed Myrna. "And remember always to +wear them while we are here. When you come back, I will go through the +house with you and tell you what to do." + +"Yes, mademoiselle," said Marie-Louise nervously--there was a sense of +guilt upon her, but wherein lay the enormity of her offence she did not +understand. Nevertheless, was not mademoiselle of the great world, and +since mademoiselle was displeased, surely mademoiselle must know. She +turned hastily from the room. + +"No--wait!" Myrna's brain, for all her outward composure, was far from +calm. It seemed as though the little stone she had started rolling +down the hill in a--well, was it a whim?--was gathering many other +stones in its course and developing into an avalanche. She had no +desire to go into the details of the house with this Marie-Louise at +that moment; on the contrary, it was absolutely impossible. The one +thing she wanted was to be alone--to clear all this muddle out of her +head. "No--wait!" she repeated. "There will be quite time enough to +attend to that when Nanette and Jules arrive; and in the meantime you +had better go down to the Bas Rhône and help Nanette if you can. When +they are ready, come back with them." + +"Nanette, mademoiselle? But I do not know who Nanette is." + +"My maid," said Myrna tersely. + +"Yes, mademoiselle"--Marie-Louise, with a quick nod, was running from +the room. "At once, mademoiselle--as soon as I have put on my shoes +and stockings." + +Myrna tossed her sunbonnet on a chair, and walked over to the table to +inspect the little clay figure. For ten minutes she stood in front of +it, now frowning, now with unconscious admiration the dominant +expression upon her face, now with puzzled bewilderment in her eyes. +Of the technique of any art she not only knew nothing, but secretly +held it in contempt; but she could not have been her father's daughter +to have lacked a sense of appreciation for the beautiful. At the end +of the ten minutes she picked up her sunbonnet again, and walked slowly +out of the house. + +At the headland's point, two hundred yards away, she sat down upon the +rocks. She could not seem to get that little clay figure out of her +head now. It was amazing how it took form before her eyes as +realistically as though it were still in front of her! What a +wonderful charm and appeal there was in it! She could see that for +herself, even if her father had not grown so excited over it. "The +greatest sculptor in France"--well, perhaps that was a little +exaggerated! But her father was nevertheless acknowledged to be a +critic second to none in the world of art, and he was far too chary of +his reputation to sacrifice it on a myth. Certainly then, there was at +least a promise in the man's work. What did her father mean to do? He +had not rushed off that way for nothing. It was really charming, that +little figure. She would get Jean to let her have it, buy it from him. +Imagine possessing the first piece of his work, if the man ever +amounted to anything! + +She threw a stone out into the water, watched it splash, watched the +spray of the breaking waves on what seemed like a reef away out to one +side of the headland, and watched a boat coming shoreward from out +beyond the reef again. There was a disturbed little gathering of her +brows. But suppose she did buy it, the thing would crumble to pieces +in a few days, and--stupid! Of course! Had she not been often in +those dirty _ateliers_ that were always in a mess with their clay and +their plaster? One could send it to Marseilles to have a cast made; +and, afterwards, the cast could be sent home to Paris. + +What was her father going to do with this "discovery" of his, as he +called it? Discovery--_his_! A little thrill ran through her. It was +not his discovery--it was _hers_! It was she who had discovered Jean +Laparde--in that one look. The man's soul, a great smouldering volcano +of emotion, was in his face, his eyes. It was amazing that this had +happened; amazing almost beyond credence that, hidden in the little +village, a fisherman, untaught, unconscious even of his own power, had +produced a piece of work that had aroused her father, one of the great +art critics in France, to such a pitch of elated excitement--but +somehow it was not in the least bit amazing that it was _Jean Laparde_ +who had done it! + +Her eyes fixed again on the boat, that was well in now between the reef +and the headland; and, with a sudden little gasp, she rose quickly to +her feet--it was Jean Laparde himself. What splendid width of +shoulder, what strength, and ease, and assurance in the sweep of the +oars that bent the blades backward from swirling little eddies, that +lifted the heavy boat to send it bounding forward as though it were a +feather-weight. It was Jean Laparde--the fiancé of Marie-Louise! + +It was to the front at last, that thought! It had been dominant from +the moment Marie-Louise had uttered the words, only she had attempted +to ignore it, lose it in the other phases of this bewildering morning. +But it was out now! Well, what of it? It was an impossible situation +this that she had created, was it not? There was no use in denying +even to herself that the man had aroused in her--what should she call +it?--a desire to cultivate him a little, since he would be so new, so +fresh, so quite different. And Marie-Louise was at the moment now +actually in her employ as--one could not call her a servant, it was +Marie-Louise's own house, and she was only there to help for a little +while at the curé's request--but still--the colour burned red in +Myrna's cheeks. + +The next instant, she smiled a little. What a simpleton she was! What +on earth did it matter! What could it possibly matter! Good heavens, +she wasn't going to take this Jean Laparde away from Marie-Louise! +_She_ wasn't going to marry him! There wasn't the slightest reason in +the world why, just when the man turned out to be an embryonic genius +and promised to prove really interesting, she should change her +attitude toward him--and, anyway, it was almost a foregone conclusion +that her father now would monopolise Jean Laparde morning, noon and +night. + +She glanced at the boat--and started abruptly for the house. To remain +there would have been almost too obviously--a meeting. Jean had +evidently not gone to the village at all with the other boats--she +supposed there were other boats since the curé had spoken of them--but +had come directly in from wherever he had been fishing. + +She reached the house and through the window watched Jean send the boat +sweeping up to the beach, leap from it, and, seemingly without +exertion, pull it higher over the sand. He turned then, searching the +house with his eyes; and suddenly placed his hands trumpet-fashion to +his lips. + +"Marie-Louise! Ho, Marie-Louise!" she heard him shout, as he came +running up the cliff path from the beach. + +Virile in movement, a striking figure, there seemed all of command, +something heroic even in the rugged strength, something absolutely +undauntable about the man. And then she laughed merrily to herself, as +she stepped to the door. What a change! Who would have believed it! +Jean, at sight of her, had stopped as though he had been struck, +self-consciousness mocked at the air of command, and through the brown +tan of his face crept the red. + +"Oh, it is you, Jean!" she exclaimed. + +Mechanically he reached up for his cap. + +"I--I did not think that mademoiselle had got here yet," he said, the +dark eyes in their steady gaze disconcertingly at variance with his +stammering speech. + +"We've been here ages," she told him quickly. "But the others have +gone back again. Marie-Louise has gone to help Nanette with the +things. And my father rushed off with that delightful old curé of +yours to look for you." + +"Rushed off to look for me?" echoed Jean in astonishment. "But I told +Jacques Fregeau to tell you that I would come here as soon--" + +"Yes, of course, to look for you--but not for the purpose you imagine!" +she broke in smiling, and shook her head reproachfully at him. "Jean, +do you know that I am quite angry with you! Come here!" She led the +way into the house. "Now!"--pointing to the clay figure on the table. +"Is not that your work?" + +"But, yes, mademoiselle"--there was only a cursory glance at the +beacon; his eyes were on this fresh, glorious, wonderful woman, whose +white dress of some marvellous texture draped about her with such +exquisite, dainty grace ... and the throat was bare, and full, and +white as ivory is white ... that glint of bronze that was always +playing over the massive coils of hair ... the playful severity in the +pursed lips ... it was intoxication, it was fire ... he had been drunk +with it all the night, all that morning in the boat while he had fished. + +"Then why did you not tell me about it last night?" she demanded. + +With a start, he shrugged his shoulders--and perplexity came. + +"But it is nothing--that," he said slowly. "What was there to tell, +mademoiselle?" + +"Nothing!" She stared at him in amazement. "Do you really mean to say +that you think it is--nothing?" + +"But, of course!" he said simply. + +And then suddenly she smiled, and shook her head at him again. + +"Did I not tell you last night, Jean, that you were less like a +fisherman than any man I had ever seen?" + +"Yes; mademoiselle said that." Was there a word of hers that he had +forgotten! + +"Very well, then," she began magisterially, "since you think nothing of +that little statue, I will tell you what I think. It is so much more +than 'nothing' that I am going to buy it from you. It is"--her voice +changed suddenly, soft in abandon, full in admiration--"oh, Jean, it is +superb, magnificent; it is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen; +and--and I think I want it more than I have ever wanted anything +before." + +She had come closer to him, touched him, her hand was on his sleeve, +her cheeks were flushed. That look--God, was he mad?--that _same_ look +was in her eyes again. Yes, he was mad--with a madness that bade him +sweep her into his arms and crush her there in all her alluring beauty. +He was white--he felt the blood leave his face. She wanted +that--wanted that bit of clay that _he_ had made! + +"It is not for sale, mademoiselle," he said hoarsely; "it is yours." + +"No, no, Jean!" she cried. "You do not understand. It is worth--oh, I +do not know how much--ever so much money. Father will be able to tell +us. It is on account of this that he rushed off to try and find you. +He is terribly excited about it." + +His hand at his side was clenched; his arm was rigid--he dared not move +it for fear she might draw her hand away--it would not come often, a +touch of intimacy like that. What did it matter about her father! +What did anything matter--but that fiery tide that was whipping through +his veins. + +"It is good of monsieur, it is good of mademoiselle to praise it," he +muttered. + +"But it is not good of us!" she asserted earnestly. "Really, I must +try to make you understand, Jean. I can't take it under false +pretences, you know--you might hate me for it afterwards. I am sure +you would. My father says it is a wonderful piece of work--that you +are a great artist." + +"I?" said Jean--and suddenly in a sweep of passion laughed a little +fiercely. "Impossible! But it is enough that mademoiselle, for some +reason that I cannot understand, thinks so much of it. It is hers." + +"And I tell you that it is not impossible!" she insisted seriously. +"Listen, Jean"--her hand closed a little tighter on his arm. "Suppose +that I took it, accepted it, and some day you should find that it had +become a tremendously famous thing--what then?" + +"It would still be unworthy of mademoiselle," he answered, in a low +tone. + +With a little gasp, she drew back a step and looked at him--but it was +the grey eyes that dropped, and for a moment to Jean, unconscious of +his own tense poise, the rapt burning in his eyes, she seemed all +glorious with that play of colour now that was even in the pulsing +throat. But the next instant she was smiling radiantly. + +"Thank you, Jean," she said naïvely. "I will take it very gladly, and +I will always keep it. Father will have a cast of it made at once, +and--" she stopped suddenly, turning quickly toward the door. +"Listen!" she said. "That's the motor, isn't it? Marie-Louise must +have met it on the road." + +An automobile had come to a stop by the side of the house; and, a +moment later, a girl's voice, high-pitched in sarcasm, reached them. + +"_Ma foi_! Fancy! She owns the house! What an aristocrat! No doubt +she will expect mademoiselle and monsieur to invite her to table with +them next! Oh, _là, là_, but you have lots to learn, _ma petite +paysanne_!" + +"Oh, let her alone, Nanette!" exclaimed a man's voice sharply. "She +has done nothing but answer your own questions, except"--with a +laugh--"that she has ridden on the front seat!" + +It seemed to come with a shock to Jean that snatch of conversation, as +something cold, chilling the fire that but an instant gone had been +raging within him. It was an arraignment of himself, a slap in the +face, sharply, curtly given, a reminder that for all his temerity he +was--a fisherman. Myrna had gone to the front door. He swept his hand +in a dazed way across his eyes, then straightened suddenly--it was a +spell that he had been under. Nor was the spell gone; but now, at +least, he was in control of himself. He walked across the room to +where Myrna stood. + +"Mademoiselle," he offered quietly, "can I help with the baggage?" + +She turned to him, smiling. + +"Oh, if you will, Jean!" she cried gratefully. "Please help Jules with +the trunks. And afterwards"--her hand was on his sleeve again--"though +I must see about arranging things, you mustn't go away. Father will be +back shortly, and you must wait." + +"I will wait," said Jean. + + + + +-- VII -- + +WHERE GLORY AWAITS + +His back to the cliff, and leaning against the gunwale of his boat, +which on landing a little while ago he had drawn up on the beach, Jean +dug abstractedly at the sand with the toe of his boot. He had helped +Jules, the chauffeur, to carry the baggage into the house, where Myrna +Bliss, her maid and Marie-Louise were now busily engaged +within--occasionally he could hear one or other of their voices--and he +was waiting. What for? He did not know. He had promised her that he +would wait. Her father wanted to see him because he made _poupées_ out +of clay, and because he had made that little statue which, somehow, had +so delighted her. It was very curious--very curious that a little +thing like that should have taken their fancy! + +His hand passed nervously across his forehead. But that was of no +account, the statue! There were other things. He was living in a +dream--no, not a dream--something much more vital than a dream. From a +dream one awoke, and the dream was dispelled. He was awake now and the +spell was still upon him. In her presence he lost his reason, his +being seemed to become a seething furnace of passion that consumed him; +away from her, some strange, magnetic power kept bidding him return, +kept his mind picturing her, kept his thoughts upon her. It was but +half an hour ago that, alone with her in the cottage, he had almost +utterly lost control of himself. + +A hot flush was on his cheeks. It was bad, that! Some day he would +lose control of himself completely; some day the impulse to crush that +ravishing form in his arms, to look deep into those laughing, +self-possessed grey eyes until the laughter and the self-possession +were gone and he was master, would prove too strong for him. And +then--what? + +His hands clenched at his sides, the broad shoulders sloped a little +forward. Well--what then? His brain would not answer him, save only +with that persistent "she was a woman and he was a man." He laughed +shortly aloud. Was that true? How true was it? He glanced mockingly +at his clothes; his hands unclenched, and, feeling in a sort of +tentative way, slid along the gunwale of the boat. Yes; it was quite +evident that he was what he had always been, what he always would be--a +fisherman. It was quite evident too that he was mad. It was only last +night that he had seen her for the first time, only since last night +that this enchantment had fallen upon him--and now it possessed him, +mind, soul and body. One could not credit that! He laughed out +again--and suddenly the laugh died on his lips. + +He had heard no step upon the sand, but a hand now touched his arm. He +turned quickly. It was Marie-Louise. He had forgotten all about +Marie-Louise--since yesterday evening. He had seen her of course since +then, had walked home with her after that meeting on the bridge, had +called out for her when he had landed here on the beach a little while +ago, but for all that Marie-Louise had been forgotten. + +"Jean"--she was speaking in a low, anxious voice--"it's--it's not true, +is it, Jean?" + +The dark eyes were trying to smile through a troubled mist; the lips, +that he remembered he had likened yesterday to the divinely modelled +lips of that dream statue, were quivering now. + +Jean stared at her. What would she be like if she were dressed in +clothes, marvellous, dainty things, such as Myrna Bliss wore, with +little shoes and silken ankles? She was pretty of course, Marie-Louise +had always been pretty; but there was not the physical thrill, the +witchery in the eyes that turned his head. She was more sober--yes, +that was it--more sober. Marie-Louise took things more seriously, and-- + +"Jean!" She seemed almost frightened now in her appeal. "Did you not +hear me? Jean--it isn't true, is it?" + +"True?" Jean roused himself with a little start. "What is not true? I +do not know what you are talking about." + +"The beacon, Jean"--she spoke hurriedly, breathlessly now. "A few +minutes ago mademoiselle told me to put it in the room she has chosen +for herself, and to be very careful of it because--because"--her voice +broke suddenly--"because she said that you had given it to her. +Jean--it's not true, is it?" + +For a moment Jean did not speak. There were tears in her eyes! A +twinge of guilty confusion seized him. Yes, it was so--Marie-Louise +had been forgotten. Yesterday he had given it to Marie-Louise. But +who would have thought it would make any difference to her--a thing +like that! She was perhaps angry for the moment, but it would be only +for the moment. + +"_Mais, sacré nom_!" he exclaimed, and forced a laugh. "And what of +it? It is nothing! I will make you another." + +She did not answer; but into the brown eyes came a miserable hurt, and +into the face a sudden whiteness. It was only the day before that he +had given it to her, and had said it was a beacon, and that the beacon +was herself with arms outstretched to welcome him always. It had meant +so much to her--and now it seemed to have meant so little to Jean. + +Jean shifted uneasily, as she did not speak. + +"I will make you another, Marie-Louise," he blurted out appeasingly. +"To-day--to-morrow--whenever you like, I will make you another. Then +it will be all right, eh, _petite_?" + +She shook her head--and the words came very slowly. + +"You can never make another beacon, Jean." + +"How--not another?" he cried impetuously. "I can make a thousand! Did +I not tell you that it was you--has it not those lips that I could +fashion even in the dark, even if you were far away from me! _Tiens_, +do you not see--I could make a thousand! And to-morrow you shall have +another." + +The dark eyes were full. + +"Was it yours to give, Jean?" she asked. + +It was true! He had nothing to say to that. She was crying. He was +angry now because he could say nothing, because there was no excuse for +what he had done--and yet he would do it again. But he could not tell +Marie-Louise that though, _pardieu_! She would only cry the harder. +And because she was right and he had nothing to say, he groped, angry +with himself, for some defence. + +"Ah!" he burst out sharply. "So that is it! Yesterday you would have +thought nothing of it, but now you have been listening to what they +say, and you believe it all--that it is worth a great deal of money, +maybe a hundred francs, eh? Well, it is not--it is worth nothing! You +have nothing to cry over." + +Wide-eyed, as though a whip-lash had curled across her face, she drew +back, her small hands shut tightly at her sides, as she looked at him. +And then somehow that little prayer that she had prayed to the _bon +Dieu_ last night came back to her--"make me that, _mon Père_; make me +that--Jean's beacon all through my life"--and the bitter words that +were on her lips were crowded back, and she turned slowly away. + +But now Jean caught her arm. + +"No, no, Marie-Louise, I did not mean that!" he cried penitently. +"See, I did not mean that!" + +She made no answer. Her head was averted; her eyes fixed far out over +the water. + +Jean bit his lips. Certainly he had had no right to give it away, but +it was a small matter to make such a fuss over, and he had already +promised her another. Was it possible that she had sensed anything of +the wild passion that had come upon him for this beautiful American! +Was she already jealous? Well, it was easily knocked out of her head, +that--if one took the bull by the horns! And if he were mad it was no +reason that hurt should come to Marie-Louise because of it. Some day +it would be all over this madness, and was it not Marie-Louise and he +who were to make their little home together? He forced a laugh again, +and caught her shoulders and drew her closer. + +"Confess, Marie-Louise," he said teasingly, "that it is because I gave +it to another woman. Is it not so, eh? That you are--oh, _là, +là_!--that little Marie-Louise is jealous of mademoiselle." + +Her head lifted, a new light suddenly in her eyes--one of incredulous +amazement. + +"Jealous of mademoiselle!" she repeated wonderingly. "Of mademoiselle +who is of the _grand monde_ and so far above us and not of our world at +all--and you who are a fisherman! How could I be jealous? How could +such a thing be possible? Oh, Jean, don't you understand, it is not +that you gave it to her--it is that you gave it at all." + +"But what does it matter, then," demanded Jean, inwardly relieved, +"since I will make you as many more as you please? To-morrow you shall +have another much better than this one." + +Footsteps sounded from the gravel walk on the cliff above; and +Marie-Louise, glancing around, lifted Jean's hands from her shoulders. + +"I have told you, Jean, that you can never make another," she said, +with a little catch in her voice; then hurriedly: "It is mademoiselle +and her father coming to see you. I must go." + +"And I have told you," declared Jean, with sudden, fierce assertion, +"that I can make a thousand, and all better than this one!" + +She bent her head to hide the blinding tears that were filling her eyes +again. It meant nothing to him, that which had been so great a pledge +to her. It was only a _poupée_, a clay doll, one of dozens that he had +given to the children to amuse them. And the things he had said about +it meant nothing--they had only been words--only words, but she could +not forget them. A little sob rose in her throat, and was choked +bravely back. They were coming down the path now, mademoiselle and her +father, and she must go. + +"You do not understand," she said brokenly--and, turning, ran quickly +along the beach. + +For a space Jean watched her as she sped over the sand, until, ignoring +the path, she climbed lithely up the rocks at the far end of the beach, +and disappeared in the direction of the house. His hand, a knotted +lump, drawn back for a smashing blow on the gunwale of the boat, a blow +that should relieve his feelings, opened hesitantly instead and passed +a little dazedly across his eyes. + +"_Sacré maudit_!" he muttered in slow earnestness under his breath. + +Since last night the world was upside-down! Since last night he did +not know himself! He knew nothing! Only that all Bernay-sur-Mer was +changed. That everything was changed. That he had made Marie-Louise +cry. That they had talked about that accursed piece of clay that had +made Marie-Louise cry, as though it were worth talking about! + +"_Sacré maudit_!" muttered Jean again. "What does it all mean?" + +And then he was watching her, this glorious American, coming now along +the beach toward him with the man who Marie-Louise had said was +mademoiselle's father. + +"Jean!"--she was calling out to him. "Here is father at last! Did you +think we were never coming?" + +Two hands fell upon his shoulders, holding him off at arms' length; and +the man, with frank eagerness, was staring into his face. Over her +father's shoulder, Myrna was laughing roguishly. + +"So you are Jean Laparde?" Henry Bliss exclaimed heartily. "Well, +well! My daughter told me I would lose half my surprise when I had a +good look at you, and I am free to admit she was right." One hand fell +from Jean's shoulder, caught Jean's hand and wrung it in a genial grip. +"Well, Jean, my boy, I want to say to you that if you will listen to +me, this will be a day that you will remember as long as you live." + +From one to the other Jean stared bewilderedly. + +"It is to the clay figure that monsieur refers, I know," he said +slowly; "but I do not understand. Mademoiselle was kind enough to +praise it, but--" He shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly. + +"But--nothing!" laughed Henry Bliss impulsively. "Here--sit down!" He +sat down himself on the boat's gunwale, and turned to his daughter. +"Myrna, we're going to talk business--are you going to stay?" + +"Of course, I'm going to stay!" she declared merrily, perching herself +beside her father and smiling up at Jean, who still remained standing. +"It will take both of us to convince him. Jean, father wants to take +you to Paris." + +"To Paris!"--the words came from Jean with a sort of startled jerk. +His eyes searched the two faces for an instant uncertainly, and then he +smiled incredulously. "Mademoiselle is pleased to have a little joke +with me--yes?" he said quietly. + +It was Henry Bliss who answered. + +"Indeed, she is not!" he asserted, with brisk emphasis. "That is +exactly what I have to propose, my boy. My daughter tells me she +cannot make you believe that the superb little statue you have made +amounts to anything more than a gouged-out piece of mud. I'm not so +much surprised that you have not sensed its actual worth, for I think +that almost invariably the really big men in art, the men of real +genius, are the last to appreciate themselves; but the astounding thing +is that you have seen nothing in it at all. As a matter of fact, I +can't believe it. It is impossible! It is simply that you have given +it no thought. Think a little about it, Jean. How did you come to +make it? How did you conceive it? Where did you get your model?" + +"But I do not know," said Jean a little absently--something, the fire, +the enthusiasm, the earnestness in the other's voice was kindling a +strange response within him. "I do not know. I think it was the +bronze statue in the great square of the city." + +"The--what?" demanded Henry Bliss quickly. "What city? I know them +all--and I do not recall anything that could have served as a model for +you." + +"And you told me, Jean," Myrna added, wagging her finger at him in +pretty reproach, "that you had never been away from Bernay-sur-Mer." + +Jean laughed uncomfortably, self-consciously. + +"It is nothing!" he said. "You do not understand. It is foolish! The +statue and the square and the city are only in the dream that comes +sometimes." + +"Ah--a dream!" ejaculated Henry Bliss, with a quick nod of his head. + +"Oh, Jean!" Myrna clapped her hands delightedly. "Tell us about it." + +"There is nothing to tell, mademoiselle," he replied, colouring. "It +is just a dream that comes sometimes when I am fishing, when I lie +awake at night, when I am not thinking of it. That is all, +mademoiselle. It means nothing." + +"It means a great deal!" said Henry Bliss, jumping excitedly to his +feet. "And at least it should help you to understand that it is not so +impossible after all when I tell you that, barring little crudities of +technique that are a paltry consideration, there is no sculptor in +France to-day could produce a piece of work comparable to that which +you have done." + +Jean's lips were slightly parted. Excitement was upon him too. A +strange stirring was in his soul. + +"But I cannot believe that," he said in a low voice. + +Henry Bliss's hands were on Jean's shoulders once more, pressing them +in a hard, earnest grip. + +"Nevertheless, it is true!" he asserted forcibly, "You do not know me; +but those who do could tell you that I am qualified to speak. And I +tell you that it is true. I tell you that in Paris fame, wealth, the +greatest name in France awaits you! You are through to-day with this +life forever, my boy, if you will come with me to Paris." + +Fame, wealth, the greatest name in France! Jean felt the blood leave +his face. His brain seemed to whirl and to be afire. Yes, those were +the words, and the man was not playing with him; but it was some wild +hallucination, some bizarre mistake. To-day, to be through with the +hard, penniless life of a fisherman forever--and to work hereafter only +with what before had been his play! No, that was not true--it could +not be true. He meant well, this man, the father of the girl whose +eyes seemed to burn into his now and insist too that it was true, but +the little statue had been too easily done to be anything more than +perhaps a pretty little thing. Fame, a great name--that strange +stirring of his soul again! God, why had this man aroused that thought +within him, when it was not, could not be true? + +"Monsieur," he said, and his voice in its hoarseness sounded strangely +in his own ears; "monsieur, has made a mistake. It cannot be so." + +"Think so!" returned Henry Bliss bluntly. "I do not make mistakes of +that kind, my boy. But I will convince you. In a few days you will +see. I have telegraphed for some of the famous critics of France, men +of the Academy, men whose names are known all over Europe, and they +will tell you what I have told you--and their despair that it is I, not +they, who have discovered you will be so pitifully genuine that even +you will understand. And to-morrow we will motor to Marseilles and get +some modelling clay for you, and you will see for yourself what you can +do with that. And then, Jean, you will go to Paris with me--and work." + +"If it were true, if it should be true," said Jean numbly, "still I +could not go. One does not make _sous_ enough at the fishing to go to +Paris." + +"But, great heavens!" ejaculated Henry Bliss. "That is precisely what +I am offering you, young man--money. I am rich. I will pay every +expense. I will establish you." + +Jean shook his head. + +"I could not do that--take your money," he said simply. + +"Couldn't take it!" exploded the American earnestly--and then he +laughed--and then grew serious once more. "Listen, my boy! I do not +want you to think for a moment that this is a purely charitable little +scheme on my part--far from it! It is most of it, I am afraid, utter +selfishness. I love art--for many years I have devoted myself to it. +I cannot create myself--God knows the miserable attempts and the +miserable failures that have been mine!--and so I have tried to help +others to do what I could not do myself"--Henry Bliss was smiling now +in a kindly, wistful way. "And now to discover the greatest sculptor +of the age, to bring him out of obscurity into fame and power--can you +not see, Jean, how selfish I am? And so why do you stand there +hesitating?" + +Into Myrna's face, for the girl had risen and was now standing beside +them, into the man's face so close to his, Jean stared--and then his +eyes swept about him, over his surroundings. It was magnificent, but +it was not reality--for here was the beach, and here was the boat, and +in the boat were his nets, and there was the nick in the handle of the +oar where he had fended off that night from the Perigeau Reef, and out +there, surf-splashed, was the reef itself, and his clothes were the +same rough, coarse clothes that he always wore just like every other +fisherman in Bernay-sur-Mer. It was magnificent, but it was not +reality--and yet his heart was pounding with mighty hammer beats, and +the blood was surging fiercely through his veins. + +"And as for the money," Henry Bliss went on quietly. "You need have no +qualms on that score, my boy. Pay it back by all means, if you'll feel +the better for it. In a year, two years, you'll be a wealthy man. +Why, Jean, don't you understand--there isn't one of the men who will be +here shortly but would pay you any price you chose to ask for that +little statue you gave to my daughter here? So, even on a basis of +dollars and cents alone, as it stands now, you couldn't owe me +anything, don't you see?" + +What were they saying to him! Fame, a great sculptor, wealth, a name, +his name, the name of Jean Laparde to be known throughout all France! +Why did it come back to him now, that night of the great storm when he +had stood and watched the scene, rapt and awed, on his way to +Marie-Louise? What strange blasphemy was that, that had been his, that +had envied the _bon Dieu_ the creation of that mighty picture? + +"Jean"--Myrna had caught his arm, her head was between her father's now +and his, the soft, bronzed hair for an instant brushed his forehead, +her breath was on his cheek, the grey eyes were smiling into +his--"Jean, wouldn't you like to go to Paris?" + +To Paris! She lived in Paris--she was always in Paris--always there. +A day, a week, two weeks, a month he would have seen her here--in Paris +there would be neither days nor weeks nor months to count. The grey +eyes were veiled suddenly, demurely, under the long lashes--but the +little hand on his arm, with a quick, added pressure, remained. His +head swam dizzily--there was an untamed, pulsing elation upon him, a +greed for her that racked and tormented him, a greed to clasp her head +between his hands and lift up her face and press kiss after kiss upon +those eyelids, that mouth, until in the very insatiability of his +passion she should fling her arms around his neck and return his +embrace! + +"Yes--_yes_!" he said tensely, fiercely. "_Mon Dieu_, yes--I would +like to go to Paris!" + +Her hand fell from his arm. + +"Oh, Jean--I'm so glad!"--it seemed as though she were whispering +softly to him. + +"Good!" cried Henry Bliss enthusiastically, with a double slap on +Jean's shoulder. + +Jean did not speak. It was not easy in an instant to quench that fire +that was devouring him, it was not easy to understand that to-day all +his life was to be changed. He looked at Myrna--the grey eyes were +gaily mocking him, as she nodded her head. He looked at her +father--Henry Bliss was laughing ingenuously like a pleased school-boy. + +"I know just how you feel!" said Henry Bliss genially. "All up in the +air--eh? Well, I feel that way myself. It is the most amazing thing +that ever happened! It seems as though there were a dozen questions I +wanted to ask you all at once. And to begin with, those _poupées_ now, +how did you--no, hold on! Myrna, we'll motor over to Marseilles for +the clay to-day, instead of waiting until to-morrow. We'll have +something else to show old Bidelot by the time he gets here! You go up +to the house and order an early luncheon. Jean will join us, and we'll +have from now to Marseilles and back again to talk." + +"Splendid!" agreed Myrna. "You will, won't you, Jean?" + +"I?" said Jean, in sudden dismay. He, to eat with the _grand monde_! +But perhaps he had not understood--they would give him lunch with Jules +and Nanette and Marie-Louise. He had heard Nanette make that very +plain to Marie-Louise a little while ago. "I--I have my dinner with +me," he stammered, and pointed to a paper parcel in the stern of the +boat. "I will be ready when mademoiselle and monsieur are ready." + +"Oh, will you?" laughed Henry Bliss. "Well, I guess not! You'll come +up and lunch with Myrna and me." + +"No," said Jean, embarrassed, "I--" + +"Yes, you will," insisted Henry Bliss. + +"Why, Jean," expostulated Myrna, "of course you will, we--" she stopped +abruptly. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "I think I know! It's what that +stupid Nanette said to Marie-Louise about sitting at table with us, +isn't it?" + +"What's that?" demanded Henry Bliss quickly. "What has Marie-Louise to +do with--h'm--yes--I remember"--his face screwed up perplexedly. "Her +fiancé, she said--h'm--yes--it _is_ a bit awkward, isn't it?" + +"It's nothing of the kind!" declared Myrna, and, with a laugh, +possessed herself of the paper parcel from the boat. "It's quite a +different matter. If only half of what father has said is true, Jean, +it would be an honour for any one to have Jean Laparde as a guest. And +anyway I've got your lunch now!" She waved it in the air, threatening +him merrily with it; then turned, and ran toward the house. "You come +when you're called, sir!" she flung back over her shoulder, laughing +again. + + + + +-- VIII -- + +SHADOWS BEFORE + +Who, in all France, a week ago, had heard of Bernay-sur-Mer? Upon +whose lips to-day was not the name of that little Mediterranean +village? Men, the great men of France, came at the bidding of their +confrere, the American millionaire art-critic; came sceptically--and +stayed to wonder. And because there were no accommodations in +Bernay-sur-Mer, they made their headquarters at Marseilles, and their +daily pilgrimages from there; an arrangement that, if in a measure +inconvenient, was not without its compensation, for at Marseilles was +being made the plaster cast of that exquisite little figure, fashioned +so amazingly from scarcely more than mud, that marked a new epoch to +them in the world of sculpture, the birth of a supreme genius, a +surpassing glory for the art of France! + +They came and watched Jean at his work; for there was clay now such as +Jean had never imagined, clay that seemed to give form itself, of its +own initiative, to wonderful conceptions. They watched and marvelled; +and at night they carried him back with them to Marseilles to fête him, +until indeed to Jean the world of yesterday was as some vast haze, +befogged, that had shut down behind him. + +"In a year, with the study of technique in Paris!" murmured Henry Bliss +ecstatically. + +And old Bidelot, seventy years of age, grizzle-haired, the most +caustic, bitter critic of them all, stormed in his wrath. + +"Technique! You talk of technique--for _him_! He is a school in +himself--a school that will revolutionise the art. You talk of +technique for a genius awakened out of the sleep of ignorance, who in a +day accomplishes undying work that no other man in Paris, in Rome--bah! +where you will--could accomplish in twice a lifetime! You are senile, +my poor friend Bliss--you are in your dotage!" + +Jean Laparde! Was it possible that this was Jean Laparde? The simple +fisherfolk stared awe-struck at each other, at the metamorphosis that +had come to Bernay-sur-Mer, at the great people who came and went, to +whom one instinctively lifted one's hat--the great people who now +lifted their hats to Jean. It was true! Could they not see with their +own eyes? One, too, then, should lift one's hat to Jean. And did not +the good Father Anton read to them from the newspapers that all France +was ringing with the name of Jean Laparde? + +"_Sacré nom d'un miracle_!" swore Pierre Lachance heavily. "And once +he made clay _poupées_ for little Ninon! _Bon Dieu_, think of that!" + +Bernay-sur-Mer had set Jean apart, above itself. + +But the old curé was troubled in his heart. And one night, after a +week had gone since the American strangers had come to Bernay-sur-Mer, +Father Anton shook his head over his newspaper as he read of Jean +Laparde--and found difficulty with his spectacles, for his thoughts +were of Marie-Louise. + +It was only a week ago that she had come to him so happily, so gladly, +the proud light in her eyes, to talk of the great thing Jean had +done--and she had changed a great deal in the week. The proud light +would come back quickly enough at mention of Jean, but she had grown +strangely quiet and silent. And Jean, too, had changed. It seemed, as +indeed it was true, that Jean was no longer one of the village. + +The old priest took off his offending spectacles, rubbed them with his +handkerchief, and replaced them only to find that the mistiness was in +his own wet eyes. + +Jean did not seem the same in his new clothes. Of course, it was quite +natural that Jean should have discarded his fisherman's dress. +Mademoiselle Bliss had said very truly that though it might be +picturesque in Bernay-sur-Mer, in Paris it would be only eccentric; and +besides, to go to Marseilles with his new friends of his new world, one +needed to be dressed as they were not to be ridiculous. Monsieur Bliss +had been very generous. The American was very whole-heartedly +interested in his protégé. Jean would lack for nothing that either +money or influence could procure. + +But it was not only the clothes--Jean himself had changed. Father +Anton shook his head again slowly. It had come gradually during the +week, and he, who loved Jean as a son, had not failed to see it. At +first it had been amazement, bewilderment, incredulity, then a dawning +belief in the genius of his power that they preached to him, and then a +fierce assurance that it was so; it had begun with wonder at the +camaraderie with which the famous men who had come there treated him, +at the respect that Bernay-sur-Mer paid to him--and it had ended with +the acceptance of it as his due, and had come to be looked for with a +tinge of arrogance as though he had drunk of heady wine. Yes, it was a +change! Jean was afire now, a different man, consumed, possessed with +the lure of fame, the golden vista that was before his eyes, steeping +his soul in it, reaching out to it, straining toward it like a young +eagle that suddenly liberated from captivity takes wings to the great +void. + +And so the paper slid unheeded to the floor from the old priest's knees +that night, a week after the American strangers had come to +Bernay-sur-Mer, and the spectacles were removed again--but this time +the eyes were wiped. He was glad for Jean, proud in his love for the +greatness that was to come--but somehow in his heart there was sadness, +too. It seemed that between Marie-Louise and Jean a shadow crept, and +lengthened, and there was a parting of the ways. + +"I love you both, my children, Marie-Louise and Jean," the old curé +whispered. "I am an old man. Perhaps I am foolish in my fears. I +pray the good God for you both." + + + + +-- IX -- + +FORKED ROADS + +It was the room Myrna Bliss had occupied. Mother Fregeau had insisted; +Jacques Fregeau had implored. It was fitting that the best at the Bas +Rhône should be Jean's. The little back room that had been his for ten +years was quite impossible. It was different now. It would be but to +make him ridiculous--what with all these grand strangers that were +around him! And besides, _merveille du bon Dieu_, was he not now +himself the greatest of the great ones! + +In through the window the late afternoon sun played over the faded +wallpaper of the _chambre de luxe_; from without there was the hum of +voices, exclamations of amazement, cries of delight and admiration, the +curious composite sound of a gathered, eager crowd. And Jean, well +back from the sill that he might not be seen, glanced outside, it was +his--his! The work that he had done during the past week in the +_atelier_ they had made for him in the barn behind the Bas Rhône! It +was finished! Monsieur Bidelot was exhibiting it now to +Bernay-sur-Mer. The great Academician was standing in the tonneau of +the automobile and holding it up for every one to look at--the +fisherman with his boat and net in clay. Ah, they understood that, the +people of Bernay-sur-Mer! But they understood only that it was +magnificent because Bidelot and Monsieur Bliss and the great men who +had come amongst them told them that it was magnificent. + +For years he had made the _poupées_, and they had seen nothing--and he +had seen nothing. But now they knew because they were told; and now he +knew because his soul, his brain was ablaze with the knowledge of +creative power, because what had gone before was nothing, because what +was to come would sweep the past, that little thing that Bidelot in his +emotion cried over, into insignificance. + +He drew back, his head high; his outflung arms, hands clenched, +stretched heavenward. These strangers, these great critics had said +it, and it was so! The name of Jean Laparde would never die! + +He stripped off the long sculptor's apron that covered him from neck to +knees, and held it out at arm's length, gazing first at it and then at +the rough fisherman's clothes that hung, where Mother Fregeau had +placed them, on the end peg on the wall--a little apart, significantly +it seemed, whether by accident or design, from the new clothes that had +come from Marseilles. And then he laughed out suddenly in a quick, +exalted way, and tossed the apron on the bed. It was all changed, +that! He was through with the fisherman's dress, he was through with +Bernay-sur-Mer! To-night he was to dine with Bidelot and a score of +others in Marseilles, and after that in a few days it would be--Paris. + +He undressed hurriedly, and began to dress again in a clean suit--but a +little slowly now, none too deftly. They were still strange to him +these clothes; but then everything was strange. The people around him +were strange. At times he felt awkward, constrained in their +presence--and at times he could laugh down at them as from a superior +height. Ay, he could laugh--they were at his feet! Only--he frowned +heavily--he could not laugh at Myrna Bliss. He was not master there! +And yet she, somehow, did not erect the barrier. It was himself that +did that--because he could not forget that behind the roguish smile in +the grey eyes might lurk the thought that, after all, he was only a +fisherman. + +A fisherman! They were cheering now outside. His hands shut tightly. +A fisherman! He was no longer a fisherman! He was Jean Laparde, a +sculptor of France, a man before whom lay a path of glory, a man whom +the nation would acclaim, a man of whose future all stood in envy! +They had told him that, these men whom France had already honoured, +these men who had accepted him as more than their equal. But there was +no need for them to tell him--he knew it in his soul. None, no man, +the world itself, could hold back now the genius of Jean Laparde! + +Paris! He was pacing the room now, his eyes afire. To-morrow or the +next day, when the Blisses had made their plans, Paris and fame was +his. What a life it was that now opened out before him! A place +amongst the highest, the world to resound with the name of Jean +Laparde--and those grey eyes, that bronze hair, that glorious beauty of +the American--God! he would immortalise her in clay, in bronze, in +marble. + +Ay, they might well cheer while the chance was theirs, these people of +Bernay-sur-Mer! To-morrow or the next day he would be saying good-bye +to them, and--he stood suddenly still--and good-bye, too, to +Marie-Louise. The thought put a damper upon his spirits; his brows +gathered in deep furrows of impatient perplexity. + +He had not seen much of Marie-Louise in the last week--he had seen her +scarcely at all. Only twice--when she with many others had stood in +the doorway to watch his work. She had smiled at him then, as though +it were her work, too, as though it were a joint proprietorship--but +she had gone before he could speak to her. And at the cottage, when he +had been there at the invitation of Myrna or her father, Marie-Louise, +strangely enough, now that he thought of it, was never to be seen. + +He would have to speak to her, of course, about going away; but what +chance, with the whirl he had been in, had he had to do it? She would +know that he was going to Paris, for everybody knew it--but he would +have to speak to her himself about it before he went. And what was he +to say? Certainly, he loved Marie-Louise--but the great chance of his +life was before him. What was he to say to her? He would go to Paris +for a time, make this great name for himself, and then +afterwards--_what_? + +He refused to tolerate the question. He had refused to tolerate it all +week. It was enough for the present that he was going for a time to +Paris. Marie-Louise was sensible enough not to make a scene. She +could see readily enough that he must go and that she must stay. How, +for instance, could she associate with women of fashion and society +like Myrna Bliss, who would be the women of the new world that must +necessarily form part of his life hereafter. What was he thinking of? +Was it the "afterwards" again? Was he not coming back to Marie-Louise? +Was he choosing now between his art and Marie-Louise? No; he was +not--he would not! That was an issue for the future. It would work +itself out. Why should he plague himself about it! + +He loved Marie-Louise, of course; but it would have been easier now if +there had been nothing between them. He could not go to Marie-Louise +and say: Marie-Louise, I love you; but it is finished--you can see that +the _grand monde_ would make a very great difference between Jean +Laparde, the great sculptor, and Marie-Louise the fisherwoman of +Bernay-sur-Mer. No; he could not say that, but--_sacré nom_!--was he +back to the everlasting "afterwards" again, when he refused so +resolutely to go beyond the present? Was it not enough that he was +simply going to Paris for a time--a matter that would seem natural +enough to her, and of which she would be glad because great things had +come to him? He would talk to her like that--that would be +enough--Marie-Louise was a sensible girl. One could not say to her +that it would be better to finish everything, he would never say that +to Marie-Louise--but if, _par example_, he and Marie-Louise had never +talked of the marriage there would be nothing now to trouble him. +And--he swung around sharply as a knock sounded on the door. + +"Come!" he called. + +Papa Fregeau stuck in his head. + +"_Pardon_, Monsieur Jean"--it was "monsieur" now--"it is Mademoiselle +Bliss who is alone in the café below. Will Monsieur Jean see her for a +moment before he goes out?" + +"In an instant," Jean answered quickly. "Tell mademoiselle that I will +be there in an instant." + +Papa Fregeau hesitated, stared about the room, and stared at Jean, his +fat cheeks grotesquely expanded--and his arms rose suddenly in a +gesture of profound helplessness. + +"_Mon Dieu_!" he muttered heavily. "Is it possible that it is our +little Jean there--ah, _pardon_"--he stammered--"_Monsieur_ Jean"--and +made a hasty exit from the room, as though utterly confounded at his +own temerity. + +But Jean, following his reply, had paid no further attention to Papa +Fregeau. He had learned to knot the long, flowing tie that Myrna had +chosen as part of his dress, for she had said, had she not, that it was +the tie the artists wore in Paris? He knotted it now with extra care, +put on his coat, snatched up his hat, and ran downstairs to the café +below. + +She was waiting for him back by the little _comptoir_ where he had +stood that evening when she had first spoken to him. She had been like +a glorious vision that had burst suddenly upon him that evening--she +was a thousand times more glorious now, for her smile was eager with an +intimacy that promised--what did it promise? He did not know. It was +there--and her eyes were shining, and the white throat was divinely +beautiful--and the thrill of her presence quickened the beat of his +heart. + +Her laugh rang through the room, silver-toned. + +"Jean," she cried merrily, "you are harder to see these days than a +prime minister! What do you mean, sir? Have you deserted us?" + +"_Ma foi_!" protested Jean, a little anxiously. "Mademoiselle does not +mean that! Was I not at lunch with her to-day, and yesterday, and the +day before that?" + +"Yes, and all day at the work, and every evening in Marseilles"--she +manufactured a dainty pout through her smile. "And even now that I +have snatched a little moment, I must not keep you for they are waiting +for you outside." + +"Let them wait!" said Jean tensely. + +"Oh, no; we mustn't do that," she said laughingly, shaking her head. +"So listen, Jean. I have come to tell you that--can you guess what? +That you are not going to Paris with us after all." + +"Not going to Paris!"--Jean gazed at her bewilderedly, as he repeated +the words. + +"With _us_--silly boy!" she smiled teasingly. "Are you disappointed?" + +She teased, and mocked, and delighted him, and fired his blood by +amazing and elusive turns. He could not cope with her yet. + +"But mademoiselle knows," he blundered. "I--I do not understand. It +is a great disappointment." + +"Then it mustn't be!" she declared brightly. "For it is my idea, and +if you are not pleased with it, it is I who will be terribly +disappointed. It is just a little while ago that father and I arranged +the plans. We are to go to-morrow direct to Paris, and as soon as we +get there--now listen very attentively, Jean!--we are going to pick out +an _atelier_ for you and fit it up. And you are not to come until we +send you word that everything is ready. And the day you arrive I shall +be hostess at the studio at a reception to which all Paris will be +invited. Everybody that is worth while will come, and your entrée will +be a triumph. Now, Jean, will that not be splendid?" + +She was smiling at him, vivacious, flushed with excitement. +Splendid--yes, it would be splendid! An entrée to Paris like that! It +was the first tangible glimpse of reality out of the chaotic blaze of +luring, golden dreams. + +"It--it is too good of mademoiselle!" he stammered excitedly. + +Low, musical, her laugh rippled through the room again, as she looked +at him. The man was magnificent--the head, the shoulders, the splendid +strength, the mobile, changing lights and shadows in his face like a +child who had not yet learned to mask its emotions, and all this +coupled with the deliciously picturesque background of the discovery of +his art, would make him the rage in Paris. Paris would literally go +wild over him! And she? Well, he would be still more a new sensation +than ever--and perhaps, who knew?--but the man was too easily +aroused--and then there was the possibility that her father, that +Bidelot and the others had overrated him, that he would be but the +phenomenon of the moment, only to sink after a while into uninteresting +mediocrity--she would see. But for the present at least Paris would +echo and re-echo with the name of Jean Laparde. Her eyebrows arched +demurely, innocently. There was something else she had to say to Jean. +She had never spoken to him of Marie-Louise--naturally. But she must +speak now. Marie-Louise, a peasant girl, a bare-footed fisherwoman, in +Paris as Jean's fiancée was perfectly impossible! + +"Jean," she said ingenuously, "you know we took the cottage without +much formality as far as any definite length of time was concerned. Of +course we expected to stay longer, and if all this had not happened we +certainly should have done so. So, do you think, when we speak to +Marie-Louise about going, that she would be perfectly satisfied with a +month's rent? I told father I would ask you." + +Jean's face clouded. + +"You have not told Marie-Louise then that you are going to-morrow?" he +asked slowly. + +"How could we--when we did not know ourselves until a little while +ago?" she answered. + +"No; that is so," he said. Then, with a short, conscious laugh: "I +have not spoken to Marie-Louise myself." + +"Of course you haven't!" she returned quickly, "And you have been wise." + +"Wise?"--Jean looked at her, puzzled. + +"Marie-Louise is not blind," said Myrna quietly. "It is far better +that she should have seen things for herself--and she could not help +seeing them during the last week." + +"You mean?" Jean began--and stopped. + +"You know what I mean, Jean," she said gravely. "That she must have +seen what everybody else sees--what you see yourself. That if she ever +had any idea of going to Paris with you, it is quite out of the +question. It is different now--everything is changed. You are not a +fisherman any longer; you have a great place to take in the world that +she cannot take beside you. A week in Paris and, even if neither of +you see it now, you would both see it only too bitterly and clearly +then. For both your sakes it is better settled now." + +Jean was staring across the room to where, outside, the crowd was +packed densely in the road. Had he not thought of just those things +that she had been saying? Had he not thought of them all week? They +were true; but still there was Marie-Louise who--what was that? They +were cheering him there outside--it made his blood tingle, he felt the +mad elation of it, his soul seemed to leap out to meet the acclaim! + +"But that is not all, Jean"--she was speaking again. "There is another +thing, something you owe to--oh, how shall I say it?--to your country, +and--" She stopped suddenly and caught his arm. "Listen!" she +breathed. "Listen!" + +It was Bidelot, the great Academician, his voice raised in impassioned +words. Through the window they could see him standing, bare-headed, in +the automobile. + +"... Bernay-sur-Mer will evermore live in the hearts of Frenchmen--you +have given to France the immortal name of Jean Laparde." + +Her hands, both of them now, were clasped tightly on his arm. + +"Jean!" she whispered. "Jean!" + +"_Mon Dieu_!"--the words came hoarsely from Jean's throat. They were +cheering again. He moved, like iron impelled to the magnet, across the +room. He looked at Myrna. He had never seen her eyes so bright. + +"It is only the beginning, Jean"--she seemed half hysterical herself. +"But in Paris, Jean--in Paris you shall see!" + +They were at the door, and suddenly she flung it wide open. There was +a roar of voices. She was smiling at him from the doorway. They were +shouting his name. They rushed at him, and, lifting him shoulder high, +carried him to the automobile. Fame--was this only a taste of it? No +more than that? In Paris--what was it he should see in Paris? They +were shouting again. It was like some fiery draught that his soul was +drinking in. He craved it with a lust that was passionate, +all-possessing. He cried out to those around him. He did not know +what he said. And then Bidelot was speaking to him, and the automobile +was whirling down the road, followed by the shouts of all +Bernay-sur-Mer. + +All Bernay-sur-Mer? No; not all. For as the car flashed by, halfway +between the little bridge and the eastern headland, the fringe of +bushes by the roadside parted, a dark head lifted, and Marie-Louise +gazed after it. It was all so strange, and she could not quite +understand. Once, twice before, on other evenings, she had watched the +car pass. They were all of the great world those men with Jean in the +car; of the great world of which she knew nothing, only that the +village spoke of the strangers with awe. And now Jean was one of +them--and they seemed so proud of him, so proud to make him one of +themselves, these great men. And she was proud of him, too, oh, so +proud and glad and happy--only back of it all was a little chill of +dread and fear, and she could not quite understand. She had smiled at +Jean from the edge of the crowd that was clustered around the door of +the barn those days when he had been working at the clay--and then she +had stolen away and cried so bitterly. She did not know why she had +done that. If only some one would tell her what it all meant! Was it +because Jean was going away for a little time? The dark eyes widened +slowly. Was it only for a little time? She had not talked to Jean +since that morning on the beach, and that was so long, long ago. It +wasn't Jean's fault, though, nearly so much as hers. She had really +tried to evade him. No, not to evade Jean; but to evade the others out +of the shyness and diffidence for the great strangers who were now +constantly around him. Would there be always these strangers around +him? + +She drew herself up suddenly, her small hands fiercely clenched. She +hated these strangers! That was it! They were always coming between +Jean and herself! They were always there! They made of Jean a +different man; they made him one of themselves, and in doing that they +were snatching him away from her, taking him across what seemed like +some vast gulf that she could not traverse herself. She hated this +Monsieur American, and this mademoiselle; and she hated the day they +had come, for it had all begun that day. The red burned angrily in her +cheeks, the lithe form quivered in a quick rush of passion--and then, +instantly penitent, with a little sob, she flung herself down upon the +grass. + +No; she did not hate them! What had she said! The _bon Dieu_ would be +very angry with her for that. And they had been very kind and good to +her, this monsieur and this mademoiselle. And to hate all the others +was to commit a sin, for were they not there because Jean--she raised +her head quickly, parting the bushes again, as she caught the sound of +steps and voices from the road. + +It was Monsieur Bliss speaking in French to Father Anton, who walked +between Monsieur Bliss and mademoiselle. + +"Why should he not work here? Why should he go to Paris? What a +question, my dear Monsieur le Curé! It is because here is nothing; +because in Paris there is everything. It is there that he will study +the great works of famous sculptors; it is there that he will have +models and facilities for his work; it is there that he will have +inspiration from the art around him; it is there that, with his genius, +he will sift and choose, profiting from the different schools even as +he creates a new one for himself; and it is there that the leading men +of France will unite with the social world to make the name of Jean +Laparde known and honoured wherever art is known." + +"But," said Father Anton anxiously, "but he will come back--to +Marie-Louise." + +Henry Bliss's hand fell sympathetically upon the old priest's shoulder, +as he shook his head. + +"I do not know," he said soberly. "Who can tell? It depends upon +Jean--and Marie-Louise. Frankly, I do not think he will come back, for +there is always the danger that the greater he becomes the greater will +become the distance between them--and Jean will unquestionably become a +national figure. But it is a vastly different thing with him than it +is with her. It is innate in him to take that place gracefully, even +as his genius is innate in him. To her, I am afraid, it would be an +impossible and an impracticable life. It is likely she would be +miserable to begin with and feel herself a drag upon him, for, we must +admit, she could not, as we say in America, hold up her end in his new +life. It is one of those tragedies of life, isn't it, that we cannot +shape one way or the other? It is something they alone must work out. +It is not a little matter, this future of Jean's. France has claimed +Jean, Monsieur le Curé, and it may well be, as Myrna here said a moment +ago, there is no place in his new life for Marie-Louise. I--" + +They had passed on. + +It seemed to Marie-Louise that she was very cold, that somehow she +could not move. There were three figures out there on the road walking +along. It was very strange that so ordinary a thing as that should be +taking place. She seemed to be numbed, to be waiting somehow for a +return to consciousness. Was that consciousness that was returning +now, was that it--this dull, monotonous pain? And that great choking +in her heart--what was that? She was standing erect, and words were +quivering on her lips. + +"There is no place in his new life for Marie-Louise." + +She was staring out before her; but the road, and, beyond it, the white +beach, and, beyond that again, the blue of the sea with the great +golden shaft of light from the setting sun upon it was gone--and there +was only nothingness. Only her lips moved. + +"There is no place--in his new life--for Marie-Louise." + + + + +-- X -- + +A DAUGHTER OF FRANCE + +How still the house was! Only once during the night had Marie-Louise +heard a sound as she had sat, dressed, by the window in the little +attic room. And that sound had been the whir of an automobile rushing +by on the road--it had been Jean returning from Marseilles. That was +while it was very dark, very long ago--now it was daylight again, and +the sun was streaming into the room. + +The chaste, sweet face was tired and weary and aged a little; but on +the lips, sensitive, delicate, making even more beautiful their +contour, was a brave, resolute little smile, as her eyes rested on the +small white bed, neatly made, unslept in. It was over now, the fight +that had been so hard and so cruel to fight; and she needed only the +courage to go on to the end. + +Over and over again, all through the night, she had thought it out. +She loved Jean. She loved Jean so much! She had trembled once when +she had tried to think how much, and the thought had come so quickly, +before she could arrest it, that she loved Jean as much as she loved +God--and then she had prayed the _bon Dieu_ not to be angry with her +for the sin, for she had not meant to think such thoughts as that. + +It was true what they had said when they had passed by on the road +yesterday evening. There was no place in his new life for her. A +hundred little things all through the week had shown her that, only, +until yesterday evening when Monsieur Bliss had spoken, she had not +understood what they meant--Nanette, that first day, when Jean had come +to lunch with mademoiselle and monsieur; the curious, side-long glances +that the villagers gave her now; a strange, embarrassed reserve in +Father Anton, when the good curé had spoken to her lately; that wide, +vast gulf that lay between the world mademoiselle lived in, the world +that Jean was going to, and her own world. They had all seen +it--except herself. And she had not understood because she had not +allowed herself to think what it might mean, what she knew now it +meant--that she must lose Jean. + +To let Jean go out of her life because France had claimed him--that was +what her soul had whispered to her all through the night. A Daughter +of France, her Uncle Gaston had called her proudly--it was Jean who had +told her what her uncle had said--that he had taught her to love God +and be never afraid. But she was afraid now, she had been afraid all +through the night, for it seemed as if there were no more happiness, as +though a great pain that would never go away again had come to her. + +France had claimed Jean. He was to be a famous man. Did they not all +talk of his glorious future? It was different with Jean--years ago +even she had known that. She herself had told him he was different +from the fishermen of Bernay-sur-Mer. Jean was born to the life that +he was going to. Was he not even now taking his place amongst these +great strangers as though he had been accustomed to do so always? And +she, if she should try to do it, they would laugh at her, and she would +bring ridicule upon Jean, and she could not do what Jean could do. She +was a peasant girl whom mademoiselle scolded about going without shoes +and stockings. + +And Jean must surely have seen these things, too. But Jean, though he +had heedlessly hurt her so when he had given away again the little +beacon, would never speak to her of this, because this was a much +greater thing which was to change all their lives. It was she who must +speak to Jean, it was she who must tell him that she understood that +the great future which lay before him must not be harmed; that she must +not hold him back; that she must not stand in his way; that she would +only hurt him in that dazzling, bewildering world that would disdain a +fishergirl; that it was France, not she, who came first. + +The night had brought her that. It was only the courage she needed now +to act upon it. + +She stood up, looking through the window--and the great dark eyes +filled with a blinding mist. + +"Jean! Jean!" she said brokenly aloud. + +A little while she stood there, and then walked slowly across the room +to the bed. And as once she had knelt there before, she dropped again +upon her knees beside it. And now the smile came bravely again. They +were wrong. It was not true. There was a place in his life for +her--something that she could do now. There was one way in which her +love could still help Jean in the wonderful life that had come to him. + +The dark head bent to the coverlet. + +"_Mon Père_," she whispered, "make me that--Jean's beacon now." + +And after a time she rose, and bathed her face, and fastened the black +coils of hair that had become unloosed, and, as she heard Nanette +stirring below, went quietly downstairs. + +She must see Jean. They were going away to-day, mademoiselle and +monsieur, and Nanette and Jules; and Jean was to follow them in a few +days. She had heard mademoiselle and her father discussing it at their +supper last evening. She must see Jean now before the others went, +so--so that everybody would understand. + +She stole out of the house, gained the road and started to run along it +toward the village. Jean would be up long ago, all his life he had +risen hours before this, and she would be back by the time mademoiselle +and monsieur were up and needed her. She stopped suddenly, and in +quick dismay glanced down at her bare feet. She had forgotten to put +on her shoes and stockings. Suppose mademoiselle should see her +returning like that! + +And then Marie-Louise shook her head slowly, and went on again. It was +not right to disobey, but it could not matter very much now, for +mademoiselle was going away in the afternoon. And besides she could +run much faster without them, and--the tears came with a rush to her +eyes--they seemed all at once to mean so much, those shoes and +stockings. It--it was the shoes and stockings and all they meant that +was taking her out of Jean's life. She understood it all so well now. + +She brushed the tears a little angrily from her eyes. She must not do +that. To go to Jean and cry! Far better not to go at all! +Afterwards, when they were gone, these Americans, and when Jean was +gone, and she was alone and only the _bon Dieu_ to see, then perhaps +the tears would be too strong for her. But now she must talk very +bravely to Jean, and not make it harder for him; for, no matter what +happened or what was to come, Jean, too, in his love, would feel the +parting. + +She understood Jean better now, too. The night had made so many things +much clearer. Had he not confessed that he was not always happy as a +fisherman in Bernay-sur-Mer? And must it not have been just this, this +greatness within him, that had made him discontented? And now that it +had come true, a far greater thing than he could have dreamed of, +changing his whole life, must it not for the time have made him forget +everything else? It had not killed his love for her, it had not done +that--but this thing must be first before either of their loves. +Afterwards, perhaps, it might kill his love--afterwards, yes, +afterwards it might do that. She tried to smile a little. It was what +she was going now to bring about--afterwards it _must_ kill his love. +It was the only way. And that would come surely, very surely--his +giving away of the beacon, so lightly forgetting what he told her it +had meant, taught her that. If he went now, if she bade him go now, it +was not for a little time--it was for always. + +She was running, very fast, breathlessly--as though she were trying to +outrun her thoughts. It was coming again, the same bitter fight that +she had fought out through the darkness, through all those long hours +alone--but she must not let it come, that sadness, that yearning that +tried to make her falter and hold back. The way was very plain. If +she loved Jean, if she really loved him, she must not let that love do +anything but what would help him in his new, great life--she must cling +to that. It would not be love if she did anything else; it would only +mean that she loved herself more than she loved Jean. + +"To be never afraid"--Uncle Gaston had taught her that, and the words +were on her lips now--"To be never afraid." + +She was walking again now, for she had reached the village. Some one +called to her from a cottage door, and she called back cheerfully as +she passed on to the Bas Rhône, where Papa Fregeau was standing in the +doorway. + +"_Tiens, petite_!" the fat little proprietor cried heartily. "But it +is good to see our little Marie-Louise! You do not come often these +days. They make you work too hard, those Americans, perhaps? But +to-day they are going--eh? Wait, I will call Lucille." + +"Good morning, Jacques," she answered. "Yes; it is to-day that they +are going, so do not call Mother Fregeau, for there is a great deal to +do at the house and I must hurry back." + +"Ah!" observed Papa Fregeau. "You have come then with a message?" + +"Yes," she said hurriedly; "for Jean. Do you know where he is?" + +"But, _là, là_!" chuckled Papa Fregeau. "But, yes; he is upstairs in +his room. But wait--I must tell you. I have just helped him carry it +up. It is a very grand American affair, and he is like a child with +it. It arrived from Marseilles last night after he had gone." + +"What did?" inquired Marie-Louise patiently. + +"What did!" ejaculated Papa Fregeau. "But did I not tell you? The +American trunk, _pardieu_! that he is to go away with, and--" The fat +little man grew suddenly confused. "_Tiens_!" he stammered. "He is +upstairs in his room, Marie-Louise. I am an old fool--eh--an old +fool!"--and he waddled away. + +Why should it have hurt a little more because Jacques Fregeau had said +Jean was going away? And why should Jacques Fregeau have been able to +read it in her eyes? She was not so brave perhaps as she had thought. +And her heart was pounding now very quickly and so hard that it brought +pain, as she went up the stairs. + +"_Mon Père_"--her lips were whispering the same prayer over +again--"make me that--Jean's beacon now." + +And then she was knocking at the door. + +For an instant she hesitated, as his voice called to her to enter; then +she opened the door and stepped inside. It was Jean, this great fine +figure of a man, who turned so quickly toward her; but it was already +the Jean of the world where they wore shoes and stockings, and his +clothes were like the clothes of Monsieur Bliss. They made him very +handsome, very grand; only somehow they made it seem that her errand +was useless now, that she had come too late, that Jean was already gone. + +Her eyes met his, smiled--and, from his face, strayed about the room. +It was very fine that American trunk, but not very large. It was like +one that mademoiselle had, that she called a steamer trunk, and carried +on the automobile--and the trunk was empty, and the tray was on the +floor beside it. + +"Marie-Louise!" he cried--and then, a little awkwardly, he caught her +hands. "But--but what has brought you here, Marie-Louise?" + +"To see you, Jean," she told him simply. + +For a moment he stared at her uneasily. Was this then to be the scene +that he had dreaded, that he had been putting off? And then he laughed +a little unnaturally. + +"Ah, did you think, then, Marie-Louise, that I had forgotten you? You +must not think that! Only, _mon Dieu_, what with Bidelot, and the +critics, and Marseilles, and the work all day at the new design, what +could I do? But Bidelot and the rest have returned to Paris, and +mademoiselle and monsieur go to-day; and this afternoon I was going to +find you and tell you about the great plans they have all made for me." + +"Yes; I know, Jean," she answered. "And that is what I have come +for--to have a little talk about you and me." + +"About my going away, you mean?" he said, infusing a lightness into his +voice. "But you must not feel sad about that, Marie-Louise. You would +not have me lose a chance like that! And it is only for a little +while, until I have learned what, they say, Paris will teach me. I +shall do great things in Paris, Marie-Louise--and then I shall come +back." + +She shook her head slowly. + +"Jean," she said very quietly, "it is about your coming back that I +want to speak to you. I have thought it all out last night. It is not +for a little while. When you go it is for always. You can never come +back." + +"Never come back! Ah, is it that then that is troubling you?" he said +eagerly. "You mean that you would not mind my going for a little +while, only you think it is for more than that?" + +"You do not understand, Jean"--it seemed as though she must cry out in +wild abandon, as though the tears must come and fill her eyes, as +though she were not brave at all. Would not the _bon Dieu_ help her +now! She drew her hands away from him, and turned from him for an +instant. "You can never come back, Jean; you can never come back to +the old life. You will go on and on, further and further away from it, +making a great name for yourself, and your friends will be all like the +_grand monde_ who have been here, and I know that I cannot go into that +life, too--I understand that all so well. And--and so, Jean, I have +come to tell you that you are free." + +"Free!" he cried--and gazed at her in stupefaction. The colour came +and went from his face. He had not thought of this from her! And yet +it was what he had said in his soul--if only there were nothing between +Marie-Louise and himself! It was as if a weight had been lifted from +him--only replacing the weight was a miserable pricking of conscience. +"Free! What are you saying?" + +And now the dark eyes were bright and deep and unfaltering--and +suddenly she drew her form erect, and her head was thrown proudly back. + +"Free, Jean, because you must not think any more of me; because you are +to be a great man in your country and it is your duty to go, for France +has called you, and France is first; because"--her voice, quivering, +yet triumphant, was ringing through the room--"because I give you to +France, Jean! You do not belong to me now--you belong to France!" + +For a moment he did not speak. There seemed a thousand emotions, +soul-born, surging upon him. Her words thrilled him; it was over; +there was relief; it was done. She had gone where he had not dared to +go in his thoughts--to the end. He would never come back, she said. +He was free. But he could not have her think that he could let her go +like that! + +"No, no, Marie-Louise!" he burst out. "Do you think that even if I +belonged to France, even if all my life were changed, that I could ever +forget you, that I could forget Bernay-sur-Mer, and all the people and +my life here?" + +"Yes," she said, "you will forget." + +"Never!" he asserted fiercely. + +"Jean"--her voice was low again--"it is the _bon Dieu_ last night who +has made me understand. I do not know what is in the new world that +you are going to, only that you will be one of the greatest and perhaps +one of the richest men in France. And I understand you better, Jean, I +think, than you understand yourself. This fame and power will mean +more to you than anything else, and it will grow and grow and grow, +Jean. And, oh, Jean, I am afraid you will forget that it is not you at +all who does these great things but that it is the _bon Dieu_ who lets +you do them, and that you will grow proud, Jean, and lose all the best +out of your life because you will even forget that once those clothes +hanging there"--she pointed toward the rough fisherman's suit--"were +yours." + +It was strange to hear Marie-Louise talking so! He did not entirely +understand. Something was bewildering him. She was telling him that +he must think no more of her, that it was finished. And there was no +scene. And she did not reproach him. And there were no tears. And it +did not seem as though it were quite real. He had pictured quite +another kind of scene, where there would be passion and angry words. +And there was nothing of that--only Marie-Louise, like a grown-up +Marie-Louise, like a mother almost, speaking so gravely and anxiously +to him of things one would not expect Marie-Louise to know anything +about. + +She turned from him impulsively; and from the peg took down the cap and +the rough suit, and from the floor gathered up the heavy boots with the +coarse socks tucked into their tops--and, as he watched her in +amazement, she thrust them suddenly into his arms. + +"Promise me, Jean," she said in the same low way, "that you will keep +these with you always, and that sometimes in your great world you will +look at them and remember--that they, too, belong to France"--and then +suddenly her voice broke, and she had run from the room. + +She was gone. Jean's eyes, from the doorway, shifted to the clothes +that cluttered up his arms--and for a long time he did not move. Then +one hand lifted slowly, and in a dazed sort of way brushed the hair +back from his eyes. It was a strange thing, that--to take these things +with him to remember--what was it she had said?--to remember that they, +too, belonged to France. + +"_Mon Dieu_!" he whispered--and, with a queer lift of his shoulders, +turned mechanically to the trunk beside him. "_Mon Dieu_!" he +whispered again--and now there was a twisted little smile of pain upon +his lips as understanding came, and almost reverently he laid the +things in the bottom of the trunk. + + + + +-- XI -- + +THE PENDULUM + +How many miles had they come? Jean did not know. It had been far--but +far along a road of golden dreams, where time and distance mattered +only because they were so quickly passed. + +It was Myrna Bliss who had suggested it because, had she not said? she +wanted to have a little talk with him alone before she left for Paris +that afternoon--and they would walk out along the road before her +father started, and the automobile would pick her up on the way. + +And so they had come, and so she had talked and he had +listened--feasting his eyes upon the superb, alluring figure that +swung, so splendidly supreme, along beside him. She had told him of +Paris--Paris, the City Beautiful--of the great city that was the glory +of France, of its magnificent boulevards, its statues, its arches, its +wonderful architecture, its wealth of art garnered from the ages, its +happy mirth, its gaiety, its richness and its life, the life that would +now be his. And he had listened, rapt, absorbed, fascinated, as though +to some entrancing melody, now martial, now in softer strain, that +stirred his pulse as it carried him beyond himself, and unfettered his +imagination until it swept, free as a bird in air, into the land of +dreams, that knew a fierce, ecstatic echo in his soul--the melody of +her voice. + +But now there had come a jarring note into that melody; and a sudden, +swift emotion, that mingled dismay, a passionate longing, a panic sense +of impotency, was upon him. The quick throb of the motor was sounding +from down the road behind them. Monsieur Bliss was coming now. In a +moment she would be gone. + +She had heard it, too, for she ceased speaking abruptly, and, halting, +turned to face him. + +"Isn't it too bad, Jean?" she cried disappointedly. "And I had hardly +begun to tell you about it! But then, never mind, the rest of it all +you will see for yourself in a few more days, when you get to Paris." + +In a moment she would be gone! What was it that held him back--that +had always held him back before? He was strong enough--strong enough +to crush her to him, to cover that gloriously beautiful face with his +kisses, to bathe his face in the fragrance of her hair, to feel her +heart, the throb, the pulse, the life of her body against his own! +What was it that, strong as he was, was stronger than he? + +"It--it is good-bye," he said, in a low, tense way. + +She felt the passion that was possessing him--he read it in the +startled glance of the grey eyes before they were veiled; in the ivory +of the perfect throat grown colourful with the mounting red; in the +parted lips before the teasing, merry smile was forced there, as she +stepped back a little away from him. She knew! She knew, as he knew, +that his soul was aflame--and it was she, not he, who dammed back the +tide of his passion with that "something" that was so powerful an ally +of hers, so readily, so always at her instant command. She knew, as he +knew, that his soul was aflame--and yet she had not repulsed him. What +did it mean? That she _cared_! But why did she laugh so lightly now, +why was she so perfectly self-possessed? What did it mean? That she +was playing with him! + +"How absurd, Jean!" she laughed gaily. "Of course, it isn't +'good-bye'; that is"--she glanced at him demurely--"that is, unless +you've changed your mind about coming to Paris." Then, impulsively +eager: "But you haven't done that, have you? And you want to come more +than ever now after what I have told you, don't you? And, Jean"--she +came suddenly close to him again, and her face, its demureness gone, +was puckered up in very earnest little wrinkles--"there isn't anything, +you won't let anything keep you from coming--will you?" + +Keep him from Paris--from her! Why had she asked that? He laughed out +boisterously, harshly. It was very near now, that accursed automobile! +Monsieur Bliss was calling out to them. Keep him from--Paris! He +could only laugh out again wildly, as he looked at her. + +"Jean!"--it was a quick, hurried exclamation, not all composure now, +and her eyes were hidden, and her face was turned away. "Jean, good +gracious, don't you hear father calling to you? Look, here he is!" + +Jean swept his hand across his eyes. It was the madness upon him. +Yes, here was Monsieur Bliss beside him, and she and her father were +both talking at once. It was Paris! Always Paris that they talked of! +In a week, in ten days, he would be there. And then they had both +shaken hands with him, the grey eyes had smiled into his for an +instant, and she had sprung from him into the automobile. It was a +daze. They had gone. He was standing in the road watching them. She +was fluttering a scarf at him, as she leaned far over the back of the +car--her voice, full-throated, was throbbing in his ears. + +"_An revoir_, Jean! _Au revoir_--till Paris!" + +The car disappeared over the brow of a little hill, came into sight +again as it topped the opposite rise, became a blur and then a tiny +dot, scarcely discernible, far on along the road. And still he stood +there. + +It was gone at last. He turned then, and started back along the road +toward Bernay-sur-Mer; now walking slowly, now suddenly changing his +pace to a quick, impulsive stride. His eyes were on the road before +him, but he saw nothing. Her voice was ringing in his ears again, and +again he was living in that golden land of dreams--with her. + +Paris! The City Beautiful! Paris--where he should know fame and +power, where his genius should kindle a flame of enthusiasm that would +spread throughout all France! Paris--where men should do him honour! +Paris--where riches were! Paris--where she was! + +His brain reeled with it. It was not wild imagining. A power, a +mighty power, the power that made him master of his art lived and +breathed in every fibre of his being. He needed no tongue of others +now to tell him that this power was his; the knowledge of it was in his +soul until he knew, knew as he knew that he had being and existence, +that the work of Jean Laparde would stand magnificent and supreme +before the eyes of the world. He saw himself the centre, the leader of +a glittering entourage. Fame! Men of the highest ranks should envy +him--the gamins of Paris should know his name. He threw back his head +on his great shoulders. Conceit, all this? No; it was stupendous--but +it was not conceit. He knew--his soul knew it. He was more sure of +himself now than even those great critics of France had been sure. +They had seen nothing--he had not begun. A year, two years in Paris, +the tools to work with, the models of flesh and blood at his +command--and, ah, God, what would he not do! They should see, they +should see then! And they should stand and wonder, as they had not +wondered before--at Jean Laparde! + +He laughed suddenly aloud. Father Anton had preached a sermon once in +the little church, he remembered it now--that fame was an empty thing. +An empty thing! He laughed again. It was the simplicity of the good +curé, who believed such things because, _pardieu_! the curé was a +gentle soul and knew no better. What should Father Anton, who never +went anywhere, into whose life came nothing but the little daily +affairs of the fisherfolk in Bernay-sur-Mer, who could never have had +any experience in the things outside the life of the village that +turned everlastingly like a wheel in its grooves, know of fame? It was +not the fault of Father Anton that he talked so, for he got those +things out of his books, and, having no reason out of his own knowledge +of life to know any better, believed them! + +Jean shrugged his shoulders. One felt sorry for Father Anton! Perhaps +once in two years the curé journeyed as far as Marseilles--and the few +miles was a great event! What could one expect Father Anton to +discover for himself out of life? + +Fame--an empty thing! Poor Father Anton, who, because he believed it, +so earnestly preached it to Papa Fregeau and Pierre Lachance who never +went even as far as Marseilles, and who therefore in turn were very +content to believe it, too! An empty thing? It was _everything_! + +He drew in his breath sharply; his hand was feverishly tossing back the +hair from his forehead. It was everything! It was wealth, it was +power, it was might, it was greatness. It was real; it brought things +to the very senses one possessed, things that one could see and hear +and touch and taste and smell. They were real--real, those things! It +brought money that bought all things; it brought position, honour and +command, a name amongst the great names of France; it thrilled the soul +and fired the blood; it was limitless, boundless, without horizon. It +brought all things beyond the dreams that one could dream, the plaudits +of his fellow-men, the wild-flung shouts of acclamation from +hoarse-throated multitudes; it brought riches; it brought affluence; +and it brought--love. + +Love! Ay, it would bring love! It would bring him that more than it +would bring him any other thing. He knew now what had held him back +from crushing that maddeningly alluring form in his arms, from giving +free rein to the passion that was his, from giving him the mastery of +her. It was that same thing that Marie-Louise sensed between herself +and what she called the _grand monde_. He, too, had not yet bridged +the gulf. He had not yet been able to look into those grey eyes of the +beautiful American and forget, deep in his soul, that she was +different, that he had been Jean Laparde the poor fisherman and not +always Jean Laparde the great sculptor. Was she playing with him? +What did it matter? The day would come when she would not _play_! She +would be his--and this fame, that was so empty a thing, would give her +to him. If for no other thing than that he would go to Paris. She +would be his--as all the world would be his! His! That is what fame +would bring him! Would she play with him then in his greatness! + +Paris! Paris! It lay before him, a glittering, entrancing vista; it +held out its arms to him, and beckoned him; it heaped honour and glory +and riches upon him; it gave him---her! + +His hands were clenched at his sides, and the skin over the knuckles, +tight-drawn, showed white; his stride was rapid, fierce; he was +breathing quickly; his face was flushed; his eyes were burning. Paris, +his art that would bring him fame, the fame that would bring him +her--nor heaven nor hell would hold him back! + +And then suddenly in the middle of the road he stopped, and his hand +tore at his collar as though it choked him. Subconsciously he had seen +stretching out before him the sparkling blue of the quiet sea, the +headland, the little strip of beach where he and Gaston used to keep +the boats, a blur of white where the house on the bluff showed through +the trees--he had come that far on his way back. Subconsciously, in a +meaningless way, he had seen this; but now it was blotted from him in a +flash, and in its place came a scene that, though imaginary, was vivid, +real, actual, where before reality itself had meant nothing. + +It was black, intensely black, and the wild howling of the wind was in +his ears. The rain was lashing at his face, and all along the beach +echoed the terrific boom and roar of the surf. And now there came the +crash of thunder, and quick upon its heels the heavens opening in +darting, zigzag tongue-flames, lurid, magnificent, awesome, as the +lightning flashes leapt across the sky. And he was standing on that +little strip of beach, and far out across the waters, shrouded in a +white smother of spume and spray, the figure of Marie-Louise stood +outlined on the edge of the Perigeau Reef. And now he was crossing +that stretch between them, and living again the physical agony that had +been his; and now he was in the water, clinging to the gunwale of the +boat, and in all the wild abandon of the storm her lips and his were +pressed together in that long kiss that seemed to span all life and all +eternity. + +As though spellbound, a whiteness creeping into his face, Jean stood +tense and motionless there in the road. Why had this come now--he had +never let it come in the week that was past. Why should it have come +now, like floodgates opened against his will, to overwhelm him? Ah, +was it that? That little figure, that was just discernible, far off on +that beach, the little figure, bare-footed, that was sitting now on the +stem of his boat where it was drawn up on the sand, and whose face was +cupped in her hands, and who seemed to be staring so intently out +toward the Perigeau Reef! That was Marie-Louise there--Marie-Louise. +Was it the sight of her that had brought this thing upon him? And now +the scene was changed again. And it was against the window panes that +the rain lashed, and against the sashes that the wind tore, and the +lamp threw its light on the grey-grim face of old Gaston Bernier on the +bed. + +Jean shivered a little. What was coming now? What was that? Gaston's +hand was upon his. He could hear Gaston's voice: "Jean, do you love +Marie-Louise?" And then Gaston was repeating the question, and +repeating it again: "Jean, do you love Marie-Louise?" And the old +rugged strength seemed back again in Gaston Bernier, as he, rose up in +bed, and his voice in a strange, stern note rang through the room: +"Swear it, Jean ... to a dying man and in God's presence ... swear that +you will..." + +"God! My God!" Jean cried out aloud--and like a blind man feeling +before him, turned from the road, stumbled a little way through the +fields, and flung himself face down upon the grass. + +There was torment and dismay upon him. His mind was in riot; his soul +bare and naked now before him. Paris! No; he must go instead to +Marie-Louise and tell her that he would stay in Bernay-sur-Mer, that +they would live their lives together, because they loved each other. +Yes; he loved Marie-Louise, not with the mad passion he had for this +American who bewitched him, but as he had loved her all the years since +they were children. He had told Gaston that, and it was true. It was +the act of a _misérable_ to go away! No; he would not go now. It was +true, all that he had told Marie-Louise, that she should stand on the +beach and hold out her arms to him in welcome when he pulled ashore +from the fishing, and that they would be always happy together. And +yet--and yet had not Marie-Louise herself said that he belonged to +France, and said herself that he must go for the great career that lay +before him, for the great work that he was to do? + +He cried out aloud sharply, as though in hurt--and prone upon his face, +his hands outstretched before him, lay still for a little time. + +It seemed to come insidiously, calling to him, luring him, wrestling, +fighting, battling with the soul of him--Paris! Here there was love, +but there, too, was love. One was calm; the other like the wild tumult +of the storm that in its might, primal, elemental, swept him blindly +forward. Paris--she would be there, she who held him in a spell, who +made him forget Marie-Louise. And there was fame and glory there, +honour and wealth--all, all, everything that the world could give. And +it was his, all his--he had only to reach out and take it. There, all +France would be at his feet. It made his brain swim with the mad +intoxication of it. It was as a man dying with thirst who sees afar +the water that is life to him. Here, he could never be contented now, +he could never be happy, and in a year, two years, Marie-Louise, +therefore, would be unhappy, too. But--but he could not go ... that +night that he had held Gaston Bernier's hand ... and there was +Marie-Louise that he loved ... Marie-Louise with the pure, fearless +face, the great eyes that were full of a world of things, of calm, of +trust, of tenderness and love, the lips, the wonderful lips that were +so divinely carved, the lips like which there were no others. And he +must choose now forever between Marie-Louise and--Paris. If he went, +he would never come back. He was honest with himself now. He knew +that. Marie-Louise knew that. He must choose now. Choose! Had he +not already decided that he would--that he would--_what_? + +It began all over again, and after that again for a hundred times, +until the brain of the man was sick and weary, and the torment of it +had brought the moisture to his forehead and into his eyes a fevered, +hunted look--and still he lay there, and the hours went by. And after +a time, beneath the rim of the sea in the west, the sun sank down, and +the golden afterglow, soft and rich and warm, was as a gentle, parting +benediction upon the earth--and Jean's head was buried in his outflung +arms. And twilight came--and after that the evening--then darkness, +and the myriad, twinkling stars of a night, calm and serene, were +overhead--and it grew late. + +And there came a soul-wrung cry from Jean, as he lifted a worn and +haggard face to the moonlight. + +"What shall I do? What shall I do?" + + + + +BOOK II: TWO YEARS LATER + + + +-- I -- + +THE DUPLICITY OF FATHER ANTON + +It was early evening in Paris; an evening in winter--and cold. Father +Anton drew his chair quite close to the little stove that, not without +some prickings of conscience at his prodigality, he had fed lavishly +with coals from the half empty scuttle beside it; and, leaning forward, +alternately extended his palms to the heat and rubbed them vigorously +together. The room, or rather the two small rooms, that comprised his +lodgings in one of the poorest neighbourhoods of the city, were, since +the windows were tightly closed and the sides of the stove a dull red, +stifling hot; but Father Anton was not a young man, and the winter of +Paris was not the balmy winter of his beloved South. + +He took off his spectacles, polished them abstractedly on the sleeve of +his _soutane_, replaced them, and picked up a book. He opened the +book, turned a few pages without looking at them, and with a little +sigh laid the book upon his knees. It was only in strict privacy that +he permitted himself an indulgence in regrets and the somewhat doubtful +solace of retrospection. And now he opened the stove door. It always +seemed that in the glowing coals and the little spurts of flames one +could picture so much more clearly the blue of the Mediterranean, the +sunny skies, the clean white cottages of Bernay-sur-Mer, the boats +dotting the sea and beach, and Papa Fregeau standing in the doorway of +the Bas Rhône, and Pierre Lachance trudging along the street with a +great pile of nets slung over his shoulders. + +Father Anton shook his head slowly. It was very strange, the workings +of Providence. He had always thought to die in Bernay-sur-Mer. And +now already he had been in Paris a year! But the sacrifice was very +little, it mattered nothing at all, and if he had longings and dreams +of the days that were gone, he was still very happy here and should be +thankful to God for the wonderful work that had been given him to do; +only he remembered his dismay that morning, when, unannounced, the +bishop had come to Bernay-sur-Mer and had told him word had been +received from Paris that Monsieur Bliss, the millionaire American, +would give the enormous sum of five hundred thousand francs a year to +be distributed amongst the poor of Paris on the condition that he, +Father Anton, would undertake its distribution. And he remembered how +the bishop had explained that it had been suggested to Monsieur Bliss +that perhaps he, Father Anton, would not care to leave Bernay-sur-Mer +and his people there, and that there were others, younger men, nearer +at hand, who, under the guidance and direction of the ecclesiastical +authorities, would willingly and gladly undertake the work. And, above +all else, he remembered what monsignor had told him had been the reply +of Monsieur Bliss: "No; it isn't because Father Anton is a clergyman +that I want him, it's because he's the man I've been looking for," that +most astounding American had said. "There isn't any creed, or +religion, or sect, or anything like that in this--or any supervision. +What I'm after is practical results, and nothing else. I just want a +piece of bread to go where it is needed, and no questions asked. I've +always had the idea, but I didn't have the man. I've got him now. +Father Anton might not care to leave Bernay-sur-Mer--eh? H'm! There's +five hundred thousand francs a year at his disposal for the poor of +Paris--ask him if he thinks he can do any good with it?" + +And so he had come to Paris. It was magnificent that--the generosity +of Monsieur Bliss! And Monsieur Bliss was amazing! He had found a +most beautiful little apartment, most beautifully furnished, in a very +fashionable part of the city, and with two servants already installed, +awaiting him. Imagine! It was impossible! How could one reach the +poor unless one lived amongst them? And to maintain an establishment +when--Father Anton sighed again--when even the enormous sum of five +hundred thousand francs was all too little! + +He glanced around the room. Even as it was, his quarters must seem +ostentatious compared with the poverty about him--the Widow Migneault, +for example, in the rear room of the _troisième étage_ above him. But +what could one do? There was no arguing with those Americans! They +had insisted on furnishing the place to their own satisfaction. + +Father Anton's eyes returned to the glowing coals in the stove. He was +very happy because his work was the work that he, too, had dreamed of; +but one could not help thinking sometimes of Bernay-sur-Mer, and all +the lifelong friends, and the people who were so close to his heart. +And if he loved to picture them in his mind, and if there was perhaps a +little ache at the thought that he had left them, he was none the less +thankful to the _bon Dieu_ that he could do so much now with what was +left of his life. + +What were they all doing in Bernay-sur-Mer to-night? What was +Marie-Louise doing? It was two months now since she had written him. +She did not write as often as she used to write. He shook his head +sadly. She had had her sorrow, poor Marie-Louise! What a boundless +store of love there was in that brave little heart! If only it would +be given to some worthy young fellow now--Father Anton wrinkled his +brows in deep thought, as though he would decide the matter on the +spot--say, Amidé Dubois, who was a fine, honest lad; they would both be +very happy, and Marie-Louise would forget the sooner. Yes, certainly, +Amidé Dubois would do admirably. + +A clatter of hoofs, the rattle of wheels over the cobble stones on the +street, and the sudden cessation of both in front of the house, broke +in on the curé's musings. He rose slowly from his chair, and, going to +the window, peered out. His curiosity was rewarded only to the extent +of seeing a fiacre driving away again. It was rather strange, that! +Fiacres were not in the habit of stopping before any house in that +section of Paris. It would be some one for him then undoubtedly. +Monsieur Bliss, perhaps. No; not Monsieur Bliss, for was there not the +grand reception to-night that the Société des Beaux-Arts was tendering +to Jean Laparde, and for which Monsieur Bliss had sent him a card, but +to which he was not going. It was to be a great affair at which the +President of the Republic was to be present, and a rusty _soutane_ +would be not a little out of place there--and besides, the Jean of +Bernay-sur-Mer and the Jean of Paris were not the same. Perhaps one +should not let such thoughts come--but it was true. + +Father Anton listened. Yes; he had been right. Some one was knocking +at the door now. + +"Yes--come!" he called, and hurried hospitably across the room, as the +door opened--and stopped in stunned amazement--and ran forward again, +holding out his arms. "Marie-Louise!" he cried. + +Half laughing, half crying, she was in his arms; her own around his +neck. + +"Oh, Father Anton! Dear, dear Father Anton!" she was repeating over +and over again. + +"Well, well--but, but--well, well," was all he could say--and kissed +her, and pressed her face against his shoulder, and patted her head. + +And then he held her off to look at her. It was the same Marie-Louise, +with the same bright eyes, even if they were glistening now with tears; +the same Marie-Louise, just as though this was Bernay-sur-Mer and not +Paris at all, for there was no hat to hide the great black tresses of +hair, and there was just the same simple style of loose blouse and +ankle skirt that she always wore in the little village, and it might +well have been that he and she were there again, there in +Bernay-sur-Mer--only on the floor, where she had dropped it as she ran +to meet him, was a neatly tied-up little bundle that spoke of the long +journey. + +"Well, well!" he ejaculated helplessly again, and closed the door, and +drew her to a chair and sat down, while she knelt affectionately on the +floor at his knees. + +"Oh!" she said excitedly. "I did not think Paris could be so big a +place. And there was such a crowd in the station, and such a crowd +outside, and so many streets, and all the people I spoke to only shook +their heads when I asked for Father Anton, and--and then I began to be +a little frightened. And then--what do you think? Imagine! Was I not +grand? For a franc-fifty a _coccer_ said he would drive me to the +address, and--_me voici_! Did I not do well?" + +"Splendidly!" he agreed approvingly. "But, Marie-Louise, I do not +understand. It is a great surprise. You did not write; you said +nothing about coming to Paris. Why did you not tell me you were +coming?" + +She looked up at him merrily. + +"Must I answer that--quite truthfully?" + +"Of course!" he said, smiling indulgently. + +"Well, then," she said demurely, "I was afraid you would say I should +not come--and now that I am here you cannot say it." + +"Ah," he exclaimed, with mock severity, "that is a serious confession +you are making, Marie-Louise! So! And you thought I would not +approve, eh? What then has happened in Bernay-sur-Mer?" + +"Nothing has happened," she answered--but now she looked away from him +as she spoke. "I have sold my house there." + +"Nothing! Sold your house?" Father Anton began to take alarm. He +took Marie-Louise's face between his hands and forced her to look at +him. Yes, yes, the gaiety, the lightness of spirit was only +make-believe; the tears were more genuine than the smile that came +tremulously to her lips. "Marie-Louise," he said anxiously, "what is +it?" + +"Nothing!" she said again. "Only--only I could not stay there any +longer"--and suddenly, in a flood of tears, she buried her face on the +old priest's knees. + +"But, Marie-Louise--Marie-Louise!" he protested in helpless dismay--and +laid his hand soothingly on the bowed head. + +She looked up in an instant, dashing the tears away angrily. + +"I am a baby!" she cried, trying to laugh. "It was the journey, and +the new things, and seeing you again--but it is over now." Then, a +little hesitantly: "Tell me of Jean." + +"Jean?" repeated Father Anton, startled. "Jean?" He looked at her +closely. Could it be that? And then, with a little gasp, as he seemed +to read the truth in her eyes: "It--it is Jean then, Marie-Louise, who +has brought you to Paris?" + +"Yes," she answered, in a low voice. + +The curé's face grew very grave. + +"You have heard from him?" + +She shook her head. + +"I have never heard from Jean since the day he left +Bernay-sur-Mer"--she was plucking with her fingers at the skirt of the +priest's _soutane_. + +There was a long silence, broken at last by the old priest's deep sigh. + +"You still love Jean, my child?" he asked gently. + +"I have always loved him," she said simply. + +Father Anton fumbled with his spectacles. His heart had grown very +heavy. It seemed that the cruelest, saddest thing in the world had +happened. + +"Tell me about him!" she demanded eagerly. "You see him every day, +father." + +"I have not seen Jean in many months," he replied sadly. + +"Not seen him!" she echoed in consternation. "But he is here--in +Paris--isn't he?" + +"Yes; he is here," the curé said slowly. "But Paris is a big place, +and--and even old friends sometimes do not meet often." + +"But tell me about him!" she persisted. "He has become a great man--a +very great, great man?" + +"Yes," said Father Anton gravely, "he has become a great man--the +greatest perhaps in all of France." Then suddenly, laying his hands on +Marie-Louise's shoulders: "Marie-Louise, what is in your heart? Why +have you come here?" + +"But I have told you, and you know," she said. "To see Jean." + +The curé's hands tightened upon her shoulders. What was he to say to +her? How was he to tell her of the danger she in her innocence would +never guess, that lay so cold and ominous a thing upon his own heart? +How was he to put into words his fear of Jean for this pure soul that +was at his knees? As wide as the world was the distance that lay now +between Marie-Louise and Jean--but it was not that, not even that Jean +was openly attentive to Myrna Bliss--that was only a little thing. +Jean was not the Jean of Bernay-sur-Mer. The man was glutted now with +power and wealth. And swaying him was not the love of art that might +have lifted him to a loftier plane, it was the prostitution of that +divine, God-given genius for the lust of fame. And for fame he had +exchanged his soul. What was there sacred to Jean now? It was a life +closely approximating that of a roué that Jean lived. And for +Marie-Louise, with her love a weapon that might so easily be turned +against her, to come in touch with--no, no; it was not to be thought of! + +"Marie-Louise," he said hoarsely, "you must go back. You do not +understand. Jean is very different now--he is not the Jean--" + +"I know," she interposed, with a catch in her voice. "I know--better +than you think I know. It is you who do not understand. He is of the +_grand monde_, I understand that; and I--I am what I am, and it must be +always so. But I love him, father. Is it wrong that I should love +him? I will never speak to him, and he shall never know that I am +here; but I must see him, and see his work, and--and--oh, don't you +understand?" + +"And after that?" asked the old priest sorrowfully. + +"What does it matter--after that?" she said tensely. "I do not know." + +"No, Marie-Louise," he said earnestly, "no, my child, no good can come +of it. You must go back to Bernay-sur-Mer." + +She drew away from him, staring at him a little wildly. + +"But do you not understand?" she cried out with a sudden rush of +passion. "But do you not understand that it is stronger than I--that I +could not stay in Bernay-sur-Mer because I was always thinking, +thinking--that I could not go back there now any more than I could stay +there before? I must do this! I will do it! Nothing shall stop me! +And if you will not help me, then--" + +Father Anton drew her gently back against his knees. Yes; he was +beginning to understand--that the problem was not to be settled so +easily as by the mere expedient of telling Marie-Louise she must go +back to Bernay-sur-Mer. Those small clenched hands, those tight lips +were eloquent of finality. It became simply a matter of accepting a +fact. He might insist a dozen times that she should go. It would be +useless. She would not go! The old priest's brows furrowed in +anxiety. This love for Jean was still first in the girl's heart. +Words, arguments, were of no avail against the longing that was supreme +with her, that had brought her on the long journey across all France. +But her love was the love that pictured the frank, strong, simple +fisherman of Bernay-sur-Mer. If she should see Jean as he really was! +If she should see for herself the change in him, the abandon of his +life; and, too, see the glittering circles in which he moved! The +first would dispel her love for him; the second would show her in any +case the utter futility of it. As long as she held this love, that he +had hoped and prayed she had forgotten, it spoiled her life. It could +only bring her misery, unhappiness and sorrow. It would hurt cruelly, +this disenchantment; but it would save her, this poor child, whom he +loved as he would have loved a daughter of his own. Yes; if she should +see Jean as he really was, see him intimately enough to realise the +truth of the life he was leading! But how could that be brought +about--and at the same time protect her and keep her _safe_? + +She rose slowly to her feet, and stood before him, her hands still +tightly shut at her sides. + +"I was so sure, so sure that you would help me!" she said miserably. +And then, in pleading abandon, she flung out her arms to him. "Oh, +won't you, Father Anton, won't you? Won't you try to understand? It +can do no harm, only--only it is all my life--just to see him, to be +near him for a little while, to know that it has all been a wonderful +thing for him--and he will never know, I will not let him know." + +The curé's hands clasped and unclasped nervously. + +"Would you promise that, Marie-Louise? That you would not speak to +him, that you would not let him know you were here in Paris?" + +She answered him almost passionately, in hurt pride. + +"Oh, how little you understand!" she cried. "Do you think that my love +is like that? Do you think that for anything in the world I would +force myself into his life? Do you think that is why I came? Yes; I +will promise that!" + +"Well, well," said Father Anton soothingly, "we will see. But +first--eh?--a little supper? You are tired, my little Marie-Louise, +and hungry after the long journey. Come now, you will help me! We +will make a little omelette, and boil the coffee, and pretend that we +are in Bernay-sur-Mer--eh?" + +He began to bustle around the room, setting out bread and cheese from +the cupboard, and putting the coffee-pot upon the stove--and presently +they sat down to the simple meal. + +Marie-Louise ate very little; and finally, when she pushed her plate +away, the tears were in her eyes again. + +"I cannot eat any more," she said. "I--oh, Father Anton, you said that +you would see. You meant that--that you _would_ help me, didn't you?" + +It was plain, it was very plain that nothing would distract her for a +moment! Father Anton sighed again, and got up from his chair, and +began to pace the room. He had been turning a plan over and over in +his mind while he had watched her so anxiously during the meal. It was +strange how readily it had come to him, that plan! A monitor within +whispered the suggestion that perhaps it had come readily because it +was deception! The curé passed his hand in a troubled way back and +forth through his white hair. He had seen little of Jean--it was +perhaps because he reminded Jean of Bernay-sur-Mer and the past that +Jean was anxious to forget, that Jean had gradually come, in manner +more than words, to intimate that the old friendship was distasteful. +But if latterly he had seen little of Jean, at least when he had first +come to Paris his visits to the studio had been frequent enough to +enable him to form an intimate acquaintance with Hector, the red-haired +concierge of Jean's studio and apartment, and with madame, Hector's +wife. Nor had he permitted this intimacy to wane. He could not forget +that he had loved Jean, and through these good people he still kept his +interest alive. It was but a few days ago that Hector had complained +that the work was too much for his wife alone, that after some nights +at the studio with a gay company the morning presented a debacle to +clear up that was a day's work in itself. It was too much for her; and +they came often, those nights. + +Father Anton glanced at Marie-Louise. She was still watching him, a +sort of pitiful, eager expectancy in her face. His eyes fell to the +floor, as he continued to pace up and down. It could be arranged. +Jean rose very late. Marie-Louise could go early in the mornings to +tidy up the studio and the _atelier_. He could tell Hector she was a +charge of his, an honest girl to be trusted, who would do the work for +a few francs; and Hector in turn could obtain Jean's consent. +Marie-Louise would see for herself the life Jean led--and, besides, +Hector and his wife were not tongue-tied! But it was a terribly cruel +thing to do! The old priest's hands clasped and unclasped again in +genuine distress. It was terribly cruel! But it was little +Marie-Louise, whom he loved so tenderly, whose future was at stake. It +must not always be as it was to-day--sadness and hopelessness for the +brave young heart that should be so full of joy and life. + +He halted before Marie-Louise. Yes, it was the right thing to do; +there was no other way; she must be disillusioned; she should see +Jean's life at the studio; and to-night at the great reception she +should see Jean himself. Only his heart was very heavy--it was so hard +a thing to do. + +"Listen, Marie-Louise," he said abruptly. "I will help you, but it is +on the condition to which you have agreed--that Jean is in no way to +know that you are here. I will arrange with his concierge that very +early in the mornings, before Jean is up and when nobody is there, you +shall have the care of his studio and _atelier_, so you will be able to +see all you want to of his work; and to the concierge you are simply a +charge of mine who is in need of the few francs you will earn." + +"Oh, Father Anton, how good you are!"--she had jumped up joyfully from +her chair, and was in his arms again. "But I do not want the money. I +have plenty--from my house, you know." + +"But if you took no money, they would not understand why you would +work," explained Father Anton hurriedly. The depth of his duplicity +was very great! The gentle soul of Father Anton was conscience +stricken at her gratitude, her innocence. If he had not gone so far he +would retreat. She was crying in his arms. Never before had he known +what it was not to be able to look another in the eyes. He was glad +that Marie-Louise's head was hidden on his shoulder for he could not +have looked at her. Father Anton felt himself a criminal. It was not +a rôle that lay lightly upon him. + +"And Jean himself," she whispered. "When shall I see Jean?" + +Father Anton coughed nervously. + +"There--there is a reception to-night," he said hesitantly. He coughed +again. "For Jean. You might see him there perhaps--from the gallery. +I--I have a card." + +She sprang away from him, with a quick exclamation of excitement. + +"Oh, come then!" she cried impulsively, and caught his hand to pull him +toward the door. + +Father Anton turned away his head. Tears had sprung to his eyes. He +was indeed a criminal--the criminal of the ages! But if it would save +Marie-Louise! Ah, yes, he must keep that thought always before him. +He looked at her again, as he fumbled once more with his spectacles. + +"Yes, yes; at once!" he said mechanically. "But"--he was staring at +her now in sudden consternation--"but you cannot go like that! Have +you no other clothes?" + +She pointed at the little bundle on the floor. + +He shook his head. + +"No hat? No coat?" + +"No-o," she said tremulously, as though she sensed an impending tragedy. + +"But this is not Bernay-sur-Mer, Marie-Louise!" he said, in concern. +"You cannot go about dressed like that in Paris; and, besides, you +would freeze, my child." + +She looked at him in silence--a sort of pitiful despair, mingling +bitter disappointment and helpless dependence, in her eyes, in the +expression of her face. + +"Tut, tut!" murmured Father Anton, pulling at his under lip. And then +quickly: "But wait--wait! We shall see!" And he ran into the other +room. + +There were always clothes there--for his poor. The rich people, the +friends of Monsieur and Mademoiselle Bliss were always sending him +their old things for distribution amongst his poor. Mademoiselle Bliss +had sent him a package that afternoon. He remembered that there was a +long cloak and a hat amongst the other things. Ah, yes; here they +were! He held them up to look at them in the light from the doorway of +the connecting rooms. They had strange notions about "old things," the +rich! These, for example--he turned them about in the light--were as +good as new. They bought clothes one day, the rich, wore them the +afternoon, and gave them to him the next morning--because overnight +there had been created a new style! Father Anton smiled at his little +conceit. But it was almost literally true. He had seen Myrna Bliss +wearing these very things only a few days ago--the same black velvet +cloak, and the same black velvet turban with the little white cockade. +At least, he supposed it was a cockade! Ah, well--he shrugged his +shoulders--his poor were the gainers! + +"Here, Marie-Louise!" he called out, returning into the front room. +"You may have these, child." + +"Oh!" she exclaimed, as she took them. Her eyes widened. "Oh--they +are pretty! But--but, Father Anton, where did you get them? They are +new." + +"No, not quite," he smiled; "but new enough, I think, to last you all +the winter. They were"--he stopped suddenly, in gentle tactfulness. +Marie-Louise knew Myrna Bliss--it might cause her diffidence if she +were aware that the cloak and hat had been mademoiselle's. "They were +sent to me by the rich people amongst many other things," he amended, +"to be distributed where"--he smiled again--"where I think they will do +most good. So now they are yours. Put them on, and we will go." + +"Oh, Father Anton!" she cried again, in wonder at the sudden luxury +that was hers--and slipped on the cloak; and ran to the curé's shaving +glass, which was the only semblance of a mirror in evidence, to set the +turban daintily upon her head. "Dear, dear Father Anton--how good you +are!" + +But Father Anton did not answer. He was brushing his threadbare black +overcoat--and making a very poor business of it. There was a great +lump in his throat that refused to go either up or down--and he brushed +continuously at one sleeve, because that was all he could see through +the sudden mist that had come before his eyes. And then, as he caught +her gazing at him, he put on the coat hurriedly. + +"Yes, yes," he said hastily. "But we are all ready, are we not--eh? +Come then, Marie-Louise, we will go." + +And presently they were on the street--and somehow to Father Anton the +crisp cold of the night was very grateful, preferable for once to the +soft warmth of his far-away South, since the hot flushes now kept +coming and burning in his cheeks, as he walked abstractedly along. And +they were silent for a little while, until a pressure of her fingers on +his arm aroused him, and he turned his head to look at her. Her +cheeks, too, he could see even in the murky light from the street +lamps, were flushed, and the dark eyes were very bright. + +"Couldn't--couldn't we hurry a little, Monsieur le Curé?" she suggested +timidly. + +"Hurry? Ah--you are cold!" he said contritely, and quickened his step. + +"No," she answered. "I--it is only that it might be over--that we +might be too late." + +The words brought an added twinge to the already sore and overburdened +soul of Father Anton. It was the heart of Marie-Louise that spoke, the +heart that had no room but only for Jean. Ah, yes; but did he not +understand that already! Had she not come across all France for Jean? +But that was not all! How ignorant of this great world-city, its life, +its customs, its fineness, its sordidness her words proclaimed her to +be--how dependent they proclaimed her to be! But did he not know that +too? How great indeed had been his own bewilderment, and confusion, +and dismay when he had first come to Paris a year ago--even he who was +accustomed to journeying, for had he not gone almost once a year from +Bernay-sur-Mer to Marseilles? How well he remembered it--but, tut, +tut--of what avail was that? This was a vastly different matter, a +very serious matter. Marie-Louise was a woman, so young, so beautiful, +and in her ignorance, in her ingenuousness which was so marked a trait +because she was so purely innocent, she--ah!--he found himself asking +the _bon Dieu_ to watch very carefully over Marie-Louise; and, very +earnestly, with sad misgivings, as a corollary to that prayer, to +forgive him if he were doing wrong in betraying the very innocence, the +trust and simple confidence for which he asked protection for her from +others. + +"Father Anton, will--will we be late?" she ventured, evidently alarmed +into the belief, since he had not replied, that so dire a misfortune +was even more than a possibility. + +And then he answered her very gravely. + +"No, Marie-Louise. You need have no fear. It will only have begun; +and even if it were midnight we should still be in time. Affairs like +this are for all the evening, you see. Indeed, before going there, now +that I come to think of it, perhaps we had better see about finding +lodgings for you first. I know several very estimable families in this +neighbourhood who would be glad to give you a room for a small sum, and +you would be quite close to me, and--" + +"But could we not do that afterwards?" she interposed quickly. + +"Why, yes, of course, afterwards--if we do not stay too long at the +reception," Father Anton acquiesced. "You would rather do that, +Marie-Louise?" + +"Yes!" she said--and the word came tensely--and she pulled impulsively +upon his arm. + +And so then they hurried along, and after a little time the streets +grew brighter, better lighted, and from streets became great +boulevards, and from an occasional passer-by they were in the midst of +many people where one must needs elbow one's way to get along; but +Marie-Louise, save in a subconscious way that brought no concrete sense +of meaning, saw none of this--she saw only Jean again, the sturdy, +rugged figure that seemed to stand so clearly outlined now before her, +so real, so actual, so living, as he had been that night when he had +borne Gaston up the path in his strong arms; and the roar of the +traffic upon the streets was as the roar of that mighty storm and the +thunder of the sea breaking so pitilessly, so unceasingly upon the +rocks. And Father Anton spoke to her, pointing to this and that as +they went along--but she did not hear the curé. She was listening only +to another voice. "In just a little minute I shall see Jean ... I +shall see Jean ... I shall see Jean," her soul said. "I shall see +Jean." + +And then she was standing before a great building, and the building was +ablaze with lights, and carriage after carriage, automobile after +automobile was drawing up before a strange sort of canopy where even +the street itself was laid with crimson carpet, and out of the +carriages and the cars poured a constant stream of wonderfully dressed, +fur-clad women and their escorts. And suddenly she drew back with a +start. What had she done? She had stepped upon the soft carpet and in +under the canopy--and a man bewilderingly covered with gold lace, who +could be no less than a Marshal of France, though he seemed so effusive +and polite as he opened the carriage doors to welcome each new arrival, +was fixing her sternly with his eyes. + +"Come, Marie-Louise," prompted Father Anton. + +She felt the blood leave her face, and she drew very close to Father +Anton, clinging tightly to his arm. How fast her breath came! There +was laughter, merriment around her; they pressed against her, they +touched her, these wonderfully dressed people. How soft the carpet +was! How one's feet sank into it! It was a sacrilege that she should +walk upon it! How that constant murmur of voices rose and fell, rose +and fell! What were they saying? It seemed that she should know! +What was it? Yes, yes! "Jean Laparde ... Jean Laparde ... Jean +Laparde." From in front, from behind her, on either side, on every +tongue was the name of Jean Laparde. And it thrilled her, and her soul +in a clarion echo caught up the refrain. "Jean Laparde ... Jean +Laparde ... Jean Laparde!" And it seemed as though a thousand emotions +surging upon her were welded together and massed and made into one, and +that one was comparable to none she had ever known before because it +was too great, and overpowering, and bewildering to understand. Only +now she could lift up her head, and the blood was rushing proudly to +her cheeks again. + +And now they were in a great marble vestibule, and Father Anton was +handing a card to an attendant, and speaking to the man. + +"But Monsieur le Curé has full _entrée_--to the floor," the man replied. + +She did not catch Father Anton's answer--but the attendant was bowing +and speaking again. + +"But certainly, monsieur--as Monsieur le Curé desires. To the right, +monsieur." + +And then there were stairs, beautiful wide marble stairs, and the press +of people was left behind, for there seemed to be but few who climbed +the stairs; and then--and then--she was in a balcony, and below +her--ah, she could not see--it was all blurred before her--and there +seemed a great fear upon her, for her heart pounded so hard and so +fiercely. And then, strangely, as a mist rises from the sea, it began +to clear away, that blur from before her eyes, and myriad lights from a +massive chandelier, that was suspended from a great dome overhead, +played on the bare, flashing shoulders of women on the floor below her, +played on the jewels that adorned coiffures and necks, played on +glittering uniforms, on a scene magnificent and splendid--and focused, +as her eyes fixed and held, on that one outstanding figure, the figure +that was like to the figure of a demi-god, the only figure, the only +one that she saw now in all that vast assemblage, who stood erect, +strong and massive-shouldered, the black hair, a little longer now, +flung in careless abandon back from the broad, white forehead. It was +Jean! It was Jean! + +"Jean!" she whispered--and her hand stole into Father Anton's. "Jean!" + +And he was not changed--only that short, pointed beard, that seemed to +add a something, that made him more imposing. It was Jean, the same +Jean--only there was a grace, an ease, a command, a kingship in his +poise as he stood there, and--yes--yes--they came--one after the +other--the men, the women--and bowed before him. + +"Do you remember Monsieur and Mademoiselle Bliss?" Father Anton said +gently. "See--they are there beside Jean. And that tall man to whom +they are talking is a very famous statesman for one so young. His name +is Paul Valmain." + +They did not interest her. There was only Jean. And she could not +look long enough at him. There was music playing somewhere, softly, +very softly, scarcely audible above the sound of so many voices all +talking at once, voices that ascended in a subdued roar like the sound +of a shell that one held to one's ear. She tried to think, and she +could not. Afterwards she would think. Now she could only look. + +Father Anton touched her arm. Was it already time to go? No, no--not +yet! Not yet--for a little while! She had come so far, so long a way +just for this--to see Jean. + +"It is the President of the Republic coming, Marie-Louise--see! +Listen!" + +There was tumult about her. Those in the gallery around her were +clapping their hands, waving their handkerchiefs; and the music she had +heard playing so softly crashed suddenly into the strains of that song +of glory, immortal, undying, that was cradled in the very soul of +France itself--the Marseillaise. And as it fired the blood, that +melody, martial, stirring, that men had died for, ay, and women, too, +the outburst around her rose to hysterical heat, and thunders of +applause rolled and reverberated through the room that was bigger than +any room she had ever seen or dreamed of. And they were calling Jean's +name again--and the President, the great President was there with Jean. + +"Jean Laparde! Jean Laparde! _Vive_ Jean Laparde!" + +She could not see any more. Her eyes were blinded with tears now, and +they were proud tears, and they were glad tears, and they were +wondering tears that she could not comprehend herself. Jean's beacon! +Had the _bon Dieu_ permitted her to be that in a little way, given it +to her to have helped just a little, to have had just a little share in +bringing Jean to this great moment, this wonderful triumph? Jean's +beacon! How vividly that scene of the years ago came back, when she +had told Jean he did not belong to her--and reliving that scene, here +in the presence of its great fulfilment, she spoke aloud unconsciously. + +"It is true! He does not belong to me. He belongs to France!" + +And Father Anton, because he did not understand, because it seemed that +the disillusionment must have been so much more complete and so much +more cruel and hard to bear than he had feared it would be, and because +her renunciation was accepted so bravely, turned away his head and did +not answer. + +And Marie-Louise's fingers closed in a tense, involuntary pressure over +Father Anton's hand--and she spoke again. + +"He belongs to France!" + +And then, after another moment: + +"Take me--back now--Father Anton, please." + + + + +-- II -- + +26 RUE VANITAIRE + +Myrna Bliss tapped petulantly with the toe of her small shoe on the +floor of the limousine, glanced at the diamond-encircled bracelet watch +on her wrist, remarked more or less abstractedly that it was a minute +or so after five o'clock, and stared through the plate glass windows at +the backs of her liveried chauffeur and footman. The reception of the +night before had, so far as she was concerned, been marked by two +incidents, which, at the present moment, were very fully occupying her +thoughts. + +It had required all her tact and ingenuity to avert a declaration from +Paul Valmain, which would have been a disaster, because any declaration +was a disaster until that moment arrived when one reached the point +where one began to fear that horrible word "passée" and it became +necessary to accept the inevitable--and marry. A declaration, as any +one could see, whether it was accepted or refused, had its +consequences--one's proprietorship in a man became either restricted to +that one man alone, which in turn was very like locking one's self in a +cage and handing over the key; or it was lost altogether. And Paul +Valmain was almost as much run after by her set as Jean Laparde! +Fancy! Only thirty, a bachelor--and already the leader of his +political party! Yes, decidedly, besides being amazingly handsome and +amazingly brilliant, Paul was a figure in France! + +The man was passionately, madly in love with her; and so was +Jean--which went without saying! Imagine! The two lions of social +Paris! Nothing, not an affair, was complete without them--and she had +only to lift a finger as to two slaves! Therefore social Paris was +utterly and completely under her domination. She, literally, was +Paris. It was very plain! So long as she exercised a proprietorship +over both of them, Paris was at her feet. It was not a question of +choice between them--not at all. Jean was the lion, so much so that +she could even hold court with Jean alone; but with both, her position +was impregnable. The trouble was--her brows puckered into anxious +little furrows--that at the first opportunity Paul would renew the +attack. It was very nice to have Paris at one's feet, but it was quite +another matter to keep it there. Paul, of course, was the more +difficult of the two to keep in hand. Jean, because he had never +seemed to shake off entirely that diffidence toward her born of +Bernay-sur-Mer, she had so far been able to manage quite simply, +only--her eyes shifted from the chauffeur's back to the toe of her +shoe, and her foot ceased its petulant tapping on the floor--that was +the other incident of last night. + +It had happened just after the arrival of the President. Jean had +sought her out. She remembered the heightened colour in his cheeks, +the sort of nervous brilliance in his eyes. He had been drunk--drunk +with the wealth, the glamour, the power that was his; intoxicated with +the fame, the adulation, the triumph of the moment. He was a glutton +for that--for fame. There was very little else that mattered to Jean. +He was the supreme type of egoist. She could dissect Jean very coolly +and with precision, she thought. + +"The studio, to-morrow afternoon at five, Myrna--don't fail," he had +said--and had passed on. + +There had been a certain air of authority in his tones--to which she +had promptly taken exception, and to which, in an annoying and +persistent way, she still took exception. Furthermore, it conveyed a +possible, and alarming hint that his docility perhaps was wearing thin. +Well, that would never do at all! She was going, of course, to the +studio now---but she would take care of Jean! Five o'clock, he had +said. She would be a little late--as she intended to be. At half past +five she had asked Paul Valmain and a choice circle of the younger set +to drop in at 26 Rue Vanitaire, as a graceful little courtesy, so to +speak, to congratulate Jean on his triumph of the night before! The +grey eyes held a smile in which mockery and merriment were mingled. +One's defences should always be in order! + +The small shoe began to tap on the floor of the car again. What a +short time--what a long time those two years had been since sleepy, +anæsthetised Bernay-sur-Mer! Jean had attracted her then because he +had been a "new" sensation--and he had attracted her ever since because +he continued to be "the" sensation. But attraction and love were quite +different, were they not? Success after success, triumph after triumph +had been his. It had been astounding, stupefying, magnificent! At +first it had been the inner circle of devotees of art, such as those +who had gone to Bernay-sur-Mer, who had hailed him; then, in furious +and bewildering sequence, Paris, then France, then Europe--and, +equally, so her letters told her, he was the rage in America. None +made comparisons--there were no comparisons to make. The man towered, +stood alone, without rival, as the greatest sculptor of the age. And, +in a sense, he had not begun. Men like old Bidelot and her father said +that, stupendous as it already was, his genius had not yet attained its +full development; that, marvellous as was the power, force and realism +of his conceptions, the exquisite beauty of his execution, there still +remained an intangible something yet to be achieved. + +Myrna shrugged her pretty shoulders. + +"Ah, just that _tout petit chose_!" old Bidelot called it. "So +fleeting, so evanescent, so--so--" and he would wave his arms like a +grand opera conductor. "Soul," her father called it, in his turn. +"The boy hasn't lived enough yet. He'll get it, and then--well, +there's only one word to describe it--immortal!" + +Myrna made a wry grimace. What was the use of all that? What did they +want? And what rubbish! A man whose work was incomparable, that all +the world was going crazy over! And what, after all, did old Bidelot +and her father know about it, anyway? Old Bidelot, for example, +couldn't make a piece of clay resemble a doughnut, except for the hole, +if he tried for a thousand years. And as for her father--Myrna choked +a laugh. + +She glanced at her watch again--and then, quickly, out of the window. +It was ten minutes past five, and the car was slowing up in front of +the studio. In twenty minutes the others would be here--she had told +_them_ to be prompt. Some day, it was very possible, she might marry +Jean--but not yet. She was far too well contented with her life as it +was! She had managed Jean and his tentative outbursts--for his +docility, as she dubbed it, had not been mere tameness--with perfect +success for two years; and now, if, as she was somewhat inclined to +surmise, his actions of last evening presaged another, she was quite +capable of managing that--for twenty minutes. + +She alighted from the car, and, instructing her chauffeur that he need +not wait, ran up the steps of the sort of stoop that was over the +concierge's door and apartment beneath. Hector's red head and +doll's-blue eyes, for once, a little to her surprise, were not in +evidence on the arrival of a car. The front door, however, was not +locked. She pushed it open, entered the hallway, crossed to the door +of the salon, and knocked. There was no answer. There was, however, +nothing strange about that--Jean, probably, was in the studio proper, +the _atelier_ beyond. Well, she would surprise him! + +She opened the salon door softly, closed it softly, stepped into the +centre of the large, magnificently appointed room, whose decorations +and remodelling she and her father had planned; and, calmly unbuttoning +her long glove, stood looking around her. And then her fingers held +quite rigidly on a glove button. She had not seen him as she had +entered! Jean was rising from a divan behind her, near the door. Her +arm, still extended, the other hand still on the glove button, she +turned her head and shoulders like a statue on a pivot, to watch him in +amazement. Without a word, he had stepped swiftly to the door, locked +it--and now he was putting the key in his pocket. + +"Jean, what are you doing?" she exclaimed sharply. + +He laughed a little--in a low way. It was the first sound he had made. +She stared at him, a thrill upon her that she could not quite +define--it was not fear; it was more an uncomfortable disquiet, in +which surprise and bewilderment were dominant. But now, as he faced +her, she noticed that the same high colour was in his cheeks, the same +nervous brilliancy was in his eyes as had been there the night +before--and he was not even dressed, he who was so punctilious in the +late afternoons in that regard. It was as though he might have but +thrown aside his big sculptor's over-dress, for he was in loose white +shirt with flowing tie, and belted trousers. Usually she liked him +like that; it seemed to accentuate, bring out, unfetter the splendid +physique of the man; but now--she shrugged her shoulders with +well-affected composure. Myrna Bliss was too self-poised to be swept +from her feet by any situation. Jean was acting very strangely! What +was the matter with him? She stripped off her gloves coolly, and +tossed her outer wraps on a chair. + +"You have been working long hours to-day perhaps, Jean"--her voice +expressed cold disapproval--"you are not dressed yet." + +Jean's hand swept the great shocks of hair back from his forehead, and +again he laughed in the same low way. + +"I have not been working to-day. I have been waiting--for five +o'clock." + +What did he mean? She was genuinely disturbed now. Had he been +drinking--after the reception--through the night--and since? He was +certainly not himself! It was outrageous, if it were not in fun, that +he had locked the door! She walked across the room to the bell-cord +and pulled it. The bell rang clamorously in the concierge's apartment +below. + +"I will have Hector prepare some coffee, while you are upstairs +dressing, Jean," she said imperiously. "Now, go and dress. You are +behaving in a most peculiar manner." + +He made no answer--only stood there looking at her, his head thrown +back on his powerful shoulders, his eyes still abnormally bright, +though the flush was receding now from the strong, handsome face, that, +as it grew white, grew very set. Where was Hector? She pulled the +cord again. Again the bell jangled in the concierge's below. + +"Hector and Madame Mi-mi, his wife, are on a holiday--with five francs +apiece in their pockets--at the Bois, I think--to celebrate last +night"--he jerked out the words in a colourless, even way. + +She noticed that his lips twitched, that the knuckles of his hands were +white because his hands at his sides were so tightly clenched. He had +sent Hector and madame away--she was quite alone in the place with him. +What did it mean? Jean had never been like this before. But she was +at least quite mistress of herself! She drew herself up, walked back +across the room, picked up her gloves and wraps, and returned to the +door. + +"Open that door!" she commanded levelly. "What do you mean by acting +like this? How dare you act like this? Are you mad--have you lost +your senses? Do you realise what you are doing?" + +He laughed outright now--with sudden harshness, bitterly. + +"Mad?" he repeated in a choked voice. "Yes; I am mad! I have been mad +for two years--and I have been a fool. I am mad now--but I am no +longer a fool. I am going to know now--I am going to have an answer +now--this afternoon--before you leave this room. When are you going to +marry me?" + +"Marry you?"--she started back. + +"Don't do that!" he flung out passionately. "Don't _act_! It is no +surprise, that--eh? You know! Your soul knows! I love you--I have +loved you since that first time on the bridge, you remember, don't +you--that bridge--when your eyes turned my blood to fire? You knew it +then--you know it now!" + +Once she had told herself, once in those early days before familiarity, +intimacy perhaps, had blunted the eager edge of curiosity and interest +with which she had studied her new sensation much as one might study a +specimen under a microscope, that the man was a smouldering volcano, +the soul of him elemental and turbulent. It had grown dim and hazy, +that little mental note of classification--but she remembered it now. +It was true! Why had she ever lost sight of it? What would he do? +She was not afraid, only--only--he must not have the mastery, even for +a single instant. There had been eruptions before--little ones. She +had always controlled him--he was just like some great, big animal--one +must never let go the leash! And, besides, some day, probably, she +_would_ marry him! + +She laughed now in her turn--shortly. + +"And do you think, do you imagine, Monsieur Jean"--her voice rang +sharply through the room--"that you will attain your object any the +more readily by acting like this?" + +"Yes; I think so!"--Jean was stepping toward her, reaching out his arms +to grasp her. + +"_Jean_!"--she retreated backward, with a startled cry. The man's face +was positively livid, the eyes were burning into hers. + +"I love you!"--his voice was hoarse, shrill, out of control. "I love +you! My God, I love you! Do you think that you can own a man's soul +and not pay the price? You made me love you! In a thousand ways you +asked for my love--in a thousand ways you--" + +"Jean!" she cried at him again--half running now back across the room. + +"Yes, you did!" he shouted passionately, following her. "Yes, you +did--or you have been playing with me! But if you have been playing +with me, the playing is ended now, do you understand? It is ended! +And whether you have been playing or not, you have made me love you, +and you are mine--you belong to me--you shall be mine! That is how +much I love you! You are mine--_mine_! You shall tell that cursed +Paul Valmain to go about his business! Do you understand that, too? I +saw you last night!" + +She caught at the straw--as, flinging aside the portières in her +retreat, she backed through the archway into the _atelier_. + +"Ah, it is that, then? It is Paul Valmain then, that is the cause of +this! Well, at least, Paul Valmain is incapable of such actions!" + +"There is much that Paul Valmain is incapable of!" he answered +furiously. "And one thing is that he, or any other man, shall ever +have you!" + +She glanced hurriedly over her shoulder. It was a large room, the +_atelier_, larger even than the salon, but she was almost across it +now, and the huge statue of Jean's "_Fille du Régiment_," his "Daughter +of the Regiment," his newest work, that was nearing completion, blocked +the way. + +"Jean," she burst out desperately, "what is it? What do you mean? +There is no need for this! There--there was no need to lock that door, +to send Hector away! Do you know what you are doing? Have you lost +your reason to treat me like this? Have you forgotten what--what you +owe to my father--that--that I am his daughter?" + +"Ah, you will twist and wriggle, and you will not answer, eh?"--the +words seemed to scorch and burn on his lips. "It is always like this! +You evade, you elude, you ask other questions. You know why I have +done this! I have told you. I owe your father nothing--nothing! Do +you hear--nothing! It is he who owes! Ask him! They are his own +words come true. Ask him what the name of Jean Laparde has done for +him! He is not merely a paltry millionaire to-day--he is a famous man! +The debt is paid a thousandfold--even to the money, franc for franc, +that he has spent. You know well enough why I have done this! It is +not like the days of Bernay-sur-Mer when the poor fisherman dared only +dream and smother the passion in him like some mean, crawling thing, +and thank the God who made him, and hold himself blessed for the crumbs +that were flung to him--a smile from those lips of yours--a finger +touch upon the sleeve, when it seemed all heaven and hell could not +keep my arms back from you! I have waited! I let you put me off +until--until the hour should come when no man or woman in the world +should put off Jean Laparde! Until--yes, _sacré nom de +misericorde_!--until I should be able to forget, forget, forget, do you +understand, _forget_ that I was once a poor fisherman when I looked at +you. Well, it has come, that hour! What tribute in all the history of +France was ever paid to man as was paid to me last night? _Sacré nom_, +it is no fisherman that speaks to you now! It is I--Jean Laparde, the +sculptor of France! I am rich! Kings, princes, the nobles, the world +comes to my door and begs--do you hear, _begs_ the entrée! What more +do you ask? My God"--he was clutching at his cravat, loosening it from +his throat, as though it were choking him--"you shall no longer put off +my love!" + +She had halted--because she could retreat no further. The face of the +statue, a life-size figure of a girl in tattered uniform, the corsage +torn, the hair dishevelled, the form crouched a little as though +pressing forward in the face of mighty stress, the hands beating at a +drum that was slung from the shoulders, looked down upon her. And it +seemed to bring quick, instant, another weapon to her hand. That +_something_ in the face, those lips! It was in every piece of work he +had ever done. All talked of it, all saw it--and wondered. A strange +exhilaration was upon her. She was not afraid. In his passion, +passion like this, Jean was superb. To have aroused passion such as +this in a man was as to have drunk of wine! But to yield? +Never--until the day when she was quite ready to yield. To master him, +hold him, curb him--yes, a thousand times! His face was close to hers, +his breath was hot upon her cheeks, his hands were stretching out for +her again. She pushed him away violently. + +"You talk of love!" she flashed out. "What do you know of love? What +_kind_ of love could you have for me?" She swept her hand around, +pointing to the statue. "Who is this secret model that all Paris talks +about--that everybody has been talking about for months--that lives in +the face and always in the lips of everything you do? That though the +face of one statue is like the face of no other one, yet she is there! +You talk to me of love! At what strange hours does she come here, that +no one sees her? How does she come? Where do you keep her?" + +For an instant, Jean drew back, staring at her wildly--but only for an +instant. The next, he had caught her arm in an iron grip. + +"You are clever!" he whispered hoarsely. "You are too _damned_ clever! +You are at it again, eh--to sidetrack me? It has been like that for +two years now--always in some way, by some trick, you put me off! But +you will put me off no more. You can play no trick here. We are +alone, and I will not be tricked. It is not true what you say! There +is no model like that! It is a lie!" His voice swelled until it rang +out in a strong, vibrant note. "The model is here--here in my +heart--in my brain! That face and form is the face and form of France! +It is the womanhood of France, the glory of my country! No man before +has ever conceived it. It was for me--for me--Jean Laparde--to do! Do +you hear--it is the face and the womanhood of France! You do not +understand--you are not a Frenchwoman. And you do not understand +me--who am a Frenchman!" His voice dropped low again, hoarse in its +passion. "You have gone too far!" His grip on her arm tightened. +"You love me, or you have played with me--it is all the same! The two +years have made you mine! You _are_ mine--now--now! You would starve +my love, would you, you wonderful, beautiful, glorious woman!" + +He was drawing her closer and closer to him. Passion, loosened, freed, +rocking the man to the soul, was in eyes and face, in the half parted +lips, in the short, quick, panting breath. And for a moment, +fascinated, she was lifeless; then with all her strength she wrenched +and strove to free herself. + +"You would not _dare_!" she gasped. "You would not--" + +"Dare!"--the word was a wild, hollow laugh. "Dare! Does a man dare to +save his soul from torment? See--your lips! Your lips! Ah, God--your +lips!" + +She was his--_his_! She was in his arms, crushed to him! His--as his +mad desire had bade him crush her in his arms long since in that other +life in Bernay-sur-Mer; his--as he had dreamed of crushing her in his +arms, of crushing her ravishing form close to him in the dreams of the +days and nights, every day and night since then. It was all blind +madness, a delirium of ecstasy. How warm and hot those lips of hers +from which his soul was drinking! God, how she struggled! But her +lips--her lips were his--his to rain his kisses of passionate thirst +upon--and upon her face, and upon her eyes, and upon her hair. If only +she would not struggle so, that he might smother his face, bury it in +the intoxicating fragrance of that hair! + +She beat at him with her fists. He could not hold her still. She was +strong, strong as some young lioness. They were swaying around the +room, now this way, new that--and now through the portières into the +salon. She made no cry--how could she cry?--he strangled the cries +unborn upon her lips with his kisses! Ah, he had her now--she was +passive at last--her head was bent far back in his arms. Yes, +now--now! To feel the life, the heart throb, the pulse of that lithe +form against his own--to hold his lips to hers in a kiss long as all +eternity--to-- + +And then in a numbed, blank way he was standing back and staring at +her. Footsteps, laughter, voices were coming from the street outside, +coming up the steps--and, where it had seemed that her strength was +gone, in a paroxysm of terror, of desperation, she had torn herself +away from him. And now--yes--her face was as white as death itself. +What made it like that? What had happened? He passed his hand dazedly +across his eyes. + +"Quick! That door!" she breathed frantically. "They must not find it +_locked_!" She snatched up her outer wraps, slipped them on, and, with +a most marvellous display of composure, assumed a languid attitude in a +chair. Outwardly, Myrna Bliss was quite calm and undisturbed again. +"Quick! The door--_quick_!" she whispered. + +The door! Some one was coming! Yes, of course! His brain was +reeling, stupefied. The door! He fumbled in his pocket for the key, +and in a mechanical way turned it in the lock. And then they were +trooping into the salon, a dozen of them, men and women. + +"Wasn't it a charming idea!" some one exclaimed in effusive greeting. +"But the credit is all Myrna's, of course. We've come, you know, to--" + +Jean did not hear any more. With a start, he raised his head and +glanced down the room. Myrna's idea--this! A little twisted smile of +understanding came to Jean's lips. Self-possessed, animated, she was +already the centre of a group where everybody was talking at once. + +And then Paul Valmain's pale, aristocratic, esthetic face came before +him. The man was bowing, murmuring polite conventionalities; only +somehow the man's eyes, instead of meeting his, seemed to be set with +peculiar fixedness upon some object. Automatically, Jean followed +their direction with his own--to his own hand hanging at his side. + +The door key was still clasped in his fingers! + + + + +-- III -- + +IN THE DEAD OF THE NIGHT + +The temptation was very great. But what would Father Anton say? What +would Madame Garneau, with whom she lodged, _think_? To go out at this +time of night! It was very late. It was long after midnight, because +it was very long ago when she had heard some distant church clock +strike twelve--and since then it had struck many times, the quarters, +the half hours, only she had lost count. + +Marie-Louise drew her cloak a little more closely around her, as she +leaned on the casement of her open window--and then remained quite +still and motionless again. + +Irrelevantly it seemed, her thoughts turned on Hector, the concierge. +How very blue Hector's eyes were, and how very red his hair, and +altogether how very droll a figure he made with his absurd +self-importance; and how fat his wife was, whom he so ridiculously +called Mi-mi! And then that conversation between the concierge and his +wife in Jean's salon early that morning, at which she had been present, +began to run through her mind. + +"_Tiens_!" Hector had said to his wife. "But will she not make the +thrifty wife for some lucky fellow, our little Louise Bern, here--eh? +She is already waiting an hour in the mornings to be let in. An hour, +mind you, _ma belle_ Mi-mi--and we who think we rise so early! It is a +lesson that! Would you have her standing out in the cold? Why not a +key that she may come in and do her work?" + +"But Monsieur Jean," madame had objected mildly, "might be angry if he +knew." + +"Monsieur Jean," Hector had replied fatuously, and folding his arms +with an air, "is very well content to leave such matters to me. I do +not pester Monsieur Jean with details. On the night after the +reception, even in the exceedingly bad humour in which I found him, +when I told him that I had thought the matter over, and that the work +was too hard, and that you were wasting away--you see, _ma_ Mi-mi, how +I lie for you--and that I had decided--'decided' was the word I +used--that I must have some one in the mornings to help with the work, +did he not say: 'But assuredly, Hector, assuredly; whatever you think +is right. I depend upon you, _mon ami_.' And does that not show that +we understand each other, Monsieur Jean and I--eh?" + +"It was Father Anton, not you, whose idea it was," madame had corrected +with conscientious earnestness. "It was Father Anton, that evening +after we had returned from the Bois and before you had seen Monsieur +Jean, who suggested it, and spoke of Louise here. And that was not +what Monsieur Jean said, for I was listening outside the door. He said +you were a red-headed buffoon, and to go to the devil and not bother +him." + +"And what then?" Hector, though slightly disconcerted, had rejoined +with acerbity. "Your tongue is forever clacking! Do I ever recount an +event but that you must put in your word? But that is not the point. +It is Father Anton who says Louise is an honest girl and to be +trusted--and that is enough!" + +It was not so irrelevant after all. She was twisting the key in her +fingers now. The key to Jean's house in the Rue Vanitaire. How still +the night was! It seemed so strange that in so great a city where +there were such multitudes of people it could be so still. It was +almost as still as that other night when she had sat at her window in +Bernay-sur-Mer, that night when the _bon Dieu_ had made her see that +for Jean's sake their ways lay so very wide apart. She was glad, very +glad that the _bon Dieu_ had helped her then to put nothing in Jean's +way, because Jean had done so very much more even than any one had +dreamed of. + +But it was so strange, so strange! To hear everybody talking about +Jean--on the streets--little snatches of conversation--even here +amongst the very poor--even Madame Garneau, who that afternoon had +stopped in the scrubbing of the floor, and, waving the scrubbing brush +excitedly to point the words, must needs tell her, Marie-Louise, all +about the great Laparde! How proud they all were of Jean, because Jean +had brought such honour upon their beloved France! But it was so +strange, so strange--that they did not know--that they did not know +that, oh, for so many, many years it had been just Jean and +Marie-Louise, and glad, glad days, with the blue sky above, and the +strong arms upon the oars--and--and that she loved Jean, that all her +life she had loved him, that all her life until she should come to die +she would love Jean. It was strange that all these people did not +know, because it seemed that she knew nothing else, because it seemed +to be the only thing in all the world. But it was good that they did +not know, because otherwise she could not even be here as she was, she +could not even be Louise Bern for a little while, and be near Jean, and +see the work that she loved because it was Jean's work, and +because--and because those marvellous figures that he fashioned seemed +somehow now to mean everything that there was in life for her, as +though her own life were wrapped up In them, given in exchange for +them, as though indeed she were a very part of them, and they were of +her blood and flesh. + +She pressed her hands very tightly together over the key, and then +opened them and let the key lay in her palm to look at it in the +moonlight. She had seen so little in the studio, so very little! In +the three mornings she had been there, there had always been Madame +Mi-mi to fuss around her, to instruct her in her work, or, failing that +as an excuse--to gossip. And if it were not madame, then it was +Hector--and often it was both. And she had so wanted to be alone +there--it was not very much to ask, that--just to be alone there for a +little time with Jean's things around her, to be very quiet, to be +alone. + +Why should she not go now? It was not a sin that she would commit. It +was only that if Father Anton knew, or Madame Garneau knew they would +not understand--but they would never know. No one would ever know. +Jean would be upstairs asleep; and Hector and his wife would be +downstairs in bed. That statue, that wonderful statue of the girl with +the drum, would be more wonderful than ever with the bright moonlight +pouring in upon it through that great glass roof of the _atelier_. She +had seen so little of it, because when she was there it was always +wrapped up in damp cloths; she had seen it only when that absurd Hector +had exhibited it to her with a patronising air as though he had +modelled it himself, making use of a flood of technical expressions of +which she did not understand a word, and of whose meaning she was quite +sure he was equally ignorant, but having heard the words around the +studio repeated them like a parrot. She had seen so little of it, when +her soul cried out to see so much. It haunted her, that statue--why, +she did not know. It was before her always--in her dreams, which were +always dreams of the salon and the _atelier_, the figure with the drum +always stood out above everything else, even though everything else, +even though the very smallest things and details there were so dear and +intimate too. Was it a sin to go and stand and look, when her heart +was so full of the longing that it would not be denied? Who was there +to say, "you went to Jean's studio at two o'clock in the morning," +when, in the quiet and the stillness there, there would be only +herself, and that great figure with the drum, and the _bon Dieu_, who +made Jean do such wondrous things, to know? + +She turned from the window and tiptoed across the little room, and took +the little black velvet turban with its white cockade, that Father +Anton had given her, down from where it hung upon a nail on the wall, +and fastened her cloak tightly about her for fear that it might brush +against something and make a noise, and stole then to the door, and out +into the hallway, and to the front door of the tenement. Yes, she +would go--but no one must know--only herself, and that great figure +with the drum, and--and the _bon Dieu_, who would understand. + +And so she went out into the night, and across the city, and to the Rue +Vanitaire, and to Jean's studio; and all the way her heart was beating +quickly, and she was a little frightened, and avoided the people that +she met, for no one must know--and even at the last, when the goal was +reached, and she stood before the house and saw that it was dark in all +the windows, and she had only to enter, there came even then a little +added thrill of fear. The street, she had thought, was deserted, and +suddenly, as she stood there, it--it seemed as though some one hiding +across the street had stepped out of concealment, and as suddenly had +disappeared again. She caught her breath, and stood for a long tense +moment gazing in that direction. And then at last she smiled a little +tremulously. It--it was only a shadow. Yes, she was quite sure now +that it was only a shadow--she could see the flickering of the street +lamp on the wall of the building, where she had thought she had seen +something else. It was very foolish of her to be like this. She had +never been afraid in Bernay-sur-Mer--only everything here was so +strange--and it was very late--and--and she was going into Jean's +studio--and no one must know. And then she mounted the steps very +cautiously, and unlocked the door and closed it softly--and in another +moment, slipping across the hall, past the foot of the stairs that led +to Jean's sleeping apartments above, she had entered the salon and shut +the door behind her. + +It was quite dark here, too dark almost to distinguish anything--the +only light was a tiny, truant moonbeam that strayed in from the +_atelier_ between the portières of the archway. It was in there--the +great figure with the drum! But she would not go there for a moment +yet. It was here, too, that Jean was present in everything about her. +It was here that his friends, those that he cared for now, the people +of the _grand monde_ came to see Jean. She could not see the things +around her, but they were very clearly pictured in her mind--the +beautiful rugs, so soft and silky to the touch, that hung from the +walls; the queer, spindly furniture, that did not seem made for use at +all, that she had been afraid to touch at first for fear it would +break, it looked so fragile; the dark, glossy floor, like a mirror, +that she had polished only that morning; the--her thoughts were +suddenly, disturbingly, flying off at a tangent. + +That morning! It brought a quick twinge of pain to Marie-Louise's +heart. The salon had been--had been--oh, she did not know how to +describe it--only Madame Mi-mi had said it was often like that, that +Jean led the gay life, and why not, since he had the _sous_ to pay and +was rich? There had been broken glasses, and confusion, and callous +ruin of things that were priceless, and cards strewn over the +floor--and--and somehow she had not been able to keep her eyes from +being wet all the time she had been cleaning up the room. It--it made +her heart very heavy, and very sorrowful. And yet, too, in a way, she +could understand--because she understood Jean. Long, long ago she had +been afraid--afraid of his success for him, even while she had prayed +for it. If Jean had only a mother, only some one whose love would hold +him back. If he were married--if he had a wife--it would change all +this sort of life that he led now. Yes; if he were married! She could +think of that quite calmly, in a perfectly impersonal way. Why should +she not? Some day Jean would marry--marry some one out of this new +world in which she had no part, which to her was so very strange and +foreign and hard to understand; but which to Jean was so natural, and +which, henceforth, could be the only life he would know. Yes; she +could think of his marrying quite calmly. And why not? She had no +longer part in that--she had passed out of Jean's life long ago, that +day in Bernay-sur-Mer. Perhaps it would be Mademoiselle Bliss--Hector +had hinted at it and winked prodigiously. She found her hand clenching +very hard at her side. It seemed very, very strange, and it was very, +very curious that, while she could think quite calmly of Jean marrying +some one because it would be very good for Jean to marry, a pang came +and her heart rebelled when the "some one," instead of being vague and +general and indefinite, became a particular "some one" that was very +definite and was not vague at all! + +Marie-Louise sighed a little. She did not understand. Everything was +so hard to understand. She sighed again--and then, walking slowly +across the room, she parted the portières and stepped into the +_atelier_. + +Here, for an instant, she stood hesitant, just inside the archway, +looking about her. How bright the moonlight was, and how it poured in +and bathed everything in its soft luminous glow, except that, +strangely, there seemed to be a shadow on the white-wrapt statue of the +girl that puzzled her for a moment--ah, yes, it was the door of the +dressing-room, the room where Hector said the models prepared for their +poses, that was wide open and kept the moonlight from the statue. She +moved forward, closed the door quietly, and went then and uncovered the +clay figure and stood before it. She could look her fill now--yet it +seemed that she could never do that, for her craving and her longing +were insatiable. All other things in this life of Jean's, in this life +of hers that she was living for a little while, filled her with dismay +and confusion; but this, this work of Jean's, this figure before her +was real, it seemed somehow to bring her closer to her own world, to +those things she could understand. She did not know why--only that it +was so, and that it was perhaps because of that the girl with the drum +had been haunting her so constantly. + +She sat down at last on the little platform that served Jean to stand +upon for his work. It thrilled her, made her pulse leap, this strong, +magnificent figure of womanhood, this torn and tattered soldier-girl; +and one sensed and felt and lived, it seemed, the battle-wrack around +the figure; one saw, it seemed, the stern, set-faced, shot-thinned +ranks that followed to the beating of the drum; one listened to catch +the tramp of feet, the hoarse cheers, the roar of guns. It seemed to +be the call of France, the call to victory and glory, or to death +perhaps, but to dishonour never; it seemed to breathe the love of +country that was beyond all thought of self, fearful of no odds; it +seemed to mean that in the heart of France itself lived the courage +that had never measured sacrifice; it seemed as though those clay lips +parted, and above the din of conflict, of battle and of strife she +could hear the voice ring out in deathless words: "Forward--for France!" + +But it was not only that alone that held her enthralled. It was the +face, with the moonlight full upon it now. It was beautiful, it was +glorious--but there was something more. There was something in the +face that seemed to stir a memory, a world of memories within her. +There was something familiar in the face--there seemed to be something +there that she recognised and yet could not define. She had seen that +face all her life--all her life. It belonged to every one that she had +ever known in Bernay-sur-Mer--and yet it belonged to no one at all that +she could name. But then--it was not finished yet. Perhaps when it +was finished she would know. It would be finished now in a few days +more, Hector had said; and he had said, too, that it would be the +greatest work Jean had ever done. + +If she could only watch it until it was finished! If she could only do +that--afterwards she would go away. It was only for a little while +that she had come to Paris--only for a little while. If she could do +that! If she could come to-morrow night, and the nights after that +until it was all finished, just as she had come to-night! Yes, +yes--_yes_! Yes, she would come! She would watch it grow, and watch +so eagerly and so tensely the face that was so well-known yet so +elusive now! + +"_La Fille du Régiment_!" Her hands cupping her chin, she sat there as +motionless, as silent as the statue itself; sat there absorbed, +unconscious of the passing time. It was strange the face should be +familiar! It was strange that there, too, had been something familiar +in the face of that figure in the park that Father Anton had taken her +to see, in the face of every other figure that the curé had pointed out +to her as Jean's work! She had gone back to look at them alone; but +they, although they were finished, had not answered her question, had +not told her who they were. But this one, this one was _almost_ +telling her now--there was only to come a touch, just a touch from +Jean's hand--that would perhaps be there when she came to-morrow +night--and then she would know. + +And so she sat there, and the hours passed, and the moonlight faded, +and the grey of dawn crept into the room--and Marie-Louise roused +herself with a start. And at first dismay was upon her. It was +morning--too late to go home! And then she shook her head, and smiled +happily--happily, because she had spent glad and happy hours, and there +was no need to be dismayed. Presently, she would go about her work--to +which she had come early, that was all. And at her lodging, Madame +Garneau would find the bed made because it was always made before she +left there in the morning, before Madame Garneau was up. + + + + +-- IV -- + +THE ACCUSATION + +There was a sullen, angry set to Jean's lips, a scowl on his face that +gathered his forehead into heavy furrows, as, at his accustomed morning +hour, a little after nine, he entered the _atelier_. He had not slept +well the night before--nor for the nights before that--not since that +afternoon here with Myrna. How could one sleep with things in the mess +they were--to say nothing of the night before last when he had not +tried to sleep, and had held high revel with a few choice spirits in a +sort of dare-devil challenge to the premonition that promised him a +reckoning for those few moments in which he had sought to quench the +passion that raged in his soul, that set his brain afire! + +He crossed the room, mechanically donned his sculptor's blouse, or +over-dress, threw off the wrappings from the "Fille du Régiment," +picked up a modelling tool, stepped upon the platform--and stared into +the face that looked back at him from the high-flung, splendid head of +clay. He snarled suddenly, clenching his fist. They prated to him of +secret models! Bah! It was too much for them! They could not +understand--it was beyond them--that was all! It was there, all of it, +the courage, the resolution, the purity, the strength, the virility of +the womanhood of France--all--all--it was all there--and they thought +it wonderful, incomparable--only they prated of a secret model--_nom de +Dieu_--when it was themselves, when it was France that was the +model--and they had not grasped the apotheosis of their separate +individualities in the sublime glory of the composite whole! Ha, +ha--perhaps it was because they were modest! + +He smiled with intolerant contempt. They prated of a secret model, +they applauded, they cheered, they showered him with wealth, with fame, +the world knew the name of Jean Laparde--and, because they were unable +to comprehend, they asked for something more, something that, no doubt, +should label his work like raised letters for the blind--and then +perhaps it would be only to find that they had still to acquire the +alphabet! Bah--it was sickening, that! But it was also maddening! +There was old Bidelot, who came each day to the studio. Bidelot was a +fool--a senile old fool, who sat and wept weak tears because the statue +was so beautiful; and wept weaker tears because, like a spoilt child, +he cried for something that he wanted without knowing what it was! + +"You talk--you rant--you whimper--you bemoan!" he had flared out +angrily at Bidelot yesterday afternoon. "Well, what is it? Do you +find it a pitiful affair, then, my '_Fille du Régiment_'?" + +"Ah, Jean! Ah, no! Ah, no!" old Bidelot had cried. "It is not that! +It is exquisite, it is magnificent, it is superb, it transcends +anything the world has ever seen. It is so great that if only there +were a little something, ah, _mon_ Jean, a little something, it would +be the work of a god and not a man!" + +"And that something? What is it?" he had demanded. + +And old Bidelot had wrung his hands, and the tears had coursed down his +cheeks. + +"I do not know! I do not know!" the famous critic had answered almost +hysterically. "If I knew I would tell you. It is but a touch--but a +touch." + +Old Bidelot was emotional--an ass! Old Bidelot was fast approaching +his dotage! Jean shrugged his shoulders wrathfully. It was not true, +of course! It lacked nothing, that face--and yet--and yet that sort of +thing disquieted him, irritated him. It was a masterpiece--and its +only fault was that it had not been made by a god! _Ciel_! Was there +ever anything more absurd than that! Well, in any event, it was to +bring him one hundred and twenty-five thousand francs; and his next +commission, which was for the Government of France, would be for double +that amount. Old Bidelot and his "touch"! For France, when this was +finished, he would do that dream statue, if--_damn_ that dream statue! + +Jean snarled again. What was the matter with him! The cursed thing +was always in his mind; but never would it come and appear before him, +lifelike and actual, that bronze figure of the woman, as once it had +done. Instead, it seemed to have faded more and more completely away, +until it was as invisible as the base of the statue which he had never +been able to see at all, and yet at which the passers-by in his dreams +had gazed with the same rapt attention as at the woman's figure--it had +faded until the whole existed simply as an indistinct blur upon the +memory. If he could visualise that figure again, get the detail, he +could supply a base of some sort that would go with it; that would come +simply enough once he got to work. _Would_ it! He had thought until +his brain was sick, for hours on end, trying to imagine a fitting +subject, big enough, splendid enough to harmonise with what he +remembered was the majestic beauty of the woman's figure--and the hours +had only made the task seem the more beyond him, his each succeeding +imaginary design the more inadequate and pitiful. + +It made him angry now, increased and inflamed his already irritable and +savage mood. Why had he started in to think of that! Why, in heaven's +name, should he think of everything that morning that he did not want +to think of! Why, when nothing else would come, should the cold, +enigmatical face of Paul Valmain staring at that confounded key, come +so readily before him, and--he hurled his modelling tool suddenly, +savagely, into the far corner of the room; and, stepping down from the +platform, pulled viciously at the bell. He was yanking his blouse off +over his head, as Hector appeared. + +"Get my car, Hector!" he snapped tersely. "I am going out." + +Hector's blue eyes widened in amazement. The car in the morning--the +morning that was sacred to work! + +"The car, m'sieu?" he repeated, as though he had not heard aright. + +"Yes, imbecile--the car!" Jean snapped again. + +"But, m'sieu!" It was unheard of! It had never occurred before! "But +is m'sieu not going to work this morning, and--" + +"The _car_!" + +"But, yes, m'sieu--instantly--instantly, m'sieu!" Hector stammered--and +retreated hastily from the room. + +Jean followed him--spent a few impatient moments kicking at the +sidewalk while he waited; and then, at the wheel of his big, powerful +machine, went tearing up the street. Work! It was worse than useless +in the vile humour he was in. The car had been an inspiration; he +would go nowhere in particular, but he would drive--fast. That was +what he wanted, some excitement, some exhilaration. He would go out +into the country, anywhere, with the whole day before him, and--no! He +would go first to Myrna's house! Why not! He scowled heavily again. +It was getting beyond endurance, that sort of thing! There had been +three, no, four days of it now! The decision quite fitted in with his +mood--whatever might be the result. Yes, _nom d'un nom_, he would go +there--and at once! + +It was but a short way; and, at the expiration of a few minutes, Jean +stopped his car in front of the magnificent residence that Henry Bliss +maintained in a style that was almost regal, jumped out, and ran up the +steps. + +"Mademoiselle Bliss," he said to the liveried automaton that answered +his summons. + +"Mademoiselle Bliss is out, Monsieur Laparde," replied the man. + +"Very well, then--Monsieur Bliss," returned Jean, a little grimly. + +"Monsieur Bliss is not at home, Monsieur Laparde," replied the man. + +Jean bit his lip. That Henry Bliss might still be away, since he had +gone to London some days before, was probably true; but that Myrna was +out at ten o'clock in the morning--the man, under instructions, was +lying, of course! He stood hesitant, his rage increasing, half +inclined to reach out and twist the neck of this bedecked +functionary--and then, with a short laugh, he swung on his heel, went +down the steps again, and climbed back into the car. + +The car shot forward in a savage bound. She was probably watching him +from behind the curtain of a window! His hands clenched fiercely on +the steering wheel--and he flung the throttle wide. It was enough! +This had lasted long enough! It was her idea of punishment, perhaps! +"Mademoiselle Bliss is out, Monsieur Laparde"--he mimicked the +colourless-voiced flunky viciously. To telephones, personal calls--the +same answer; to notes--no answer at all. Well, she would answer--and +soon! He would take care of that, and--he jammed the brakes +frantically on the machine, as a figure, barely escaping disaster as +the result of his reckless driving, jumped wildly away from in front of +the car; while a voice shouted in sharp protest: + +"Hey, there--where are you going!" + +"To the devil!" snarled Jean--and chuckled the next instant with sudden +malicious delight, as he recognised the other. It was Father Anton--on +his way to the Bliss residence, probably. + +"You are travelling fast, my son!"--grave and quiet, the note of +protest gone, Father Anton's voice came back from the curb--and then +the old priest was blotted from sight, and the car was speeding down +the boulevard again. + +Hah! Father Anton! Father Anton--the grandmother! Father Anton, who +had thought on arriving in Paris to lecture him, Jean Laparde, on how +he should live, and sermonise on the pleasures of the flesh, and the +dangers of power and wealth and position, and to haunt the studio with +a sanctimoniously grieved expression everlastingly on his face! Ha, +ha! Father Anton! Father Anton was the man who once had preached so +fatuously on the nothingness of fame! Well, Father Anton, if he were +not blind, could--again Jean checked the car violently, this time in +response to a harsh, strident, authoritative command. + +And then a gendarme was running alongside, gesticulating furiously--but +the next moment the man was touching his cap. + +"Ah, it is Monsieur Laparde! _Pardon, mille pardons_, Monsieur +Laparde!" The man's voice dropped to a low tone, as he leaned in over +the side of the car. "But if monsieur will be good enough to have a +care. It will get us into trouble if we do not do our duty, and +monsieur would not like that to happen. Ah, monsieur"--at Jean's +five-franc piece. "Ah--" + +The car was off again. But now Jean laughed aloud. Fame! Who was +there that did not know Jean Laparde--from the President of France to +the gamin of the gutters! It began to salve a little his irritation, +his ugly mood. To the devil with Father Anton--as he had just now had +the pleasure of intimating to him. There was little that was empty in +the fame that was his. Wealth had been poured upon him; there was +nothing, nothing that was beyond his reach, nothing that he could +desire and be obliged to refuse himself; and, yes--_'cré nom_, one +could say it for it was true--throughout all France he was worshipped +as though he were a demigod. He had only to enter a café anywhere, and +in a moment from the tables around he would catch the whispers: "Look! +There is Jean Laparde, the great sculptor!" And position--what man in +all of France, or in Europe, occupied a position comparable to his! +None! There was none! He would change places with no one! He owed +allegiance to none; he received it from all. He received the cheers, +the acclaim of the populace; the decorations of governments and +royalty! And none could take this from him. It was his! And there +were to be years of it--all the years he lived. He was young yet. +Years of it! He was Jean Laparde, Jean Laparde, Jean Laparde--the man +whose name sent a magic thrill even to his own soul. God, how he loved +it all with a passion and a desire and an insatiability that was rooted +in his very breath of life! + +The car was speeding now out through the suburbs of the great +city--on--on--on! His thoughts were bringing him exhilaration in +abundant measure; something in the sense of freedom, in the swift +motion, brought him elated excitement. His blood was whipping +buoyantly through his veins. There would be a day of this--to go +somewhere, anywhere--without plan, or predetermination, this road or +that, it mattered not at all--a day of it--prompted no longer by the +sullen, disgruntled mood that had caused him to set out, but by a more +potent and saner spirit of almost boyish vagabondage that bade him keep +on. + +Myrna! He smiled now. He was a fool to have spoilt the last few days +for himself just because he had not seen her! Let her have her way for +a while, if it pleased her! No doubt she was trying to discipline him! +It was delightful, that! Discipline Jean Laparde! It was he who would +play the rôle of disciplinarian before he was through--not she! He +loved her, wanted her--and, by Heaven, he was Jean Laparde! And what +Jean Laparde wanted was his! She belonged to him, and his she would +be, and no other man's! Paul Valmain, eh? Next time he would deal +with Paul Valmain, and not with Myrna. The poor fool--who ranted and +raved and screamed like a cockatoo on the floor of the Chamber of +Deputies, and dreamed that it was impassioned eloquence! It would be +well for Paul Valmain to take another road than that of Jean Laparde! +The poor fool--that did not know the power of Jean Laparde! He held +Paul Valmain, as he held every other man in France, between his thumb +and forefinger--to pinch, if he saw fit. A whisper in the ear of this +one and that, and Paul Valmain was as dead politically as though he had +never been born. + +And now Jean threw back his head and laughed boisterously. All that +was no exaggeration; it was literally true. He even held Myrna in +exactly the same position. He could break her socially--as readily as +he could break a twig from a tree! It was even ludicrous, it was so +simple. Imagine Myrna in such a state! Imagine what would happen if +he let it be known that Jean Laparde would attend no function at which +Mademoiselle Bliss was a guest! It was too funny, too droll! And she +had dreams perhaps of disciplining Jean Laparde! + +His face flushed a little. She was his! He had felt those warm, rich +lips against his own! He would feel them there again a thousand +times--ay, and soon again! He would not wait this time--as he had +waited, fool that he had been, before! But for a day or so, if it +pleased her to ride upon a high horse, let her go fast and +furious--afterwards, that was quite another matter. Afterwards, those +lips would be his again, that glorious, pulsing body would be in his +arms again--and in the meantime--here was a great level stretch of road +before him--and the day was before him--and the to-morrow could take +care of itself! + +And so Jean rode far that day; and lunched at a quaint little village +near the Belgian frontier; and quite lost himself; and dined in a +farmhouse; and finally, set upon the road again, reached Paris after +midnight, where he alighted in front of his club. He was in a "humour" +now, as he put it himself. A little supper and a hand at cards would +complete, round out a day of rare delight. He was even humming an air +to himself, as he entered the club. + +"_Pardon_, Monsieur Laparde!"--the doorman was bowing respectfully. +"Monsieur Valmain is in one of the private writing rooms--the one at +the head of the stairs, monsieur." + +Jean stopped his humming, and stared at the man. + +"Well--and what of that?" he demanded. + +"But, monsieur!" murmured the man, a little abashed. "Monsieur expects +to meet Monsieur Valmain, does he not? Monsieur Valmain left word." + +Jean scowled, and passed on. Paul Valmain! Paul Valmain! Paul +Valmain! What devil of perversity had seen fit to drag Paul Valmain +upon the scene? Was his day to be ruined by a bad taste in his mouth? +What did the man want? + +He went upstairs, knocked upon the door indicated, and, without waiting +for an answer, opened it rather brusquely, stepped inside--and, with an +exclamation of angry surprise, gazed at the man who seemed literally to +have rushed across the room to confront him. Paul Valmain's face was +positively livid, the eyes burned as though consumed with fever, the +hands shook, and the tall form quivered in the most astonishing +fashion. Was the man mad? + +"Ah, Monsieur Jean Laparde!" the other cried out. "You have come at +last! You saw fit to absent yourself to-day! I have been five times +to the studio! But you thought it better to answer my message finally, +eh? You did well! I should have gone again in an hour to dig you out!" + +Jean eyed the other for a moment, contempt struggling with bewilderment +for the mastery at the man's actions and incoherent outburst. + +"You have perhaps been drinking," he said coldly. "I received no +message until I entered the club here an instant ago. And I am not to +be 'dug out,' Monsieur Valmain! You are using strange language. If +you are drunk, apologise; otherwise--" + +"Otherwise!"--the word came like a devil's laugh from Paul Valmain; and +before Jean could move, or, taken by surprise, guard himself, the flat +of Paul Valmain's hand had swung in a stinging blow across Jean's +mouth. "You--_hound_!" + +The blood came surging into Jean's face, and with a bound he had the +other by the shoulders--and then, somehow, he found himself +laughing--not merrily--laughing in a sort of contemptuous rage. He +could take Paul Valmain with his own great strength and do with him +what he pleased. But that was not the way a blow such as he had +received was to be answered! And, anyway, what was the matter with the +man? He must have lost his senses! + +"You--hound!"--Paul Valmain was repeating hoarsely, his lips twitching +in his passion. "I watched last night outside your studio. I watched, +and oh, God!--I saw her enter." + +Jean's hands dropped from the man's shoulders in blank amazement. Yes, +certainly, the man was either drunk or mad! Certainly, he was not +responsible for what he was saying. + +"There was no one who entered my studio last night," he said almost +pityingly. + +"You liar!"--Paul Valmain was like a man beside himself, demented. +"You liar--you liar--you liar! I saw her! I know now who this secret +model is whose divine form you desecrate, you black-souled libertine! +I saw her go in at two o'clock in the morning--_and at daylight she had +not come out again_." + +Jean shrugged his shoulders intolerantly. The man was quite out of his +head from some cause or other, but that was no reason why he should be +called upon to endure the other's irresponsible ranting. + +"You poor fool!" he exclaimed irritably. "So you know who it is, do +you? And what then? If it brings you such poignant, personal grief, +why did you let her go in? Why did you not tell her that--" + +"It was too late"--white to the lips, Paul Valmain raised his clenched +fists--"it was too late--after months of it! I could save her only one +thing--the knowledge that I knew her shame. I was across the street--I +saw her--God pity me--I loved her--the black cloak and hat she wore +only a few days before when we were together! I have lived in hell and +torment and fear that it might be so since that afternoon--that +afternoon--did you think I did not see the key in your hand, and--" + +"What do you mean?"--there was a sudden blackness curiously streaked +with red before Jean's eyes; the blood was sweeping in a mad tide +upward in his face to pound like trip-hammers at his temples--the man's +words could bear only one interpretation, a hideous one, that outraged +his soul, and roused a seething fury within him. "What do you mean?" +he said again between his teeth. + +"I mean," Paul Valmain answered, "I mean--damn you, you know what I +mean! I mean that from two o'clock in the morning until daylight Myrna +Bliss was in your rooms, and--" + +"You devil from hell!" Jean shouted--and leaped at the other's throat. +If the man struggled he did not realise it. The man was only an +impotent, powerless thing in his grasp--and he flung him away, flung +him crashing to the floor. "I will kill you for that!" he whispered. +"To-night--you can find a friend downstairs to act for you--I another." + +Paul Valmain staggered to his feet. + +"I have waited all day for the same purpose!" The devil's laugh was on +the grey lips again. + +"It is _à l'outrance_, Monsieur Valmain--you understand!"--Jean choked +in his fury. "_A l'outrance_!" + +"As you shall see!" + +"And the studio--if it suits you! We shall not be disturbed. There is +room there, and you will find it as pleasant a place as any in which to +die!" + +"Where you will!" retorted Paul Valmain. "Where you will--so there is +no delay!" + + + + +-- V -- + +THE SECRET MODEL + +Marie-Louise glanced quickly up at the house. Yes; it was all dark! +There was no light in Hector's apartments below; nor in the salon; nor +in Jean's rooms above. She had scarcely dared to look, for fear that +she had come too soon, that Hector perhaps was still up, that Jean +perhaps might be with some of his friends in the salon. But it was all +dark. She was quite breathless, for she had run nearly all the way +from Madame Garneau's in her eagerness; but that did not matter at all +now, for she was not to be disappointed, since, after all, she had not +come too soon. It was much earlier than it had been last night, when +she had come for the first time to be all alone there in the studio in +the moonlight, where the hours had passed so swiftly and been all too +short; but it had seemed that the day would never end, that night would +never come again, and the evening had dragged so cruelly as she had sat +by her window--and so when that church clock from somewhere in the +distance had struck midnight she could wait no longer, for perhaps +to-night Jean would have finished the face, and perhaps to-night it +would not all be so vague and trouble her so because it seemed that in +some strange way it was so familiar, though she could not tell why. + +She took the key from the pocket of her dress, and stole softly up the +steps. How glad she was now that she had not waited any longer! She +would have so much more time there in the _atelier_ with the wonderful +figures that Jean made, that were not clay at all, but that breathed +and lived, and to whom she could talk about Jean, and about his great +triumph, and tell them all that was in her heart, and they would listen +to her and understand as no one else could, and never tell any one that +she had been there. And she would not be afraid of them at all any +more, not even at first, as she had been last night because they looked +so ghostlike in the white cloths that were wrapped around them. + +She looked hurriedly about her, then opened the door, stepped inside, +and crossed noiselessly into the salon. She could not quite still the +pounding of her heart, because it was night, and because it was dark, +and because she was doing something that no one must know; but she was +not at all afraid now. Since last night she had been so sure that +there was nothing to fear. Hector and Madame Mi-mi had thought it the +most natural thing to find her working there that morning when they had +got up. Was it not for that she had been given the key? And to-morrow +morning again when daylight came it would be the same; and now--she was +hurrying through the salon to the _atelier_--and now she was to see +that splendid, glorious figure, the "_Fille du Régiment_," again, and +see the face that perhaps, oh, perhaps to-night, after Jean's work of +the day upon it, would be finished, and that she would recognise. + +She slipped between the portières into the moonlit room, and--she could +not wait even to take off her cloak and turban--tiptoed eagerly, +excitedly across the _atelier_, mounted upon the modelling platform, +and threw back the white damp cloth, revealing the figure's head. And +then, for a moment, she could only gaze at it, puzzled and bewildered; +and then, very slowly and regretfully, she sat down upon the platform. +The face had not been touched. It--it was exactly as it had been last +night. Somehow, Jean had not done any work that day--or else, perhaps, +he had worked on some of the other figures. + +She sat staring at the face of the clay figure in a disappointment that +was almost dismay--and then suddenly she smiled. After all, it was she +herself who was the cause of her disappointment; she had wanted to see +that face with its finished touch so much that, in her eagerness, she +had quite made herself believe that she would find it so--whereas it +might be days and days yet before Jean would have completed it. And +instead of being disappointed, she should be very happy that the _bon +Dieu_ had made it possible for her to come here at all, to be so close +to Jean, and to be able to spend these hours here with his work--and +even if it were days and days before it was finished, could she not +still come here every night until it was done, and could she not still +be able to see it then? + +As she looked around her, the white-wrapt figures seemed to nod to her +and promise her that it would be so. How quiet and still it was, and +how peacefully the moonlight filled the _atelier_--Jean's _atelier_. +It was so different a scene from that magnificent reception where +France in all its glory had honoured Jean; where the marble stairs, the +lights, the throngs, the glittering uniforms, the marvellously dressed +women with their furs and jewels had awed and frightened her, and yet +had filled her, too, with ecstasy because it was Jean's triumph, and +had brought thankfulness into her resignation because she had seen with +her own eyes how great he had become and how little had been her own +sacrifice to achieve so much. Yes, it was strange how different was +that scene and this around her now--and yet they were both so intimate +a part of Jean's life. And they were so very different to her in a +personal way. She did not want to see that world of the rich and the +great any more, because she could not understand it, and no one there +could understand her; but here--she was so glad and happy to be +here--here she could understand, and here these figures understood her +when she spoke to them because they knew that she had given all she had +to give, not out of her own strength but out of the strength that the +_bon Dieu_ had given her, that they might be created by Jean's hands. +Here, Jean was so near to her; there, in that other world, he was so +far away--so far away that she had gone utterly out of his life, even +out of his thoughts. + +She sighed a little as she sat there on the modelling platform; and +then there came again that little smile of self-reproof, and with it a +chiding shake of her head. It was well that it was so. There was no +other way. It would have brought only distress and pain to Jean if he +were always to remember, and--and it was far better so. The gulf +between them was so wide and deep that it could never be passed, and if +she were still living in Jean's heart it could only make life a very +terrible thing for them both. And so--and so--yes, she should be very +thankful for that, too; be very thankful for both their sakes that he +had so entirely forgotten her. + +The white-wrapt figures seemed to nod most gravely in assent again--it +was only a tree branch in the courtyard frolicking with a moonbeam and +sending a little playful shadow over them that seemed to make them +move, but that was how they always talked to her, and made their +understanding seem so real. + +She sat quite still for a little while, gazing at the face of the +"_Fille du Régiment_" before her; and then, clapping her hands softly +together and with an impulsive little exclamation of delight she stood +up excitedly. Perhaps Jean had been working upon the statue, even if +he had not touched the face. And, anyway, there was more to see than +just the face--the figure itself was just as wonderful, just as +beautiful. Quickly, but very carefully, she loosened and removed the +covering from the body and base of the figure, let the covering fall +upon the floor--and, stepping back to look at it, stood suddenly +transfixed, her hands pressed tightly against her bosom, her face white +with fear. + +Some one was coming! She strained her eyes across the _atelier_, +holding them for an instant, fascinated, upon the portières. No, no; +surely she had been mistaken! It could have been only fancy, and--a +low cry came from her lips. The front door had closed; there were +footsteps in the hall, a number of them it seemed; and--and that was +Jean's voice! + +"The salon, messieurs, if you please!" + +They were coming! They were entering the salon! What could she do? +She could not get away or escape! There was no way to get out! They +were already in the salon! She looked wildly, helplessly around +her--and then, with a little gasp that mingled relief and trepidation, +her eyes fixed on the door of the models' dressing room. She began to +steal toward it, holding her breath. How terribly her heart pounded! +She could not go very fast, because then she would make a noise and +they would hear her. And that was Jean's voice again, this time from +the salon itself, from just on the other side of the portières, it +seemed. + +"The _atelier_ will serve us better than this polished floor, +messieurs." + +Oh, if she could only reach the dressing room in time! How hoarse +Jean's voice seemed to be! She was nearly there now--nearly there! If +only the _bon Dieu_ would help her! It was only a step more--just one! +Now--now she was there! She slipped into the little place that was +hardly any bigger than a large closet, and drew the door shut behind +her, as the portières were swished apart and the rings on the pole +clattered with a terrifying noise. And then she found that she was +very weak, and that her knees were trembling as though they would give +way beneath her. + +It was very dark. She dared not move for fear she might knock into +something and make a noise. She told herself that she must stand very +still. She could hear them out in the _atelier_ now in a muffled sort +of a way; they were walking around and around, and it sounded as though +they were moving things about. And then she seemed to go cold with +fear again, and a sense of dismay surged upon her. The "_Fille du +Régiment_" was uncovered! She had had no time, even if she had thought +of it, to replace the covering. What would Jean do? Would he think it +was an accident, that the wrapping had been carelessly done, would he +blame Hector, or--would he think some one had been there, that some one +was perhaps there now, and--and suppose he should come to the dressing +room door, and open it, and--and find her there! + +She was frightened now, terribly afraid--more afraid than she had ever +been in her life before. If Jean should find her there, what would he +think of her? The blood rushed in a fierce crimson tide to her face. +She would rather die than that! But it was not only herself, it was +not only that--there was Jean. She had no right to obtrude herself +into his life and to disturb it. But surely--surely the _bon Dieu_ +would keep him away from the door! She had been very foolish and very +wicked ever to have come, ever to have risked so much, only the +temptation had been so great, and her heart had pleaded so hard; +but--but if only no harm should come of it all this time, she would +promise that--that she would not come there any more like this at night. + +Perhaps he had not seen it! Perhaps he had not noticed it! And yet it +was not just moonlight out there any more, and the _atelier_ was +lighted now, for she could see the tiny rays as they filtered in under +the door where it did not fit well over the threshold. She listened +intently, almost expecting to hear Jean cry out about the covering of +the "_Fille du Régiment_," but they still seemed to be moving around a +great deal, and the voices were indistinguishable, and she could +understand nothing of what they were saying, except only a name that +she caught because it was repeated several times--the name of Paul +Valmain. It seemed somehow to be familiar. Yes; she remembered. He +was one of Jean's friends of the _grand monde_, the man that Father +Anton had pointed out beside Monsieur and Mademoiselle Bliss in that +group with Jean on the night of the great reception. + +It seemed as though hours were passing as she stood there. It seemed +to grow unbearably hot in that small, dark place; it seemed even that +it was hard to breathe. Perhaps it was her fear that was suffocating +her! She unfastened the black velvet cloak and let it hang more +loosely, wide apart, upon her shoulders--and held her hand agitatedly +upon her bare throat, that was now exposed by the low-necked blouse. +Would they never go! And what were they doing there? It was very +strange! They seemed to keep on tramping and even running around, and +there was no sound of voices now--only a most peculiar sound that made +her think of Papa Fregeau when he stood in the kitchen of the Bas Rhône +and sharpened his carving knife on his long bone-handled steel. + +Then all grew suddenly quiet--and the quiet was as suddenly broken by a +voice, loud enough and distinct enough for her to hear. + +"It is nothing! But a touch, monsieur--continue!" + +Marie-Louise's eyes widened, and slowly her form grew rigid and tense, +and her hand at her throat slipped away and caught at the neck of her +blouse, and in a spasmodic clutch tore it wider apart. That voice--she +did not know whose it was--but there was no mistaking the cold, sullen +fury in it. And the tramping of feet had begun again--and that sound +again, the rasp of steel, was hideous now, bringing her a sickening +dread. + +It was as though for a moment she were too stunned to move. They were +fighting out there in Jean's _atelier_--with--with swords. And +perhaps--perhaps it was Jean who was fighting. And if--if he should +be--no, no!--she dare not even let the thought take form in her mind. +But she must see--somehow, she must see! How dark it was, and how +those sounds brought terror now! She could not stand there and--and +think; she must see that at least it was not Jean, or else--or else she +would scream out in her agony of suspense. + +She groped out with her hand for the door. She could open it very +silently, just a little way--they would be too occupied to notice it. +Her hand trembled as it fell upon the knob. She pushed the door open a +crack, an inch. There seemed to burst in upon her, in upon the +contrasting utter darkness, a blinding light that dazzled her so that +she could see nothing; and to burst in upon her a horrible riot of +noise--heavy, panting gasps for breath, the quick shuffle of feet upon +the floor, the grating, the ring, the metallic grinding of rapier +blades. + +In terror, she pushed the door open another inch--and held it rigidly, +as, suddenly, her heart seemed to stop its beat. There came a gurgling +moan--then--then an instant's deathlike silence--and then, with a wild +cry, she flung the door wide open, and, as it crashed back against the +wall, she stumbled out into the _atelier_. + +She could see now, but it was as though it were not herself at all who +looked around the room, for her brain seemed suddenly to be acting in +an impersonal, numbed, apathetic way. She could see everything very +clearly, but it was as though some one else, not she, were seeing it. +She stretched out her arms before her like one who was blind to feel +her way, and started across the _atelier_. She should have run, she +should have run so fast, so fast, something within her told her she +should run, but her limbs seemed scarcely able to support her +weight--she could only stumble across the _atelier_ with her arms +stretched out. That was not Jean who stood in the centre of the room +holding a rapier in his hand, it was Paul Valmain. And the man who +stood beside Paul Valmain was not Jean. And there were two other men, +but neither of them was Jean. But they held a silent, grey-faced, +unconscious form in their arms that they were lowering to the +floor--and that was Jean. And they looked at her as she came, looked +at her in so strange and startled a way; and Paul Valmain took a step +toward her, and cried out, and drew suddenly back--and then--and then +she was on her knees, and Jean's head was gathered into her arms, and +he was so white, so terribly white, and he made no sound--and--and-- + +"Jean! Jean!"--she was crying his name passionately, piteously, crying +it over and over again. "Jean! Jean!" + +And he made no answer--only lay there white and still. And then some +one took her arm and tried to draw her away--and some one spoke to her. + +"Mademoiselle must permit me," the voice said gravely. "I am the +doctor." + +They took Jean from her, and the man who had said he was the doctor +bent over Jean--and, still on her knees, she watched them. Why should +they take him from her--now? It could do no one any harm now that she +should have Jean, when Jean did not know, when perhaps--she lifted her +head quickly, lifted it far back until the white throat and bosom lay +bare; until the pure, glorious face, with its wonderful contour, its +divinely beautiful lips, tense with outraged grief, looked full into +another face that was thrust suddenly before her. It was Paul Valmain +who had done this, and he dared to come and stand over her now, and +hold in his hand the--why did she not scream out---the blade was red! + +"Look! Look!"--his face ashen, Paul Valmain was pointing to the +unwrapped figure of the "_Fille du Régiment_." "The face--the lips!" +he whispered hoarsely. "The lips--it is you who are his model! It was +you--last night! That hat! That cloak! My God!" he cried out, and +the rapier, falling from his hand, clattered upon the floor. "My God, +what have I done!" + + + + +-- VI -- + +"JEAN MUST NOT KNOW" + +Jean's model! Even in that moment, when it seemed that all else was +extraneous, that nothing mattered save that white face, that still form +on the floor, the thought brought a strange, troubled amazement--but it +was gone almost instantly, as her mind, still refusing to centre on +anything but the one great fear that perhaps Jean might die, carried +her swiftly back to what was passing around her. She looked again at +the doctor as he knelt on the floor and worked with deft fingers over +Jean, and something in those grey hairs, in that kindly face, even if +it were so grave now, gave her a little courage--surely, surely he +would not let Jean die; she looked at the man who, too, was kneeling +beside Jean--but he meant nothing to her, she could only wonder why he +was there; she looked at Paul Valmain--and shuddered. It was Paul +Valmain who had done this, who perhaps had killed Jean--and he was +still staring at her in such a fixed, horrible, fascinated way. She +rose quickly to her feet, clenching her hands. + +And then the doctor, raising his head suddenly, was speaking in quiet +tones: + +"I need hardly say that if Monsieur Laparde recovers, we are in honour +pledged to secrecy, messieurs. Monsieur Vinailles and I will carry +Monsieur Laparde upstairs to his bed, so that clatter-tongued concierge +and his wife will know nothing of this--and to-morrow, if they are told +that Monsieur Laparde has met with an accident it will be enough. +Monsieur Vinailles and I will attend to everything here; and I would +suggest, Monsieur Valmain, that you and Monsieur LeFair withdraw at +once. I will send you a report in half an hour." + +Paul Valmain shook his head. + +"No," he said, in a low, shaken voice. "LeFair will go--I remain +here." He pointed suddenly to Marie-Louise. "I must speak to +her--alone. Go, LeFair--wait for me at my rooms." + +Marie-Louise drew hurriedly back. + +"No, no!" she exclaimed sharply. The man filled her with abhorrence; +and now, besides, he was trying to keep her away from Jean--and +nothing, nothing in all the world would make her leave Jean's side now. + +But no one seemed to be paying any attention to her--not even Paul +Valmain any more, who had turned away, and, whispering as he went, was +walking rapidly into the salon with the man they had called LeFair. +The doctor had slipped his wrist through the handle of his black bag to +leave his hands free, and he and the other man were lifting Jean up in +their arms--and then, numbly, as they carried him from the room, she +followed. + +She saw nothing now only Jean's face, so ghastly in pallor, with its +closed eyes, and with the black hair tumbling over his forehead. It +brought a greater fear upon her; but she kept telling herself that she +must be brave, for perhaps they would let her help them when they got +upstairs, perhaps there would be something that she could do. + +They went on through the salon, and out into the hall, and began to +mount the stairs--and then some one, hurrying from the direction of the +front door, caught her arm. + +"Wait, mademoiselle, wait!" a voice said hoarsely. "Wait--I must speak +to you!" + +It was Paul Valmain again. She pushed him violently away from her, +and, without looking back at him, went on after the others. + +On the landing at the head of the stairs, they halted for a moment to +open a door, and then for the first time the doctor appeared to notice +that she had been following. + +"_Pardon_, mademoiselle," he said a little brusquely. "If mademoiselle +will be good enough to wait below!" + +They were trying to keep her from Jean again. Every one tried to keep +her from Jean. She clenched her hands passionately. But now--now they +should not keep her away any longer. + +"No!" she cried out fiercely. "You shall not send me away! I will not +go--I will not!" + +He stared at her for an instant, then shrugged his shoulders. + +"Very well, mademoiselle. It is perhaps your privilege. I have not +time to question it. But since you remain, perhaps you will be good +enough to help us." + +"Yes!" she said eagerly. "Oh, yes! Tell me what to do." + +"Water!" he said tersely. "A basin--cloths!" + +With a quick nod of understanding, she ran ahead of them through the +door, and hurried on down the hall. She had never been there in Jean's +apartment before, but Madame Mi-mi had not been loath to tell her all +about it--and so it was not strange to her, and there was something to +do now and that seemed to relieve the dull pain that had been torturing +her brain, and she could remember again every little detail that Madame +Mi-mi had described. The sitting-room, the dressing-room, the bedroom, +the dining-room, and from the dining-room into the kitchen--it was a +complete menage, though Jean used it so little, save to sleep there, +and for his _déjeuners_ which Madame Mi-mi prepared. She procured the +basin, filled it, and hurried back with it--going through the rooms +this time instead of the corridor--to where in the bedroom they had +placed Jean upon the bed. And then there were the cloths--a sheet +would serve best for bandages, and that was kept in the linen closet, +where too there were clean towels, Madame Mi-mi had said. She could +think very clearly now, and she could be much more brave because there +was something to do. She flew to the closet, tore a sheet into strips, +gathered up some towels, and returned with them again to the bedroom. + +The doctor glanced at her approvingly. + +"Thank you, mademoiselle," he said, in a much more kindly tone. "That +will be all for the present." + +But if they were more kindly, his words, they were too a sort of +dismissal. She did not know what to do for a moment; and then she went +slowly to the foot of the bed and knelt down--she would be out of their +way there, and ready in an instant if the doctor called again. She +would have given so much to help him in the intimate way this Monsieur +Vinailles was helping, to hold Jean, to touch Jean, but--but they +seemed so occupied, both of them, and--and she must not interfere. She +could only watch, while the agony of suspense crept upon her again; +watch the grey-haired man, in his shirt sleeves now, working so +quickly, so silently--and then suddenly she turned away her head, and +her heart sank with dread. It was so terrible a wound that she had +caught sight of in Jean's side, as the doctor straightened up for an +instant! It--it did not seem that any one could live with--with that. +And Jean lay so still, so motionless, and in his unconsciousness seemed +so much like--like dead. She shivered a little, and fought back the +tears, and tried resolutely to think of something else--of anything--of +how beautifully Madame Mi-mi had told her Jean's rooms here were +furnished. + +She forced herself to look around her. Yes, yes, it was as Madame +Mi-mi had said--the carpet seemed to shine as though it were of silk; +and the bed was very large and made of brass, which was something she +had never seen before; and in all the rooms, as she had passed through +them, she had been conscious that everything was very magnificent, just +as the salon downstairs was very magnificent. And here on that big, +carved dresser were wonderful candlesticks like those Father Anton used +to have at the altar in Bernay-sur-Mer, only these were perhaps real +silver, just as Father Anton had said that some day, when the parish +grew very rich, theirs would be instead of only looking like it, +and--she turned quickly back again toward the bed. Monsieur Vinailles +and the doctor were speaking. + +"But what would you have!" Monsieur Vinailles was exclaiming in a low +voice. "I know no more than you what it was about--and neither does +LeFair. We tried to bring about an understanding, LeFair and I, before +we called for you, or at least get them to consent to a delay in which +their tempers might cool; but neither Valmain nor Jean would listen to +us. Not a word! If LeFair and I would not act for them, they would +get some one else. _Voilà tout_! What would you have!" + +"H'm!" returned the doctor gruffly. "Well, then, Vinailles, as I shall +not need you any more for the moment, I think you had better go and +tell Monsieur Bliss what has happened." + +"_Sacré_--no!" ejaculated Vinailles. "I prefer some one else should do +that! And besides, I do not think that he has returned to Paris yet." + +"Then Mademoiselle Bliss," insisted the doctor quietly. "It is all +one! They are Jean's family, as it were, are they not--eh? And then +is not Mademoiselle Bliss as good as his fiancée? Well? I consider +that she, or Monsieur Bliss, or both of them, should know." + +"You mean," said Vinailles, in a startled tone, "that Jean is--" + +"I mean nothing!" answered the doctor bluntly. "He is a long time +unconscious, and he is not responding well to stimulants, that is all. +On the other hand, you need not unnecessarily alarm any one; if I get +him through the next hour or so, and no septic complications set in +later on, we'll have him on his feet in a few days. If you take Jean's +car you should be back in fifteen or twenty minutes. Go at once, +Vinailles." + +"Very well," Vinailles agreed a little reluctantly--and left the room. + +What did the doctor mean? Marie-Louise crept timidly around to the +opposite side of the bed where she could watch his face, and where she +could see Jean's face too. What did the doctor mean? If--if +everything went right, Jean would be well in a few days, but--but he +was in danger now. She questioned the grave face piteously with her +eyes--but received no response. The doctor was bending over Jean, and +did not look up. + +The minutes passed, ten, fifteen perhaps, as she knelt there--and then +it seemed that she could not endure it any longer, and that all her +self-restraint was at an end. + +"Jean!" she whispered--and because they were stronger than she, and +because she could keep them back no longer, the tears came in a flood, +and she reached out and caught Jean's hand that was outstretched on the +bed, and held it between both her own, and buried her face between her +own two arms. + +She felt the doctor's hand laid gently on her shoulder. + +"Do not give way, mademoiselle," he said soothingly. "Courage! We +shall win, I promise you." + +She grew quieter after a little while--and again she tried to think. +They had sent for Mademoiselle Bliss, and very soon mademoiselle would +be here. It was the mademoiselle who had spoken to her so sharply that +day because she had not put on her shoes and stockings.... Hector had +said that Mademoiselle Bliss and Jean were to marry ... and--and that +was what the doctor had just said to Monsieur Vinailles ... and--and so +it was true. And what then? What--if Mademoiselle Bliss found her +here? She would do Mademoiselle Bliss no harm to stay here! Her hands +closed tighter over the one in her grasp. How cold Jean's hand was! +What would she do--what would she do? She did not want to go, it +seemed so hard to go, and it was so little to ask, so little out of all +her life, just to stay there and kneel beside Jean and hold his hand, +and--she raised her head, quickly, suddenly. The hand in hers twitched +a little, there came a half moan, half gasp, and then Jean's voice, +mumbling, wandering, reached her. + +"Gaston, see, we are back! Put your arms around my neck, _mon brave_, +and I will lift you up, and--" The words grew thick upon his tongue, +lost their coherence, and died away. And then he began to speak again, +and Marie-Louise leaned closer to catch the words. "See, it is a +beacon--and it is for you, Marie-Louise, because it is you ... _sacré +nom_, why do you say that? ... I can make a thousand ... has it not +those lips that I could fashion even in the dark ... a thousand, I tell +you ... how--not another, when--" + +"_Tiens_!" exclaimed the doctor briskly. "That is good! He is +regaining consciousness now, and--heh!--but what is the matter, +mademoiselle?" + +With a startled little cry, Marie-Louise was on her feet. She was +vaguely conscious that, while they seemed to call up all her life, all +the old life of Bernay-sur-Mer, her life and Jean's when they had been +together, Jean's words too held some strange relation to something that +had just happened here that night, some strange, puzzling, bewildering +significance--and that then all this seemed swept away from her on the +instant before a still greater significance in the doctor's words. +What had the doctor said--that Jean was returning to consciousness! It +brought joy and gladness and hope surging over her; but it brought too +something cruel and hard and cold, as though a sentence had been +pronounced upon her. She must go now, whether she wanted to or not. +Jean must not see her. It was not Mademoiselle Bliss she had to +consider now--it was Jean. He must not see her--he must not even know +that she had been there. He must not, he must not see her--he must not +know! And then a sort of panic fear seized her, and she ran around the +bed to the doctor's side. + +"Monsieur, monsieur, I must go!" she cried agitatedly. "And he must +not know--he must not know that I--that--that any one has been here. +Monsieur, will--will you promise that?" + +"But, mademoiselle!"--he looked at her in amazement. "But, +mademoiselle, I--" + +She caught his hands wildly, and dropped upon her knees. + +"See, monsieur, see, I beg it of you!" she pleaded almost hysterically. +"It is not much to ask--that you will not tell. Promise me, monsieur, +promise me! Why should he know, why should any one know? I have done +no harm! And it--it is for his sake that I ask it. Monsieur, +monsieur, you will promise!" + +"I see no reason now why I should say anything," he answered gravely; +"but if I promise it must be with a reservation. I will promise you, +mademoiselle, that unless circumstances leave me no choice I will say +nothing." Then, quickly, as he leaned toward the bed: "But if he is +not to see you, you must go at once!" + +"Yes!" she breathed. "Yes! You are good, monsieur--you are very, very +good. And--and Monsieur Vinailles, and Mademoiselle Bliss, if Monsieur +Vinailles should have told her--you will not let them tell Jean any one +was here?" + +"I will speak to them," he said quietly. "But go then, mademoiselle, +immediately!" + +"And--and, monsieur"--her voice breaking--"Jean will not--not die?" + +"No, mademoiselle, he will not die, I think I can promise that now +without any reservation," he replied with a smile. "But, _ma foi_, if +he is not to know--eh!" + +She stole a half frightened, half wistful glance toward the bed--then +ran from the room and out into the hall. + +"He must not know! He must not know!"--she kept saying that to +herself; repeating it again and again, as she went slowly down the +stairs. It seemed as though those were the words that summed up her +life, that she had been saying them in her soul ever since the day +those strangers had come to Bernay-sur-Mer. "Jean must not know!" + +She halted suddenly on the lower step, and her face whitened a little. +Paul Valmain was standing in the doorway of the salon. He was still +here then, this Paul Valmain, the man who--who had tried to kill Jean! + +"Mademoiselle!" he cried out. "See, I am still waiting! I must speak +to you--here--in the salon--in the _atelier_ for a moment!" + +It seemed that she must run from him, that she abhorred him--and +yet--and yet--"Jean must not know!" She must get Paul Valmain to +promise too--Paul Valmain, and that other man who had been with him. + +"Mademoiselle!" he said again. "I--" + +"Yes," she said--and stepped past him through the salon door. + + + + +-- VII -- + +MEA CULPA + +The man frightened her. He had caught her arm the moment she had +entered the salon, and had hurried her roughly across the room and into +the _atelier_; and, besides, his face was ghastly it was so colourless, +and it kept twitching, and his eyes burned with such an unnatural light. + +"My arm, monsieur!" she cried out. "You are hurting me!" + +He laughed at her in a hollow way, and only tightened his hold, as he +pulled her in front of the clay figure of the "_Fille du Régiment_." + +"Stand so!" he burst out. "With your head--so! As you were when you +came from that dressing room! So--so!"--he pushed her chin up, and +grasped her by the shoulders. + +"Monsieur!" she cried out again, and struggled to free herself. +"Monsieur, what are you doing?" + +"Wait, I tell you!" he almost shouted. + +Frightened before, she was terrified now, and besides she hated the man +with all her strength, and her soul shrank from him because it was he +who had so nearly killed Jean; but she had come to plead with him, she +must not forget that, only--only he was acting so strangely. And then +suddenly, startling her, she remembered that it was he who had said she +was Jean's model. That was why he was staring so wildly first at her +and then at the face of the girl with the drum, and back at her again, +and then at the clay figure. + +"It is so!" he said hoarsely. "It is so! But wait--wait!" His hands +dropped from her shoulders, and he ran from one figure to another about +the studio, pausing before each one to gaze at it fixedly and intently. +"The lips--always the lips--always your lips--the wonderful, +inscrutable lips that all France is forever raving about!"--the words +came in sharp, broken snatches. "Never the face in its entirety, but +always the lips--and always with the lips some additional feature, the +forehead, or the poise, or the eyes--always you!" + +At first she followed the man with her eyes in a sort of incredulous, +fearsome wonder; and then slowly, seemingly without volition of her +own, drawn to it as by a magnet, she turned to face and stare at the +figure of the "_Fille du Régiment_." Was it true, could it be true +that it was she, her lips that Jean had made there in those lips of +clay? Was that what that strange sense of familiarity had meant, and +which she had not understood? No, no--Jean had forgotten, forgotten +long ago! It was not true, it was not possible! And yet--and yet they +_were_ her lips--her eyes would not lie to her. And this then was what +had seemed to give a significance, that she could not explain at the +time, to those words of Jean's of a little while ago. This man Paul +Valmain had said she was Jean's model before she went upstairs, and +then Jean had talked about the beacon. "It is a beacon--and it is for +you, Marie-Louise, because it is you ... has it not those lips that I +could fashion even in the dark?" he had said. She had not been able to +connect the two things then; but now--now she knew. Jean's model--all +through those two years she had been Jean's model! And yet how could +it be possible! The very thought seemed to leave her abashed--it--it +seemed as though she were committing a sacrilege to let herself imagine +that she, who was only Marie-Louise Bernier, a fishergirl of +Bernay-sur-Mer, was the model for Jean's beautiful work that made all +the great people of France so proud to call him one of themselves! It +was not strange that she had failed to understand what that sense of +familiarity in the clay faces had meant--she would never, never have +dared to think of such a thing by herself--and it would have been so +far away, that thought, that of itself it would never have come. Why +was she suddenly so weak now, as though a wondrous joy, so great that +it overwhelmed her, was surging upon her--and why was that cold fear, +that seemed to tell the joy that it was trespassing where it had no +place, stirring within her? What did this thing mean for her--that +those lips of clay were hers! It brought so much, so many different +emotions, and each of them was so overpowering in itself, and they all +came crowding so upon her at once, that it seemed she must cry out in +her cruel bewilderment. + +And then Paul Valmain was standing before her again. + +"So!"--he flung out his arms. "So--it is out at last, the secret! He +has kept you well under cover, mademoiselle!" + +The words came to her with a shock, rousing her from her thoughts. He +did not understand. He must not think that Jean knew; because that was +why she was there now--to tell him that Jean must not know. + +"No!" she said quickly. "No, no, monsieur! And, oh, monsieur, you +must not let--let Jean know that I was here to-night. It--it is some +mistake about--about the model, monsieur. He has not seen me since he +has been in Paris, and--" + +"What!" he broke in harshly. "You deny that you have been coming here?" + +"Only last night, monsieur," she said eagerly. "Only last night for +the first time." + +"It is well that you admit at least that!" he jeered, in a sort of +furious irony. "I congratulate you, mademoiselle! My profound +respects! In a single visit then you have accomplished wonders, even +with so beautiful a face and figure! You have made Jean Laparde famous +all over the world; and you have made me perhaps--a murderer!" + +She stared at him wide-eyed. What did he mean? + +"But, monsieur--monsieur--I swear it to you!" she stammered. "It was +only last night for the first time." + +He laughed mirthlessly, and shrugged his shoulders. + +"As you will, mademoiselle! A night or a thousand spent with Monsieur +Laparde, it is all one to me! It is your own affair! But"--his voice +rose suddenly in uncontrollable passion--"but, _sacré nom de Dieu_, +there is something that is my affair! That cloak! That hat! Where +did you get them?" He was clutching with one hand at the garment, +pulling at it with vicious twitches to emphasise his words. + +She drew back from him, the blood hot and burning in her cheeks. A +night or a thousand with Jean! He thought--he thought--_that_! And he +talked of her hat and cloak! What did they matter, what did anything +matter, except that--that shameful thought of his that stabbed at her, +and, with its sudden pain, brought a horrible giddiness and a horrible +ringing in her ears? + +"Answer me!" he cried fiercely. "Why are you wearing those things now? +Where did you get them? Why were you masquerading last night in that +hat and cloak, that belong to Mademoiselle Bliss, when I saw you enter +here?" + +"Mademoiselle Bliss!"--she could only repeat the words numbly. "It is +her hat and coat?" The room seemed to swim around her. She put her +hands to her eyes. A new terror was creeping upon her. The hat and +cloak belonged to Mademoiselle Bliss! Vaguely, dimly, understanding +began to come. He had thought that she was Mademoiselle Bliss, and +because of that--no, no! The _bon Dieu_ would not let her suffer that +too! It was so terrible--everything was so terrible this night--there +could not be anything more, for it was already beyond what she could +bear. She stretched out her hands to him imploringly. "It--it is not +because you thought that I was Mademoiselle Bliss"--she was pleading +piteously for a denial--"that--that you--that it is because of me you +fought with Jean, and that Jean is--is--" + +"Are you trying to play with me?" he rasped out savagely. "What else +but that? You were here all night last night. Yes, I thought you were +Mademoiselle Bliss! Yes, it was because of that I would have killed +Monsieur Laparde! Is that plain enough, mademoiselle? And now will +you answer me? Where did you get those things, and for what hellish +reason were you wearing them? Answer me, I tell you!" He caught her, +and shook her violently. "Answer me!" he fumed. + +"Yes, answer him!" came a mocking voice suddenly from the archway of +the salon. + +With a cry, Marie-Louise tore herself away--and, swaying, stared wildly +across the room. It was mademoiselle! It was Mademoiselle Bliss +standing there between the portières! + +A low laugh rippled through the _atelier_--unmusically, because it held +a jarring, ominous note; and then Myrna Bliss was speaking again. + +"Monsieur Vinailles told me that some girl here had made quite a _coup +de théâtre_," she said calmly--too calmly to be natural. She fixed her +grey eyes, narrowed a little now, on Marie-Louise. "I had no idea that +it was _you_. How astounding!" She swung toward Paul Valmain. "Yes; +Monsieur Valmain, I have been listening behind the portières. From the +hall door, when I entered the house with Monsieur Vinailles a few +moments ago, I caught sight of mademoiselle and yourself across the +salon, thanks to the half open portières; and--mademoiselle, there, +will perhaps understand this better than you--in spite of my anxiety +for Jean, I sent Monsieur Vinailles upstairs alone. Do I make it +plain, Monsieur Valmain, that I overheard your last remarks?" + +Marie-Louise glanced distractedly from one to the other. Mademoiselle +Bliss was smiling--only it was a very strange smile. Why was she +smiling like that? And Monsieur Valmain's face was twitching again, +only it seemed that, where there had been anger before, there was now a +curious mingling of confusion and passionate eagerness. + +"Then," he said, and took a step forward, "then--" + +"Then," Myrna Bliss interrupted evenly, and came slowly across the +_atelier_, "then, of course, I understand everything, Monsieur Valmain. +And I suppose I should feel flattered that you should take it upon +yourself to avenge"--her voice was rising now, and the grey eyes were +flashing dangerously--"to avenge my honour! How like a knight of old, +Monsieur Valmain! How heroic! I have heard that Monsieur Valmain is +one of the finest swordsmen in France; I have never heard that Monsieur +Laparde was an adept at the art, but that, indeed, he was almost +ignorant of it, and--" + +"Mademoiselle!" he exclaimed hoarsely. "Mademoiselle--Myrna! You have +no right to say that! It is not true!" He drew himself up, clenching +his hands. "By God, not even you shall say that to me, to Paul +Valmain! I offered--no, I insisted that we should fight with pistols. +Laparde would not hear of it--they would make too much noise." + +"Ah--a noise!" she said colourlessly. "And what then, Monsieur +Valmain? Have you any other excuse for what you have done?" + +"You know why I did it, if you have been listening!" he cried out. +"You know why! You know that it was because I loved you--that I love +you! That my soul was in hell with what I believed to be true!" + +It seemed to Marie-Louise that she was living through some terrible, +horrible dream. She reached out behind her, groping for the modelling +platform, and sank down upon it. Mademoiselle's laugh was echoing +through the room again, and there was something--something so menacing +in it that it made her shudder. + +"Love!"--Myrna Bliss was quivering with passion, as she stepped +fiercely toward Paul Valmain. "Love! If I were a man, I would kill +you for that kind of love! I would kill you! You beast! You dared to +think--to think that I had come here in the middle of the night alone, +to--to spend the night here! You dared to think that of me! +That--that I was--" + +"Myrna! Mademoiselle!"--his hands went out to her. His face was +ghastly white. "Wait! For God's sake--wait! You do not understand!" +He whirled around and pointed to Marie-Louise. "Look at her! Look! +It is your cloak--your hat! It was dark across the street. She was +wearing your hat and cloak!" + +"I heard you say all that before!" she retorted instantly. "I do not +care what she was wearing! I do not care what she looked like! You +dared to think that it was me! You dared to hold me as little better +than a woman of the streets! You dared to do that--you despicable +hound!" Her fingers were opening and shutting spasmodically. "I hate +you! I loathe you! I would strangle you for it, if I were strong +enough!" + +He shrank back from her, his lips working. + +"You are merciless!" he said in a choked way. "You--you do not +understand. You--you do not understand what helped to make me--to--why +I came to be there last night. It was the key of that door there, the +key of the door to the salon, the afternoon after the reception." + +Myrna Bliss appeared to control herself with an effort. + +"The key!"--there was well-simulated bewilderment in the quick, angry +exclamation. + +"When we came in," he said hurriedly. "Laparde, who was acting +strangely, had just unlocked the door, and he was still holding the key +in his hand without knowing it." + +It was a moment before she spoke--while her eyes swept him scornfully +from head to foot. + +"I wish Jean had killed you!"--her lips were just parted over her +clenched teeth. "So--you have the temerity to add another insult to +the first! That Jean and I were together in a locked room! I remember +the key now. And so Jean was acting strangely! It was to be a little +surprise party for Jean--was it not? Is it strange if he were +surprised then? When he heard all of you coming, laughing and talking +and tramping up the stairs, he ran to the door to open it, and I +remember now that the key fell out of the lock and to the floor, and +that he picked it up. How amazing that perhaps he held it in his hand, +Monsieur Valmain! And do you imagine, Monsieur Valmain, that it was an +opportune time for me, who not only knew you were coming, but who had +arranged the affair, to indulge in the amours that your vilely fertile +mind--" + +"Stop, mademoiselle!" he cried wildly. "I was mad--mad with my love +for you. I understand too well now! I understood that I had made a +terrible mistake, _misérable_ that I am, when this girl, when it was +too late, came out of that dressing room there, when--when Laparde had +fallen. I am a fool, a blind, senseless fool; but--but, mademoiselle, +it was my love--you will forgive, you--" + +"Besides a fool, you are a coward!" she said pitilessly. "But you do +not understand everything yet--and you shall have no further chance to +warp and twist things to suit your perverted fancy, Monsieur Valmain. +I think I could quite easily tell you where this girl, in whom you +imagine you have discovered Jean's model, obtained those clothes--and +if she will not tell you, I will. And then you will leave here, and +you will take pains, Monsieur Valmain, that we do not meet again. Do +you hear that? I tell you again that I hate you, that I loathe you, +and that if I were a man I would know how to make you answer for it!" +She stepped quickly to Marie-Louise's side. "Look up at me!" she +ordered curtly. "This man says that hat and cloak are mine, and it is +true--they were mine. Tell him where you got them!" + +Marie-Louise did not move, except that she clasped her hands together a +little more tightly in her lap. She could not tell; for suddenly she +thought of Father Anton, and a sense of loyalty to Father Anton +insisted that she should not tell. If mademoiselle knew, as +mademoiselle said, that was another matter, and she could not change +that now; but to tell it herself--no, she could not do that, for that +was to admit that the good curé was in the secret of her presence in +Paris, and after that it would be known almost surely that he had +arranged with Hector and Madame Mi-mi for her to come there to the +_atelier_. + +"Well?" prompted Myrna Bliss, sharply. + +Marie-Louise shook her head. + +Myrna Bliss stamped her foot angrily. + +"Are you stupid enough to imagine that you are protecting Father Anton? +I promise you I shall have a word with that gentleman in the morning! +And since you could have got that hat and cloak nowhere else, tell +Monsieur Valmain that Father Anton gave them to you, and have done with +it!" + +Marie-Louise looked up. Mademoiselle had said it, and--and Father +Anton certainly would not deny it. + +"Yes," she said under her breath. "Father Anton gave them to me." + +"Well, why didn't you say so at first?" snapped Myrna. She turned +again furiously on Paul Valmain. "You hear, Monsieur Valmain! You are +well acquainted with Father Anton. Go to him, if you have any doubts. +You have only to know now how Father Anton obtained them"--her words +were curling, biting, stinging like a whiplash in their bitter scorn. +"Well, listen! I and a few of my friends have become _charitable_ +since father established his fund. It is contagious, Monsieur Valmain! +We, too, give bounteously to Father Anton for distribution amongst the +poor--we give our discarded garments! I sent him that hat and cloak in +a bundle with some other things, a few days ago. Is it quite plain, +Monsieur Valmain? Are you satisfied? Well, then"--she swung an +outstretched arm toward the door--"go!" + +"But, mademoiselle--_pour l'amour de Dieu_!" he protested brokenly. +"Do you not see that I am in agony, in torment for what I have done, +that--" + +"Go!" she raged--and stamped with her foot upon the floor again. + +For a moment he stood lurching a little on his feet, as though he had +been struck a blow; and then, white-faced, he drew himself up and bowed +to her. + +"As you will, mademoiselle!" he said in a low voice, and walked past +her toward the door. + +Myrna Bliss turned to watch him--and halfway across the room halted him. + +"Wait!"--she pointed to the rapiers lying on the floor. "Take those +things with you! And one word more, Monsieur Valmain! I do not intend +to pose in Paris in the abandoned rôle you were so quick to cast me +for. You perhaps understand that! I do not propose that anything +shall be known of what has happened here to-night. I shall see to it +that nothing is said by the others, but a word of this from you, +Monsieur Valmain, or from Monsieur LeFair, who Monsieur Vinailles tells +me was acting as your second, and--" + +"Mademoiselle might have spared me that!" he said monotonously--and, +picking up the rapiers, walked on through the salon and out into the +hall. + +In a sort of miserably fascinated way Marie-Louise had followed him +with her eyes. She heard the outer door close behind him--and then +mechanically she rose to her feet, as Myrna Bliss came and stood before +her. + +"So"--Myrna's voice was quivering, tense with passion--"so it remained +for Monsieur Valmain to discover the secret of the wonderful, +beautiful, entrancing model! Monsieur Valmain is right, of course. I +knew it at once, the moment I heard him say so. I was not very clever, +I suppose, or I should have seen it for myself long ago; only--you +quite understand this of course--I had forgotten, utterly forgotten, +that you even existed! But it seems that Jean could not live without +his little peasant; nor the little peasant without Jean! It is +perfectly comprehensible now why there should have been such secrecy +about his model. And so you have been living with Jean, have you, ever +since he came to Paris? The naïve, innocent little _ingénue_ of +Bernay-sur-Mer!" + +And then Marie-Louise lifted her head high again, and, while the hot +flushes came and swept her face, the great dark eyes held steadily on +the grey ones that were hard and cold like steel. It was not +mademoiselle of the _grand monde_ before her any more; it was a woman +whose tongue was making a sacrilege of all that was holy and cherished +in her life, making a hideous mockery of her love that was so sacred +and pure to her, making it a foul thing, smirching it, defiling it--it +was not Mademoiselle Bliss of another world than hers whom she +approached with diffidence and awe; it was a woman taunting her with a +shame from which her soul recoiled, and there came surging upon her, +born of the primitive, elemental life that had been hers, the days upon +the oars, the nights of rugged battling with the storms, a fury that +was physical in its cry for expression. + +"It is not true! It is not true!" she panted--and, her hands clenched +tightly, raised as though to strike, she took a quick step forward. + +Startled, Myrna Bliss involuntarily sprang back--but the next instant +she was laughing threateningly. + +"You little spitfire!" she exclaimed angrily. "And so it is not true! +Look at that statue behind you, look at any in this room, at any Jean +has ever done since he has been in Paris, and--oh, yes, I see it quite +plainly myself, now that I have been shown--it is you, you everywhere! +And you have the brazenness, the impudence to say that you have not +been living with Jean, that you have not been coming here at all hours +of the night for the last two years--as you have to-night--as you did +last night! Bah, you pitiful little hypocrite, would any one believe +you?" + +"Yes, they would believe me!" Marie-Louise cried passionately. "And +_you_ will believe me! I will make you believe me! I will make you! +I will make you! I--" Her voice broke suddenly, and with a half sob +she dropped her hands to her sides. Her fury had gone and in its place +had come only a desperate earnestness to make mademoiselle believe. +She had been thinking of herself alone--and there was Jean! If +mademoiselle would not believe her, the shame would be Jean's too, and +the guilt that mademoiselle imagined would be Jean's guilt too. And +even if she must tell all about Father Anton bringing her to Hector and +Madame Mi-mi, she must make mademoiselle believe. "Mademoiselle"--she +was pleading now, her voice choking as she spoke--"mademoiselle, +see--listen! You must--you must believe! It is true, every word I +have said is true! And it is true that I love Jean, and that that is +why I came, but--but Jean has never seen me since that day he left +Bernay-sur-Mer. See, mademoiselle--listen! It is only a few days +since I came to Paris--see, mademoiselle, even this hat and cloak +proves it. I did not know that it was cold, that one needed such +things in Paris, and I had nothing except just the clothes I had worn +in Bernay-sur-Mer, and the night I came I went to Father Anton and he +gave the hat and cloak to me--but I did not know, mademoiselle, that +they had been yours. I wanted to see Jean again, not to let him know +that I was here, but only to see him, only to see his work. It was two +years, mademoiselle, two years--and Father Anton understood, only he +made me promise, mademoiselle, that I would not speak to Jean, that I +would not let Jean know that I was here. Listen--listen, +mademoiselle!" Marie-Louise's hands were raised again--but +entreatingly now. "It was only to see Jean again, and see his work, +and then I was going away. For nothing, for nothing in the world would +I let Jean know that I had come. And so--and so, mademoiselle, so +Father Anton arranged with Hector that I should do the work about the +salon and the _atelier_, but very early in the mornings before Jean was +up; and then because I came so early Hector gave me the key--and last +night--oh, mademoiselle, mademoiselle, can you not understand?--I came +here, and--and I came again to-night. See, mademoiselle--it is so easy +to believe! You do believe! Father Anton will tell you that it is all +true, and that I have been in Bernay-sur-Mer all this time. +Mademoiselle, mademoiselle--you do believe!" + +Myrna Bliss was staring at Marie-Louise in startled amazement. + +"You mean--you mean," she said, in a low, tense way; "you mean that +Jean knows nothing of this--that he does not know that you are even in +Paris, that he has not seen you since he left Bernay-sur-Mer?" + +"But, yes; yes, yes, yes, mademoiselle, it is so, all that--it is so!" +Marie-Louise answered feverishly. "And--and he must not know now, +mademoiselle--he must not know now." + +And then Myrna Bliss smiled ironically. + +"I will see to that!" she said grimly. "You need have no fear on that +score, if what you say is true!" She turned abruptly from +Marie-Louise, walked straight to the "_Fille du Régiment_," and gazed +at it for a moment. Then, scarcely aloud: "'The womanhood of France,' +he had said ... 'The model in his heart.'" And so Jean did not know! +Well, if that were so, she would take very good care that he never did +know! It seemed incredible, but the girl's sincerity was not to be +denied. She laughed out sharply, and wheeled back upon Marie-Louise. +"Well, and what now?" she said coldly; and then, thrusting quickly: +"Are you aware that I am to marry Monsieur Laparde?" + +Marie-Louise's face blanched. + +"Yes," she said faintly. + +"And so"--the scathing tones were back in Myrna's voice--"and so you +were just playing with fire! Well, are you satisfied with what you +have done? If Jean Laparde lives it will be no thanks to you; if he +dies it will be you who--" + +Marie-Louise put out her hands as though to ward off a blow. She was +swaying upon her feet. + +"Not that--not that, mademoiselle!"--she could scarcely force the words +to her lips. "Do not say it, mademoiselle! I know that it is +true--God in his infinite pity, have pity on me!--but do not say it! I +will go away, mademoiselle--I will go away--for always. I will wait +only to know that--that Jean is well, for the _bon Dieu_ will not let +him die--and then--and then I will go--and then I--" A great sob shook +her frame, and covering her face with her hands she sank down again +upon the modelling platform. + +She was conscious that Mademoiselle Bliss was standing there, that the +grey eyes were fixed upon her; and then that from the salon some one +called to mademoiselle--but she did not hear mademoiselle go, only when +she looked up again she was alone in the atelier. And it was very kind +of mademoiselle to go so softly, and to say no more. + +She rose slowly to her feet, and passed through the atelier, and +through the salon, and out into the hall, and to the stairs--and paused +there to listen with pitiful eagerness. But there was no sound from +above--there was only the voice of her soul that kept whispering so +cruelly, "it is you ... it is you ... it is you ... it is not Paul +Valmain who has done this ... it is you ... it is you." + +And there at the foot of the stairs she knelt down for a moment; then +rose, and crossed the hall slowly to the door, and opened it--and +walked blindly out. + + + + +-- VIII -- + +FLIGHT + +Madame Garneau's hair straggled untidily about her head, her hands were +red, calloused, inclined indeed to be grimy, she had passed even that +poets'-consolation-prize age of forty, and she had no figure; but +Madame Garneau was possessed of a heart. She pushed open the door of +Marie-Louise's room, and dangled in her hand a yellow paper bag that +was grease specked on the bottom. + +"_Voilà_, my little lodger!" she cried gaily. "I have this for you, +and you will never guess what it is; and, besides, I have something +else--a message for you from Father Anton. Now which will you have +first?" + +Marie-Louise, from her chair by the window, rose quickly to her feet, +with a little exclamation of pleased surprise. + +Madame Garneau immediately pushed her back into the chair. + +"But you are to remain quiet--eh, _ma petite_!" She wagged her finger +severely in front of Marie-Louise's nose. "Now sit still, or you shall +have neither one nor the other!" + +"What nonsense!" laughed Marie-Louise, as she stood up once more. "I +am quite well again--and I am even to go out this morning." + +The paper bag banged belligerently on Madame Garneau's hip, as she +placed her arms akimbo. + +"You are to go out! And who said you are to go out?" + +"But, who else--the doctor," Marie-Louise answered with a smile. + +"Ah, the doctor!" sniffed Madame Garneau disdainfully. "I have my +opinion of doctors! In two or three days it will be time enough!" She +wagged her forefinger again, and held up the bag. "Eh, _bien_--can you +guess?" + +"Never!" admitted Marie-Louise, shaking her head prettily. + +"Cream-puffs!" announced Madame Garneau triumphantly. It was perhaps +the most indigestible edible with which she could have outraged a diet +list, but in that quarter of Paris, where _sous_ were scarce, +cream-puffs were the delicacy _par excellence_, and therefore a +delicacy for all occasions, rare enough in any event, when they could +be obtained. And besides, as Madame Garneau had said, she had her +opinion of doctors--Madame Garneau, even if unconsciously so, was +consistent! "Cream-puffs, _ma petite_! From the _patisserie_ around +the corner--I sent the gamin, who brought the message from Father +Anton, for them. And now what do you say?" + +Marie-Louise had neither heart nor appetite for cream-puffs, but she +must needs peek excitedly in through the top of the bag, and thank +Madame Garneau effusively, while she protested earnestly at the +extravagance. + +"It is nothing!" declared Madame Garneau, her honest face flushed with +pleasure. She placed the bag on the foot of the bed. "It is +nothing--_ma foi_! And now about Father Anton. He was to have come +this afternoon, eh?" + +"Yes," said Marie-Louise. + +"Well, then," said Madame Garneau, "he is not coming." + +"Not coming!" + +"It is his poor!" Madame Garneau exclaimed tartly. "Your Father Anton +has no sense! I would teach him a lesson if I had anything to do with +him! Fancy! The idea! And at his age! He will kill himself! The +gamin's mother was sick, and Father Anton must sit up the night, and +stay there all this day! And it is not once, but all the time he does +that! Bah, I have no patience with him! His heart is too soft! It is +well for his poor that I am not Father Anton!" There was finality in +the shrug of Madame Garneau's shoulders. She glanced at Marie-Louise, +and then her eyes fell upon the paper bag. "Oh, I forgot to tell you!" +she said anxiously. "There is a cream-puff gone from the +quarter-dozen. I gave one to the gamin, he made such eyes at the bag." +She tucked in a refractory wisp of hair that was straying over her ear. +"Well, then, as I was saying, he is not coming this afternoon, but he +will come this evening; and he said you were not to worry at all, +because what he was talking to you about yesterday--whatever that +is!--is all arranged." + +All arranged! It came as a sudden shock. Marie-Louise turned her head +quickly away, and, with her back to Madame Garneau, stood looking out +of the window. All arranged! Then what should she do--what should she +do? She put her hands wearily to her eyes. + +"_Mais, là, là_!" soothed Madame Garneau. "You must not be +disappointed. It is only for a few hours. He will come this evening." + +Marie-Louise forced a laugh. + +"But I am not disappointed," she answered. "I do not mind at all." +She was still staring down into the street. If Madame Garneau would +only go so that she could think what to do, and--no! She knew what she +must do, she had thought it all out before; it was only that the moment +when she must act upon her decision was thrust so suddenly upon her. +"Oh, Madame Garneau, I was almost forgetting!" she cried--and, turning +from the window, ran to the dilapidated and wobbly bureau, pulled open +a drawer, and took out her purse. "It is a week since I have paid for +my room--a week to-day, isn't it?" + +Madame Garneau promptly retreated toward the door. + +"_Mais, non_! _Mais, non_!" she protested. "When one is sick, one +does not earn the _sous_! Next week, the week after, when you are at +work again, you shall--" + +Marie-Louise laughingly caught Madame Garneau's hand, and began to +count the franc pieces into it; while Madame Garneau, still protesting, +kept up her retreat for the door. + +"There!"--Marie-Louise triumphantly closed the other's fingers over the +money. + +"But, no!" Madame Garneau expostulated vigorously. "But I will not +hear of it! What do you imagine! I--" + +And then Marie-Louise pushed the other playfully through the door, and +closed the door, and placed her back against it, and laughed as she +heard Madame Garneau grumbling outside and finally go grumbling +away--but the laugh was all for Madame Garneau. When she could no +longer hear Madame Garneau, she clasped her hands tightly to her bosom, +and caught her breath. That was done! She had both paid and got +Madame Garneau from the room. + +She stood still by the door, her shoulders drooped; her hands dropped +to her sides, and her fingers began to pluck nervously at the folds of +her dress, as she stared unseeingly before her. Father Anton had it +all arranged--the words brought so much, meant so much, and seemed to +embody in themselves all that had happened in the week that had passed +since the night when Jean and Monsieur Valmain had fought in the +studio. She had wandered blindly and like one dazed all the rest of +that night through the streets of Paris; and it must only have been the +_bon Dieu_ who had led her at last to where, lying unconscious on the +floor outside the door of his room, Father Anton had found her in the +morning. And then--how good they had all been to her!--Father Anton, +and Madame Garneau, and Doctor Maurier, the grey-haired, kindly doctor +who had been with Jean that night, and who would take not a _sou_ for +his visits to her, but only fill the room with sunshine through his +good news of Jean. + +She remembered that she had asked Father Anton for Jean's doctor +because then she would always have word of Jean--and she remembered +Father Anton's dismay at the request. "But, Marie-Louise," Father +Anton had said anxiously, "you do not know what you are asking! He is +the most famous man in Paris, and--" "And he will come," she had told +Father Anton. And she had been right, for Doctor Maurier had come; and +so each day she had had news of Jean, and now Jean was so well that he +was walking about the studio again. + +But most of all how good Father Anton had been! She had told him +all--everything--and he had not been angry with her; though she knew, +from little things he had said inadvertently, that Mademoiselle Bliss +had been very angry with him. Dear old Father Anton! He had tried to +take all the blame upon himself, because he said he had been +deceitful--though she could not understand that, no matter how hard he +tried to make her believe it, for he had only helped her to see Jean +and to be near Jean, and that was what she herself had pleaded with him +to do. + +And then, as she had grown stronger and had begun to talk of going +away, Father Anton had agreed with her, but he had insisted that she +should go back to Bernay-sur-Mer. And he had become so earnest and +determined that it must be Bernay-sur-Mer, and because she knew that it +was his love for her that made him so anxious about her future, she +could not bring herself to tell him what she really meant to do, what, +in the long hours through the nights as she had lain awake, she had +made up her mind to do--to go somewhere, she did not know where, but +somewhere far away where there would be nothing to remind her of +Jean--not that she could forget, no matter where she went, but that +scenes and associations, as they had done in the past two years, might +not again prove too strong for her. And so, rather than pain Father +Anton by an absolute refusal, or the admission that even he was to go +out of her life, she had told him only that she did not want to go back +to Bernay-sur-Mer, that her house was sold, and that every one there +would think it very strange that she had gone away like that only to +return again so soon. + +But he was not to be shaken in his determination. "Ah, even if that +were true," Father Anton had said to her only yesterday, "nevertheless, +my little Marie-Louise, it is the thing you must do. I cannot let you +do anything else; and in a little while--who knows!--you will be very +happy there again. But it is not true, for there is a way that I have +been thinking about as I came here. As for the house, it is as well +that it is sold; you have the money, and besides it is much better that +you should not live there alone--you will live for a while with those +honest Fregeaus, who will be overjoyed. And as for the rest--see, +Marie-Louise, this is what we will do! I will speak to Monsieur Bliss +and tell him that I wish to go back for a little visit, and we will go +together--and the good people of Bernay-sur-Mer will not think it +strange at all then, for I will tell them that you have been with me +here in Paris, and that it is I who have persuaded you that it is best +for you to go back and live in Bernay-sur-Mer. _Tiens_, could anything +be better? And I will speak to Monsieur Bliss at once." + +She knew quite well what was in Father Anton's mind. If she were in +Bernay-sur-Mer he would feel that she was quite safe, that no harm +could come to her; and he had mentioned, so innocently as he believed, +Amidé Dubois once or twice, and he was perhaps imagining that some day +she would marry there. But he did not understand! She shook her head +slowly; and then, suddenly rousing herself, she walked across the room +to the little bureau, and took out her things, and laid them upon the +bed, and began to make them up into a little bundle--the same bundle +she had carried with her from Bernay-sur-Mer. He did not understand! + +It was all arranged! Father Anton had seen Monsieur Bliss then--and +perhaps it would be to-morrow, or maybe even to-night that Father Anton +would want her to go with him. But she could not go back to +Bernay-sur-Mer! For nothing in the world would she go back there! If +there were no other reasons, there was one that alone made it +impossible--some day Jean might return there himself for a visit. And +she must go somewhere where there was no possibility that she and Jean +should ever see each other--and she must go now while she had the +chance. There was nothing to keep her any longer; she was quite well +and strong again, and she knew that Jean was getting well, and--and she +had seen Jean and his work, and she could picture his splendid life +stretching out before him in which even his marriage with Mademoiselle +Bliss, who was very rich and of the _grand monde_, would help to make +him even greater, and--and so there remained nothing more to hold her +there. It was very wonderful that it should be her lips that Jean had +fashioned--unconsciously, as Father Anton said--into his clay. It was +very wonderful! It was something that the _bon Dieu_ had given her to +make her glad; to make the sadness and remorse for the tragedy she had +brought about less terrible; to make her know that, after all, her +share in Jean's career had not just ended with that day, so long ago in +Bernay-sur-Mer, when she had given him to France. + +She tied the bundle neatly. She was ready to go now, and she picked it +up, took a step toward the door--and, holding the bundle in her hand, +paused hesitantly. She could not go like that--Father Anton would be +in a state of frenzy over her. She--she could write him a little note. +Yes; she would do that. She set the bundle down, and hurriedly untied +it. She remembered that when she had written down Father Anton's +address before leaving Bernay-sur-Mer she had put the pencil in the +pocket of her apron. Yes; here it was, but--she looked around her in +sudden anxiety--there was nothing, no paper to write on. Her eyes +rested upon the bed. Madame Garneau's cream-puffs! She picked up the +bag, tore a piece from it, and, taking it to the window sill, wrote a +few hurried sentences. It was just to say that she could never go to +Bernay-sur-Mer; just to say that she was going away, very far away +somewhere, and that he must not be sad about her, or try to find her +for she did not know where she was going herself; just to say that she +loved him, and that he had been so good, so very, very good to her, and +that she would pray always to the _bon Dieu_ for him. + +There was a mist in her eyes as she folded the yellow, grease-spotted +paper--she could buy an envelope and a stamp and mail it to Father +Anton. She took up her bundle again, and went to the door; and, making +sure that Madame Garneau was not in sight, hurried out of the house to +the street. Here, she ran until she had turned the first corner and +could no longer be seen from the house, then walked quietly along. + +Blocks away, she stepped into a little store. + +"Monsieur," she said to the man who served her with her envelope and +stamp, "monsieur, will you be kind enough to tell me the way to the +railway station?" + +"To which one, mademoiselle?" he inquired politely. "The _Gare de +l'Est, the Gare du Nord, the Gare St. Lazare_, the--" + +She had not thought that there might be more than one, but one would +take her away equally as well as another--it made no difference. Only +he would think it very strange that she did not know which one she +wanted. + +"The _Gare St. Lazare_, if you please, monsieur," she ventured +quickly--and thanked him when he had told her, and went out on the +street again. + + + + +--IX-- + +MYRNA'S STRATEGY + +"Two months--three months in America! And to be married there!" +ejaculated Henry Bliss, as he stared at his daughter in utter +bewilderment. + +Myrna, from the depths of her father's favourite lounging chair, which +she had appropriated on entering the library after dinner that evening, +nodded her head in a quite matter-of-fact way. + +"Isn't this rather--rather sudden?" inquired Henry Bliss, mustering a +facetious irony to his rescue. + +"Oh, no!" said Myrna demurely. "I decided upon it almost a week ago." + +"Oh, you did!"--a wry smile flickered on her father's lips. "A week +ago, eh? And what does Jean say?" + +"Jean doesn't say anything," replied Myrna complacently. "He doesn't +know anything about it--it wasn't necessary until the time came. I +haven't said anything to any one--until now." + +"Well, upon my soul!" exclaimed her father. "You are beginning early +with your future husband, Myrna! So then, we are both to be twisted +around your finger--eh? I shall have to speak to Jean--warn him. For +myself, of course, it's quite hopeless, I've given it up years ago; but +as for Jean, that's quite another matter--it's all in starting right, +with a firm hand, you know!" His eyes twinkled. "I'll have a little +confidential talk with Jean." + +"Don't be ridiculous, father!" she laughed. She rose from her chair. +"Well, that's settled; and now I--" + +"Eh--what? Settled! Nothing is settled! What's settled?" he +spluttered anxiously. + +"That we are going to America, of course," said Myrna sweetly. "You, +and Jean, and I." + +"Now, see here, Myrna," protested her father, with what he meant for +severity, "a trip to America is all very well, but it isn't the sort of +thing one decides on the spur of the moment." + +"Of course it isn't!"--Myrna's eyebrows went up archly. "Didn't I tell +you that I have been arranging it for a whole week? I was only waiting +for cable replies to some of my letters before speaking to you, and--" + +"And of course as you have not overlooked minor details, I suppose we +sail sometime next week!" her father interrupted with mild sarcasm. + +"No," said Myrna placidly. "From Havre, the day after to-morrow, by +the _Lorraine_." + +Henry Bliss sat down weakly in a chair. He removed his cigar from his +lips, and made one or two helpless passes with it in the air. + +"Impossible!" he finally exploded. "Absolutely impossible! Utterly +out of the question!" + +"I don't see why," observed Myrna, quite undisturbed. + +"You don't see why? No, of course, you don't see why"--Henry Bliss was +still waving his cigar. "Well, I can't run away at a moment's notice, +can I? Good heavens! The day after to-morrow! There's a thousand and +one affairs that would have to be attended to before I could even think +of it!" + +"Which, of course, isn't true at all"--Myrna's laugh rippled merrily +through the room. "There are perhaps a dozen social engagements, and +two or three other affairs for which you will have to send 'regrets,' +and"--she perched herself cosily on the arm of her father's chair--"and +your secretary will do that for you. In fact, I told him he was to do +it to-morrow morning." + +"You--_what_? Well, I'll be damned!" gasped Henry Bliss. + +"Father!" + +"Well, it was excusable!" muttered Henry Bliss. "I--I am half inclined +to repeat it." + +Myrna's arm slipped around her father's neck. He was quite manageable, +of course--but still he had to be managed. For, if what had come +within so narrow a margin of being a tragedy with a fatal ending had +forced her hand and forced the inevitable, as it were, upon her, she +could at least see to it that the adjustment of the new order of things +was of her own arranging. It was inevitable that she would marry Jean, +she had decided that long ago; it was only the "day" itself which, +until all this had introduced a new factor into her plans, had been at +all vague in her mind. But with Paul Valmain eliminated, and her +quarrel with Jean made up as he had lain there dangerously hurt that +night of the duel, everything had taken on a totally different aspect. +Perhaps she had yielded a little weakly under sick-bed influences, but +however that might be, she was now Jean's fiancée, though it was not +publicly announced; as, coming upon the heels of Jean's mysterious +accident and Paul Valmain's sudden departure from Paris, it would to a +certainty have caused talk and gossip, which for very good reasons she +was most anxious to avoid; for, a wheel within a wheel, if talk went +too far the truth might come out, and the truth at all hazards was the +one thing that Jean must not know. This was one reason why, almost +from the moment that she had grasped the situation that night in Jean's +studio, she had determined to get Jean away from Paris the instant he +was able to go. But there was a still stronger and more potent reason. +The marriage of Jean Laparde, the world-famous sculptor, and Myrna +Bliss, heiress to millions, a society leader in both Paris and New +York, was not an affair to be consummated in a moment, nor to have its +preparations go unmarked. It would be the most brilliant function that +society had ever known on either side of the water--to that she had +quite definitely made up her mind! But all that would take time; and +meanwhile, more to be feared than any talk, was the possibility of Jean +seeing Marie-Louise--and the possibility, or rather, perhaps, the +opportunity that would be afforded to Marie-Louise herself, whom she, +Myrna, was by no means inclined to trust! She was quite convinced that +Jean had not seen the girl since he had left Bernay-sur-Mer, that to a +certain extent the girl had told the truth, but that made it all the +more imperative that he should not see her now; for if, though +unconsciously so, Marie-Louise was so intimate a part of his life that +the girl took form constantly in his work, it would be, to put it +mildly, just as well if they did not meet--until after Jean was +married. After that--well, after that, she was quite capable of +looking after a _husband_! In the meantime she would take good care +that the possibility of such a contretemps was entirely obviated by +going to America, spending the few months necessary for the marriage +preparations there, months in which Jean would be the recipient of even +greater honours than Paris had accorded him, be married, and--well, +that was all! It was very simple! What this impertinent little +peasant girl had attempted once, even if Father Anton did intend to +take her back to Bernay-sur-Mer, she was quite capable of attempting +again--if she had the chance! + +Myrna nestled her arm snugly around her father's neck, and held up two +daintily extended fingers before his eyes. + +"Now, listen, father," she said, puckering up her forehead prettily. +"Now I am going to be very serious. There are two very good reasons +why we will go. First, now that Jean is able to be up again, a sea +trip is the one thing above all others that he needs. Doctor Maurier +prescribes it." + +"Insists on it, I suppose!" observed Henry Bliss dryly. + +"He will," said Myrna, laughing, "if I ask him to." + +"H'm!" commented Henry Bliss, the wrinkles around his eyes beginning to +nest into a smile. "Well--and the other reason?" + +"The other one," said Myrna, and laid her head down against her +father's cheek; "the other one is--I must whisper it--now, listen--is +because I've set my heart on it, and I want to go." + +"Which settles it!" groaned Henry Bliss, with mock lugubriousness. +"Well"--he got up from his chair, and brushed vigorously at the cigar +ash which, incident to Myrna's embrace, bedecked his waistcoat--"well, +I'll see what Jean says about it." + +"Why, of course!" agreed Myrna innocently. "It all depends upon Jean. +We'll leave it that way, father." + +Henry Bliss looked at her, gasped once--and grinned in spite of himself. + +"There isn't any other trifling matter you'd like to call my attention +to this evening, is there?" he hazarded, pinching his daughter's cheek +playfully. "Because, if there is, I'm--" He paused, as a footman +coughed discreetly from the doorway. "Well?" he demanded. + +"It is Monsieur le Curé, Monsieur Bliss," said the man. + +"Show him in," instructed Henry Bliss--and, as the man retired, glanced +quickly at his daughter. "I hope, Myrna, that--" + +"That we've made up our differences!" she supplied, with sudden +impatience. "That I quite understand that the gentle old soul in an +endeavour to set the world right meant well, and was actuated by the +loftiest of motives! Oh, yes, I think Father Anton and I understand +each other perfectly, and--" + +"Monsieur le Curé!" announced the footman. + +Myrna calmly turned her back--but only to whirl suddenly around again, +as, with a sharp exclamation, her father stepped quickly toward the +door. + +"Good heavens, my dear man, what is the matter with you?" Henry Bliss +cried out in consternation. + +Father Anton's white hair was unbrushed; he was unshaved; and his face +already haggard, his eyes already deep-set and blue-circled from his +twenty-four hours of bedside vigil, now bore added and unmistakable +signs of violent mental agitation and distraction. His hand, that held +a piece of torn yellow paper, trembled as though with the ague. + +"Ah, Monsieur Bliss--ah, _pardon_, mademoiselle!" he stammered, and +attempted a bow. "I--I have run very fast--and--I--I--" + +"Is anything the matter?" inquired Myrna coolly, joining the two at the +door. + +Father Anton looked at her piteously. + +"She is gone!" he said, his lips quivering. + +"Gone!" repeated Henry Bliss bewilderedly. "Who is gone?" + +"Our charming little Marie-Louise of Bernay-sur-Mer, of course! Who +else?"--Myrna laughed sharply. "Well, _mon cher_ Monsieur le Curé, +will you tell us how it happened? I had an idea you were very shortly +to return with her to Bernay-sur-Mer. It seems I was mistaken!" + +"But I do not know how it happened!"--Father Anton shook his head +distractedly. "I was away last night and to-day. This evening when I +returned to my rooms I found this letter from her"--he stared at the +torn yellow paper in his hand, and the tears began to well into his +eyes. "She said that she was going away--that she could not go back to +Bernay-sur-Mer--that I was not to look for her--that she did not know +where she was going herself. I waited for nothing. I ran at once to +Madame Garneau's. Madame Garneau had seen nothing of Marie-Louise +since this morning. We looked in Marie-Louise's room. Her clothes +were gone. And then--and then I ran here to get help to find her." + +"And so," said Myrna icily, "are we never to hear the last of her? The +trouble in the first place is of your own making, Father Anton--it is +unfortunate that others have to suffer for it! Well, what does it +mean? She did not want to go back to Bernay-sur-Mer--she has run away +from you--from everybody that could keep track of her. Why? That she +can go to Jean again without being found out?" She shrugged her +shoulders. "However, under the circumstances, if that is so, it will +do her little good, since Jean himself is going away to--" + +"No, no!" Father Anton cried out brokenly. "You do not know +Marie-Louise! You do not know Marie-Louise to say that! She, more +than any one else, would not let Jean know. It is because her heart is +broken that she has gone. And it is true, I am to blame." The tears +were running down his cheeks; he held out his hands to them +imploringly. "She is not well--she is only just recovered from her +illness, my little Marie-Louise, and--and--" the words died away in a +sort of frightened sob, at a quick, warning touch upon his arm from +Myrna. + +Steps came running across the hall--and the next moment Jean himself +was standing in the doorway. + +"_Tiens_!" he cried out gaily. "It is the first time I have left the +studio. I would not let the man announce me. _Me voici_! Here I am! +It is a surprise--eh? But--eh!--what is the matter?" He stared at the +three--at Henry Bliss, who was evidencing palpable confusion; at Myrna, +who seemed suddenly to have lost her colour; at Father Anton, who had +tears trickling down his face, and acted as though he were gazing at a +ghost. + +"It--it is Jean!" faltered Father Anton nervously, the letter +fluttering from his hand to the floor. + +"But, yes, of course, it is Jean! Who else?" Jean laughed--and +stepped forward mechanically to pick up the paper. "Permit me. I--" + +A dainty satin-slippered toe was covering the letter. Myrna was +smiling reprovingly. + +"It is quite time enough for you to be gallant, Jean, when you can do +so without the danger of reopening your wound!" she said sweetly. +"Have you not been told often enough that you are not to stoop down +like that? Father Anton is much better able than you to pick it up!" + +"Yes, yes," said Father Anton hurriedly, reaching for the paper and +tucking it into the breast of his _soutane_. "Yes, you--you must be +careful of yourself, Jean." + +"Nonsense!" declared Jean. "I am perfectly recovered!" He stared at +the three in turn again for a moment. "But--but perhaps I am +intruding--_de trop_?" + +"Not at all!" Myrna answered composedly. "It is a matter that concerns +only father and Monsieur le Curé; and they"--she glanced brightly at +her father--"I am sure, will be only too glad to get away to father's +den where they can discuss it by themselves." + +"Yes--er--yes, of course," coughed Henry Bliss. "It's--er--good to see +you out again, Jean, my boy." Then jocularly, in an attempt to +disguise his self-consciousness: "Come along, Father Anton"--he caught +the other's arm, and led the curé out of the room--"there are perhaps +others who prefer to be by themselves." + +A slightly puzzled expression on his face, Jean watched them out of +sight across the hall; then turned inquiringly to Myrna. + +Myrna's shoulders lifted daintily. + +"If it isn't one thing, it's another," she said, as though the subject +bored her. "There has always been something or other ever since father +started that fund of his; and the curé trots to father with everything. +This time, it seems that one of Father Anton's protégées has run away +from him; and, as you saw, the curé is beside himself." Again the +shoulders lifted "But you, Jean"--infusing a sudden note of perturbed +anxiety into her voice--"are you sure you were wise in coming out +to-night? What brought you?" + +And then Jean threw back his head, and laughed, and closed the +door--and caught her in his arms. + +"_Mon Dieu_!" he cried, holding her close to him, and trying to kiss +the suddenly averted face. "Do you ask what brought me? Well, then, I +will tell you! Did you not say that you would come this afternoon, and +did you not promise that we would settle about our marriage? And you +did not come, and all the afternoon I was waiting, and now"--his face +fell a little, as she slipped away from him--"and now that I am here +you run away from me." + +"You are too impulsive, Jean! You are destruction on gowns!" she +laughed, and backed merrily away from him to sink down gracefully in a +chair. + +"Gowns!" he echoed, a sudden flush of anger coming to his cheeks, as he +followed her. "What does it matter, a gown, when--" + +"Now, don't be cross!" she commanded teasingly; and, gaily regal, +extended her hand. "See, here is my hand to kiss." + +He hesitated; and then, as, a little sullenly, he bent and touched her +fingers with his lips, she laughed again. She loved to excite and +watch moods in Jean--as now for instance, when the tall, strong figure +was drawn up haughtily, and the emotions, that he would never learn to +hide, were so apparent in his face, as he bit his lips and pulled at +his short, pointed beard. Jean was as readable as a book at all times, +and always would be--which was not a bad trait for a husband to +possess! And this was Jean Laparde, the man of genius, unquestionably +at that moment the most famous man in France! She smiled at him +through half veiled eyes. To be Madame Laparde! Socially, it meant an +incomparable triumph; intimately, it meant--well, at least, it was +obvious enough that the marriage need hold no terror of tyranny in +store for her! Jean, for all his greatness, and save for his +occasional passionate outbursts, was as plastic as his own clay. Her +eyelids lifted, and in the grey eyes was laughter. + +"Well, and why the brown study? What are you thinking about?" she +demanded pertly. + +"I was thinking of Paul Valmain," he answered abruptly. + +"Paul Valmain!" she repeated--and sat suddenly upright in her chair. + +"Yes," said Jean, a little bitterly. "That he would have small reason +to be jealous, even now that we are engaged." + +"Don't be absurd!" she retorted sharply. + +Jean shrugged his shoulders. + +"And speaking of Paul Valmain," he went on, a menacing note creeping +into his tones, "I have been talking to Hector again this afternoon +about that night--the night that Valmain said he saw you enter the +house." + +She looked at him quickly. Surely, after what she had said to Hector, +Hector had not dared to speak of the girl to whom he had +given--reprehensibly, she had taken pains to make Hector understand--a +key to Jean's studio. She believed she had frightened Hector and +Madame Mi-mi too thoroughly for that, and yet--if he had! + +"Well?"--serenely, as her eyebrows went up. + +"Nothing! He knows nothing! He heard nothing!" Jean flung out +impatiently. "But Hector is a fool, and Valmain said he saw you go in." + +"Well, was I there?" she inquired frigidly. + +"No, you were not there--naturally!" he asserted with wrathful +finality. "But--I have been thinking--if it were some one else!" + +"Ah!" Myrna's smile was cold, as she rose with a curiously ominous air +from her chair. "Ah! Some one else! Well, since you bring up the +subject again, do you imagine I am so stupid that such a possibility +has not also occurred to _me_? Your conscience seems to trouble you, +Monsieur Jean! If there was some one else--a woman in your rooms from +two o'clock at night until daylight--you should know better who it was, +I imagine, than either Hector or Madame Mi-mi! And since I am your +fiancée, Monsieur Jean--perhaps you will explain!" + +"But, _sacre nom d'un diable_!" Jean shouted in angry amazement. "I +know of no woman!" + +"If there was a woman there it is inconceivable that you should not +know it"--Myrna's voice was monotonous, relentless. + +"But, I tell you--_no_!"--Jean's hands went up in the air, as he raged +in exasperation. "Do you understand, that I tell you--no? It is not +so! There was no woman there!" + +"Well, then?"--still monotonously. + +"Well, then?" Jean stormed furiously, clenching his fists, "it can be +nothing but that cursed Valmain and his damned jealousy! It can be +nothing but a lie, all of it, that he has made up! It is all a lie +then--nothing but a lie! And so I am not through with him! He will +answer for it! I am not through with him! It will not be with swords +this time--we will fight with pistols, and I will kill him! He thinks +he has no longer any reason to hide and stay away--but, _nom de Dieu_, +he will see! I promise you that! Vinailles told me that Valmain would +be back the day after to-morrow, and"--he laughed out harshly--"the day +after to-morrow--" + +"You are going to America," said Myrna calmly. + +Jean's clenched fist, raised, remained motionless in mid-air. He +stared at her open-mouthed. + +"To--to America!" he gasped. + +"To be married there," supplemented Myrna composedly. + +"To be married there!"--he repeated the words in his bewilderment like +a parrot. + +"And to receive an ovation, to be accorded a triumph such as you have +never dreamed of." Her laugh trilled out deliciously. "You will see +how they do things in America!" + +He was still staring at her in dumfounded amazement. + +"To America--to be married--a triumph!" he mumbled dazedly. "But--but +who--" + +"I did," said Myrna, laughing at him again. "Did you not remind me +that I had promised to tell you about our marriage to-day? Well, we +are to be married in America. Are you not delighted?" + +"But--but, yes! _Mon Dieu_! But--but, yes!" stammered Jean helplessly. + +"Well, then," said Myrna, puckering up her brows in prettily affected +deliberation, "I think, Monsieur Jean, you may kiss me--once." + + + + +-- X -- + +THROUGH THE FOG + +With an angry tightening of his lips, as he caught sight of Myrna still +the centre of the same masculine _entourage_, Jean turned from the +window where he had paused for an instant to glance into the ship's +main saloon, transformed for the moment into a ballroom, and resumed +his moody pacing up and down the deck. He pulled his ulster more +closely about him, for the night was cold, lighted a cigarette and +puffed at it irritably, as he was forced to acknowledge the, for the +most part effusive, salutes that his fellow passengers went out of +their way to accord him, as in couples and groups they constantly came +and went between the saloon and the deck. Then, after another turn or +two, he tossed away his cigarette with a vicious jerk, sought out the +most secluded portion of the deck--a recess near the ship's +funnels--and, appropriating a steamer chair, flung himself into it. + +He had barely ensconced himself there, however, when, with a muttered +oath, he sat angrily upright in the chair again. Was there no place on +the cursed ship where he could be alone for five minutes with his own +thoughts? He had left the dance after a heated, if short, altercation +with Myrna, been annoyed by the advances of those on deck, and now two +women had elected to halt within earshot of him around the corner to +_discuss_ him! + +"Well," murmured a voice sweetly, "have you met the famous Monsieur +Laparde yet?" + +"No"--eagerly. "Have you?" + +"No--not exactly, my dear"--patronisingly. "But I'll promise to +introduce you in the morning." + +"Oh, _will_ you? How perfectly gorgeous! You _are_ a dear! But how +have you managed it? Tell me all about it! I'm simply dying to know +how you succeeded!" + +"It wasn't at all difficult"--in naïve self-disparagement. "I met Mr. +Bliss. He's simply charming, and so unaffected! He is going to tell +me all about the art schools in Paris--of course, I'm terribly +interested! There are three in their party, you know--Mr. Bliss and +his daughter, and Monsieur Laparde." + +"Do you think she's pretty? I don't see what all the men are raving +about! And did you notice her dress to-night--those black velvet +shoulder straps are actually startling!" + +"Yes--_aren't_ they? I've heard so many remarks about them! But I +suppose she is pretty--in a way. It's being whispered around that she +is going to marry Monsieur Laparde. I wonder if it's true?" + +"Huh!"--with a sniff. "Well, if it is true, Monsieur Laparde does not +do what I would do if I were a man in his place. It's simply +outrageous the way she carries on, if she's engaged. I wouldn't stand +it for a moment! She must have the wool pretty thoroughly pulled over +his eyes, if he imagines she is in love with him!" + +"In love with his name, my dear"--in cooing amendment. "I don't +suppose she _does_ care for anything else. She doesn't appeal to me as +that kind of a woman. I'm sure I think just as you do about her. I +wouldn't care to trust her very far from what I've seen of her--she's +the sort that always strikes me as being capable of saying _anything_ +behind one's back! She flirts mercilessly!" + +"Yes; and fancy a man like Monsieur Laparde permitting himself to be +made ridiculous! Did you notice this morning, when everybody wanted to +walk, that the deck was utterly impassable with her court spreading +their chairs two or three deep all around her? Of course, one can't +_say_ anything! And all the time she had Monsieur Laparde trotting +back and forth like an overgrown errand boy, carrying books and wraps +and--" + +"No, my dear, you are quite wrong there. She couldn't make a man like +Monsieur Laparde ridiculous--she could only make one feel sorry for +him." + +"Well, anyway, it's quite evident that she--oh, isn't that Lord Mornely +just going inside? Gracious, I had no idea I was getting so cold! Do +come! I'm nearly perished! We'll catch our deaths out here!" + +The arms of the steamer chair creaked as Jean's hands clenched upon +them. His face was crimson with passion. What right had these cursed +and _banale_ women to meddle in his affairs, and to discuss him? His +hands gripped harder on the chair and it creaked again. So, then, this +was the talk and gossip of the ship--and everybody knew it! If it were +idle talk he could have laughed at it, and gone and bowed before them +sardonically, and taken his revenge in their confusion; but it was +true, and it only made his fury the greater. They had but voiced his +own thoughts of five minutes ago, and his thoughts of yesterday, and of +the day before, and of the days before that, since almost from the +moment indeed that Myrna had promised to be his wife--the moment that +once, like a poor, deluded fool, he had thought would be counted the +greatest in his life! A hundred little things during his convalescence +had been like signposts of bitter disappointment. She cared nothing +for Jean Laparde the man; she was marrying Jean Laparde the +sculptor-genius, whose name was on every tongue! She did not know the +meaning of love! She loved only what his name might bring her. There +was no tenderness, no intimacy. She _put up_ with him--_sacré +nom_!--that was all! He had refused to believe it in those few days in +Paris. He had shut his eyes to it then. He could not shut his eyes to +it here on board ship--where everybody's eyes, even those damned cats'! +were open. And now she seemed to assume that, since he was her +property, her possession, and that the whole matter, as far as it +concerned her, was quite and entirely settled to her satisfaction, she +could devote herself to a new affair every half-hour, while he, he, +Jean Laparde, the great Laparde, looked on--and grinned! + +He rose savagely from his chair, and, turning up the collar of his +ulster and pulling his cap far down over his eyes, went along to the +extreme end of the deck. Here, unprotected by the canvas +weather-cloths such as those along the ship's side that closed in the +promenade, sheltering the passengers from the damp, driving mist of a +North Atlantic fog, it was wet and uninviting enough to guarantee him +immunity from any intrusion. Below him, as he looked over the rail, +the steerage deck, dim, dismal, forbidding, was deserted save for a few +people, who, probably choosing the lesser of two evils, braving the +night in preference to sharing the fetid atmosphere below with many +hundred others, were huddled about in miserable discomfort. He stared +at this sight for a moment; then turned around, and leaned with his +back against the rail to face the gay, brilliantly-lighted scene far +down at the other end of the promenade deck. He watched this +sullenly--the extravagantly gowned women and their escorts coming and +going like hiving bees from the deck to the saloon ... clustering +around the entrance ... retailing the ship's gossip ... a breath of air +... a cigarette ... and back to the dance again. Who cared what the +night was like? Who cared if, far up above on the mighty liner's +bridge, oil-skinned figures peered out anxiously into the night? Who +cared or thought of those huddled forms on the steerage deck? Who +cared--the sea was smooth, and one could dance? + +Jean dug his hands deep down into his pockets and closed them fiercely. +The long, hoarse-throated cry of the fog siren boomed out and vibrated +through the ship--and died away; and, sharp in contrast, came again the +calm, steady pulse and throb of the engines, and laughter, and the +dreamy, sobbing notes of a waltz. + +And now a depression, utter and profound, a more grievous thing than +the fury that had preceded it, was settling upon him. It was not only +Myrna, the knowledge forced home upon him that he was but a vehicle for +her ambitions, that their marriage was to be a hollow thing, a form, a +husk covering the semblance of love--it was the sea! Until this trip +he had not seen it since he had left Bernay-sur-Mer. It held a +thousand memories. He had fought them back angrily, defiantly ever +since he had come on board--but they had been present almost from the +hour that the shores of the France he loved had faded from sight, and +at unexpected moments this thing and that had flashed suddenly upon +him, striking with quick, stabbing passes under his guard. But now, +his spirits at a low ebb, reckless of combating even poignant +memories--those memories were surging overwhelmingly upon him. It +seemed to mirror his life like some strange kaleidoscope, the sea that +he had always known; it seemed to stir something within him that was +soul-deep in his life--the smell of it in his nostrils, the feel of it +upon his cheeks was flinging wide apart now the floodgates of the past. + +Living, vivid before him was the sparkling, wonderful blue of that +southern sea, fringed with the little white cottages of Bernay-sur-Mer +that had been his home; and beneath bare feet he felt again the smooth, +fine, yielding sand upon the beach where as a baby he had crawled, +where still a baby he had taken his first step, where as a man he had +struggled for his place among men and once had played a man's part. +The cheery voices of the fishermen as they launched their boats were in +his ears; they called to him; and laughed; and, because all were his +friends, twitted him good-naturedly, twitted him and teased him +about--about Marie-Louise. Marie-Louise! A low, sharp, involuntary +cry of pain rose to his lips. With a violent effort he tried to shake +himself free from his thoughts--but it was as though he were in the +grip of some strange, immutable power that held him bound and shackled, +while with lightning-like rapidity, whether he would or no, upon him +rushed the ever-changing scenes. The face of Madame Fregeau, his +foster-mother, coarse-featured perhaps, but beautiful because it was a +sweet and wholesome face, came before him; and her arms that were +rough, and red, and shapeless were around his neck in an old-time +embrace. She had loved him, the good Mother Fregeau! Came the faces +of Pierre Lachance, of Papa Fregeau, of little Ninon, of a score of +toddling mites clapping their hands in childish ecstasy over the clay +_poupées_ he had made for them--and all these had been his friends. +And all these were gone now, all were gone, and in their place +was--what? He raised his head. Hoarse-tongued, the siren cried again. +It seemed like the wail of a lost soul out-flung into the night, into +the vastness, calling, calling where there was none to answer--echoing +the loneliness that was filling his heart that night. + +He had forgotten all these things in Paris; he had made himself +forget--and besides there had been Myrna. He had fought for her, +striven for her tempestuously, fiercely, as a prize that nor heaven nor +hell could hold back from him--and, ghastly in its mocking irony, it +was only when the prize was won that, like some wondrously beautiful, +iridescent bubble, glorious in its colours as the sunlight played upon +it, it burst and nothing but the dregs of it remained as he reached out +and grasped it in his hands. He had looked for the love, the passion +that he could give in return; he had found only a cold-blooded +strategical move on the checkerboard of social aspirations. He was not +blind any more--nor angry. It was only a profound and bitter +loneliness that he knew. It would be a dreary thing, that +marriage--and dreary years. Once, when he had no right, he had forced +his kisses upon her; he had no more inclination now to force from her +what should be so freely offered--and was withheld! + +Who cared for Jean Laparde? Not Myrna! He had bought her as he had +sworn he would buy her, and his own words had come true--with fame. He +was the great Laparde! But who cared for _Jean_ Laparde? None that he +knew now! All that was in the past; all that was in the little village +on the Mediterranean shore in the days when he had made the clay +_poupées_ on the banks of the creek, and dreamed of that wondrous dream +statue that had been so real a thing to him--and now even that was +gone--and he was alone. + +Ah, they were back again, those scenes of Bernay-sur-Mer! Whose face +was that? Gaston Bernier! Old Gaston! And what was this that he was +living again, that was so cruel in its realism? That night on the +Perigeau ... that night when old Gaston died ... that day when he had +made the beacon for Marie-Louise, the beacon with its arms outstretched +that--he covered his face suddenly with his hands. If he could only +strangle these thoughts--God, the loneliness and the pain they brought! + +How the strains of that waltz seemed to sob out like some +broken-hearted, lost and wandering thing! He shivered a little. How +cold the night was, how wet and damp! How the engines throbbed, +throbbed, throbbed, and seemed to catch the tempo of the distant music, +and like muffled drums beat time to it as to a dirge! + +His hands dropped to his sides. From far down the deck came Myrna's +rippling, silvery peal of laughter; and, through the group around her, +he caught the sparkle of the magnificent diamond necklace at her +throat, the white, fluffy wrap of fur thrown across her shoulders--and +heard her laugh again. And at her laugh, he turned bitterly around to +the rail to face the night as the ship drove into it, to let the wind +and the wet mist blow into his face, to look down on the steerage deck +below him. What a contrast! There, just beneath where he stood, in +the filmy light that shone out from an open alleyway, alone, +unsheltered, a pathetic figure in the drifting mist, her clothes damp +around her, a woman leaned with bowed head against the ship's side. A +wave of pity, but a pity that knew bitterness and irony, came upon him. +What would he read in the face of this poor immigrant if he could but +see it? Misery? She looked miserable enough! Loneliness? Was she +lonely, too? Was she as lonely as he? And then, as though in answer +to his thoughts, she turned suddenly, lifting her face, and with a +gesture of infinite yearning, of infinite longing, stretched out her +arms toward the land, toward France, so far behind. + +He did not move. He uttered no sound. In that moment, as she made +that gesture, he was living only subconsciously. It was his beacon +with outstretched arms, with those pure, perfect lips, with that sweet, +gentle face, beautiful even with the pallor that was upon it. _It was +Marie-Louise_! + +The voices, the waltz strains, the throb of the engine, the sounds +about him, the lift and fall of the liner's deck, the blackness of the +night, all were blotted from him. He was conscious only of that figure +on the deck below. There she stood, her arms +outstretched--outstretched as he had modelled her in that figure that +first had brought him fame, and his own words of the days gone by were +ringing in his ears again. "See, it is a beacon--the welcome of the +fisherman home from the sea. And are you not that, Marie-Louise, and +will you not stand on the shore at evening and hold out your arms for +me as I pull home in the boat? Are you not the beacon, +Marie-Louise--for me?" A welcome he had called it then, that posture +of outstretched arms, that now symbolised, mute in its anguish, the +tearing away from her of all that life had ever held to make it glad +and joyous, the love of cherished France, her native country, her home, +the friends that made home dear, those that loved her, those she loved. +Those she loved! And of them all, she had loved him, Jean Laparde--the +most! It seemed to sound the depths of some abysmal treason in his +soul. Whom or what had she to welcome now? It seemed to sum up all +the tragedy that life could hold, and sweep upon him and engulf him. +It was Marie-Louise standing there on the steerage deck! It was +Marie-Louise! He did not need to ask why--the answer was in his own +soul. + +And now a moan broke from his lips; and condemnation, stripped of +mercy, naked, bare in its remorseless arraignment, surged upon him. +Honour, and glory, and wealth, and power, and fame, and luxury were +his--and what had she, alone here in the cold, wet misery of the +steerage, driven to the deck perhaps for a breath of pure air from +where below a thousand, babel-tongued, were cattle-herded? What had +she--where he had all? If the memories of that little white-cottaged +haven on the sun-kissed shores of the Mediterranean had brought him a +bitter loneliness--what must those memories be bringing to her? There, +in Bernay-sur-Mer, was the only life that she had ever known; there +were the simple folk who loved her; there were her friends, her +associations; there was her little world; there was her all--and he had +driven her from it! As surely as though by brutal physical force, he +had driven her from it! Yes; he had done that! That was why she was +here! + +His face, grey as the mist around him, went down on his arms upon the +rail, and a sob shook the great shoulders. Where were the dreams that +she and he had dreamed of life there together in the love that had +known its birth in childhood? Where were they? Who had shattered +them, that she was no longer there, but stood an outcast, friendless +and alone, here in the steerage of the ship that was taking her from +France? Where was the oath that he had sworn to Gaston as the brave +old fisherman had died? "There is a crucifix there; swear that you +will guard her and that you will let no harm come to her." Forsworn! +A traitor! He had chosen fame, and power, and position--and she, in +her pure, unselfish love, had stood aside for him! + +Again the sullen boom of the siren mourned out into the night, held, +quavered, died away. Silence, intense, absolute! Then, stealing again +upon the senses, the slap and wash of water against the liner's hull, +the medley of a thousand ship sounds. + +"_God_!"--the soul-torn cry fluttered from Jean's lips. + +He had chosen wealth, and power, and fame, and position, and they had +been Marie-Louise's gift to him--and his gift to her in return had been +the bitterest dregs of life! And now wealth, and power, and fame, and +position were his to-day, his beyond that of any other man's, he knew +them all; they were his; he knew the adulation and the fawning of the +great; but out of it all, out of the pomp and pageantry and the +glitter, the tinsel and the gleam of gold, where was the one supreme, +undying, immortal truth of life--who cared for Jean Laparde? + +And then, as he raised his head and looked at her again, a strange, +glad wonder crept upon him. Who cared for Jean Laparde? Out of all +the world, who cared for Jean Laparde? In the figure there, +wind-swept, the damp, thin clothing clinging closely about her form, in +the face, half-veiled by the night and mist, he saw again that figure +on the Perigeau Reef that once he had been man enough to risk his all, +his life to save; and the kiss that had been his, the kiss that pledged +them to each other in the fury of that storm, seemed warm again upon +his lips--a pledge again--his answer! Who cared for Jean Laparde? + +He strained toward her over the rail. It seemed as though some flame +of glory were lighting up her face, and, reflected back, was lighting +up his own soul with understanding. Those lips, the face, the throat, +everything, all--he knew it now!--it was _she_ that he had been +modelling there in Paris! It was she who was the womanhood of France +to him because her soul and his were one, she who had been living in +his heart, she that he loved--she who cared for Jean Laparde! + +He lifted his head, bared now, far back on the massive shoulders. +There was one way, and one way only, that he could claim her now. To +be the Jean Laparde of old again! To slough from him the trappings +that had stood a barrier between them! To be the Jean Laparde again of +the world she knew! + +He leaned further over the rail. She was moving away. He watched her, +his face aglow--watched her until she was lost in the darkness along +the deck. + +"Marie-Louise! Marie-Louise!" he whispered, and reached out his arms. +"I am coming to you, Marie-Louise--my beacon--to you, Marie-Louise." + + + + +--XI-- + +THE "DEATH" OF JEAN LAPARDE + +How wonderful the metamorphosis in all around him! How glad and gay +and happy were the waltz strains floating merrily upon the air from far +down the deck, how exquisite the melody and harmony rippling through +the chords! And the chill and ugliness of the night were gone; and the +loneliness was gone; and it was as though a glorious moonlit, +star-decked sky were overhead; and the wet mist that drove upon him was +as some magical, refreshing balm that laved his face! And in his heart +was song. + +"Marie-Louise! Marie-Louise! I am coming to you, Marie-Louise--my +beacon--to you, Marie-Louise." He stretched out his arms again across +the rail; and then turning, and hurrying because there was a lightness +in his steps that would not let them lag, he sought the deck +companionway close at hand, and ran up to the deck above. + +Not concrete yet, only dim and misty in his mind a plan took form. +Only one thing stood out, sharp-lined, clear, absolute, irrevocable in +itself--he must go to Marie-Louise paying the price. For, apart from +all else, apart from the certainty that if he went to her as the great +Laparde she would only bid him return again, not in bitterness but in +her splendid self-abnegation, apart from this--how else could he make +her believe him? He, a man who once had forsworn his oath; he, who +once, in her stead, had chosen in ghastly selfishness the fame, the +position, the place that were now his--how else could he make her +believe him? How else, unless he flung them from him, when once for +these very things, a traitor to his manhood and to her, he had turned +his back upon her, could she believe that now he held them as naught +compared to her; how else could she believe that in his soul and heart, +dominant, supreme, lived now only a love for her, greater than it had +ever been because it was chastened now, a love near like to her own +great wondrous love that she had offered him--and he had spurned? How +else--unless to-night the great Laparde should die, and in his place +should live again the Jean Laparde she once had known, the humble +fisherman of Bernay-sur-Mer? The fisherman of Bernay-sur-Mer! Yes, +that was it! It seemed to crystallise suddenly, sharply, into +definite, tangible form, the shadowy, nebulous plan that, from the +moment his decision had been made as he had stood and watched her there +below him on the steerage deck, had been seeking for expression in his +mind. The fisherman of Bernay-sur-Mer! None would recognise in the +fisherman of Bernay-sur-Mer the Jean Laparde that the world knew--none +save her! + +He was before the door of his luxurious deck-suite, and in feverish +excitement now he flung it open, closed and locked it behind him, +switched on the lights, and ran through the sitting-room into the +bedroom beyond. Here, where there had been confusion, his things +thrown everywhere when he had dressed for dinner and the dance, all was +now in order, and his two steamer trunks were neatly stowed away--the +steward's work--beneath the brass bed. He dropped on his knees, and +hurriedly dragged one out--the one that Myrna Bliss had chosen for him +that day when they had gone to Marseilles from Bernay-sur-Mer. If only +Hector had not disturbed it! _Bon Dieu_, if Hector had not meddled +with it! He wrenched up the lid. It was Marie-Louise who had thrust +that fisherman's suit into his arms that day when she had told him he +was free! What was it she had said? Yes, yes! "Promise me, Jean, +that you will keep these with you always, and that sometimes in your +great world you will look at them and remember--that they too belong to +France." And he had laid them in the bottom of the trunk; and, because +he had not forgotten so soon, when Hector, whom he had found already +installed at the studio, had unpacked for him on his first arrival in +Paris, he had told Hector always to leave them there, never to take +them out--but after that he had forgotten. He lifted out the tray, and +began to remove the clothing that lay beneath it. It was Hector who +had packed the trunk for the journey, and--with an exultant cry, he +straightened up, the old, worn, heavy boots, the coarse socks still +tucked into their tops, in his hands. + +He put these down, and reached into the trunk again. Yes, they were +all here--the cap; the woollen shirt; the rough suit, crumpled, +white-spotted with the old salt stains of the sea. + +And then for a moment he stood and looked at them--and looked about the +cabin--and for a moment fear came. As a blow that staggered him there +fell upon him the full significance of their glaring contrast with the +rich fittings of the stateroom-de-luxe about him. They seemed to mock +at him, these garments, and jeeringly bid him put them back again into +the trunk--as he _had_ done once before. What hideously insincere jest +did he imagine he was playing with himself, they sneered at him! What +had he to do with toil, and poverty, and hardship, with the life these +things stood for--he who knew the palaces of kings, he who had luxury, +he who had fame, he who had all that he had ever longed for, he who had +everything that money, that position, that authority could procure, he +who had but to rub the lamp and demand of the world his will? + +"No, no!" he cried out suddenly aloud--and, with a quick, impulsive +movement, tore off his ulster and threw it on the bed. It was +Marie-Louise now--Marie-Louise! Once she had given her all for him. +It was Marie-Louise, wonderful, beautiful, pitiful, the saddest soul in +all the world, out there alone on the steerage deck! + +And then he stood still again, hesitant, listening. Some one was +knocking on the cabin door. And now the door was tried--the knock +repeated. Disturbed, uncertain, he still hesitated--then, stepping +into the sitting-room, he closed the connecting door between it and the +bedroom, and unlocked and opened the door to the deck. + +It was Henry Bliss. + +"Ah, you're here, Jean!" the other exclaimed, with what was obviously +an attempt at unconcern, as he stepped into the cabin. "I've been +looking for you all over the ship. What are you doing up here in your +room alone, with all this gaiety going on below? Eh--what's the +matter?" + +Jean stared at Henry Bliss a little sullenly. Since the other had +come, was there--it remained only to get rid of him as soon as possible. + +"There is nothing the matter," he said shortly--and shrugged his +shoulders. + +Henry Bliss frowned, and rubbed his hand over his chin nervously. + +"Confound it, Jean!" he burst out abruptly. "I know better! You and +Myrna have been having another--er--another misunderstanding. In fact, +she--that is, I discovered it a few moments ago. I"--he glanced about +him as though to make sure they were alone, and caught Jean's arm +confidentially--"I spoke to her very seriously, very seriously about +it. I--I am sure it is nothing. It is only that you take these things +very much to heart, Jean, while she laughs at them." + +"_Pardieu_!" ejaculated Jean ironically. "That is so!" + +"No, no!" said Henry Bliss, hurriedly and in confusion. "No--I--that +is not what I meant, Jean. Not at all what I meant! I mean that if +she takes it lightly, it cannot--er--be so--er--" + +"I know what you mean," said Jean moodily. "I have discovered it for +myself." + +"Tut, tut!" protested Henry Bliss anxiously. "This will never do at +all, Jean! You must both make an effort to understand each other +better. Myrna is very--er--high-spirited--very! You see that, of +course, Jean--eh? Well? Tut, tut! That is all! You must not be too +firm or--er--exacting with her at first. I have found--that is, I have +not found that to be the most tactful way of handling her. Now slip on +your overcoat, my boy, and we'll go down together." + +Again Jean shrugged his shoulders. Would it be necessary to open the +door and bow even Henry Bliss out? + +"No," he said, with pointed finality; "not now. I prefer to remain +here for a little while--alone." + +Henry Bliss, perturbed and upset, coughed uneasily--and suddenly began +to fumble through his pockets. His fingers encountering first a cigar, +he took it out mechanically, and, as evidence of the composure he did +not possess, bit off the end with deliberate care. Then he fumbled +through his pockets again, and this time produced a marconigram. He +tapped it playfully with one finger, and smiled engagingly at Jean. + +"Well, well, I knew I had a panacea with me," he said cheerily. "This +came by wireless half an hour ago; it's what sent me out on the hunt +for you, and ran me into Myrna, and made me stumble on the lovers' +quarrel that I am sure will end just like all the rest of them--eh--my +boy? Listen!"--unfolding the message. "It is from a gentleman with +whom I am well acquainted, who is very prominent in art circles in New +York, stating that he has just learned that you are en route for +America, and asking, on behalf of the leading New York societies, if +you will accept a public reception on the steamer's arrival in New +York. There you are, my boy! Think of that! I promise you that it +will be something to eclipse anything you could imagine. We _do_ +things in America--if I say it myself! It will be the triumph of your +career. Bands, flags, bunting, cheers, the dock _en fête_--to say +nothing of reporters"--he was laughing now, and patting Jean's arm +excitedly. "They'll show you, my boy, what they think of Jean Laparde +in America! That's the kind of a welcome they're getting ready for +you--it will be the greatest moment of your life! But here"--he stole +an almost wistful glance at Jean, and stepping over to the writing desk +at the side of the cabin, laid the marconigram down--"I'll just leave +this here, and"--he coughed again, and moved tactfully to the +door--"and you just kind of think about that instead of anything else, +and--er--in about half an hour or so, I'll bring Myrna along up, and +we'll talk it all over together--eh--my boy?" + +He waved his hand genially, and, without waiting for a reply, went out. + +For a moment Jean did not move; then his eyes, as though drawn +irresistibly in that direction, shifted from the door that had closed +on Henry Bliss to the marconigram lying on the desk--and abruptly he +walked over and picked up the wireless message. He read it through +laboriously, for his English still came hard to him--and read it again, +more slowly, lingering over the words, muttering snatches of the +sentences aloud. "... Shall spare no effort ... endeavour worthily to +express our sentiments ... splendid genius of which France is so justly +proud..." + +And, holding it there in his hands, a dull flush came and spread itself +over Jean's face. The triumph of his career, Henry Bliss had said--the +greatest moment of his life! This great and wonderful America, of +which he had heard so much, was waiting for him eagerly--waiting for +him--Jean Laparde--Jean Laparde! This was to be his welcome to that +New Land where all was on a scale so tremendous and magnificent. To +his ears there came the mighty roar of thousands shouting again and +again the name of Jean Laparde; before his eyes a sea of faces looked +up into his from dense-lined streets as he drove along--and all, all in +that vast multitude were cheering, waving, acclaiming Jean Laparde. +They were waiting for him there at the gateway to America, open-handed, +royal in their hospitality, to pay him honour such as he had never +known before. They were waiting for him there--for him--for Jean +Laparde! They were waiting-- + +The flush faded from his face, and a whiteness came, and upon his +forehead oozed out a bead of moisture--and, as the seconds passed, he +hung there almost limply, swaying a little in the agony that was upon +him. And then slowly the paper that was in his hands was torn across, +and the pieces fluttered to the floor, and the great head rose proud in +kingship on the broad shoulders--the kingship of himself, the kingship +of Jean Laparde. + +Ay, they were waiting for him--but there was another beside who was +waiting too! He looked at the torn pieces of paper on the floor--and +his laugh rang suddenly clear and buoyant through the cabin. Once he +had sold his soul for such as that; but to-night, in spite of these +devil's tempters that sought to shake his resolution--there was his +answer! There was his answer--the answer that had come to him through +the fog and mist as through a veil rent suddenly asunder, the answer +that was in Marie-Louise's outstretched arms, the answer that was in +her banishment from the friends and the France she loved, in the bitter +wrong that he had done, in her love that now he knew for its priceless +worth! There in that torn paper was his answer! + +And he laughed again--and as he laughed, he ran to the door and locked +it for the second time. There would be no more of that, no more +interruption, no more of those tempter thoughts, no more of them! And, +for the moment, no more thought even of Marie-Louise. He had need to +centre all his attention upon his immediate acts now, for he must be +very careful what he did. And he had little time--had not Henry Bliss +said that in half an hour he would return with Myrna? + +He ran back into the bedroom, tore off his coat, vest and shirt; and, +catching up his toilet-case, hurried into the bathroom. Here, he +clipped off his beard and shaved it close--then quickly, a sort of +tense, keyed-up excitement constantly growing upon him, he returned +once more to the bedroom, and, stripping off the remainder of his +clothes, began to put on the fisherman's suit. How heavy and stiff the +boots felt upon his feet, how rough and coarse the socks were against +his skin--and yet how their familiarity thrilled him! He swung his +arms, wondering and laughing at the free play of his muscles in the +loose shirt, and memories and thoughts began to press upon him--but he +checked them almost instantly, for there was no time now for that. + +He finished dressing hastily. He must leave no clue behind him that +would occasion even a suspicion that he had not carried out the purpose +that the world, and essentially those on board the ship, must be made +to believe was the last act of Jean Laparde. Amongst a thousand, +amongst the conglomerate races that cluttered the ship's steerage, +where even amongst themselves few knew each other, where difference in +language precluded all but the most scattered and superficial +acquaintanceship, none would recognise Jean Laparde in the rough-garbed +fisherman--provided always that no search was instituted, provided +always that there should be no _incentive_ in the mind of any one to +search, provided always that it was accepted as a fact--that Jean +Laparde was dead! He could not hope perhaps, between now and the time +they reached New York, or, at least, on landing, to escape the +attention of the ship's officers or the shore officials; but with Jean +Laparde a suicide in the mist and fog of that Atlantic night, he would +be no more to them than one as rough and ignorant and poor as those +others in the steerage--no more than a stowaway. + +Jean dropped down on his knees again beside the trunk, and began to +replace the articles he had been obliged to remove in order to get at +the fisherman's suit. Nothing--not a sign of anything approaching +disorder must appear. They would look through everything--Myrna and +her father! He shrugged his shoulders whimsically. The visit of Henry +Bliss to the cabin, the other's knowledge of the quarrel with Myrna, +the other's concern over his, Jean's, moodiness, was, after all, not to +be regretted! It would have its significance for Henry Bliss! + +He pushed the trunk back beside its mate under the bed. Money now! A +sudden, sharp exclamation, almost of dismay, escaped him. He had +little or no money--a few French notes, sufficient for his needs on +board ship only. Monsieur Bliss had said more was unnecessary--that he +could make drafts through the other's banking connections in New York +as he needed them. He searched through the clothes he had taken off, +found his pocketbook, opened it, and counted the contents--five +twenty-franc notes, a ten-franc gold piece, some silver--that was all! +Less than twenty-five dollars in American money! Well, if it was +all--it was all! It could not be helped! He shoved the pocketbook +philosophically into his pocket; and, gathering up the clothes he had +worn, tied them into a bundle. There remained only the heavy ulster. + +He looked slowly, critically about him; and, satisfied that he had +overlooked nothing, walked swiftly into the sitting-room, seated +himself at the writing desk, and, from one of its pigeon-holes, pulled +out a sheet of the ship's notepaper. He hesitated a moment +thoughtfully--then picked up a pen. + +"_Je m'ennui de tout_--I am tired of it all," he wrote. He balanced +the pen in his fingers, and stared at the words cynically. What a +commotion it would cause! What food for excitement, for the hysteria +of those who cared nothing save for the self-importance it brought them +in being so intimately connected with so famous a tragedy as to have +been on the _same_ ship where it occurred! They would remember what he +had eaten for dinner that night, and quarrel over who had last seen +him; and they would envelope themselves with an air of pained and +morbid gloom--and cling to the gloom tenaciously because they delighted +in it! What an event! And out of them all, with the exception of +Henry Bliss, there was none who--ah, yes! Ironically, as the grim +humour of it struck him, a smile curled Jean's lips. The stewards who +had looked after him would care very much! That one might die, if one +wished, was all very well; but to be inconsiderate enough to jump +overboard without leaving the _douceurs_ of the voyage behind, could be +construed as nothing less than a personal affront! He reached suddenly +into his pocket, the irony of the thought lost in a flash of +inspiration, and pulled out his pocketbook. It was the one crowning +touch required to stamp as a fact, beyond a peradventure of doubt, the +conviction that he had made away with himself. He could ill spare any +of the money; but he could much less afford to ignore anything that +would lend colour to his plan and so minimise the risk of discovery! +He opened the pocketbook again, took from it three of the twenty-franc +notes, tucked these into his pocket, and laid the pocketbook with the +balance of the money inside of it down upon the desk. It was not a +fitting amount, doubtless--but there was his pocketbook and all there +was in it! What more could any one give? He took up his pen, and +finished his note. "Please divide what is in my pocketbook amongst my +stewards. Adieu! Jean." + +He folded the note, placed it in an envelope, sealed it, addressed it +to Henry Bliss, and, carrying it with him, returned to the bedroom and +pinned it securely to the sleeve of his ulster. Then, taking up both +the ulster and the bundle he had made of the clothes in which he had +been dressed that evening, and leaving the lights turned on, he went to +the outer cabin door, opened it cautiously, and peered out. Here, on +the upper deck, there was no one in sight. He opened the door wide, +marked the spot where the light, flooding from the room, lay across the +ship's rail; then, stepping out on the deck, he closed the door softly +behind him. + +For a moment he stood in the darkness, looking about him, listening. +There was nothing--only the ship-sounds--only the confused voices and +laughter of the passengers on the deck below--only, faint-borne, the +music from the ship's saloon. And then, he crept across the deck to +the rail; and, drawing himself back to give his arm full play, he +hurled the bundle with all his strength far out over the ship's +side--and as he hurled it, in requiem as it were for Jean Laparde, +through the night there crashed, and boomed, and moaned, and whined +anew the sullen blast of the siren. + +It startled him momentarily; but the next instant he stooped and laid +the ulster upon the deck beside the rail. It was perhaps fastidious in +a suicide to remove his ulster, but the light from his room, when the +door was opened, that would shine upon the white paper pinned on the +sleeve, would disclose a sufficient motive! + +It was done! In all the world now for him there was only one to share +his life--a life whose future course he could not see, nor guess; but a +life where, greatest of all gifts, most splendid of all splendours, was +love. There was but one--only one--and that one out of all the world +was she alone who cared for Jean Laparde. And she did not know yet +that he was there, that he was going to her, that he would never leave +her again--but in a moment she would know! In only another moment now +I Ah, he could see the pure, beautiful face shine in welcome with the +gladdest light it had ever known; the great eyes, deep, true and +fearless, grow dim and misty in their wondrous smile; those lips, +divine in contour, lift in tenderest passion to his; her arms stretch +out, no more in cruel longing, in bitter emptiness, but stretch +out--stretch out to him! + +"Marie-Louise! Marie-Louise!"--like a prayer, softly, he breathed her +name; and, thrilled, eager, his blood afire, he turned from the rail, +and ran to the deck companionway. + +Barring a possible encounter with a ship's officer who might stop and +question him, he would have little trouble in reaching the steerage +deck. He was not obliged to enter any part of the ship's saloons or +alley-ways--he had only to descend to the deck below, and from there it +was but a half dozen steps to the head of the ladder with its little +sign "passengers forbidden" that led directly to the steerage deck. +True, it was possible that some of the steerage passengers might notice +him descending the ladder, but they would be too far away and it was +too dark for them to see his face from any distance; and to them, in +any event, unaccustomed to question, it would mean nothing more, if +indeed they gave it any thought at all, than some one of the ship's +crew in the ordinary performance of his duty. + +At the head of the companionway Jean stopped to assure himself that the +saloon passengers were still avoiding the wet, unsheltered portion of +the deck beneath; and then, descending quickly, he stole across the +deck-space below, gained the second ladder, and, boldly now, but with +the swift agility born of the fishing days of Bernay-sur-Mer that any +seaman might have envied, swung himself down to the steerage deck. And +here, almost leisurely, he turned, and, seeking the darkest shadows, +and so disappearing from the sight of any of the steerage passengers +who, still huddled about the deck, might have noticed him, he stood +motionless, close up against the ship's superstructure. It was perhaps +an exaggerated precaution; but it would preclude the possibility of any +one of them connecting him, when he eventually went amongst them, with +the man who had come down the ladder and presumably had disappeared in +some, to them mysterious, where all was mysterious, recess of the ship. + +His heart was pounding, he could feel the hot blood flush his cheeks, +as his eyes strained through the gloom and semi-darkness, searching the +deck. Was she still there--somewhere? Surely, surely she had not yet +gone below! For then it would be very hard, perhaps impossible, to +find her until to-morrow, and he could not wait so long as that; for it +was to-night that he was to take Marie-Louise in his arms again, and +hold her there, and stand, they two, and look into each other's eyes, +glad, beyond any gladness else, in the love that God had given back to +them. To-morrow? No! To-night! To-night! It must be to-night! +Surely she was still here! Yes--who was that, whose form he could just +make out in the darkness at the ship's side far along the deck? + +He moved quickly now, still keeping in the shadows, until he reached +the side of the ship furthest away from the ladder by which he had +descended, and then stepped out across the deck. He passed little +knots of people, and voices in strange tongues that he had never heard +before fell upon his ears; but he gave them no heed--there was only +that figure, alone, apart, toward which he was hurrying. And +now--yes--he was sure! Her back was turned, and, as before, she was +leaning ever the ship's side, but--yes--yes--it was Marie-Louise! + +He halted a yard away from her, trembling with an emotion that brought +a strange weakness to his limbs, and reached out his arms--her name +quivering, low and passionate, his soul in his voice, upon his lips. + +"Marie-Louise!" + +She turned sharply, in a frightened, startled way, and for a moment +stared at him; and then, even in the darkness, he could see her face +grow deathly white, while her hand groped blindly out behind her for +support. + +"Dead!" she whispered. "I was praying to the _bon Dieu_ for you, Jean. +And now you are dead, and you have come to me." + +"Ay!" he cried blunderingly in his joy. "Ay, that is true, +Marie-Louise! Jean Laparde is dead!" + +She moaned a little, and shrank back, and pressed her hands to her face. + +"Dead!" she whispered again. "You are dead, Jean, and you have come to +me." + +She was swaying as he caught her in his arms. Fool, accursed fool, +that he had not understood! + +"No, no; Marie-Louise, _chérie, ma bien-aimée_!" he said tenderly. +"See, are my arms not real about you? See, it is I, it is really I! +It is not death, it is love that has brought me! See, Marie-Louise, +lie very still for a little while in my arms, and you will not be any +more afraid." + +It seemed as though for a space she were in a faint, so white her face +was, so quiet she lay; and then her hand felt out and touched his +shoulder, and his face, and his hair in a wondering, hesitant, +incredulous way. + +Her lips moved. + +"You--you are like Jean as he used to be before he went away to the +_grand monde_." + +He bent his head, and laid his cheek against her cheek. + +"Yes, Marie-Louise," he said softly. "And now I shall always be that +Jean. Try very hard now to understand, little one! See, I am back +again--for always--for always--and I will never go away from you any +more. Don't you see, _petite_, that it is really Jean?" + +"Yes," she said, in a low, dead voice, "it is Jean; but how can it be +Jean--here--on this great ship--when Jean, I know, is in France--for I +left Jean in France." + +And then Jean laughed--because it would help to drive the sense of +unreality from her mind, and because in his heart was only joyous +laughter. + +"It is very simple, that! I came with Monsieur Bliss and mademoiselle. +And it is no more strange for me to be here than for you--than that I +should have seen you a little while ago from the deck up there, +Marie-Louise." + +She seemed to rouse herself as though in dawning comprehension, raising +herself a little in his arms. + +"But the clothes--those clothes that you are wearing!" she faltered. + +"Ah, Marie-Louise!" he cried out happily. "Do you not remember? Was +it not you who told me that day that I was to keep them with me always? +And see, I have kept them--and they have brought me back to you!" + +He felt her tremble suddenly, and draw away. + +"Let me go, Jean." And, as he released her, she stood for an instant +clinging to the ship's side, her head turned away, before she spoke +again. "You--you put them on to come down here to me?" she said dully, +at last. + +"But, yes! But, yes! What else?" he answered eagerly. "To come to +you, Marie-Louise!" + +She faced him, pitifully white. + +"Oh, Jean, Jean! Why did you do it?"--it was a bitter, hopeless cry. +"What good could this hour bring to you, what could it give you when +you go back there that you have not already got, while for me"--her +voice broke--"it was so hard before--so hard before, and now--" + +She did not understand! She did not understand! He caught her hands. + +"It is not for an hour!"--his voice was ringing, vibrant, glad. "It is +not for an hour, Marie-Louise, it is for--always--always! I am not +going back. I have come for always--to be with you always now, +Marie-Louise, as long as we shall live. Look up, Marie-Louise! Look +up, and smile with those wondrous lips, and put your arms around my +neck, and lay your head upon my shoulder, for there is none here to see +or heed." + +She did not move; and, as she stood there staring at him, the colour +came into her face--and went again, leaving it as white and drawn as it +had been before. + +"You are not going back"--she scarcely breathed the words. Then, +almost wildly: "Jean, what do you mean? Your life, your work, your--" + +"Are yours, my Marie-Louise," he said quickly. "It was that I meant +when I told you Jean Laparde was dead." + +"Mine! You would do this--for me--for me--Jean?"--it was as though she +were speaking to herself, so low her voice was, as she leaned slowly +toward him. "For me?" she said again; and in a tender, wistful way +took his face between her hands, and looked a long time into his eyes +while her own grew dim. "You are very wonderful, and big, and brave, +and strong, Jean," she whispered presently; and there was a little +quickened pressure of her hands upon his cheeks, and then they fell +away--and she shook her head. "But it can never be, Jean--it can never +be. You must go back." + +"Never be!" Jean echoed--but now there was a sudden fierce triumph in +his voice. "It _must_ be now, for there is no other way. I cannot go +back! Have I not told you that Jean Laparde is dead? Listen, listen, +Marie-Louise, my little one. Up there I have destroyed all traces of +myself, and in a little while they will find the note I left, and +believe that I have thrown myself overboard. Ah, Marie-Louise, when I +saw you here to-night--see, you were standing down there with your arms +stretched out! But how can I tell you--the joy, the grief, the +_misérable_ I had been? But it was only you then--you, Marie-Louise, +my Marie-Louise again! And I must show you it was true that my life +should be yours, that I knew at last all else against your love was +nothing, that I had been as some sick soul wandering, deluded, in a +world of phantom things--ah, I do not say it well, Marie-Louise, but +you must read my heart, and out of that great love of yours forgive. +And I must make you believe--my beacon! Do you remember that? My +beacon! Ah, Marie-Louise, for a little while I lost it in the darkness +and the storm, but now it is bright again, and it shall always burn for +me. And so, see, I have come; and it is the long past back again, and +the between is gone, and it is again as the night old Gaston died, and +you and I, Marie-Louise, are alone together in all the world." + +"Jean! Jean!" she said brokenly--and turned away her head, and, +leaning there, buried it in her arms. When she looked up again her +face was wet with tears. + +He held out his arms to her, and smiled. + +But now again she shook her head; and, as her lips quivered, gently +pushed his arms away, and took one hand of his in both her own. + +"Jean, it is not too late," she was trying bravely to control her +voice. "You must go back. The _bon Dieu_ has given you a great life +to live, and a great work to do--the work you love." + +"It was not the work that I loved--it was Jean Laparde," he said, with +a bitter laugh. "But now, I tell you again, Jean Laparde is dead." + +"There is your life and there is your work," she went on, as though she +had not heard him. "And, Jean--Jean, I have seen them both, and--and +so I know." + +"You have seen them!" he repeated in a puzzled way. "What is that you +say?" + +"Yes," she said. "Jean, it was I who went to your studio that night. +It was I that Monsieur Valmain saw enter there. I had a cloak and hat +that Father Anton had given me that had belonged to Mademoiselle Bliss." + +"You?" he cried out, in wild amazement. + +"Wait!" she said tensely. "It does not matter if you know now, since +you have seen me here; and I am telling you because--because I must +make you understand that I know what your life is there in the great +world, and how the name of Jean Laparde is honoured, and how now, more +than ever before, Jean, you belong to France--and that you must go +back--and that this can never, never be, Jean--and that I can never let +you do this thing." + +He stared at her for a moment and could not speak. It was Marie-Louise +who had been at the studio that night! There was bewilderment upon +him; and there was something of finality in the gentle voice that swept +the laughter from his heart, and brought a cold, dead thing there in +its place. And then a sudden, eager uplift came. + +"You were there that night!" he said swiftly. "What brought you there, +Marie-Louise? What brought you there--to Paris--from Bernay-sur-Mer?" + +She did not answer. + +"Ah, I know! I know!" he cried out joyously. "It was your love, +Marie-Louise--your love that brought you there. And so you love me +now, Marie-Louise--and how then can you talk of sending me away?" + +"I have always loved you, Jean," she said simply. "It is because I +love you that I must not let you do this thing." + +"And it is because I love you that I _will_ do it!" he burst out +passionately. "Marie-Louise, you were there that night! But is that +all? You do not say it, but perhaps you are thinking of Mademoiselle +Bliss. You have seen her? She knew you were there? That you were in +Paris? You knew that we--" + +"She told me that you were to be married, Jean," Marie-Louise +interrupted quietly. "But it is not of her that I am thinking." + +"She does not love me, I do not love her--_voilà_! There is the end of +that!" Jean flung out his arms. "It is the work then? Well, listen, +Marie-Louise, to a wonderful secret that came to me to-night. It is +you--you--your eyes, your face, your lips, your beauty, that has made +the name of Jean Laparde! It is you that I have been modelling all +this time--it is you who have been my model--you, my Marie-Louise! And +I in my blind conceit did not realise it, and dreamed that I was +creating out of my own genius the true, perfect, glorious womanhood of +France--and it was you! You did not know that, my little one!" + +"I am not that, Jean," she said steadily. "But I knew that night. +Monsieur Valmain, when he saw me, when I stepped out into the studio +and you--you were lying there on the floor, Jean--Monsieur Valmain said +so. And afterwards, Mademoiselle Bliss said so too." + +"Monsieur Valmain! Myrna! The others too--they all saw you there! +They knew! Ah!"--he cried, a gathering fury in his voice. "Ah, I +begin to understand Myrna's sudden desire for a voyage to America! +There was to be no chance that we should meet, you and I, Marie-Louise! +_Nom de Dieu_, I begin to see--many things! And you, meanwhile--how +did she get rid of you? She made you leave Paris, eh? You were to go +away!" + +"It was what I must do. It was not mademoiselle who made me," she +answered. "I was sick for a little while, and then I went away. Oh, +Jean, can you not see what I have been trying to make you understand? +I had no right even to have _risked_ your seeing me, and I had meant +that it should never be possible again--and so--and so that is why I am +here. And now you have come to-night, Jean! It is very, very strange, +and--and"--her voice was breaking again, despite the brave efforts at +self-control--"but it cannot change anything--and you must go back--to +France--and to your work. Go, Jean; go now, or I--I must go, +because--because--" + +"Marie-Louise!"--it was like some panic fear at his heart. +"Marie-Louise--you do not mean that?" + +"There is no other way," she said. + +"But it is you who do not understand!" he told her frantically. "My +work! Can I not still work anywhere--anywhere where you and I can live +our lives together, anywhere so that the world cannot come between us +again? Somewhere in America and we will begin a new life together. +And is it not you that I need for that work? Is it not you that I must +have if I am to work at all?" + +"I was not with you, Jean, in Paris," she said, and tried to smile, +"and yet all the world knows the name of Jean Laparde." She held out +her hands. "I am going now, Jean--and you must go back to that world. +It was so grand and big, Jean, for you to do what you have done +to-night--but there is _to-morrow_. Jean, dear Jean, in your great +loving impulse you have not counted that. You could not live without +the world you have come to know. You think you could to-night, because +to-night there is only love; but to-morrow all that you would so +splendidly have thrown away would begin to call to you again, and it +would grow stronger and stronger, and you could never forget, and +misery would come." + +"You do not believe me?"--it was like some cruel amazement upon him. +"You do not believe me? It is because once I thought those things +greater than your love! And you do not believe me now, Marie-Louise!" + +"It is because I will not let you spoil your life that I am going," she +said slowly; "it is because I must make you understand that I will not +let you do this thing; because you must, and I must make you--go back." +She stood an instant looking at him, the dark eyes wide and tearless +now, the lips parted bravely in a smile--and then she turned and walked +from him along the deck. + +"Marie-Louise! No!" he cried out hoarsely, and stepped after her. "I +will not go back, Marie-Louise! I will never go back! It is done! +Marie-Louise! Marie-Louise!" + +She did not answer him until she had reached the head of the steerage +companionway that led below--and then for a moment she paused. + +"All your life, Jean," she whispered, "you will be glad of what you +have done to-night, because it was so brave a thing to do; and it will +make you a better man, and I am no more afraid, as once I was, that you +will forget that it is the _bon Dieu_, and not yourself, who has made +you great. And after a little while you will be glad too that I--that +I have gone." + +She was gone! He stood there in a numbed way. She was gone! He could +not seem to realise that. Go back! Go back--and leave Marie-Louise! +Only that one thing was clear out of his dazed and staggered +consciousness. He would not go back! He would never go back! +To-morrow, ay and the to-morrows all through life, Marie-Louise would +find him there! + +He raised his head suddenly, and turned and looked behind him. High +above on that upper deck there seemed a strange confusion--and on the +moment, from the bridge shrilled out an officer's whistle. Then, from +deep down within the ship, the engine-room bell sounded in a muffled +clang; and an instant later dark forms were scurrying around one of the +lifeboats; and now there were shouts, the creak of tackle--and the +vibration of the ship was gone. + +He moved back along the deck to stand close below the rail of the main +deck where, oblivious to the damp and wet now, the passengers in +low-necked gowns, in evening dress, the dance forgotten, were crowding, +jostling and pushing each other in mad excitement. + +A dozen voices spoke at once. + +"Somebody has fallen overboard! ... Who is it? ... Who is it? ... How +did it happen? ... Who is it? ... Who is it?..." + +Jean's brows gathered in perplexed, strained furrows. Myrna and +Monsieur Bliss had made their discovery of course, that was evident; +but to stop the ship, to lower a boat when it was obviously absurd, +when they had every reason to assume that his body by then must be +miles astern! What was the meaning of that? + +The ship was silent, still, motionless now, save for the tumult of the +excited passengers; the lifeboat dropped into the water and rowed +away--and then a queer smile flickered on Jean's lips. Ah, yes! It +was Myrna--mistress of every situation! Her fiancé as a _suicide_ was +impossible; an _accident_ of course was quite another thing--that was +only deplorable! She and her father had influence enough with the +captain, in whom no doubt they had confided what they believed to be +the truth, to induce him to carry out, for the benefit of the +passengers and all else on board, the semblance of accident, and the +attempt at rescue; and, besides, as far as the captain was concerned, +was it not the great Laparde, the most famous of his passengers, who +was involved--whose name was to be preserved from infamy and dishonour? +He shrugged his shoulders. What story had that clever brain of Myrna's +devised to fit the case? Had she _seen_ the accident itself? + +"Who is it? ... Who is it?" cried the passengers above him. "How did +it happen? ... Who is it? ... Who is it?..." + +And then a voice above the others, breathless with importance: + +"It was Jean Laparde! He was up on the deck above with Mr. and Miss +Bliss. He dropped his cigarette-holder, it rolled across the deck and +went outside the rail, where the boats are, you know, and the ship +lurched as he stooped to pick it up, and--" + +"And so, you see, Marie-Louise," completed Jean to himself, in +whimsical wistfulness, "and so, you see, Marie-Louise, that Jean +Laparde is dead." + + + + +-- XII -- + +AT THE "GATEWAY" + +What confusion, what noise, what bewilderment--tugs pulling and +snorting as they warped the great liner into her berth; orders shouted; +the cries of passengers leaning from the upper decks to the knot of +people gathered on the pier below; and, distant, like the muffled roll +of a drum, the roar from the city streets! + +Marie-Louise clasped at her little bundle of clothing timidly. For +hours she had stood there on the crowded steerage deck; for hours she +had strained her eyes toward the land, and then at the mighty city +unfolding itself as the liner steamed up the harbour. And she had +gazed long, too, at that majestic, towering figure on the little island +that had evoked such strange emotions from all these people around +her--a figure whose fame must be very great, for of these, who could +not read or write, who were ignorant and poor, who came from so many, +many lands, none, it seemed, even to the little children, but knew and +reached out their arms to it, some laughing in hysteria, and some with +tears, but all with the one word upon their lips that neither dialect +nor tongue confused--liberty! + +It was that they had come for, these Czechs of Moravia, these +Croatians, these Slovenes from the Austrian provinces of Carinthia and +Styria, these Lithuanians and Magyars; it was that, too, that had +brought these Jews from a score of lands where the blessed cross that +Father Anton had taught her to adore symbolised neither love nor rest +for them. How many stories of oppression, and cruelty, and +hopelessness had she listened to on the voyage from such as she could +understand? It was not the dream of money alone that brought them; it +was because, they had told her over and over again, that here they had +heard was the land of freedom, that here they could work with no +tyranny to rob them of their toil or of their souls, that here they +were to know happiness because here was liberty. + +How they laughed, and talked, and sobbed, and whispered around her now! +How they crowded, and pushed, and swayed in their excitement! How +eager some were, how dazed and frightened were others! What a riot of +colour and strange dress the women and the men wore! How they clung to +their bundles, as instinctively she clung to hers! + +What did it mean, that word--liberty? She too, had come for liberty. +She, too, had fled from her native country; she, too, had fled to seek +freedom from the scenes and memories that were there. That day when +she had gone so blindly to the _Gare St. Lazare_ and a train had taken +her to Havre, that day when she had no thought of any definite place to +go save that she must first of all leave Paris and then go far away, it +had seemed like an answer to her perplexity when, in Havre, she had +seen the sign in the window of the steamship office about the ship +sailing for America from there. And she had bought a ticket; and +then--and then that night, here, here on the ship, Jean had come to her. + +Her lips quivered suddenly, and her eyes filled with tears. None, none +but the _bon Dieu_ and herself knew how near she had come that night to +yielding to her love; none else knew how through that brave, splendid +act of Jean's her love had seemed suddenly a thousand-fold greater, +making it that much the harder to deny, as it pleaded with her to +answer the cry of her soul. Oh, it had been so hard, so hard before to +let Jean go, to send him from her--but that night when she had turned +from him here upon the deck it had been as though she were walking out +into some cold, dread place of eternal darkness, where there was no +life, no living thing, and all was utter desolation. Why--why had she +done it? She had asked herself that a thousand times in the days since +then, in the nights when she had lain sleepless in her bunk; and yet, +even while she asked, the answer was always present, always there, +repeating itself over and over again--Jean had not realised what he was +doing, Jean had not realised what he was doing. It was like Jean, so +like the big, brave Jean of the old days to give his all on the impulse +of the moment, and never a thought to what it might mean in the +afterwards. That was why she had sent him away that night--that was +why. She would not have been strong enough to have done it for any +other cause. She had only been strong because of the bitter regret, +the misery that would have come when he began to realise, even with a +few hours of the hardships of the steerage, what he had lost--he who +would have come from comfort, from refinement to where even soap and +water were luxuries; to food that he could not eat, dealt out of huge +kettles into dinner pails; to where there was little light and the air +was foul; to where like cattle in a pen they slept two hundred in a +compartment; to where, instead of servants at his beck and call, there +was cold, brutal contempt--and oftentimes a curse; to where, even to +her, who had not known the luxuries of Jean's life, it had brought +dismay! Yes; in a day of this, even in a few hours of it, with its +terrific contrast, he would have known, and--and his love, great as it +must have been to have prompted his impulse to the sacrifice that he +had tried to make, would not be strong enough to compensate for what he +had lost, to make him happy. And so--and so she had sent him back. +And the _bon Dieu_ had been very good to her to give her the strength +to do it, for she had been right, and she had known Jean better than he +knew himself. She had been right; it had been only impulse, stronger +than himself for the moment, that had brought him to her, only +impulse--for he had gone back. She had not seen him since that night, +not even a glimpse of him amongst the passengers on what little of +those decks above that she could see, though she had looked whenever, +safe from observation herself amongst a crowd of the steerage +passengers, she had ventured out on deck. She would have liked to have +asked about him, but who was there to ask? To the steerage the life of +the great ship was as a thing apart; no news, nothing came to the +steerage--sufficient to the steerage was the babel of its own +hundred-tongues. + +She brushed the tears angrily from her eyes. She should be glad and +thankful that she had not been unfair to Jean, that she had not taken +advantage of that moment of impulse to so tremendous a sacrifice; she +should be glad, not sorrowful--and yet it was not easy to be glad when +the pain in the heart was always there, and there was loneliness that +would not let her spirits be gay or bright. Liberty! What did it +mean, that word--liberty? She had left her native land to seek it--and +what she had found so far could only make the memories keener, add to +them, and bring a greater sadness. + +About her every one was talking, some boisterously, some whose cheeks +were wet, some who swore valiantly, some as though they prayed; but all +eager, all expectant, all with that word "liberty" continuously upon +their lips. It meant that, throughout all the remote places of Europe, +in the mountains, in the valleys, in the plains, in the towns and +villages of countries she had never heard of before, this great new +land of America was known, and meant--liberty. + +She wondered if it could be true, if this could be a land of magic that +transformed all bitterness and misery into sunshine and song. She +wondered if the dreams of all these strange creatures who had come from +so many different worlds to this one because its name was liberty would +find their dreams realised--if there might not be for some a cruel +awakening that would be more than they could bear. This woman who +stood beside her, old before her prime, who was very dirty, who was so +queerly dressed, who crooned incessantly to the child in her arms--what +dreams was she dreaming, what hopes had she, what was it that this new +land was to bring to her? And then a great, tender wave of pity swept +Marie-Louise. They had been standing there so long! And how drawn and +weary the woman's face was, and how her arms must ache! + +"Give me the baby for a little while," she said--and placed her bundle +at her feet, and took the child in her arms. + +And now the confusion around her and about the ship increased. They +had come alongside an enormous shed; and, though she could not see, she +was sure from the noise and commotion that the rich passengers were +getting off. But it was well that she could not see. She was glad of +that. Jean would be amongst them, and she could not have helped +looking, and--and to have watched him go and know that it was for the +last time, would have been but to torture herself beyond her strength. + +She was very tired, for still they were kept standing there for so +long, long a time, until her arms too ached, and the child grew leaden +in its weight. Then the woman took the baby back again, and said +something that Marie-Louise could not understand--but the touch of the +brown hand as it patted gratefully on her arm brought a quick mist to +her eyes, because it was human, a human touch, and out of all the +strangeness around her, out of her loneliness it seemed so priceless a +thing to win. + +And then there came harsh, strident commands, and the press around her, +carrying her with it, began to surge forward; and presently she found +herself inside the shed on the pier--and then it was like the deck of +the ship again, for she stood and waited so long and so interminably. +Why did they still have to wait? It could not be here that one must be +examined before one could go out into those streets whose rumble and +noise was louder now! Some one on board, a man who knew a few words of +French, who had made the voyage before, had told her that every one +must be examined; only he had said it was in a vast hall where there +were two big American flags that hung out over it from the gallery, and +that men sat at high desks at the end of long rows of benches, and that +one was towed to it in droll-looking barges that had two decks and were +all closed in like arks. So it could not be here--that place! And +then, more attentive to the details about her, she remembered the +_octroi_ when she had entered Paris from Bernay-sur-Mer. One's things +too must be examined--and she opened her bundle until one of the men +with uniforms should have come and looked at it. + +After that, she waited again; and then she was carried forward once +more with the movement of those about her; and, passing out of the +shed, was crowded onto a barge such as the one that the man on the ship +had described to her. + +And then here again they waited; for all these people could not get on +one barge, even though it held so many and was so closely packed--and +there were other barges to be filled. She could not see very much, for +she was in the centre of the crowd on the barge's upper deck, and could +only occasionally obtain a glimpse through the little windows that were +in rows on each side--but, at last, she could tell by the motion that +they had started. + +There did not seem to be quite so much talking, or chattering, or +confusion now. It was as though, hanging over all these people, had +come a subdued sense of disquiet and trepidation, the sense of some +ordeal to be faced, vaguely grasped, save that it loomed ominously, an +unknown, perhaps impassable barrier erected against the fulfilment of +their hopes; and men and women alike were nervously beginning to handle +the white cards with the big red figures on them, which every one had +attached to his or her clothing. + +Marie-Louise found herself involuntarily doing the same--staring at the +little punch-holes along the bottom edge of the card that the doctor on +the ship had put there, one for each day. And there was her name +written there at the top--"Marie-Louise Bernier." And underneath it, +"Paris"--for she had given that as her last residence, because in this +new country none was to know that she had come from Bernay-sur-Mer. +For who could tell what these people here might not do? They might +write to Bernay-sur-Mer, and then all her efforts would have been in +vain, for some one in Bernay-sur-Mer would write to Father Anton, +and--the card dropped from her fingers, and dangled by its string from +the button of her blouse. + +The hot, scalding tears were in her eyes again. Memories! Always +memories! + +On the faces of those around her, so many of them anxious now, was +written the question that lips in so many different languages were +whispering to each other. + +"Will they let me in? What will they do? Will they let me in? Will +they let me in?" + +Liberty--for them! Yes, they would go in, as she would go in--and some +of them, perhaps many of them, would find what they had sought. But +she--even here in this strange country, where she could understand no +single word that was spoken, where, surely, now that Jean was gone +again, there would be nothing, no familiar scenes to come to her to +revive those memories--could she find liberty in some day learning to +forget? + +It did not seem so now, for it seemed as though all her strength, her +resistance had gone out from her that night in her struggle to send +Jean away, and that it had not come back again. Why--oh, why had the +_bon Dieu_ sent Jean upon that ship? It had been so cruelly hard +before! It did not change anything that he was in the same country, +for he would not stay long, and the country was so many times bigger +than France that they were utterly separated, but it was making it so +hard to be brave now---so much harder--so much harder! And then +suddenly she lifted her head proudly, even though the lips would still +quiver, and though the lashes of her eyes were still wet. What was it, +that old and simple faith, that her Uncle Gaston in his rugged, honest +way had taught her? Yes, the words came back, and they came now like a +benediction to send her on her way with hope and comfort--"to love God +and be never afraid." + +She kept repeating that to herself all the rest of the way--until she +was leaving the barge again, and, with the hundreds of her +fellow-passengers, still so curious a sight to her in their many +costumes, began to file in through the doorway of a huge building that +was red-roofed and had towers. And here, once inside, they went very +slowly at first, for they must pass between railings one at a time, +while the doctors looked at each in turn. This frightened her a +little, but they did nothing more to her than to stamp her card; and +then, after that, there was a big, broad staircase--and then, as she +climbed to the top, the vast hall was before her, with its many rows of +benches, and its two great flags hanging out from the balcony, that the +man had told her about. + +What a buzz of noise--so many voices; the constant, shuffling tread of +feet; the cry of an infant; the stir and movement of such a crowd of +people! And the sounds, floating upward, seemed to form themselves +into a strange, humming echo that was forever swirling around and +around at the roof of the hall over the gallery. It bewildered her. A +man in uniform--there were so many men in uniform!--spoke to her. She +did not understand; but somehow, nevertheless, she found herself seated +on one of the long benches that ran nearly the whole length of the hall. + +For a little while she remained quiet, staring down at her bundle that +she had placed upon the floor. And then, as her confusion and +bewilderment gradually passed away, she began to look around her. She +had never imagined that any hall could be so big--it was bigger even +than that place with the marble staircase where she had seen the great +reception to Jean. How many hundreds would it hold? Still the people +who had been with her on the ship kept coming up the stairs, and still +the benches were not nearly filled! + +She turned and looked in the other direction, to where, quite close to +her, for she was almost at the head of the line, an officer sat at a +high desk, with one of the passengers standing before him. And there +were many of these desks, each with an officer seated at it, just as +many as there were rows of benches, for there was one at the head of +every line; and behind these there was an open space beneath the +gallery; and against the wall of the building there were some little +railed-off enclosures; and doors that were constantly opening and +shutting, one of which, at least, seemed to lead into a corridor; and, +too, there was another wide stairway, down which some of those who had +come with her were already passing. + +Her eyes came back to the inspector at the head of her own line, and +she watched him eagerly, as he kept writing all the time he talked to +the man who stood in front of him. It would be her turn in a moment. +What was he doing? What was he saying? And then, as she watched, the +man in front of the inspector swung a large, ungainly valise to his +shoulder, and passed behind the desk, and crossed the open space +beyond, and went down the stairs. + +There was only one more now before her--another man. Her heart began +to pound rapidly. She was not afraid of the inspector at the desk; she +was not afraid that he would refuse to let her through--why should she +be? It was not that--it was only that the moment had come now when she +was to go out into this new land, and face new conditions where even +the language was unknown to her, and--and begin her life over again. +It was only that this moment seemed so big with finality--the threshold +between the future and the past. + +It was her turn now. Mechanically she took up her bundle, and stepped +to the desk. "To love God and be never afraid"--she was saying that to +herself again. + +"Your name?" demanded the inspector. He spoke in French, in quick +appreciation of her nationality. + +"Marie-Louise Bernier," she answered in a low voice, her eyes on the +bundle in her arms. + +"Your age? And"--he added kindly--"do not be nervous." + +She raised her eyes to smile gratefully back at him--and then, with a +cry that rang and rang again through the immense hall and stilled all +else to silence, she flung herself madly past the desk, and ran across +the open space behind it. + +"_Jean! Jean! Jean!_" + +A figure, grimy, dirty, disreputable, whose hands were manacled, rose, +with an answering cry, from within one of the railed-off enclosures. + +"Jean! Jean!"--she had reached him now, and was sobbing, clinging to +him. "Jean--you--here! These things on your wrists! And your face is +so white, Jean! Jean, Jean, what does it mean? Jean--" + +And then she was conscious of a rush of men, and hands were upon her +trying to tear her away--and then, with a strength that was greater, +that seemed to mock at the strength of all these hands that snatched at +her, she was whirled off her feet, and Jean, towering there in all his +great might, snarling like some beast at bay, was between her and the +others. + +"_Let her alone_!"--Jean's steel-locked wrists and clenched hands were +raised above his head. "Let her alone!"--his voice was hoarse, low +with a murderous fury. "I'll kill, do you understand--with these"--he +shook the steel bracelets on his wrists--"I'll kill--the first +man--that tries to take her away!" + +Before the white, livid face, the passion in the mighty, quivering +form, they fell back instinctively; and for an instant that tense, +bated silence fell again upon the hall--and then a child cried +peevishly--and then a voice spoke authoritatively. + +She did not understand what was said; but she was clinging to Jean +again, and the crowd of men in uniform were going away, leaving only +one or two near them. + +"What was it? What did he say?" she asked wildly. + +"That there must be something in common between us--and to bring us +both together before the special inquiry board," he answered +mechanically--and because he could not spread his hands apart, he laid +them, still trembling with the fury that had been upon him, both +together on her shoulder, and drew her to him. + +It terrified her, the sight of those manacles on his wrists. Why--why +were they there? What were they going to do with him? What was this +inquiry--was it to send him to prison? + +"Jean, what is it?" she whispered piteously. "What does it mean? What +are they going to do with you?" + +"I do not know," he said, and smiled at her. "I only know that for a +little while at least you are here with me again." + +"Jean--answer me!" she cried out in her fear. + +"But I do not know what they will do," he said again. "I am a +stowaway. They caught me that night on the ship when I was trying to +find some place to sleep--and, _pardieu_, they were not too gentle +until one or two were hurt!--and then they made me work my passage in +the stokehole." + +It seemed so hard to think! Some wonder, that was a glorious wonder, +was in her heart. + +"You--you did not go back, Jean; I--I thought you had gone back, +Jean"--it was as though she were telling, in a low, whispering way, +some great, glad, joyous thing to herself. And then there came a +sudden whiteness to her face, but her head was lifted bravely until her +eyes met his. "Jean, tell them!" she said steadily. "You must tell +them now who you are. Tell them, Jean, and they will let you go." + +"Tell them now!" Jean cried--and shook his head, and drew his shoulders +back. "Tell them--_now_! Did I tell them that night, Marie-Louise? +Look!"--he thrust out his handcuffed wrists before him. "Is this not +proof, Marie-Louise, that I will never tell them, that I will never go +back--alone? If the world is ever to hear of Jean Laparde again, it +will be because he has won back the only thing he has to live +for--you--you, Marie-Louise, my little Marie-Louise. I told them my +name was Jacques Legault--and Jacques Legault I will always be until +you have made Jean Laparde live again, until--until--you are his +wife--as in God's sight you have been, Marie-Louise, since we were +little children, as in God's sight you were when I swore that oath to +Gaston as he died, as in God's sight you have been though I was a +traitor to that oath. Look, Marie-Louise! Look at these things again, +these irons on my wrists, are they not proof that there is nothing now, +that I will have nothing, that I will know nothing but your love? Ah, +Marie-Louise, once you said that I belonged to France, and you bade me +go alone and work; and I forgot France, and love, and there was only +Jean Laparde, and I forgot the God that gave the gift--but now, +Marie-Louise, look up into my face and answer, shall I work this time +for France and you and love, or shall I never work again? +Marie-Louise, see"--his voice broke in its passionate pleading--"they +are coming! Marie-Louise, do you not know now that there is only +you--only you, Marie-Louise--for always?" + +She did not answer. They were taking Jean, and taking her somewhere +now. She walked almost blindly. Jean had not gone back that night, +and--and those things on his wrists were proof that--that he would +never go back. Proof that, whatever might happen now, whatever he was +going now to face, whatever they might do with him, the choice he had +made that night was made for all his life; that she, even if she would, +could not alter it now--proof that his love was so great and wonderful +and strong and big that nothing could bend or break or shatter +it--proof it was a love so pure that it had risen in sacrifice so high +as to make a glory of the years when he had forgotten it! Yes; she +knew now! Her heart, and her soul, and the _bon Dieu_ told her so! +What was it he had said that night on the ship--that even in those +years she had been his inspiration? Yes; she knew that, too, for she +had seen it, and others had seen it. It was true! And he had said +that he would never work again--never do that great, wondrous work of +his again--alone--without her--never return to it--without her. And he +had said that the _grand monde_ that once had taken her place in his +life, the _grand monde_ in which she could have no part, was of the +past now--the past to which he would never return--no matter what she +did or said now--to which he would never return. + +They were in a corridor; and from the corridor they entered a room, +where there were three men seated in a row at desks. These men began +to talk amongst themselves; but it was only when an interpreter, who +was also present, put questions to Jean that she could understand +anything. + +"To love God and be never afraid"--she tried to think of that again, +tried to say it over and over. But she _was_ afraid. There was +terror; and, besides terror, there was that new wonder in her +soul--and, mingling, they brought confusion upon her, and at first even +the words in her own tongue conveyed no meaning, and possessed for her +only an unnatural sense of familiarity. And then, in snatches, she +began to catch the drift of what was going on around her--a stowaway in +any case was almost invariably deported ... undesirable for other +reasons ... murderous assault upon one of the crew when he was +discovered ... his outburst of fury and threat of attack upon the +officers only a few moments ago ... medical examination ... stab wound +in side barely healed ... a vicious character.... + +The wound! The wound in Jean's side! She had forgotten that! It +brought a sharp cry to her lips, that caused them all to turn and look +at her. But she did not care. What if they looked! She was looking +at Jean--looking at the gaunt, white, haggard-faced giant, who smiled +and shrugged his shoulders to every question that was put to him. His +wound--barely healed! What must those days and nights of torturing, +brutal work in the stokehole of that ship have meant to him--and she +had thought so pitiful a thing as an hour of the coarse food, the +paltry misery of the steerage, would have made him falter and regret! + +They kept on questioning him--but she was not listening now. Her soul +was whispering to her: "It is Jean; it is Jean; Jean that you love; +Jean that you have loved all your life, all your life, who has done +this for you. It is Jean who has lived through black hours where only +a courage and a heroic love, so splendid and so true that it will last +while life will last, has kept him from the single word, the single act +that could so easily have brought back to him again everything in the +world--save you." Her eyes were filling with tears. It was +Jean--Jean--Jean--who had done this for her. Jean who stood there with +irons upon his wrists--for her. Jean who had-- + +"Who is this woman?" the interpreter demanded abruptly of Jean. "Is +she any relation to you?" + +There was no answer--save only in Jean's eyes, as he turned and looked +at her. + +"Tell him, Marie-Louise," Jean's eyes seemed to say. "Tell him, +Marie-Louise, for it is you who must answer now--for always." + +"You, then," the interpreter asked, addressing her. "Are you any +relation to this man?" + +She felt her face grow very white. + +"You must tell the truth," the interpreter cautioned sharply. "It is +evident on the face of it, from what happened out there in the hall, +that there is something between you. Tell the truth for your own sake. +This man is to be deported, and he will not be allowed to come back. +Do you understand that? If he is any relation to you, say so--unless +you want to be separated. Well?" + +Separated! Marie-Louise raised her head a little--and looked at +Jean--and at the interpreter--and at the officers. + +"I"--oh, it was true; true as life was true; true as love was true; +true in God's sight, as Jean had said it was true; true because all +through the years to come, through the sunshine and the storm and until +death it would be true!--"I--I am his wife," she said. + +"Marie-Louise!" + +She heard Jean breathe her name, she heard the half sob upon his lips, +she felt the cold steel of the handcuffs touch her wrist as his hand +found and closed on hers--but she was looking only at the officers, +hanging, her heart stilled in suspense, upon their every act, trying to +read their faces where she could not understand their words. And then, +involuntarily, because they told her nothing, because the seconds as +they passed were as eternities, she flung out her hands to the +interpreter. + +"What are they saying? What are they saying?" she cried imploringly. + +But it was Jean who answered--and his voice was lifted as though in +song, radiant, triumphant, deathless. + +"You are to be sent back to France, Marie-Louise, Marie-Louise--with +me." + + + + +-- XIII -- + +DAWN + +Strange noises! The myriad voices of the ship talking one to +another--the creak and grind of girders and stringers; the grunting, +faintly from far above, of the wooden superstructure; the whine and +complaint of the deck-beams as the vessel lurched to the sea; the +sibilant hiss and whir of the racing screws lifting from the water; the +swift infuriated response of the unfettered engines, chattering +angrily, as it were, in wrath for the scurvy trick played upon them; +the eternal dull, moaning throb, throb, throb from everywhere, that +seemed finally to absorb these voices unto itself and stand as +spokesman for them all. Strange noises--a medley of pain, of travail, +of strain, human almost in its outcry, seeking relief from unendurable +effort and distress. + +For days and days they had talked like that, and Jean had +listened--listened through the watches of the day and night, listened +through the hours of his own toil and pain, and the cursings of the +raw-boned, wizened apparition that came and went through the murky +gloom of the bunker, and croaked continually like some ill-omened thing +for coal, coal, coal, lifting a brutal fist at times to enforce the +words. But, too, as he had listened, through the plaint of this +strange medley had come the lilt, underlying all, of another refrain +that all these voices seemed to sing--a refrain that found a deeper +echo in his own soul, that seemed to make the kin between him and these +inanimate things the closer, a refrain of hope, a refrain in which lay +immortal happiness. + +"In five days ... in three days ... in one day more we shall reach +France, France, France--and the end of strife--France--and the end of +strife." + +And now that refrain was changed again, and it made his heart leap, and +he laughed out in pure joy, as he swept the great sweat beads from his +forehead. + +"To-day--to-day--_to-day_ we shall reach France--reach France--reach +France!" + +Over yonder through the murk of the dimly lighted bunker, through the +swirling coal dust, another trimmer shovelled his barrow full of coal, +and then the wheel _clacked, clacked_ over the steel deck plates, and +steel rang against steel as the barrow was whipped over on its side to +send its load tumbling down the chute to the boiler-room below--but +Jean's own barrow lay idly for a moment beside the black, mountainous +heap of coal, and his shovel hung idly in his hand. + +"To-day--to-day! France, and the end of strife!"--how joyously the +voices trilled in his ears! "France, and life to begin anew! +France--and Marie-Louise! France, and--" + +"You damned loafer!" snarled a voice beside him--and quick, with the +words, a stinging blow fell upon Jean's face. + +It was the raw-boned, wizened engineer--the man above all others who +was responsible for his, Jean's, presence there in the bunker again on +this return voyage to France--the man who had made of the voyage a +living hell. Marie-Louise's money, her attempt to pay his passage back +and save him from this had counted for nothing--against this man. Two +trimmers had deserted almost on the hour of sailing--he, Jean, was +lawful prey--a stowaway being deported--and there had been a vicious +smirk of satisfaction on the man's face, reminiscent of Jean's +unruliness that night on the outward voyage when he had been +discovered, as the engineer had claimed him for one of the vacancies. + +The shovel clanged on the steel plates of the deck as it dropped from +Jean's hands. He whirled like a flash, and, grasping the engineer by +the shoulders, lifted the other off his feet, and held him as powerless +as in the clutch of an iron vise; held the other off at arms' length in +his mighty strength to wriggle impotently; held the other there--and +laughed out with that wondrous surge of joy that was upon him. + +"I will not hurt you!" cried Jean--and laughed in a big, glad way. "I +am too happy! See, I will not hurt you! I am too happy! Do you know +what it is to be happy? To love everything--to have your heart +singing, singing all the time! Ah, if you could but know! But, go +now--for see, I will not hurt you! I am too happy!"--and laughing +again, he released the man. + +The engineer stood for an instant gazing at Jean. Happy! This great +giant of a man, in torn clothes, the sweat rolling furrows down the +grime-smeared face--this man, a stowaway on the voyage out--this man, +deported from America--this man, forced to work here on the voyage +back, who was to be treated, and had been treated like a dog--this +man--_happy_! Happy! Was the man mad? The engineer, muttering in his +amazement, wondering and dazed and awed at the strength that had made +of him a puny thing, edged away, and disappeared in the gloom. + +Two little incandescents burned yellow from the stanchions +overhead--there was no other light. There was nothing but the choking +swirl of the coal dust, the rasp of the shovels, the clack of the +barrow wheels, the clang as they were dumped--and the voices that told +of France, and life, and love, and joy again. + +"To-day--to-day!"--how the words rang in his heart and soul and mind +like some silver-throated clarion call! + +To-day, when the shores of France should loom in sight, the last of all +barriers between Marie-Louise and himself would be swept away forever. +There, on Ellis Island, they had kept him and Marie-Louise apart; and +here on the ship again, the same ship that had brought them +out--"guests" of the company that was forced by the government to +return them to France--they had seen each other little. For, though it +had not been as on the outward voyage when he was held a prisoner and +closely watched even when he was off duty, and though he was now at +least as free as any of the crew, it had only been at odd moments +snatched here and there, usually in the early morning hours while it +was still dark and he had gone off watch to the steerage deck, and she +had come up from below to meet him, that he had seen Marie-Louise--that +was all, the very little when their souls cried out for so much, that +they had been together. + +But what did it matter now? To-day--to-day all that was to be ended! +To-day--how his heart leaped, and his being thrilled at the +thought!--to-day they were to be together for always, to-day was to +know the fulfilment of their love. + +And then, too, there was another joy--the joy of a new and beautiful +thing that had come into his life. The joy, pure, without alloy, +unsmirched by sordid aims--the joy of work. How it brought a feverish +excitement, how his fingers tingled for the touch of clay, how he +yearned to give expression to that with which his soul was now aflame, +the statue of dreams, real before him now, that mighty picture, that +splendid allegory that should tell his beloved France that Jean Laparde +lived again--but lived a new Laparde, and, if the good God willed it +so, worthy in a humble way of the great gift that was his, worthy in a +glad, tender way of the love that, so steadfast and so true, so +unselfish and so pure, had saved him from himself. Yes, it had come to +him--come to him at last, the base of that statue that he had never +been able to see before. It had come to him here in the gloom, and +struggle, and sweat, and toil of this miserable coal bunker; come to +him, leaving him to stand a chastened man before the picture that was +held up, perfect in every detail, before his mind's eye for him to gaze +upon, leaving him to tremble with emotion at the thought that he should +give it to the world to see. + +It was a secret yet from Marie-Louise--a secret that was to be told +to-night. There were to be just they two--and--yes, Father Anton, who +would be there to bless them--to know. No one else, least of all +Monsieur and Mademoiselle Bliss, who would in that case come hurrying +back from America. No one else to know that he lived until the dream +statue was done. There was the dream statue to make, and then all +France, and all the world, if it would, should know that Jean Laparde +still lived; for then the world would understand why the Jean Laparde +it knew--had died. + +He filled his barrow, emptied it, and filled it again--and worked +on--and, strangest sound of all, strange indeed for that dark, joyless +place, as he worked, he sang. + +Came at last, faintly, the four double strokes of the ship's bell. +Eight bells--four o'clock in the morning--the watch was ended. Jean +handed his barrow and shovel to his relief, and, mounting the +succession of steep, iron-runged perpendicular ladders, climbed upward +from the ship's black depths, and made his way to the steerage deck. + +It was dark here--with the darkness before the dawn. A fresh wind was +blowing, and he put on his jacket; and, leaning over the side, watched +the racing waves, and laughed at the buoyant lift of the deck beneath +his feet, and threw back his head to drink into his lungs for the first +time in many hours the sweet, fresh, God-given air. + +"Marie-Louise! To-day--Marie-Louise! Marie-Louise!" his heart was +saying. + +And presently she came along the deck, and her hand stole into his. It +was too dark to see her face; but her hair, truant in the wind, swept +his cheek, and close to him he could feel her heart beat against his +own. And as he held her there, there came upon him, softly, like some +sacred presence, moving the soul of him with an holy joy, the wonder of +her, and the great, immeasurable, priceless worth of the love she had +given him. + +"Marie-Louise," he whispered tenderly. "Your lips, _ma bien-aimée_!" + +And in the darkness she raised her face to his, and he kissed her--and +suddenly he found his eyes were wet. Glad tears they were; and yet, +too, a pledge between himself and God that he would hold her always as +he held her now, her life and happiness his dearest trust--a pledge +that in itself asked grace and pardon in contrite penitence for that +pledge of other days that he had broken. + +His arms were around her. God, the sorrow and the misery he had +brought to her, who had so freely laid aside her own happiness that +he--that he-- He drew her closer still. + +"Marie-Louise, are you happy?" he cried out, and it was his soul that +spoke, yearning, pleading fiercely for the assurance that meant all in +life to him now, the assurance that alone could stand, radiant and +thankful, where before, in keen, bitter pangs of remorse, had stood the +memories of the past--of her betrayal. "Marie-Louise, are you happy?" +he cried out again. + +"I did not know that one could be so happy, Jean," she said softly--and +her hand lifted to touch his face, and linger there, smoothing the hair +back from his forehead. + +They were silent for a little while in each other's arms--a deep peace, +a quiet thankfulness in their hearts. + +And then Jean spoke again. + +"Look, Marie-Louise!" he said, and pointed out far over the waters to +the horizon line ahead. "It is the dawn. _Our_ dawn, Marie-Louise. +The dawn of the day when we shall be together always." + +Grey it was in the east; faint and timorous streaks of light that +seemed like skirmishers flung out in tentative attack upon the massed +blackness of the night. + +Her hands tightened about him. + +"To-day! Oh, Jean! It is like a dream--like a wonderful dream that +the _bon Dieu_ has brought to us." + +He drew her head to his shoulder. Presently, when in the east that +greyness should have grown pink and golden with awakening day, he would +drink in the pure, glorious beauty of the sweet, chaste face, look into +the dark, brave, tender eyes and read in her soul the happiness that +God had restored to them; but now he could only hold her close and feel +the lithe young form against his own, and feel her heart throb against +his breast. + +"A dream, little one, that shall always last," he said. "Ah, +Marie-Louise, it is our dawn, our day, the beginning of a new life, +_chérie_, where there shall be only love--our love, yours and mine, the +love of old friends, of those we love, the love of work--ah, you shall +see what that will be!" His voice thrilled suddenly. "You shall see, +for now Bidelot shall have that 'touch' he asked for--for now I know! +I know! It was you I modelled, Marie-Louise--your face, your form--and +they were perfect, beautiful; but I was blind to what was most +beautiful of all! I modelled only features--and I forgot the soul, for +I had forgotten love, and I could not see the dearer things. I forgot +the soul that should soften so tenderly and refine the courage and the +resolution and the purity of that dear face of yours and make nobility +divine. I forgot--" + +"Jean!"--her fingers were laid tightly upon his lips. "Jean, you must +not say such things! Jean, Jean, I am so far from that--so far from +that!" + +He could just see her face now in the growing light--see the eyes shine +through a mist of happy tears, see those perfect lips quiver in their +smile, as she shook her head. + +"But you shall see!" he told her eagerly. "A little while in +Paris--ah, Marie-Louise, that is a secret that I have for you!--a +little while there, and then you shall see! And all France shall +see--and France shall tell you that it is so! Ah, Marie-Louise, +perhaps some day they will forget Jean Laparde; but France shall always +remember one who is worthier far, and in that one see its hope, its +inspiration and its glory, for France shall never forget--Marie-Louise!" + +She had slipped from his arms. Her face was full of wonder, and upon +it fell the soft glow of light that now was tinging the eastern sky. +How pure, how brave, how beautiful she was! How love shone in the eyes +that were like Heaven's stars; how the soft light seemed to caress her +face and rejoice in the radiant happiness that was there, a happiness +that even her wondering bewilderment for the moment seemed to enhance! +How the strong, young form swung free and lithesome to the lifting +deck, and found a wondrous joy in its own glorious virility! + +"Jean, what do you mean?" she said breathlessly. + +"You shall know!" he laughed, and laughed because there was only joy +and gladness in all the world--in the waves that tumbled and frolicked +and played, and tossed their white manes at each other and the ship; in +the breeze that sang merrily its way along on its busy errand into the +great everywhere; in the vibrant throb of the mighty ship, in that +spokesman's voice--for it was to be to-day--to-day! "You shall know, +Marie-Louise--to-night, when Father Anton is there to hear, and has +blessed us, and made Marie-Louise my little wife! And then that little +while in Paris that you will understand--and then--_home_! Ah, +Marie-Louise, can you not see it now--the blue water, blue with the +wonderful colour that only God can make, and the white beach where we +played when we were little children, and the boats, Marie-Louise, and +the brave, true, loyal friends! Home, Marie-Louise, home, home, +home--to Bernay-sur-Mer! Ah, is not God good? We shall go home, _ma +bien-aimée_--and there we shall live, and there I shall work for you, +and France, and love, and there old Bidelot and those who really love +the things we do shall come at times to make us proud and happy! Ah, +it will be a _grand monde_, Marie-Louise, a _grand monde_ of wealth and +riches, and a very proud _grand monde_, careful of those who shall have +the entree there--for it shall be a _grand monde_ where you, my little +Marie-Louise, are queen, a _grand monde_ of love and happiness." + +Purple and golden and pink and crimson was the east--and over the +horizon rim rose the sun. And it mounted higher, and the dawn was +gone, and the day had come. + +"Look!" he said suddenly. + +And a cry rose to Marie-Louise's lips; and her eyes grew dim and misty +again until she could no longer see. + +"It is the land! It is France!" she whispered. + +It was light now, men and women were moving about the steerage deck, he +could no longer hold her in his arms; but, standing there at the ship's +side, her hand was tightly clasped in his. + +There were glad words on Jean's lips: + +"It is France, Marie-Louise--and home." + + + + +-- XIV -- + +THE STATUE OF DREAMS + +Four months had passed. The spring had come. France mourned for Jean +Laparde. Old Bidelot shook his grizzled head, and pushed away, with a +curiously reproachful motion of his hand, the mass of sketches and +designs that lay upon the desk before him. If France grieved for the +loss of one of her most brilliant sons, the great critic of France +grieved besides for the loss of a personal friend that he had loved. +Of these competitive designs that he had been appointed to judge for +the statue with which France was to commemorate Jean Laparde--none +would do! Not one! Not one, but was so far from the genius of Jean's +own work that there seemed something mocking and incongruous in the +thought that it should aspire to perpetuate and typify the work of the +master-sculptor who was gone! Not one would do--and meanwhile they +besieged him, those who had submitted their designs, to cast Jean's +mantle upon them! They came at all hours; they waited interminably on +his door-step for him to return; they buttonholed him on the streets +and in the cafés to urge their claims and to explain the allegory of +their conceptions, lest some subtle beauty in their work might have +escaped his eye! One would not think they would do that--eh? That it +was not dignified? No? Well--there was the mantle of Jean Laparde! + +"_Mon Dieu_!" sighed Bidelot heavily--and suddenly raised his head at a +timid knocking upon the door. Here was another of them then, no doubt! +He had been wrong to let his servant take the afternoon, and leave his +apartment so unguarded that his very door was at their mercy! "Well, +come!" he called out, querulously--but the next instant he had risen, +and was smiling, as he extended his hand. It was Father Anton. "Ah, +Father Anton!" he cried. "This is a pleasure! This is a pleasure +indeed! I do not often see you these days! As a matter of fact--let +me see--not since Monsieur Bliss went away to America, and the evenings +at his house were at an end." + +"That is so," agreed Father Anton. "But then, I have been very busy; +and besides, for a little while, I was in Bernay-sur-Mer." + +"_Tiens_! So! But, tell me, what is the news from Monsieur Bliss? +When will he return?" + +"I do not know," Father Anton replied. "He has said nothing about it +in his letters; but I have a letter to write him to-day, that may +perhaps bring him back at once." + +"Then write it, my dear Father Anton--write it, by all means!" Bidelot +burst out with a vehemence that, if exaggerated, was at least sincere, +as he waved his hand helplessly toward the desk. "I am in despair! I +have been on the point of writing Monsieur Bliss myself." + +Father Anton's eyes followed the direction of the gesture, and fixed +interrogatively on the desk. + +"The competitive designs," explained Bidelot. "None are worthy! It is +tragic!" + +But now Father Anton smiled, and shook his head, and laid his hand on +Bidelot's arm. + +"But Jean still lives," he said, in his gentle way. "Jean is not dead." + +"It is the Church that speaks," old Bidelot answered. "I know what you +mean. That is all very well, and it is also true in a material sense +that men like Jean Laparde do not die; but what of the work that he had +yet to do? What of that, Monsieur le Curé? Will you say that his work +was finished? Then I, who went there every day, who knew so well, who +looked for that final master-touch that was yet to come--I tell you, +no! He had still his masterpiece before him! And then, with that +achieved"--the caustic old critic's hand swept a dozen sketches from +the desk to the floor--"bah, he would have no need of these in any +case!--but with that achieved, then, I tell you then, that"--his hands +dropped to his sides, and he shrugged his shoulders. "Ah, well, I had +thought to see it before I died; and yet I, who am an old man, whose +work is over, am still alive, and Jean Laparde is dead. Will you +explain that, Monsieur le Curé?" + +Father Anton's smile now was one of kindly amusement. + +"But Jean is not dead," he said again. "It is to tell you that, that I +have come." + +"Hey!" cried Bidelot. He stared at Father Anton in startled and amazed +incredulity. "Hey!" he cried hoarsely, and grasped with both hands at +Father Anton's shoulders. "What is this you say? Are you mad, +Monsieur le Curé? Not dead! You say that Jean Laparde is not dead! +It is impossible! It is inconceivable!" + +"And yet," said Father Anton, still smiling, "since I married him at +the studio--eh? And since I am here now from him with a message for +you!" + +"Married! At the studio!" Old Bidelot gazed wildly around him. "My +hat!" he ejaculated excitedly. "Where is my hat? I will go at once! +At once! Jean--at the studio! It is not possible--but I will go!" + +"Yes," Father Anton nodded, "we will go to the studio, for that is what +Jean wanted you to do. But Jean himself is no longer there." + +Old Bidelot, already halfway to the door, stopped abruptly and whirled +around. + +"Not there! Then--then what? He is not dead! He is married! He is +at the studio! He is not at the studio! I do not understand! I +understand nothing!" + +"I will explain it all to you," Father Anton told him soothingly. "But +let us go. It will take time to tell it, for it is a long story, and +we can talk on the way." + +"Yes--well, then! Well, then! But make haste!" Bidelot dragged at +the skirt of Father Anton's _soutane_, and led the way from the +apartment, exclaiming as he went. Then, as they reached the street, he +caught Father Anton's arm and shook it almost as he would a refractory +child's. "Now, then! Now, then--tell me!" + +"But be calm, Monsieur Bidelot; I pray you to be calm!" expostulated +Father Anton gently. "See"--stepping out--"I will tell you as we walk +along. Well, then--listen! One night, a little over four months ago, +Hector came to my rooms in such excitement that I thought he was ill. +He told me that Jean had come back. Like you, I could not believe it. +I hurried there--I ran. It was true! It was Jean--not like the Jean +that went away; but like the Jean when you first saw him, the Jean of +Bernay-sur-Mer. And with him was--ah, but what amazement!--was my +little Marie-Louise--no, Jean's Marie-Louise, for I married them there +that night, and--" + +"But," interrupted Bidelot, gesticulating with his hat, for he had +forgotten to put it on, "but, still I do not understand! Over four +months ago! And since then? Where has he been since then?" + +"He has been working there at the studio in secret," Father Anton +answered. + +"Working! Ah! Let us hurry--faster then!" urged Bidelot eagerly. +"But why has he gone away? Why did he not wait? But +to-morrow--eh--to-morrow, he will be back to-morrow?" + +"No," said Father Anton slowly. "I do not think Jean will come back +any more to Paris." + +"Monsieur le Curé," spluttered Bidelot, halting suddenly in the middle +of the street, "what is the matter with you? Enough of these riddles! +Jean not come any more to Paris! I can understand nothing!" + +"But you would understand," said Father Anton patiently, "if only you +would let me tell you. See now, listen--it is the story as Jean told +it to me that night"--and, as he took old Bidelot's arm, and they +walked on again, Father Anton, smiling sometimes radiantly, fumbling +sometimes with his spectacles, told of the old days in Bernay-sur-Mer, +of Marie-Louise, of how she came to Paris, of how Jean "died" that +night at sea, and of how they came to France again. And they were at +the studio and mounting the steps, as Father Anton ended. + +"And so," he said, "and so, that night I married Jean and Marie-Louise. +And what days after that! If you could but have seen Jean in the joy +of his work, and Marie-Louise there beside him! And I must needs go to +Bernay-sur-Mer to buy back Marie-Louise's house without her knowing it, +and see to the building of an _atelier_ to be added to it. And--it is +there they went this morning--to live." + +And Bidelot was very quiet now, and his eyes were wet. + +"I understand," he said, as Father Anton opened the door with a key. +"But"--shaking his head a little--"even in Bernay-sur-Mer Jean will be +famous, and the world will follow to Bernay-sur-Mer." + +"That is perhaps true, and it would be a sad thing if it were +otherwise," said Father Anton, with his rare, grave smile, "for there +is a pride that is pure, and a joy like no other joy in the tribute +that is paid to one for work well done. And if the world follows to +Bernay-sur-Mer, it can be only to the life that it will find there, the +life in which Marie-Louise has her glad place, a life that the world, +as you speak of it, will never mould or change." + +They passed in across the hall, and entered the salon, and walked down +its length to the portières that hid the _atelier_ from view--but here +Bidelot paused. + +"Wait!" he said. "Tell me one thing more. Why has Jean stayed here in +Paris to work in secret like this for all these months since he came +back?" + +"I think you will find the answer here," said Father Anton--and, +reaching out his hand, drew the portières quietly apart. + +And Bidelot, with a low, sudden cry, stepped forward into the +_atelier_--and after that stood still, and neither spoke nor moved. + +Two life-sized figures were before him--a woman, and a man. And the +woman, a fishergirl, stood as on a perilous, wave-swept ledge, and +leaning forward was stretching out her hands; and at her feet, from +storm-lashed waters that swirled around him, rose the head and +shoulders of the man, one hand clasped in both of hers, the fingers of +the other clawing into the crevice of the rock, the muscles of the bare +arm, where the shirt had been torn away, standing out like whip-cords +as he drew himself to safety. And as Bidelot gazed, the studio, the +surroundings, all were gone. Alone those figures--as in some mighty +power that was supreme, that knew naught but itself, but in itself knew +all of triumph, of defeat, of struggle, of glory, of undying love, of +victory, that knew the sadness and the joys of life, its empty things +and its immortal truth! And in the wind-wrapt, wave-wet clothes that +clung about the fishergirl, disclosing in pure, chaste beauty the +strong young limbs and form, in the torn and bleeding shoulders of the +man, buffeted, near spent, there seemed to fall upon the studio the +darkness of blackened skies, to come the roar of waters in turbulent +unrest, the play of lightning, the roll of thunder, now ominous, now +dying muttering away--and all was storm and battle and dismay and +death. And then, as sunshine breaking through the clouds--a glad and +perfect triumph--victory! It was in the woman's face that was rigidly +set with high, unfaltering courage, yet softened as by some divine +touch with a wondrous tenderness until the beautiful lips, as they +panted in the struggle, smiled, and the brave, fearless eyes held trust +and love; it was in the man's face, shining like some radiant glory +from out the drawn and haggard features, as though the physical +evidence of the torture and pain of one who had been near to death were +lost in the joy and wonder of life regained--is though his soul were in +his face. + +It was long before Bidelot spoke. + +"There are no words," he said. "It is what I dreamed and hoped that I +might see." + +"It is Marie-Louise--his wife," said Father Anton softly. "It is his +statue of dreams, with the base at last that he could never see before." + +There were tears upon old Bidelot's cheeks. + +"I understand," he said. "It is Jean himself." He moved closer to the +figures, and stood silent again. "It is a priceless thing," he said +presently. "It is not himself alone; it is the womanhood of France, +pure in her courage and her love, immortal in her sacrifice, that is +the inspiration, the life, the anchorage, the guiding star, the hope of +France itself! Ah, my friend"--the grizzled head was high, the eyes +were shining with pride and a glad excitement--"I speak for this for +France. All must see it--the France as yet unborn, the children when +we are dead and gone who shall serve their country better for the +masterpiece of Jean Laparde and the story that it tells. I go +to-night! I go to-night to Bernay-sur-Mer to Jean--to speak for this +for France!" + +Father Anton made no answer; but he stooped and from the pedestal of +the group removed the cloths that, as though they had fallen in a +careless heap when the figures had been uncovered, were bedded around +it. He was smiling through misty eyes, as he stood up again. + +"It was the message that I had for you," he said. "Read!" + +And Bidelot, bending forward, read the words that were carved there in +the clay: + + + TO FRANCE--FROM JEAN LAPARDE + + + + +THE END + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Belovéd Traitor, by Frank L. Packard + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BELOVÉD TRAITOR *** + +***** This file should be named 34034-8.txt or 34034-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/4/0/3/34034/ + +Produced by Al Haines + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + https://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/34034-8.zip b/34034-8.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..ef693e2 --- /dev/null +++ b/34034-8.zip diff --git a/34034-h.zip b/34034-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..168e0bf --- /dev/null +++ b/34034-h.zip diff --git a/34034-h/34034-h.htm b/34034-h/34034-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a4f91a0 --- /dev/null +++ b/34034-h/34034-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,14798 @@ +<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN"> +<HTML> +<HEAD> + +<META HTTP-EQUIV="Content-Type" CONTENT="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1"> + +<TITLE> +The Project Gutenberg E-text of The Belovéd Traitor, by Frank L. Packard +</TITLE> + +<STYLE TYPE="text/css"> +BODY { color: Black; + background: White; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; + text-align: justify } + +P {text-indent: 4% } + +P.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +P.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; } + +P.letter {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10% ; + margin-right: 10% } + +P.finis { font-size: larger ; + text-align: center ; + text-indent: 0% ; + margin-left: 0% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +</STYLE> + +</HEAD> + +<BODY> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Belovéd Traitor, by Frank L. Packard + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Belovéd Traitor + +Author: Frank L. Packard + +Release Date: October 4, 2010 [EBook #34034] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BELOVÉD TRAITOR *** + + + + +Produced by Al Haines + + + + + +</pre> + + +<BR><BR> + +<H1 ALIGN="center"> +<I>The Belovéd Traitor</I> +</H1> + +<BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +BY +</H4> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +FRANK L. PACKARD +</H3> + +<BR> + +<H5 ALIGN="center"> +AUTHOR OF "THE MIRACLE MAN," "GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN," ETC. +</H5> + +<BR><BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +THE COPP, CLARK CO., LIMITED +<BR> +TORONTO +</H4> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H5 ALIGN="center"> +COPYRIGHT, 1915 +<BR> +BY FRANK L. PACKARD +</H5> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent" STYLE="margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%"> +There is a Valley called the Valley of Illusion, but beyond it, +sun-crowned, is the Peak of Eternal Truth—and the Way from the Valley +to the Peak is sore beset, for the Way is the Understanding of Things +Real, and its Achievement is the Fullness of Life. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +CONTENTS +</H2> + +<BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +BOOK I: BERNAY-SUR-MER +</H3> + +<TABLE ALIGN="center" WIDTH="80%"> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top" WIDTH="10%">CHAPTER</TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top" WIDTH="90%"> </TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">I </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap0101">THE HOUSE ON THE BLUFF</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">II </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap0102">THE KEEPERS OF THE LIGHT</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">III </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap0103">THE BEACON</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">IV </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap0104">STRANGERS WITHIN THE GATES</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">V </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap0105">"WHO IS JEAN LAPARDE?"</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">VI </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap0106">THE GIFT</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">VII </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap0107">WHERE GLORY AWAITS</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">VIII </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap0108">SHADOWS BEFORE</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">IX </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap0109">FORKED ROADS</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">X </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap0110">A DAUGHTER OF FRANCE</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XI </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap0111">THE PENDULUM</A></TD> +</TR> + +</TABLE> + +<BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +BOOK II: TWO YEARS LATER +</H3> + +<TABLE ALIGN="center" WIDTH="80%"> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top" WIDTH="10%">I </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top" WIDTH="90%"> +<A HREF="#chap0201">THE DUPLICITY OF FATHER ANTON</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">II </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap0202">26 RUE VANITAIRE</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">III </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap0203">IN THE DEAD OF THE NIGHT</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">IV </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap0204">THE ACCUSATION</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">V </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap0205">THE SECRET MODEL</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">VI </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap0206">"JEAN MUST NOT KNOW"</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">VII </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap0207">MEA CULPA</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">VIII </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap0208">FLIGHT</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">IX </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap0209">MYRNA'S STRATEGY</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">X </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap0210">THROUGH THE FOG</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XI </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap0211">THE "DEATH" OF JEAN LAPARDE</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XII </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap0212">AT THE "GATEWAY"</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XIII </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap0213">DAWN</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XIV </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap0214">THE STATUE OF DREAMS</A></TD> +</TR> + +</TABLE> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap0101"></A> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +The Belovéd Traitor +</H2> + +<BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +BOOK I: BERNAY-SUR-MER +</H3> + +<BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +— I — +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +THE HOUSE ON THE BLUFF +</H4> + +<P> +It was a wilder gust than any that had gone before. It tore along the +beach with maniacal fury; and, shrieking in a high, devilishly-gleeful +falsetto, while the joints of the little inn, rheumatic with age, +squeaked in its embrace, shook the Taverne du Bas Rhône much after the +fashion of a terrier shaking a rat. And with that gust, loosening the +dilapidated fastening on the casement, a window crashed inward, +shattering the pane against the wall. +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Sacré bleu!</I>" shouted a man, springing smartly to his feet from his +seat at a small table as the rain lashed him. "What a dog of a night!" +</P> + +<P> +Against the opposite wall, tilted back in a chair, Papa Fregeau, the +patron, a rotund, aproned little individual, stopped the humming of his +song. +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Tiens!</I>" said he fatuously. "But it is worse than that, Alcide, +since it is bad for business—hah! Not a franc profit to-night—the +Bas Rhône is desolated." And he resumed his song: +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"In Languedoc, where the wine flows free,<BR> +<SPAN STYLE="margin-left: 1em">We drink to——"</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +"Hold your bibulous tongue, Jacques Fregeau, and get something with +which to fix that window before we are as wet inside as you!"—it was +Madame Fregeau, stout, middle-aged and rosy, already hurrying to the +aid of the first speaker, who was wrestling with the dismantled +fastening. +</P> + +<P> +Usually the nightly resort of the little fishing village of +Bernay-sur-Mer, the Bas Rhône, inn, cabaret, tavern or cafe, as it was +variously styled, now held but two others in the room that was +habitually crowded to suffocation. One was a young man, sturdily +built, with a tanned, clean-cut face, smooth-shaven save for a small +black moustache, whose rumpled black hair straggled in pleasing +disarray over his forehead; the other was older, a man of forty, whose +skin was bronzed almost to blackness from the Mediterranean sun. Both +were in rough fishermen's dress, sitting at dominoes under the hanging +lamp in the centre of the room. On the table, pushed to one side, were +the remains of a simple meal of bread and cheese; and from the inside +of the loaf, the younger man, somewhat to the detriment of his own game +and to the advantage of his opponent, had plucked out a piece of the +soft bread, which he had kneaded between his fingers into a plastic +lump, and thereafter, with amazing skill and deftness, had been engaged +in moulding into little faces, and heads, and figures of various sorts, +as he played. +</P> + +<P> +The older man spoke slowly now: +</P> + +<P> +"It is twenty years since we have had the like—you do not remember +that, Jean? You were too young." +</P> + +<P> +Jean Laparde, an amused smile lurking in his dark eyes as he watched +Jacques Fregeau waddle obediently to his wife's side, shook his head. +</P> + +<P> +"I was on the <I>Étoile</I> that night," said the other, pulling at his +beard. "The good God dealt hardly with us—we lost two when we +beached; but not so hardly as with the <I>Antoinette</I>—none came to shore +from her. It was a night just such as this." +</P> + +<P> +"Ay, that is so," corroborated Papa Fregeau, removing his apron and +stuffing it into the broken window pane. "It is, after all, small +blame to any one that they stay indoors to-night and forget my profits." +</P> + +<P> +"Profits!" ejaculated Madame Fregeau tartly. "You drink them all up!" +She shook her short skirts, damp from her skirmish with the storm, and +turned to Jean's companion at the table. "Pray the blessed Virgin," +she said softly, crossing herself reverently, "that there be no boats +out to-night, Pierre Lachance." +</P> + +<P> +"And God for pity on them if there are!" returned the fisherman. "But +there are none from Bernay-sur-Mer, that is sure." He played the last +domino before him with a little triumphant flourish. "Ah, Jean, +count—you are caught, my boy! It will teach you to pay more attention +to the game, and less to the waste of Madame Fregeau's good bread!" +</P> + +<P> +"She is used to that!" smiled Jean Laparde good-naturedly, as he faced +his dominoes, disclosing the measure of his defeat, and, pushing back +his chair, stood up. +</P> + +<P> +"But," protested the other, "you are not going! We will play again. +See, it is early, the clock has but just struck eight." +</P> + +<P> +"Not to-night, Pierre," said Jean, laughing now, as he began to button +his jacket around his throat. "Play with Alcide there." +</P> + +<P> +"Chut!" cried Madame Fregeau, bustling forward, her eyes twinkling. +"The little minx will not expect you a night like this—Marie-Louise is +too sensible a girl to be piqued for that. You are not going out +to-night, Jean, <I>ma foi</I>!" +</P> + +<P> +"And why not?" asked Jean innocently. "Why not, Mother Fregeau? What +is a little wind, and a little rain, and a little walk along the beach?" +</P> + +<P> +"But a night like this!" sighed Papa Fregeau dolorously, as he joined +the group, his forefinger laid facetiously against the side of his +stubby little nose. "<I>Nom d'un nom</I>! What constancy—what sublime +constancy!" +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, you laugh at that, <I>mon petit bête</I>!" exclaimed Madame Fregeau +sharply, instantly changing front. "You are an old fool, Jacques +Fregeau!" +</P> + +<P> +"But I was a young one once, <I>ma belle</I>—eh?" insinuated Jacques, +pinching his wife's plump cheek, and winking prodigiously at Jean +Laparde. "It is of that you are thinking, eh?" +</P> + +<P> +"You are ridiculous!" declared Madame Fregeau, blushing and pushing him +away. +</P> + +<P> +"You see, Jean?" said Jacques Fregeau plaintively, shrugging his +shoulders. "You see, eh, <I>mon gaillard</I>? You see what you are coming +to! Oh, <I>là, là</I>, once I was young like you, and Lucille, <I>ma chérie</I>, +here, was like—eh?—like Marie-Louise. You see, eh? You see what you +are coming to!" +</P> + +<P> +There was a roar of laughter from the man at the table in the rear, +that was echoed in a guffaw by Pierre Lachance, as Jean, leaning +suddenly forward, caught Madame Fregeau's comely, motherly face between +his hands and kissed her on both cheeks. +</P> + +<P> +"I'd ask for no better luck, Jacques!" he cried—and ran for the door. +</P> + +<P> +Laughing, and with a wave of his hand back at the little group, he +opened the door, closed it behind him with a powerful wrench against +the wind; and then, outside, stood still for a moment, as though taken +utterly by surprise at the abandon of the night. He had not been out +before that day. Like all, or nearly all of Bernay-sur-Mer he had +remained snugly indoors—for what was a fisherman to do in weather like +that! Mend nets? Well, yes, he had mended nets. One must do that. +He shrugged his shoulders, making a wry grimace. Nets! But the night +was bad—much worse than he had imagined. And yet—yes—the storm was +at its height now, but the wind had changed—by morning, thank the +saints, it would be better. +</P> + +<P> +It was black about him, inky black—all save a long, straggling, +twinkling line of lights from the cottage windows that bordered the +beach, and the dull yellow glow from the windows of the Bas Rhône at +his side. Around him a veritable bedlam seemed loosed—the wind, like +a horde of demons, shrieking, whistling and howling in unholy jubilee; +while heavier, more ominous, in a deeper roar came the booming of the +surf from where it broke upon the beach but little more than a hundred +yards in front of him. +</P> + +<P> +Jean Laparde stood hesitant. It was quite true; Mother Fregeau had +been right! Marie-Louise would not expect him to-night, and it was a +good mile from the village to the house on the bluff, and yet—he +smiled a little, and suddenly, head down, struck out into the storm. +</P> + +<P> +A flash of lightning, jagged, threw the night into a strange, tremulous +luminance—the headlands of the little bay; the mighty combers, shaking +their topped crests like manes, hurling themselves in impotent fury at +the shore, then spreading in thin creamy layers to lick up wide, +irregular patches of the beach; the sweep of the Mediterranean, so slow +to anger, but a tumbling rage of waters now as far as the eye could +reach; the whitewashed cottages; boats, dark objects without form or +shape, drawn far up on the sand; the pale, yellowish-green of the sward +stretching away behind the village; the road beneath his feet a pool of +mud—and then blackness again, utter, impenetrable, absolute. +</P> + +<P> +Jean passed the last of the cottages—there were but four on that side +of the Bas Rhône—and kept on, following the curve of the beach toward +the eastern headland. But now, the lightness of spirit that had been +with him but a few moments before was gone, and a restlessness, +bordering on depression, took its place. What was it? The storm? No; +it could not very well be that, for it had come often to him before, +unbidden, unwelcomed, that same mood—even in the glorious sunlight, +even in the midst of song as he fished the blue, sparkling waters that, +more than anything else, had been his home ever since he could +remember. It seemed, and it was a very strange and absurd fancy, but +it was always the same, that a voice, wordless, without sound, talked +speciously to him, talked him into a state of discontent that robbed +him of all delight in his work, his environment and his surroundings, +and, arrived at that stage, would suddenly bid him peremptorily to +follow—and that was all. Follow! Where? He did not know. It made +him angry, but it did not in any way lighten the mood that was forced +upon him in spite of himself. +</P> + +<P> +And now, as it always came, unsought and unexpected, this mood was upon +him again; and, as he plunged through the storm, drawing the collar of +his jacket more closely around his throat against the sheets of rain, +he fought with himself to shake it off. It was absurd. And why should +he be unhappy for something that was absurd? That was still more +absurd! He was not sick, there was nothing the matter with him. He +was strong—none was stronger than he, and he had matched himself +against them all in Bernay-sur-Mer. True, it was a hard life, and +there were not riches to be found in the nets—but there were +friends—he was rich in friends—all Bernay-sur-Mer was his friend. +There were the Fregeaus, with whom he had lived at the Bas Rhône for +over ten years now since his father had died. Madame Fregeau was a +mother to him, and Jacques was the biggest-hearted man in the whole +south of France. And, <I>mon Dieu</I>!—he began to smile now—there +were—should he name every family in the village?—even to the children +for whom he made the clay <I>poupées</I>, the dolls that in their play lives +were, in turn, veritable children to them? Ah, to be in ugly mind—it +was no less than a sin! There were candles to burn for that, and the +good Father Anton would have a word to say if he knew! And best of +all—there was Marie-Louise. There was none, none <I>pardieu</I>, in the +whole wide sweep of France like Marie-Louise, with her eyes like stars, +and her face fresh as the morning breeze across the sparkling waters, +and a figure so beautiful, so lithe, so strong! What charm to see +those young arms on the oars, the bosom heave, to feel the boat bound +forward under the stroke, and hear her laugh ring out with the pure joy +of life! +</P> + +<P> +"Marie-Louise!" cried Jean Laparde aloud—and the wind seemed to catch +up the words and echo them in a triumphant shout: "Marie-Louise!" +</P> + +<P> +It was gone—that mood. And now, with the village well behind him, the +lights blotted out and seeming to have left him isolated even from +human proximity, another came—and he stood still—and this time it was +the storm. And something within him, without will or volition of his, +spontaneous, leapt out in consonance with the wild grandeur of the +night to revel in it, atune with the Titanic magnificence of the +spectacle, as one who gazes upon a splendid canvas and, innate in +appreciation, is lost in the conception to which the master brush has +given life. And so he stood there for a long time immovable, his +shoulders thrust a little forward, the rain streaming from his face, +his eyes afire, wrapt, lost in the clashing elements before him—and +fancy came. The play of the lightning was more vivid now, and the +coast line took on changing shapes, as though seeking by new and +swiftly conceived formations to foil and combat and thrust back and +parry the furious attack of the breakers that hurled themselves onward +in their mad, never-ending charge; while behind again, in sudden +apparitions, like spectre battalions massed in reserve, the white +cottages appeared for an instant, and then, as though seeking a more +strategic position, vanished utterly, until a flame-tongue crackling +across the heavens searched them out again, laying their position bare +once more; and the headlands, vanguards where the fight was hottest, +were lost in a smother of spume and spray, like the smoke of battle +swirling over them—and it was battle, and the thunder of the surf was +the thunder of belching cannon, and the shriek of the wind was the +shriek of hurtling shells. It was battle—and some consciousness +inborn in Jean Laparde awakened and filled him with understanding, and +in the terror; and dismay and awe and strife and fierce elation was the +great allegory of life, and suddenly he knew a lowly reverence for Him +who had depicted this, and a joy, full of a strange indefinable +yearning, in the divine genius of its execution. +</P> + +<P> +"It is the great art of the <I>bon Dieu</I>," said Jean simply. +</P> + +<P> +And after a little while he went forward on his way again. +</P> + +<P> +The road led upward now in a gentle slope toward higher land, though +still following the line of the beach. Near the extremity of the +headland was the cottage that the village always called the "house on +the bluff," and in a moment now he should be able to see the light. +There was always a light there every night, in good weather and in +stormy—and never in fourteen years had it been otherwise, not since +the night that Marie-Louise's father, the brother of old Gaston +Bernier, steering for the headland in a gale had miscalculated his +position and been drowned on the Perigeau Reef. From that day it had +become a religion with Gaston, a sacred rite, that light; and, in time, +it had become an institution in Bernay-sur-Mer—not a fisherman in the +village now but steered by it, not one but that, failing to sight it, +would have taken it for granted that he was off his course and would +have put about, braving even the wildest weather, until he had picked +it up. +</P> + +<P> +The light! Jean smiled to himself. He was very wet, but he had found +a most wonderful joy in the storm—and, besides, what did a little +wetting matter? In a few minutes now Marie-Louise would cry out in +delight at seeing him, and he would fling off his drenched jacket and +pull up a chair to the stove beside old Gaston, and they would light +their pipes, and Marie-Louise would prepare the spiced wine, and—he +halted as though stunned. +</P> + +<P> +He had reached the big rock where the road made its second turn and ran +directly to the house—and there was no light. It was the exact spot +from which he should first be able to see it—a hundred times, on a +hundred nights, he had looked for it, and found it there—by the +turning at the big rock. He dashed the rain from his face with a sweep +of his hand, and strained his eyes into the blackness. There was +nothing there—only the blackness. He reached out mechanically and +touched the rock, as though to assure himself that it was there—and +then he laughed a little unnaturally. There must be some mistake—for +fourteen years that light had burned in the window, and it could be +seen from this point on the road—there must be some mistake. Perhaps +just another step would bring it into view! +</P> + +<P> +And then, as he moved forward, something cold gripped at Jean's heart. +There was no mistake—the light was out for the first time in fourteen +years! The light that old Gaston had never failed to burn since the +night his brother died, the light that had become a part of the man +himself—was out! Was he ill—sick? Why, then, had Marie-Louise not +lighted it? She had done it before, often and often before. But now +neither one nor the other had lighted it, and they, just the two of +them, were the only occupants of the house—Marie-Louise and her old +uncle. Just the two of them—and the light was out! +</P> + +<P> +Jean was running now, smashing his way along the road through the +clayey mud and water, splashing it to his knees, buffeting against the +wind; and, with every step, the sense of dread that had settled upon +him grew heavier. It was no ordinary thing this! Old Gaston would +have lighted the lamp while there remained strength in his body to do +it; it was a sacred trust that he had imposed upon himself which had +grown more inviolable as the years had crept upon him and he had grown +older. It brought fear to Jean, and the greater stab at the thought of +Marie-Louise. Things were wrong—and what was wrong with one was wrong +with both. Was it not Marie-Louise who polished the great lamp chimney +so zealously every morning and filled the big, dinted brass bowl of the +lamp with oil; and was it not Marie-Louise who watched with +affectionate understanding each evening as her uncle lighted it? +</P> + +<P> +A shadowy mass, the house, loomed suddenly out of the darkness before +him. It seemed to give him added speed, and in another moment he was +at the door—and the door was open, wide open, blown inward with the +wind. +</P> + +<P> +"Marie-Louise!" he shouted, as he rushed inside. "Gaston! Gaston!" +And again: "Marie-Louise!" +</P> + +<P> +There was no answer—no sound but the shriek of wind, the groaning of +the house timbers in travail with the storm. He pushed the door shut +behind him, and something like a sob came from Jean's lips—and then he +shouted once more. +</P> + +<P> +Still there was no answer. +</P> + +<P> +He felt his way to the kitchen, and across the kitchen to the shelf by +the rear wall, found a candle, and lighted it. He held the flame above +his head, sweeping the light about him, and, discovering nothing, ran +back into the front room—and, with a low cry, stood still. On the +floor the great lamp lay broken, the chimney shattered into splinters. +He stared at it in a frightened, almost superstitious way. The great +lamp broken! Did it mean that—no, no, it could not mean that! It was +the wind that had blown it there in bursting in the door. See, there +was no disorder anywhere! He ran into Gaston's room. Nothing! +Nothing anywhere to indicate that anything had happened—and yet, +apparently, the house was empty—and that was enough! Out? They had +gone out somewhere, even in the storm, on some homely errand, to pay a +visit perhaps? Impossible! With the lamp for the first time in +fourteen years unlighted, and broken now upon the floor? It was +impossible! While Gaston Bernier lived the light would burn! +</P> + +<P> +He climbed the stairs and stood on the threshold of the little attic +room, the flickering candle playing timorously with the darker shadows +where the roof in its sharp angle spread into an inverted V. It was +the first time he had ever looked into that room. It was +Marie-Louise's room. It was all white, scrupulously white, from the +bare floor to the patched quilt on the little bed. There was a +freshness, a sweetness about it that seemed to personify Marie-Louise, +to fill the room with her—and it swept him now with a sudden numbing +agony, and his face, wet with the rain that dripped from the hair +straggling over his forehead, showed grey and set as it glistened +curiously in the yellow, sputtering candle light. +</P> + +<P> +And then, half mad with anxiety, the sure, intuitive knowledge of +disaster upon him, he rushed downstairs again; and, hurriedly +exchanging his candle for a lantern, went out into the night. +</P> + +<P> +A search around the house revealed no more than within. He ran then +down the path to the beach, to where, well up under the protection of +the low bluff and away from the reach of the highest tide, old Gaston +stored his boats and fishing gear. And there, as Jean flashed his +lantern around him, a low, strained cry, for the second time, came from +his lips. Three boats old Gaston owned—who should know better than +he, Jean Laparde, who fished with the other season after season!—but +of the three boats only two were there upon the beach. +</P> + +<P> +As a man wounded then and dazed with his hurt, Jean stood there. They +had gone—out into that—Marie-Louise and old Gaston—and they had not +come back. It was not true—it was beyond belief! No; it was not +true—something only had happened to the boat—no man in Bernay-sur-Mer +would have been so mad as to have ventured out! +</P> + +<P> +Far to the south the heavens opened in a burst of flame, and, +travelling far and fast, a zigzag tongue of lightning, like the +venomous thrust of a serpent's fang, leaped across the skies. It +lighted up the beach, and, further out over the waters, a quarter of a +mile away, played upon the smother of spray that like a shroud flung +itself over the Perigeau Reef—and the cry that came from Jean Laparde +was wild, hoarse-throated now. What was that he had seen! +</P> + +<P> +It was dark again out there. He swung his lantern, signalling +frantically—then, holding it high and rigid, waited for the next flash. +</P> + +<P> +It came. +</P> + +<P> +"Marie-Louise," he whispered through white lips. +</P> + +<P> +Far out on the extremity of the reef, a figure stood silhouetted +against the spray for an instant—and blackness fell again. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap0102"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +— II — +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +THE KEEPERS OF THE LIGHT +</H4> + +<P> +For a moment's space Jean stood there measuring, as it were, the sweep +of waters, as one might measure the strength of some antagonist thrust +suddenly upon him—and then, turning, he ran back to the boats, and +began to drag one down the beach. +</P> + +<P> +No man in all Bernay-sur-Mer would dare to venture out. He had said +that himself—but there was no thought of that now. Marie-Louise was +on the Perigeau Reef. He was strong, strong as a young bull, and he +tugged now at the heavy boat with the added nervous strength of a man +near mad with desperation, heaving it swiftly across the sand. At high +tide even in calm weather the Perigeau was awash—in storm, far better +to plunge into the water than to be pounded to death upon those +<I>diable</I> rocks, lifted up and pounded upon the rocks, and lifted up and +pounded again, when the water should be high. At ten o'clock it would +be full tide. Thanks to the <I>bon Dieu</I> it was not eight o'clock when +the water would be at its height, or else— +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Sacré nom d'un nom, d'un nom</I>"—Jean was grinding words from between +his teeth. They came utterly without volition, utterly meaningless, +utterly spontaneous from the brain afire. +</P> + +<P> +It was the lee of the headland, and it was the mercy of the <I>Sainte +Vierge</I> that it was so; otherwise, <I>baptême de baptême</I>! no boat could +live where a fish would drown. But it was the smoother water of a +mill-race—in with the tide, out with the tide—between the headland +and the Perigeau it was like that. +</P> + +<P> +With a wrench, Jean swung the boat around—he had been dragging it by +the stern—and, at the water's edge now, the dying efforts of a spent +and broken wave wrapped and curled around the bow in creamy foam. +Then, racing up the beach once more to the shelter of the bluff, he +knelt there to plant his lantern in the sand, ballasting it securely +with rocks, flung his jacket down beside it, and ran back to the +water's edge again. +</P> + +<P> +He shoved the boat further out until it was half afloat, shipped the +oars—and waited, steadying the craft with an iron grip on the +gunwales. A wave lifted her, the water swirled around his knees, +seethed behind him, rushed back hissing sharply in its retreat—and +Jean, bending, shoved with all his strength, as he sprang aboard. +</P> + +<P> +The boat shot out on the receding wave, and, as he flung himself upon +the seat, smashed into the next oncoming breaker, wavered, half turned, +righted under a mighty tug at the oars, engulfed herself in a sheet of +spray—and slid onward down into the bubbling hollow. +</P> + +<P> +None in Bernay-sur-Mer was a better boatman than Jean Laparde, and +Bernay-sur-Mer in that respect held its head above all Languedoc; for +at the water fêtes now for three years had not Jean Laparde secured to +it the coveted <I>prix</I>! But to-night it was a different race that lay +before him. +</P> + +<P> +For a little way, while the lee of the headland held, a child almost, +once the boat was free of the broken surf on the beach, might have held +the craft to her course—but only for that little way. For fifty yards +perhaps the boat leapt forward, straight as an arrow, heading well +above the Perigeau Reef—and then suddenly the lighted lantern on the +beach seemed to travel seaward at an incredible speed, as the onrush of +tide, wind and sea through the narrows caught the boat, twisted it like +a cork, and, high-borne on a wave-crest, hurled it along past the +shoreline toward the lower end of the bay—and the twinkling lantern +was blotted out from sight. Tight-lipped, his muscles cracking with +the strain, Jean forced the boat around again, and the tough oars bent +under his strokes. +</P> + +<P> +There were two ways to the Perigeau Reef—he had thought of both of +them. One, to go down in the shelter of the headland to the lower end +of the bay, circuit the shore-line there until he was free of the +mill-race through the narrows, then pull straight out for the +Perigeau—only, the <I>bon Dieu</I> knew well, no man was strong enough for +that; it was too far, for the bay on this side, deeper than on the +other side of the headland by Bernay-sur-Mer, extended inward for +nearly two miles, and to pull back that distance against the full force +of the storm—only a madman would try it, and no boat would live! The +other way was the only chance—the quarter mile across the narrows. +</P> + +<P> +A quarter mile! He pulled on and on, minute after minute that were as +endless periods of time; and whether he was making progress or losing +it he did not know, only that with each minute his strength was being +taxed to the utmost, until it seemed to be ebbing from him, until his +arms in their sockets caused him brutal pain. And it was all like a +black veil that wrapped itself about him now, blacker than it had ever +been before that night—the loss of that tiny guiding light he had left +upon the beach seemed to make it so, and seemed to try to rob him of +his courage because it was gone. The never-ending roar of buffeting +sea and surf was in his ears until his head rang with the sound—the +waves pounded his boat and tossed it like a chip upon their crests, and +slopped aboard and sloshed at his feet—and they thundered upon the +shore, and upon the headland, and they were mocking at him. The +lightning came again—it lighted up the house upon the bluff and with +bitter dismay he saw that, too, was sweeping seaward—it flickered a +ghostly radiance upon dancing shore shapes—it played upon a tumbling +wall of water, onrushing, towering above his head from where the boat +quivered in the trough far down below. And at sight of this, like a +madman, Jean Laparde pulled then—up—up—up—the crest was curling, +snarling its vengeance before it broke—and then it seethed away in a +great trail of murmuring foam that lapped at the boat's sides and crept +in over the gunwales. And there were many more like that, so many that +they were countless—and they never stopped—and they were stronger +than he—and there was always another—and each was greater than the +one before—and he sobbed at last in utter weakness over the oars. +</P> + +<P> +Marie-Louise, Gaston, the Perigeau, all were living before him in a +daze now—the brain became subordinate to the bodily exhaustion. There +was only a jumbled medley of hell and death and eternal struggle around +him, and a subconsciousness that for him too the end had come—the good +Father Anton would say a requiem mass for him—and Bernay-sur-Mer would +tell its children that Jean would never make any more of the clay +<I>poupées</I> for them—and the children would cry—and it was all very +droll. +</P> + +<P> +He pulled on, mechanically, doggedly. His face was wrinkled where the +muscles twisted in pain, drops that were not rain nor spray stood out +in great beads upon his forehead, his back seemed breaking, his arms +useless things that writhed with the strain upon them. +</P> + +<P> +Wild thoughts came to him. Why should he struggle there against the +pitiless strength that was greater than his, until he could no longer +even meet the waves with the bow of his boat, until they would turn him +over and over and afterwards roll him upon the shore, where Papa +Fregeau, perhaps, would find him! See, it would be a very easy matter +to stop while he had yet a little strength left to guide the boat—and +run with the waves—and it would rest him—and by the time he got to +the shore he would be quite strong enough again to fight his way +through the breakers. His lips moved, teeth working over them, biting +into them, tinging them with blood. It came out of this hell and these +storm devils around him, that thought! Marie-Louise was waiting, was +she not, upon the Perigeau—and when the tide was high and the sea was +calm one could row over the Perigeau, and sometimes see a <I>dragonet</I>, +with the beautiful blue and yellow marking on its white scaleless body, +looking for food in the rock crevices out of its curious eyes that were +in the top of its head! +</P> + +<P> +A flicker of light! Yes—yes—the lantern! He was abreast of it +again. The good God had not deserted him! He was still strong—there +was iron in his arms again—the torture of pulling was gone. He could +feel the boat lift now to the stroke. +</P> + +<P> +He pulled, taking his breath in catchy sobs. The boat swept downward +into a great trough, rose again, trembling, balancing on the next +crest—and the light had disappeared. A cry gurgled from Jean's +throat, impotent, full of anguish. It was an hallucination, a torture +of the devil! No! There it was once more—he caught it on the next +rise, and each succeeding one now. And he, not it now, was making +headway seaward. He was across the tide-race, it was the Madonna who +had prayed for him! and in another little while, soon now, just as soon +as the lantern showed a little further astern, he would get the lee of +the Perigeau itself—it would be broken water, but it would be like a +child's effort then. And that!—what was that! +</P> + +<P> +"Jean!"—it came ringing down with the wind, a brave, strong voice. +"<I>Jean!</I>" +</P> + +<P> +It was Marie-Louise! His strength was the strength of a god again. He +shot a hurried glance over his shoulder—it was done—but one had need +for care that the boat should not thrash itself to pieces on the rocks. +Yes; he saw her now—like a dark, wind-swept wraith. +</P> + +<P> +"To the right, Jean—there is landing to the right!" she called. +</P> + +<P> +"Ay!" he shouted back; and, standing, swung in the boat. +</P> + +<P> +The bow touched the edge of the rocks, grated, pounded, receded, and +came on again—there was no beach here—only the vicious swirl and chop +of the back-eddy. But as the keel touched again, Jean sprang over into +the water; and as he sprang, a figure from the rocks rushed in waist +deep to grasp the boat's gunwale on the other side—and across the bow, +very close to him, Marie-Louise's white face was framed in the night. +It was very dark, he could not see her features distinctly, but he had +never seen Marie-Louise look like that before—it was not that her face +was aged, nothing, <I>bon Dieu</I>! could take the springtime from that +face, but it was very tired, and frightened, and glad, and full of +grief. +</P> + +<P> +"Jean, ah, Jean, you—" the wind carried away her words. Then she +shouted louder, a curious break, like a half sob, in her voice. "Uncle +Gaston is hurt—very, very badly hurt. He is up there a little way on +the reef. You must carry him. And if you hurry, Jean, I can hold the +boat." +</P> + +<P> +"Gaston—hurt!" he cried in dismay. "You are sure then you can hold +the boat, and—" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, yes, if you hurry, Jean—he is there, a few yards back, a little +to the left." +</P> + +<P> +"Guard yourself then that it does not pull you off your feet!" he +cautioned anxiously, and began to scramble from the water and up the +slippery, weeded rocks. +</P> + +<P> +And then, a few yards back on the ledge, as she had said, just out of +the reach of the spray that lashed the windward side of the Perigeau, +he came upon an outstretched form—and, kneeling, called the other's +name: +</P> + +<P> +"Gaston! It is I—Jean Laparde!" He bent closer—one could not hear +for the <I>diable</I> wind! "Gaston!" There was only a low moaning—the +man was unconscious. "<I>'Cré nom d'une forte peine!</I>" muttered Jean, +with a sinking heart, and picked up the other tenderly in his arms. +</P> + +<P> +But it was not easy, that little way back to the boat. Burdened now, +the wind behind his back sent him staggering forward before he could +find footing, and ten times in the dozen steps he lurched, slipped and +all but fell before, close to the boat again, he laid Gaston down upon +the rocks. +</P> + +<P> +"We must bale out the boat, Marie-Louise," he shouted, wading quickly +into the water; "or with what we take in on the way back she will not +ride. See, I will hold it while you bale—it will be easier for you." +</P> + +<P> +She answered something as she set instantly to work, but her words were +lost in the storm. And Jean, through the darkness, as he gripped at +the boat, watched her, his mind a sea of turmoil like the turmoil of +the sea about him. Gaston was hurt—yes, very badly hurt, it would +seem—how had it happened?—how had they come, Marie-Louise and Gaston, +to be upon the Perigeau?—and he, who had given up hope, who had +thought to perish out there in that crossing, he, too, was on the +Perigeau—the way to get back was to run straight in with the bay—it +would not be so hard if they could out-race the waves—if the waves +came in over the stern it would be to swamp and—God had been very good +to let them live and— +</P> + +<P> +Marie-Louise's hand closed over his on the gunwale. +</P> + +<P> +"It is done, Jean—what I could do," she said. "I will hold the boat +again while you lift Uncle Gaston in." +</P> + +<P> +And suddenly Jean's heart was very full. +</P> + +<P> +"Marie-Louise, Marie-Louise!" he said hoarsely—and while her hands +grasped the rocking boat, his crept around the wet shoulders for an +instant, and to her face, and turned the face upward to his, and, in +that wild revelry of storm, kissed her; and with a choked sob he went +from her then and picked up the unconscious form upon the rocks. +</P> + +<P> +And so they started back. +</P> + +<P> +There was no sweep of tide to battle with now—the waves bore them high +and shot them onward, shoreward; and the storm was wings to them. But +there was danger yet; on the top of the crests it was like a pivot, +each one threatening to whirl them broadside and capsize them on the +breathless rush down the steep slope that yawned below—that, and the +fear that the downward rush, breathless as it was, would not be fast +enough to escape the crest itself, which, following them always, +hanging over them like hesitant doom far up above, trembling, twisting, +writhing, might break in a seething torrent and, sweeping over them, +engulf them. It was not so hard now, the way back, there was not the +pitiless current that numbed the soul because the body was so frail; +but all the craft Jean knew, all the strength that was his was in play +again. +</P> + +<P> +The boat swept onward. Marie-Louise was crouched in the stern +supporting Gaston's head upon her lap. Jean could not see her face. +When he dared take his eyes for an instant from the racing waves behind +her, he looked at her, but he could not see her face—it was bent +always over Gaston's head. And a fear grew heavy in Jean's heart—the +old fisherman had not moved since he, Jean, had found the other on the +reef. Once he shouted at Marie-Louise, shouted out the fear that was +upon him—but she only shook her head. +</P> + +<P> +The rain had stopped—he noticed the fact with a strange shock of +surprise—surprise that he had not noticed it before, as though it were +something extraneous to his surroundings. And then he remembered that +as he had stood outside the Bas Rhône he had seen that the wind had +changed, and had told himself that by morning it would be better +weather. He glanced above him. The storm wrack was still there; but +it was broken now, and the low, flying clouds seemed thinner—yes, by +morning it would be bright sunshine, and of the storm only the heavy +sea would be left. +</P> + +<P> +He gave his eyes to the tumbling waters again—and, suddenly, with a +great cry, began to pull until it seemed his arms must break. Roaring +behind them, a giant wave was on the point of breaking—closer it +came—closer—he yelled to Marie-Louise: +</P> + +<P> +"Hold fast, Marie-Louise! Hold fast!" +</P> + +<P> +And then it was upon them. +</P> + +<P> +For a moment it was a vortex—a white, swirling flood of water churned +to lather. It hid the stern of the boat, hid Marie-Louise and Gaston +at her feet, as it poured upon them—and the boat, lifted high up, hung +dizzily for an instant, poised as on the edge of an abyss, then the +wave rolled under them, and the boat swept on in its wake, the shipped +water rushing now this way now that in the bottom. +</P> + +<P> +It was an escape! The blessed saints still had them in their keeping! +Jean sucked in his breath. A foot nearer when the wave had broken, +and, instead of the few bucketsful they had taken, the boat would have +filled! And now Marie-Louise, already baling at the water, cried out +to him. +</P> + +<P> +"See! It was a mercy!"—her voice rang with a glad uplift. "It was +sent by the <I>bon Dieu</I>, that wave! It has brought life to Uncle +Gaston!" +</P> + +<P> +It was true. The deluge of water had, temporarily at least, restored +the old fisherman to consciousness, for he raised himself up now, and +Jean heard him speak. +</P> + +<P> +After that, time marked no definite passing for Jean. Occasionally he +heard Marie-Louise's voice as she spoke to her uncle; and occasionally +he heard the old fisherman reply—but that was all. In nearer the +shore, where the current rushing through the narrows had lost its +potency, he edged the boat across the heavy sea, gained the comparative +calm under the lee of the headland, and began to work back to the upper +end—it was easier that way, difficult and slow as the progress was, +than to land and carry old Gaston along the beach. An hour? It might +have been that—or two—or half an hour—when he and Marie-Louise, in +the water beside him again, and close by where the lantern under the +bluff still burned as he had left it, were dragging the boat free from +the breakers and up upon the sand. +</P> + +<P> +And then, while Marie-Louise ran for the lantern, Jean leaned over into +the boat. +</P> + +<P> +"Gaston!" he called. "See, we are back! Can you hear me?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," Gaston answered feebly. +</P> + +<P> +"Then put your arms around my neck, <I>mon brave</I>, and I will lift you +up." +</P> + +<P> +The arms rose slowly, clasped; and Jean, straightening up, was holding +the other as a woman holds a child. Gaston's head fell on his +shoulder, and the old fisherman whispered weakly in his ear. +</P> + +<P> +"My side, Jean—hold me—lower—down." +</P> + +<P> +"But, yes," Jean answered cheerily. "There—is that better. We shall +get easily to the house like this, and Marie-Louise"—she was back +again now—"will lead the way with the lantern." +</P> + +<P> +Gaston's only answer was a slight pressure of his arm around Jean's +neck—but now, as the lantern's rays for an instant fell upon the +other's features, Jean's own face set like stone. The old fisherman's +eyes were closed, and the skin, where it showed through the grizzled +beard, wet and tangled now, was a deathly white—and Jean, motioning to +Marie-Louise, started hurriedly forward. +</P> + +<P> +Only once on the way to the house, as Jean followed Marie-Louise up the +path from the beach, did Gaston speak again; and then it was as though +he were talking to himself, his tones low and broken, almost like the +sobbing of a child. Jean caught the words. +</P> + +<P> +"René—René, my brother—the light is out, René—the light is out." +</P> + +<P> +And with the words, something dimmed suddenly before Jean's eyes, and +the path, for a moment, and Marie-Louise were as a mist in front of +him. The light! For fourteen years the man he held in his arms had +burned that light—and the light was out now forever. +</P> + +<P> +He hurried on, and, reaching the house, laid Gaston on the bed in the +little room off the kitchen that belonged to the other; then turned +swiftly to Marie-Louise, for the old fisherman had lost consciousness +again. +</P> + +<P> +"Cognac, Marie-Louise!" he said quickly. +</P> + +<P> +She ran for the brandy—and while Jean forced a few drops through +Gaston's lips, holding up the lantern to watch the other, she went from +the room again and brought back a lamp. +</P> + +<P> +"Jean," she cried pitifully, as she set it upon the table, "he is not—" +</P> + +<P> +Jean shook his head. +</P> + +<P> +"No; he will be better in a minute now. It is but a little fainting +spell." +</P> + +<P> +She did not answer—barefooted, the short skirt just reaching to the +ankles, her black hair, loosened, tumbling about her shoulders in a +sodden mass, she came a little closer to the bed, her hands clasped, +the dark eyes wide with troubled tenderness, the red lips parted, the +white cheeks still glistening with spray; and, unconscious of her pose, +the wet clothes, untrammelled in their simplicity, clinging closely to +her limbs and her young rounded bosom, revealed in chaste freedom the +perfect contour and beauty of her form. +</P> + +<P> +Something stirred Jean's spirit within him, and for a moment he was +oblivious to his surroundings; for, as he looked, she seemed to stand +before him the living counterpart of a wondrous piece of sculpture, in +bronze it was, marvellously conceived, that he had dreamed of again and +again in vague, restless dreams—the statue, for it was always the same +statue in his dreams, that was set in the midst of a great city, in a +great square, and— +</P> + +<P> +"Marie-Louise!" he said aloud unconsciously. +</P> + +<P> +But she shook her head, pointing to the bed. +</P> + +<P> +Gaston had stirred, and, opening his eyes now, fixing them on the glass +still held in Jean's hand, he motioned for more brandy. And Jean, his +moment of abstraction gone as quickly as it had come, bent hastily +forward and gave it to him. +</P> + +<P> +The raw spirit brought a flush to the old fisherman's cheeks. +</P> + +<P> +"Father Anton," he said. "Go for Father Anton." +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Bien sûr!</I>" responded Jean soothingly. "I will go at once. It was +what I thought of when I was carrying you up the beach. I said: 'Since +there is no doctor in Bernay-sur-Mer, I will get Father Anton, who is +as good a doctor as he is a priest, and he will have Gaston here on his +feet again by morning.'" He moved away from the bed—but Gaston put +out his hand and stopped him. +</P> + +<P> +"Not you, Jean; I want to talk to you—Marie-Louise will go." +</P> + +<P> +"Marie-Louise!" exclaimed Jean, shaking his head. "But no! You have +forgotten the storm, Gaston—and, see, she is all wet and tired, and +she has been, I do not know how many hours, exposed out there on that +curséd Perigeau." +</P> + +<P> +A smile, half stubborn, half of pride, struggled through a twist of +pain on the old fisherman's lips. +</P> + +<P> +"And what of that! She has been brought up to it. A dozen times and +more she has been longer in a storm than this. She is not of the +milk-and-water breed is Marie-Louise, she is a Bernier, and, the <I>bon +Dieu</I> be praised, the Berniers do not stop for that! Is it not so, +Marie-Louise?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, uncle," she answered softly. "I will go; and I will not be long." +</P> + +<P> +"Go then, Marie-Louise," he said. "I wish it." +</P> + +<P> +She bent and kissed him, and picked up the lantern, and shook her head +in a pretty gesture at Jean, as though half to tease him for the +perturbed look upon his face, and half in grave wistfulness to charge +him with the sick man's care—and then she went from the room, and +presently the front door closed behind her. +</P> + +<P> +The lamp flickered with the inrush of wind from the opening of the +door—flickered over a spotless bare floor, an incongruous high-poster +bed that had been a wedding gift to Marie-Louise's father and mother +from the man who lay upon it now, flickered over the raftered ceiling, +the scant furnishings which were a single chair and a table, flickered +over a crucifix upon the wall—and then burned on once more in a steady +flame. It was like the shrug of Jean's shoulders, the flicker of that +lamp; for, with the shrug, he resumed again his former position over +Gaston—it was true after all, Marie-Louise would come to no harm, they +were used to that, they fisherfolk of Bernay-sur-Mer. +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Tiens</I>, Gaston!" he said. "See, we will get off your wet clothes, +and you will tell me how it happened this <I>misère</I>, and about the hurt. +But first this—<I>mon Dieu!</I>—but I did not guess it was like that—a +clean bandage, eh?—that is first—I will find something"—he had +unbuttoned the other's jacket, disclosing a rent shirt, and, on the +left side, a wad of cloth, blood-soaked now, where Marie-Louise +evidently had made a pad for the wound with her underskirt, and had +tied it in place with long strips torn from the garment. He began to +loosen one of the strips; but Gaston, who until then had lain passive +with eyes closed, caught his hand. +</P> + +<P> +"Let it alone, Jean—you will only make it bleed the more." +</P> + +<P> +"Ay," agreed Jean thoughtfully; "perhaps that is so. It would be +better maybe to leave it for Father Anton." +</P> + +<P> +A wan smile came to Gaston's lips. +</P> + +<P> +"Father Anton will not touch it either, Jean." +</P> + +<P> +And then Jean, with a sudden start, stared into the other's eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"It is destiny!" said Gaston slowly. "Did you, too, like Marie-Louise, +think it was for that I sent for the good father? It is the priest and +Mother Church I need, there is no doctor that could help." +</P> + +<P> +"But, no!" Jean protested anxiously. "You must not talk like that, +Gaston! It is not so! Wait! You will see! Father Anton will tell +you that in a few days you will be strong again. It is the weakness +now." +</P> + +<P> +Gaston shook his head. +</P> + +<P> +"You are a brave man, Jean, but I, too, am brave—and I am not +afraid—not afraid for myself—it is for Marie-Louise—it is for that I +kept you here and sent her for Father Anton. I know—something is hurt +inside—I am bleeding there." +</P> + +<P> +And now Jean made no answer—no words would come. The utter weakness +in the voice, the feeble movements of the hands, the greyer pallor in +the other's face seemed to dawn upon him with its full significance for +the first time—and for a moment it seemed to stun and bewilder him. +</P> + +<P> +"It is destiny!" said Gaston again. "Listen! It is fourteen years +since René, my brother, Marie-Louise's father, was drowned on the +Perigeau. I swore that night that through neither God nor devil should +another lose his life as René had—and for fourteen years I burned the +light, and laughed at the Perigeau as it gnawed its teeth in the +storms." He stopped, and touched his lips with the tip of his tongue. +"It is the hand of God," he whispered hoarsely, "The light is out—and +it is the Perigeau again." +</P> + +<P> +Jean pulled the chair closer to the bed, and took one of Gaston's hands. +</P> + +<P> +"It means nothing that, Gaston," he said, trying to control his voice. +"It is bad to think such thoughts—and of what good are they? You must +not think of that. Tell me what happened, how you and Marie-Louise +came to be out there to-night." +</P> + +<P> +Gaston lay quiet for a little while—so long that Jean thought the +other had not heard the question. Then the old fisherman spoke again. +</P> + +<P> +"Marie-Louise will tell you. I have other things to say, and I have +not strength enough for all. It is hard to talk. Give me the cognac +again, Jean." +</P> + +<P> +He drank almost greedily this time, and, as Jean held up his head that +he might do so the more readily, the grim old lips and unflinching eyes +smiled back their thanks. +</P> + +<P> +"Listen to me well, Jean," he went on earnestly. "Marie-Louise is very +dear to me. I love the little girl. All her life she has lived with +me—for two years after she was born in this house here, her mother and +René and I—and two years more with René and I—and then, after that, +it was just Marie-Louise and I alone. She had no one else—and I had +no one else. I have taught her as the <I>bon Dieu</I> has shown me the way +to teach her to be a true daughter of France—to love God and be never +afraid. Jean"—he reached out his other hand suddenly and clasped it +over Jean's—"do you love Marie-Louise?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," said Jean simply. +</P> + +<P> +"She will be alone now," said Gaston, and his eyes filled. "She is a +good girl, Jean. She is pure and innocent, and her heart is so full of +love, there was never such love as hers, and she is so gay and bright +like the flowers and like the birds—and happy—and sorrow has not come +to her." He stopped once more, and the grey eyes searched Jean's face +as though they would read to the other's soul. "Jean," he asked again, +"do you love Marie-Louise?" +</P> + +<P> +Jean's lips were quivering now. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," he answered. "You know I love her." +</P> + +<P> +The old fisherman lay back, silent, still for a moment, but he kept +pressing Jean's hand. When he spoke again, it seemed that it was with +more of an effort. +</P> + +<P> +"This house, the land, the boats, the nets, they are hers—it is her +<I>dot</I>. But it is not of that, I fear—it is not of that—" his voice +died away. Again he was silent; and then, suddenly, raising himself on +his elbow: "Jean," he asked for the third time, almost fiercely now, +"do you love Marie-Louise?" +</P> + +<P> +"But yes, Gaston," said Jean gently. "I have loved her all my life." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes; it is so," Gaston muttered slowly. "I give her to you then, +Jean—she is a gift to you from the sea—from the sea to-night. She +loves you, Jean—she has told me so. You will be good to her, Jean?" +</P> + +<P> +The tears were in Jean's eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"Gaston, can you ask it?" he cried out brokenly. +</P> + +<P> +"Ay!" said Gaston, and his voice rang out in a strange, stern note, and +his form, as he lifted himself up once more, seemed to possess again +its old rugged strength. "Ay—I do more than ask it. Swear it, Jean! +To a dying man and in God's presence, see, there is a crucifix there, +swear that you will guard her and that you will let no harm come to +her." +</P> + +<P> +"I swear it, Gaston," said Jean, in a choking voice. +</P> + +<P> +"It is well, then," Gaston murmured—and lay back upon the bed. +</P> + +<P> +For a little while, Jean, dim-eyed, watched the other, a hundred +reminiscences of their work together stabbing at his heart, and then he +rose and began to remove what he could of the old fisherman's clothing. +</P> + +<P> +"I will not touch the wound, Gaston," he said; "but the boots, <I>mon +brave</I>, and—" +</P> + +<P> +Gaston did not answer. He appeared to have sunk into a semi-stupor, +from which even the removal of his clothes did not arouse him. Jean +pulled a blanket up around the other's form, and sat down again in the +chair. +</P> + +<P> +Once, as Gaston muttered, Jean leaned forward toward the other. +</P> + +<P> +"It is destiny—the Perigeau—the light is out—René, it is—" The +words trailed off into incoherency. +</P> + +<P> +The minutes passed. Occasionally, with a spoon now, Jean poured a few +drops of brandy between Gaston's lips; otherwise, he sat there, his +head in his hands, tight-lipped, staring at the floor. Outside, that +vicious howl of wind seemed to have died away—perhaps it was hushed +because old Gaston was like this—Marie-Louise had been gone a long +time—presently she and Father Anton would be back, and— +</P> + +<P> +He looked up to find Gaston's eyes open and fixed upon him feverishly, +the lips struggling to say something. +</P> + +<P> +"What is it, Gaston?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +"The light, Jean," Gaston whispered. "It is—for—the last time. Go +and—light—the—great lamp." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, Gaston," Jean answered, and went from the room—but at the door +he covered his face with his hands, and his shoulders shook like a +child whose heart is broken, as his feet in that outer room crunched on +the shattered glass of the lamp that would never burn again. He dashed +the tears from his eyes, and for a moment stared unseeingly before him, +then turned and went back to Gaston's side again in the inner room. +</P> + +<P> +Gaston's eyes searched his face eagerly. +</P> + +<P> +"It burns?" he cried out. +</P> + +<P> +"It burns," said Jean steadily. +</P> + +<P> +And Gaston smiled, and the stupor fell upon him again. +</P> + +<P> +And then after a long time Jean heard footsteps without, then the +opening of the front door—and then it seemed to Jean that a +benediction had fallen upon the room. +</P> + +<P> +Framed in the doorway, a little worn black bag in his hand, his +<I>soutane</I> splashed high with mud though it was caught up now around his +waist with a cord, stood Father Anton, the beloved of all +Bernay-sur-Mer. And, as he stood there and the kindly blue eyes +searched the figure on the bed, the fine old face, under its crown of +silver hair, grew very grave—and without moving from his position he +beckoned to Jean. +</P> + +<P> +"Jean, my son," he said softly, "make our little Marie-Louise here put +on dry clothing. I will be a little while with Gaston alone." +</P> + +<P> +Marie-Louise was standing behind the priest. Father Anton stepped +aside for Jean to pass—and then the door dosed quietly. +</P> + +<P> +"Jean!"—she caught his arm. "Jean tell me!" +</P> + +<P> +Jean did not answer—there were no words with which to answer her. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Jean!" she said—and a little sob broke her voice. +</P> + +<P> +"Go and put on dry things, Marie-Louise," he said. +</P> + +<P> +"No—not now," she answered. "Give me your hand." +</P> + +<P> +They stood there in the darkness. He felt her hand tremble. Neither +spoke. Father Anton's voice, in a low, constant murmur, came to them +now. +</P> + +<P> +Her hand tightened. +</P> + +<P> +"I know," she said. "It is the Sacrament." +</P> + +<P> +"He said he had taught you to be never afraid," said Jean. +</P> + +<P> +Her hand tightened again. +</P> + +<P> +It was a long while. And then the door behind them opened, and Father +Anton came between them, and drew Marie-Louise's head to his bosom and +stroked her hair, and placed his other arm around Jean's shoulders—and +for a moment he stood like that—and then he drew them to the window. +</P> + +<P> +"See, my children," he said gently, "there are the stars, and there is +peace after the storm. It is so with sorrow, for out of the blackness +of grief God brings us comfort in His own good pleasure. He has called +Gaston home." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap0103"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +— II — +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +THE BEACON +</H4> + +<P> +It was half clay, half mud; but out of it one could fashion the little +<I>poupées</I>, the dolls for the children. They would not last very long, +it was true; but then one fashioned them quickly, and there was delight +in making them. +</P> + +<P> +Jean dug a piece of the clay with his sheaf knife, leaned over from the +bank of the little creek, and moistened it in the water. He dug +another, moistened that, moulded the two together—and Marie-Louise +smiled at him a little tremulously, as their eyes met. +</P> + +<P> +The tears were very near to those brave dark eyes since three days ago. +Jean mechanically added a third piece of clay to the other two. Much +had happened in those three days—all Bernay-sur-Mer seemed changed +since that afternoon when Gaston, so Marie-Louise had told him, seeing +a boat adrift and fearing there might be some one in it, had tried +during a lull in the storm to reach it with her assistance, and an oar +had broken, and the tide on the ebb had driven them close to the +Perigeau where they had swamped, and somehow Gaston had been flung upon +the outer edges of the reef, and the boat, sodden, weighted, following, +had crushed him against the rocks. +</P> + +<P> +Jean looked at Marie-Louise again. She was all in black now—she and +good Mother Fregeau had made the dress between them for the church that +morning, when Father Anton had said the mass for Gaston. But +Marie-Louise was not looking at him—her elbows were on the ground, her +chin was cupped in her hands, and the long black lashes veiled her +eyes. She had not told him any more of the story—Jean could picture +that for himself. How many times must she have risked her life to have +pulled Gaston to the rocks higher up upon the reef! A daughter of +France, Gaston had called her. <I>Bon Dieu</I>, but she was that, with her +courage and her strength! One would not think the strength was there, +but then the black dress did not cling like the wet clothes that other +night to show the litheness of the rounded limbs. +</P> + +<P> +His fingers began to work into the clay, unnaturally diffident and +hesitant at first, not with the deft certainty of their custom, but as +though groping tentatively for something that was curiously intangible, +that eluded them. Marie-Louise, as she had been that night, was living +before him again—the lines of her form so full of grace and so +beautiful, so full of the virility of her young womanhood, the shapely +head, the hair streaming in abandon about her shoulders—and it was +like and yet not like that great bronze statue so often in his dreams, +imaginary and yet so real, that was set in the midst of that great city +in a great square. And then suddenly, strangely, of their own +volition, it seemed, his fingers, where they had been hesitant before, +began now to work with a sure swiftness. +</P> + +<P> +His eyes were drinking in the contour of Marie-Louise's face in a rapt, +eager, subconscious way. There was something deeper there than the +mere prettiness of feature, something that was impressing itself in an +absorbing, insistent way upon him. Her face made him think of the face +of that statue—there was a hint of masculinity that brought with it no +coarseness, nor robbed it of its sweetness or its charm, but like that +massive face of bronze that towered high, that people with uplifted +heads stood and gazed upon, that none passed by without a pause, +stamped it with calm fearlessness; and courage and resolve outshone all +else and alone was dominant there. +</P> + +<P> +Marie-Louise sat up suddenly from the ground and turned toward him, her +brows gathered in a pretty, puzzled way. +</P> + +<P> +"Why do you look at me like that, Jean?" she demanded abruptly. "And +what are you doing there? It is not the doll you promised to make for +little Ninon Lachance—it is much too big." She leaned forward. "What +are you making?" +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Ma foi</I>!" Jean muttered, with a little start—and stared at the lump +of clay. "I—I do not know." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, then," said Marie-Louise gravely, "don't do any more. I want to +talk to you, Jean." +</P> + +<P> +"How, not do any more!" protested Jean whimsically. "Was it not you +who said, 'We will go to the creek this afternoon and make <I>poupées</I>'? +And look"—he jerked his hand toward a large basket on the ground +beside him—"to do that I shall perhaps not keep my promise to meet the +<I>Lucille</I> when she comes in and bring a panier of fish to Jacques +Fregeau at the Bas Rhône. And now you say, 'Don't do any more'!" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes; I know," admitted Marie-Louise. "But I want to talk to you. +Listen, Jean. To-morrow Mother Fregeau must go back to the Bas Rhône. +She has been too long away in her kindness now. You know how she came +to me the next morning after Uncle Gaston died, and put her arms around +me and has stayed ever since." +</P> + +<P> +Jean shifted the lump of clay a little away from Marie-Louise, but his +fingers still worked on. +</P> + +<P> +"She has a heart of gold," asserted Jean. "Who should know any better +than I, who have lived with her all these years?" +</P> + +<P> +Marie-Louise's eyes travelled slowly in a half tender, half pensive way +over Jean. His coat was off; the loose shirt was open at the neck +displaying the muscular shoulders, and the sleeves were rolled up over +the brown, tanned arms; the powerful hands, powerful for all their +long, slim, tapering fingers, worked on and on; the black hair +clustered truantly, as it always did, over the broad, high forehead. +She had known Jean all her life, as many years as she could remember, +and her love for him was very deep. It had come to seem her life, that +love; and each night in her prayers she had asked the <I>bon Dieu</I> to +bless and take care of Jean, and to make her a good wife to him when +that time should come. It was so great, that love, that sometimes it +frightened her—somehow it was frightening her now, for there was a +side to Jean that, well as she knew him, she felt intuitively she had +never been able to understand. +</P> + +<P> +She spoke abruptly again, a little absently. +</P> + +<P> +"I do not know yet what I am to do. There is the house, and Father +Anton says I must not live there alone." +</P> + +<P> +"But, no!" agreed Jean. "Of course not! That is what I say, too. It +is all the more reason why we should not wait any longer, you and I, +Marie-Louise." +</P> + +<P> +A tinge of colour crept shyly into Marie-Louise's face, as she shook +her head. +</P> + +<P> +"No; we must wait, Jean. It is too soon after—after poor Uncle +Gaston." +</P> + +<P> +"But it was Gaston's wish, that," persisted Jean gently. "Have I not +told you what he said, <I>petite</I>?" +</P> + +<P> +Again Marie-Louise shook her head. +</P> + +<P> +"But one is sad for all that," she answered. "And to go to the church, +Jean, when one is sad, when one should go so happy! Oh, I want to be +happy then, Jean. I do not want to think of anything that day but only +you, Jean—and sing, and there must be sunshine and fête. But now, for +a little while, it is Uncle Gaston. You do not think that wrong?" +</P> + +<P> +"No," said Jean slowly, "it is not wrong, and I understand; but then, +too, Gaston would understand, for it was his wish." +</P> + +<P> +Marie-Louise bent forward with a strange little impulsive movement. +</P> + +<P> +"That is twice you have said that, Jean," she said. "I—I almost wish +Uncle Gaston had not said what he did to you that night. Jean, it—it +is not what he said, nor what you said to him. That must not make any +difference. Never, never, Jean! One does not marry for that—it is +only if there is love." +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Mais, 'cré nom</I>!" exclaimed Jean, suddenly setting aside his clay and +catching Marie-Louise's face between his hands. "Why do you talk like +that? What queer fancies are in that little head? Now, tell me"—he +kissed her lips, while the blood rushed crimson to her cheeks—"tell +me, is that not answer enough? And have we not loved each other long +before that night, and does not all Bernay-sur-Mer know that it will +dance at the <I>noces</I>?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," whispered Marie-Louise, a little breathlessly. +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, then," said Jean tenderly, "you must not talk like that. What, +Marie-Louise, if I should say to myself, 'now perhaps Marie-Louise has +not loved me all these years, and—'" +</P> + +<P> +She drew hurriedly away. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't, Jean!" she said quickly. "It hurts, that! I love you so much +that sometimes I am afraid. And to-day I am afraid. I do not know +why. And sometimes it is so different. That night on the reef when I +thought that soon the rocks would be covered and that there was no help +for Uncle Gaston and myself, and that no one could come to us even if +we were seen, I saw your lantern and the <I>bon Dieu</I> told me it was you +and I had no more fear. I was so sure then—so sure then. Oh, Jean, +you must be very good to me to-day. It—it was so hard"—the dark eyes +were swimming now with tears—"to say good-bye to Uncle Gaston. +Perhaps it is that that is making me feel so strangely. But sometimes +it seems as though it could never be, the great happiness for you and +me, it is so great to think about that—that it frightens me. And I +have wanted to talk to you about it, Jean, often and often. Does it +make you very glad and happy, too, to think of just you and me together +here, and our home, and the fishing, and—and years and years of it?" +</P> + +<P> +"But, yes; of course!" smiled Jean; and, picking up the clay again, +began to scrape at it with his knife. +</P> + +<P> +"But are you sure, Jean?"—there was a little tremor in her voice. "I +do not mean so much that you are sure you love me, but that you are +sure you would always be happy to stay here in Bernay-sur-Mer. You are +not like the other men." +</P> + +<P> +"How not like them?" Jean demanded, surveying in an absorbed sort of +way the little clay figure that was taking on rough outline now. "How +not like them?" +</P> + +<P> +"Well—that!"—Marie-Louise pointed at the clay in his hands. "That, +for one thing—that you are always playing with, that it seems you +cannot put aside for an instant, even though I asked you to a moment +ago. You are always making the <I>poupées</I>, and if not the <I>poupées</I> +with mud and dirt, then you must waste the inside of Mother Fregeau's +loaves that she bakes herself, or steal the dough before it reaches the +oven to keep your fingers busy making little faces and droll things out +of it." +</P> + +<P> +Jean looked up to stare at Marie-Louise a little perplexedly. +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Mais, zut</I>!" he exclaimed. "And what of that! And if I amuse myself +that way, what of that? It is nothing!" +</P> + +<P> +"Nevertheless," Marie-Louise insisted, nodding her head earnestly, "it +is true what I have said—that you are not like the other men in +Bernay-sur-Mer. Do you think that I have not watched you, Jean? And +have you not said little things to show that you grow tired of the +fishing?" +</P> + +<P> +"But that is true of everybody," Jean protested. "Does not Father +Anton say that all the world is poor because there is none in it who is +contented? And if I grumble sometimes, do not all the others do the +same? Pierre Lachance will swear to you twice every hour that the +fishing is a dog's life." +</P> + +<P> +She shook her head. +</P> + +<P> +"It is different," she said. "You are not Pierre Lachance, Jean, and I +want you to be happy all your life—that is what I ask the <I>bon Dieu</I> +for always in my prayers. And I do not know why these thoughts come, +and I do not understand them, only I know that they are there." +</P> + +<P> +"Then—<I>voilà</I>! We will drive them away, and they must never come +back!" Jean burst out, half gaily, half gravely. "See, now, +Marie-Louise"—he caught her hand in both of his, putting aside the +lump of clay again—"it is true that sometimes I am like that, and I do +not understand either; but one must take things as they are, is that +not so?" +</P> + +<P> +She nodded—a little doubtfully. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, then," cried Jean, "why should I not be happy here? Have I not +you, and is that not most of all? And as for the rest, do I not do +well with the fishing? Is there any who does better? Do they not +speak of the luck of Jean Laparde? <I>'Cré nom</I>! Different from the +others! Who is a fisherman if it is not I, who have been a fisherman +all my life? And of what good is it to wish for anything else? What +else, even if I wanted to, could I do? I do not know anything else but +the boats and the nets. Is it not so, Marie-Louise?" +</P> + +<P> +"Y-yes," she said, and her eyes lifted to meet his. +</P> + +<P> +"And happy!" he went on. "Ah, Marie-Louise, with those bright eyes of +yours that belong all to me, who could be anything but happy? <I>Tiens</I>! +You are to be my little wife, and Bernay-sur-Mer and the blue water is +to be our home, and we will fish together, and you shall sing all day +in the boat, and—well, what more is there to ask for?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Jean!"—she was smiling now. +</P> + +<P> +"There, you see!" said Jean, and burst out laughing. "Marie-Louise is +herself again, and—<I>pouf</I>!—the blue devils are blown away. And now +wait until I have finished this, and I will show you something"—he +picked up the clay once more. "Only you must not look until it is +done." +</P> + +<P> +"Mustn't I? Oh!"—with a little <I>moue</I> of resignation. "Well, then, +hurry, Jean," she commanded, and cupped her chin in her hands again, +her elbows propped upon the ground. +</P> + +<P> +It was playfully that Jean turned his back upon her, hiding his work, +but as his fingers began again to draw and model the clay and his knife +to chisel it, the smile went slowly from his face and his lips grew +firmly closed. It was strange that Marie-Louise should have known! It +was true, the fishing grew irksome too often now; for those moods, like +the mood in the storm, came very often, much more often than they had +been wont to do. He had laughed at her, but that was only to pretend, +to chase the sadness away and make her eyes shine again. It was true, +too, as he had told her, that one must take things as they were. +Whether he wanted to fish or not, he must fish—<I>voilà</I>! How else +could one make the <I>sous</I> with which to live? +</P> + +<P> +Oh, yes, he had laughed to make her laugh; but now, <I>pardieu</I>! it was +bringing that mood upon himself. Where was that great city and that +great square, and what was that great statue before which the people +stood rapt and spellbound, and why should it come so often to his +thoughts and be so real as though it were a very truth and not some +queer imagination of his brain? There were wonderful things in the +face of that bronze figure. He leaned a little forward toward the clay +before him, his lips half parted now, his fingers seeming to tingle +with a life, throbbing, palpitant, that was all their own, that was +apart from him entirely, for they possessed a power of movement and a +purpose that he had nothing to do with. He became absorbed in his +work, lost in it. Time passed. +</P> + +<P> +"Jean," Marie-Louise called out, "let me see it now." +</P> + +<P> +"Wait!" he said almost harshly. "Wait! Wait! Wait!" +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Jean</I>!"—it was a hurt little cry. +</P> + +<P> +He did not hear her. There was something at the base of that statue of +his dreams that always troubled him, that the people always pointed at +as they gazed; but he had never been able to make out what it was there +at the base of the statue. It was very strange that he was never able +to see that, when he could see the figure of the woman with the +wonderful face so plainly! +</P> + +<P> +He worked on and on. There were neither hours nor minutes—the +afternoon deepened. There was no creek, no Marie-Louise, no +Bernay-sur-Mer, nothing—only those dreams and the little clay figure +in his hands. +</P> + +<P> +And then Marie-Louise, her face a little white, timidly touched his arm. +</P> + +<P> +"Jean!" she said hesitantly. +</P> + +<P> +Her voice roused him. It seemed as though he was awakened from a +sleep. He brushed the hair back from his eyes, and looked around. +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Mon Dieu</I>," he said, "but that was, strange!" And then he smiled, +still a little dazed, and lifted around the clay figure for her to see. +"I do not know if it is finished," he said, staring at it; "but perhaps +I could do no better with it even if I worked longer." +</P> + +<P> +Marie-Louise's eyes, puzzled, anxious, on Jean's face, shifted to the +little clay figure—and their expression changed instantly. +</P> + +<P> +"But, Jean!" she cried, clasping her hands. "But, Jean, that is not a +<I>poupée</I> you have made there. It—it will never do at all! Ninon +Lachance would break the arms off at the first minute, and it is too +<I>charmante</I> for that. Oh, but, Jean, it—it is <I>adorable</I>!" +</P> + +<P> +Jean was inspecting the figure in a curiously abstracted way, as though +he had never seen it before, turning his head now to this side, now to +that, and turning the clay around and around in his hands to examine it +from all angles, while a heightened colour crept into his face and dyed +his cheeks. It was a small figure, hardly a foot and a half in +height—the figure of a fisherwoman, barefooted, in short skirts, the +clothes as though windswept clinging close around her limbs, her arms +stretched out as to the sea. He laughed a little unnaturally. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, then, since it will not do for Ninon Lachance, and you like it, +Marie-Louise," he said a little self-consciously; "it is for you." +</P> + +<P> +"For me—Jean? Really for me?" she asked happily. +</P> + +<P> +"And why not?" said Jean. "Since it <I>is</I> you." +</P> + +<P> +"Me!"—she looked at him in a prettily bewildered way. +</P> + +<P> +"But, yes," said Jean, holding the figure off at arm's length. "See, +it is a beacon—the welcome of the fisherman home from the sea. And +are you not that, Marie-Louise, and will you not stand on the shore at +evening and hold out your arms for me as I pull home in the boat? Are +you not the beacon, Marie-Louise—for me?" +</P> + +<P> +Her hand stole over one of his and pressed it, but it was a moment +before she spoke. +</P> + +<P> +"I will pray to the <I>bon Dieu</I> to make me that, Jean—always," she said +softly. +</P> + +<P> +He drew her close to him. +</P> + +<P> +"It is the luck of Jean Laparde!" he whispered tenderly. +</P> + +<P> +They sat for a little time in silence—then Jean sprang sharply to his +feet. +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Ma foi</I>, Marie-Louise!" he called out in sudden consternation, +glancing at the sun. "I did not know we had been here so long." He +picked up the little clay figure hastily, placed it in the basket, +threw his coat, that was on the ground, over it, and, swinging the +basket to the crook of his arm, held out his hand to Marie-Louise. +"Come, <I>petite</I>, we will hurry back." +</P> + +<P> +It was not far across the fields and down the little rise to the road +that paralleled the beach; and in some five minutes, walking quickly, +they came out upon the road itself by the turn near the rough wooden +bridge that crossed the creek halfway between the eastern headland and +the white, clustering cottages of Bernay-sur-Mer. But here, for all +their hurry, they paused suddenly of one accord, looking at each other +questioningly, as voices reached them from the direction of the bridge +which, still hidden from their view, was just around the bend of the +road ahead. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center"> +<SPAN STYLE="letter-spacing: 4em">*****</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P> +"But, my dear"—it was a man speaking, his tone a sort of tolerant +protest—"I am sure it is just the place we have been looking for. It +is quiet here." +</P> + +<P> +"Quiet!"—it was a woman's voice this time, in a wealth of irony. "It +is stagnation! There isn't a single thing alive here—even the sea is +dead! It is enough to give one the blues for the rest of one's life! +And the accommodations at that unspeakable tavern are absolutely +appalling. I can't imagine what you are dreaming of to want to stay +another minute! I'm quite sure there are lots of other places that +will furnish all the rest and quiet required, and where, at the same +time, we can at least be comfortable. Anyway, I'm not going to stay +here!" +</P> + +<P> +"But, Myrna, you—" +</P> + +<P> +"There is some one coming," said the girl. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center"> +<SPAN STYLE="letter-spacing: 4em">*****</SPAN><BR> +</P> + +<P> +Jean and Marie-Louise were walking forward again. +</P> + +<P> +"What are they saying, Jean?" asked Marie-Louise. +</P> + +<P> +Jean shook his head. +</P> + +<P> +"I do not know," he answered. "It is English. See! There they are!" +</P> + +<P> +An elderly, well-dressed man, grey-haired, clean-shaven, a little +stout, with a wholesomely good-natured, ruddy face, was leaning against +the railing of the bridge; and beside him, digging at the planks with +the tip of her parasol, stood a girl in dainty white, her head bent +forward, her face hidden under the wide brim of a picture hat. +</P> + +<P> +Jean's eyes, attracted as by a magnet, passed over the man and fixed +upon the girl. At Nice, at Monte Carlo, so they said, one saw many +such as she; but Bernay-sur-Mer was neither Nice nor Monte Carlo, and +he had never seen a woman gowned like that before. <I>'Cré nom</I>, what +exquisite harmony of line and poise! If she would but look up! <I>Bon +Dieu</I>, but it would be a desecration of the picture if she were not +gloriously pretty! +</P> + +<P> +The gentleman, nodding pleasantly, greeted them as they approached. +</P> + +<P> +"Good afternoon!" he said smilingly, in French. +</P> + +<P> +The girl had raised her head, grey eyes sweeping Marie-Louise with well +bred indifference—and Jean was staring at her. +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Bon jour, m'sieu</I>!"—he spoke mechanically, lifted his cap +mechanically. +</P> + +<P> +His eyes had not left the girl's face. He could not take his eyes from +her face. It was a wonderful face, a beautiful face, and something in +it thrilled him and bade him feast his eyes upon it to drink in its +beauty. And, his head thrown back exposing the bare rugged neck, the +broad, sturdy shoulders unconsciously squared a little, the fine, dark +eyes wide with admiration and a strange, keen appraisement, the +splendid physique, the strength, the power and vigour of young manhood +outstanding in face and form, he gazed at her. And her eyes, from +Marie-Louise, met his, and from them faded their expression of +indifference, and into them came something Jean could not define, only +that as the blood rushed suddenly unbidden to his face and he felt it +hot upon his cheeks, he saw the colour ebb from hers to a queer +whiteness—and then her hat hid her face again—and he had passed by. +</P> + +<P> +It was as though his veins were running fire. He glanced at +Marie-Louise. Shyly diffident in the presence of strangers, her head +was lowered. She had seen nothing. Seen nothing! Seen what? He did +not know. His blood was tingling, his brain was confusion. +</P> + +<P> +He walked on, hurrying unconsciously. +</P> + +<P> +It was Marie-Louise who spoke. +</P> + +<P> +"They are of the <I>grand monde</I>," she said in a sort of wondering +excitement, when they were out of ear-shot. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," said Jean absently. +</P> + +<P> +"And English or American." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," said Jean. +</P> + +<P> +"But the rich people do not come to Bernay-sur-Mer where there is no +amusement for them," she submitted with a puzzled air. "I wonder what +they are going to do here?" +</P> + +<P> +Jean's eyes were on the road. He did not raise them. +</P> + +<P> +"Who knows!" said Jean Laparde. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap0104"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +— IV — +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +STRANGERS WITHIN THE GATES +</H4> + +<P> +"Until to-morrow"—the words kept echoing in Jean's ears, as he hurried +now on his way back to the Bas Rhône. "Until to-morrow"—Marie-Louise +had called to him, as he had left the house on the bluff after taking +her home. Well, what was there unusual in that! Though he went often, +he did not go to see Marie-Louise every evening, and it was not the +first time she had ever said it. Why should he be vaguely conscious of +a sort of relief that she had said "until to-morrow" on this particular +occasion? It was a very strange way to feel—but then his mind was in +the most curiously jumbled state! That meeting at the bridge of less +than half an hour ago obsessed him. Where had they come from, these +strangers? How long were they going to stay? Or, perhaps—an +unaccountable dismay suddenly seized him—perhaps they had already +gone! But Papa Fregeau, of course, would know all that—therefore, +naturally, he was impatient to reach the Bas Rhône and Papa Fregeau. +</P> + +<P> +The empty basket on his arm, for Marie-Louise had taken the beacon and +he had forgotten all about Papa Fregeau's fish, Jean paused as he +reached the bridge. It was here that look had passed between them. He +would never forget that. It meant nothing—he was not a fool—it could +mean nothing. It was only a look, only an instant in which those grey +eyes had met his—but he would never forget it! +</P> + +<P> +He hurried on again. +</P> + +<P> +Perhaps he had imagined that expression, that flash, that spark, that +something that was impellingly magnetic in those grey eyes. No, he had +not imagined it; he had felt it, known it, sensed it. In that one +instant something had passed between them that in all his life he would +never forget—it had left him like a man adrift on a shoreless sea with +the startling wonder of it. She was of the <I>grand monde</I>—Marie-Louise +had said it. And he was a fisherman. She could have no interest in a +fisherman; and what interest could a fisherman—bah, it was pitifully +laughable! But it was not laughable! If he could only define that +look! It was as if—<I>bon Dieu</I>, what was it!—as if she were a woman +and he were a man. Yes; it was that! It was only for a moment, by now +she would have forgotten it; but for that moment it had been that. +Only, whereas she would have forgotten, with him it remained. It was +curious—her form was even more like that dream statue than was +Marie-Louise's. If by any chance she should already have gone! The +thought, recurring, brought once more that twinge of dismay. Was it +strange that he should want to see her again! True, she would never +look at him like that a second time, she had been off her guard for +that little instant when there had been no <I>grand monde</I> and no +fisherman, but she was still the same beautiful woman, glorious in form +and face—and the allurement of her presence was like some rare, +exquisite fragrance stealing upon the senses, enslaving them. +</P> + +<P> +And now, as he approached the little village, and passed the first +cottage, with the Bas Rhône in sight beyond, he found himself eagerly +searching the beach, the single street for sign of her. But there was +no sign. Everything about the village was as it always was every early +evening in Bernay-sur-Mer, when it was summer and the light held late. +Strewn out along the beach, the men were at work upon their boats and +nets; the children played about the doorways; through the open doors +one could see the women busy over the evening meal—nothing else! And +surely there would have been some stir of excitement if the strangers +were still there, at least amongst the children—it was an event, that, +to Bernay-sur-Mer. They had gone then, evidently! +</P> + +<P> +Jean's eyes lifted from a fruitless sweep of the beach to fix on the +figure of Papa Fregeau emerging on the run from the Bas Rhône. +</P> + +<P> +"The fish, Jean! The fish!" the fat little man called out breathlessly. +</P> + +<P> +"The fish?" repeated Jean—and then, a little sheepishly, stared into +the empty basket. +</P> + +<P> +Papa Fregeau, who had reached Jean's side, was staring into it too. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes—the fish! The fish!" he shouted. "Where are the fish you +promised to bring back?" +</P> + +<P> +And then Jean laughed. +</P> + +<P> +"Why," said Jean, "I—I think I must have forgotten them." +</P> + +<P> +Papa Fregeau was excited. He began to dance up and down, his fat +paunch shaking like jelly. +</P> + +<P> +"Idiot! Imbecile!" he stormed. "Have I not had trouble enough without +this! <I>Sacré bleu de misericorde</I>! What an afternoon! And you +laugh—<I>bête</I>, that you are! And now what shall I do?" +</P> + +<P> +"Do?" said Jean—-and stopped laughing. "What is the matter?" +</P> + +<P> +"Matter!" spluttered the patron of the Bas Rhône. "Matter! Have I not +told you what is the matter? The fish!" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, but a few fish," said Jean, eyeing the other in a half puzzled +way. "What are a few fish that you—" +</P> + +<P> +"You do not understand!"—Papa Fregeau was still dancing up and down as +he kept step with Jean, who had now started on again toward the Bas +Rhône. "Listen! They are Americans of Paris, they say! They arrive +in an automobile this afternoon—mademoiselle and her father, the maid +and the chauffeur. It is fine, they stop at the Bas Rhône and engage +rooms. Excellent! Nothing could be better. There is profit in that. +I carry the trunks, the valises, a multitude of effects that are +strapped all over the automobile to the rooms, and am on the point of +sending for Mother Fregeau at Marie-Louise's. <I>Sapristi</I>—I do not +pretend to be a cook! They start out for a walk, the mademoiselle and +her father—and the mademoiselle, before they are out of sight from the +window, returns to say that they will not stay, that I shall repack +everything on that accursed car in readiness for their departure on the +return from their walk. <I>Tourment de Satan</I>!—very good, I repack it. +And now you bring no fish!" +</P> + +<P> +Jean shrugged his shoulders. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, since they are gone, what does it matter?" +</P> + +<P> +"Gone! <I>Tonnerre</I>!"—Papa Fregeau's face was apoplectic, and his fat +cheeks puffed in and out like toy balloons. "Gone! Have I not told +you that they are not gone!" +</P> + +<P> +"You have told me nothing"—there was a sudden, quick interest in +Jean's voice. "They are gone—and they are not gone! What are you +talking about?" +</P> + +<P> +"I do not know what I am talking about!" snapped Papa Fregeau fiercely. +"How should I know! It is first this, then that, then this, then +that—it is a <I>badauderie</I>! She is crazy, the girl; the father is no +better; the maid, Nanette, is a hussy. She slapped my face when I but +paid her a pretty compliment; and Jules, the chauffeur, is a pig who +lies on his back under the infernal machine and will not lift a finger +with the baggage. Wait! Listen! Come here!" He pulled Jean in +through the door and across the café to the bar at the far end of the +room, where he hastily decanted a glass of cognac and tossed it off. +"See! Listen!" he went on excitedly, replenishing his glass. "I +repack everything on the machine again, which is out there behind the +tavern. I climb the stairs and I descend the stairs three dozen times, +there is always one more package. And then fifteen minutes ago +mademoiselle returns from her walk alone, and waves her +hands—<I>pouf</I>!—just like that—and she says: 'Monsieur Fregeau, we +will stay; take the baggage back to the rooms!' <I>C'est insupportable, +ça</I>!" Papa Fregeau flung out his arms in abandoned despair. "And now +there is no supper for them. <I>Sapristi</I>, I am no cook; but I could +cook fish if you, <I>misérable</I> that you are, had brought them—heh! And +it is too late now to send for Mother Fregeau." +</P> + +<P> +Jean was paying but slender attention. They had not gone! They were +going to stay! +</P> + +<P> +"Get Madame Lachance, next door, to help you," he said absently. Then +abruptly: "Mademoiselle returned alone, you say—and what of monsieur, +her father?" +</P> + +<P> +Papa Fregeau made a gulp at his second glass. +</P> + +<P> +"He is impossible!" he choked. "With him it is the sunset! Who ever +heard of such a thing! He is on the beach to gaze at the sunset! <I>Nom +d'un nom</I>, is it extraordinary that the sun should set! But it is not +him, it is mademoiselle. I am sure he knows nothing of all this, and +concerns himself less. It is mademoiselle's doing. And I have had +enough! I will not any longer be made a fool of!" He banged his pudgy +fist on the <I>comptoir</I>. "Is it to stand on my head that I am patron of +the Bas Rhône! <I>Sacré bleu</I>! I will not support it! I tell you that +I will not—" Papa Fregeau's mouth remained wide open. +</P> + +<P> +"Monsieur Fregeau!" a voice called softly in excellent French from the +rear door. "Nanette is struggling with a valise on the back stairs +that is much too heavy for her, and perhaps if you—" +</P> + +<P> +Papa Fregeau's mouth closed, opened again—and, in his haste to make a +bow, the cognac glass became a shower of tinkling splinters on the +floor. +</P> + +<P> +"But <I>immediatement</I>! Instantly, Mademoiselle!" cried Papa Fregeau +effusively. "On the moment! A valise that is too heavy for her! It +is a sacrilege! It is unpardonable! Instantly, Mademoiselle, on the +instant! On the moment!"—and he rushed from the room. +</P> + +<P> +She stood in the doorway; and, from under bewitchingly half closed +lids, the grey eyes met Jean's. And under her gaze that was quite +calm, unruffled, self-possessed now, the blood rushed tingling again +through his veins, and again he felt it mounting to his cheeks. She +wore no hat now; and, with the sun's last rays through the doorway +falling softly upon her wealth of hair, it was as though it were a +wondrously woven mass of glinting bronze that crowned her head. +</P> + +<P> +Jean's cap was in his hand. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh!" she said. "You are the"—there was just a trace of hesitation +over the choice of the word—"the man who passed us on the bridge a +little while ago, aren't you?" +</P> + +<P> +There was something, a sort of indefinable challenge, in the voice and +eyes, a carelessness that, well as it was simulated, was not wholly +genuine. Jean's eyes met the grey ones, held them—and suddenly he +smiled, accepting the challenge. +</P> + +<P> +"It is good of mademoiselle to recognise me," he answered. +</P> + +<P> +She stared at him for an instant, her eyes opening wide; and then, with +a contagious, impulsive laugh, she came forward into the room. +</P> + +<P> +"Of course!" she cried. "You would answer like that! I knew it! You +are less like a fisherman, for all your clothes, than any man I ever +saw." +</P> + +<P> +"I?" said Jean, in quick surprise. It was strange she had said that! +It was only that afternoon that Marie-Louise had said almost the same +thing. Not like a fisherman! Why not? What was this imagined +difference between himself and the other men in Bernay-sur-Mer? +</P> + +<P> +"Yes; you," she returned briskly. "And now I suppose you will tell me +that you were born here, and have lived here all your life?" +</P> + +<P> +"But yes, mademoiselle," he smiled again, and shrugged his shoulders; +"since it is so. I have never been anywhere else." +</P> + +<P> +"And since it is so, it must be so," she nodded. "What is your name?" +</P> + +<P> +"Jean Laparde," he replied. +</P> + +<P> +"Jean"—she repeated the word deliberately. "I like Jean," she +decided, nodding her head again. "I like Laparde, too, but I will call +you Jean." +</P> + +<P> +Jean's eyes met hers a little quizzically. She carried things by +assault, this beautiful American girl! There was a certain element of +intimacy, an air of proprietorship adopted toward him that somehow, at +one and the same time, quickened his pulse at the vague promise that +they would not be strangers if only she should stay in Bernay-sur-Mer, +and piqued his man-mind at the hint of mastery being snatched from him. +</P> + +<P> +"All call me Jean," he said quietly. +</P> + +<P> +"Then that is settled!" she announced brightly. "Now tell me—Jean. +Is there any other place in the village besides this impossible Taverne +du Bas Rhône where we could stay for a week—a month—as long as we +liked?" +</P> + +<P> +"A week—a month!"—Jean leaned suddenly toward her, an incredulous +delight unconsciously spontaneous in his voice. "You are going to stay +that long? But Papa Fregeau said you had no sooner arrived than you +decided to go again, and—" +</P> + +<P> +"Your Papa Fregeau has a tongue that runs away with him," she +interrupted quickly. "One may change one's mind, I suppose? This +place will do for to-night; but afterwards—surely there is some other +place where we could stay?" +</P> + +<P> +Jean shook his head. +</P> + +<P> +"There is only the Bas Rhône," he said slowly. "I—I am afraid—" +</P> + +<P> +"And now, after all, you are going to be stupid!" she exclaimed +reproachfully. +</P> + +<P> +What was it? What did she mean? It was not the words—they were +nothing. It was the tone, her eyes, an appeal in the exquisite grace +of the lithe form bending toward him, the touch of the fingers laid +lightly on his sleeve, that look again that levelled all barriers +between them—until she was a woman and he was a man. His mind was in +riot. He was a fool! And yet, fool or no, the thought would come. +Why did she want to stay now? Papa Fregeau had said that almost on +their arrival they had decided to go on. It was during her walk that +she had changed her mind. What had happened on that walk to make her +change her mind? A walk in Bernay-sur-Mer was not full of incident! +It was ridiculous, absurd, fantastical, but it was there, the thought, +sweeping him with a surge of wild emotion—was it that meeting on the +bridge? But why? How? He was a rough-garbed fisherman, and she— +</P> + +<P> +She laughed delightedly. +</P> + +<P> +"What a frown! How fierce you are! Is it then such a terrible affair +to help me a little—Jean?" +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Mon Dieu</I>!" cried Jean—and the words were on his lips with a rush. +"But—<I>no</I>!" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh!" she murmured, and drew back a little; and the colour, rising, +glowed pink through her cheeks. "You <I>are</I> impulsive, aren't you? +Well, then, since you are to help me, what are we to do?" +</P> + +<P> +Jean's eyes were revelling in that pink flush. It was satisfying to +the man-mind, that—even though she were of the <I>grand monde</I> then, a +woman was a woman after all. It was a sort of turning of the tables, +that added to the magnetism of her presence because it put him suddenly +more at his ease. But to help her—that was another matter. +Bernay-sur-Mer was—Bernay-sur-Mer! <I>Voilà tout</I>! Apart from the Bas +Rhône there was no accommodation for strangers, for there was nothing +stranger than strangers in Bernay-sur-Mer. Since then there was no +other place for them to go, he could think of no other place. And yet, +a week, a month—to think that she would spend that time in +Bernay-sur-Mer! <I>Ciel</I>! Where were his brains? +</P> + +<P> +"Well?" she prompted, with alluring imperiousness. +</P> + +<P> +It was the force of habit. In trouble, in perplexity, in joy, in +sorrow, for counsel, for advice there was but one court of appeal in +Bernay-sur-Mer—the good Father Anton. The rôle of Father Anton was +not only spiritual—it was secular. Bernay-sur-Mer was a child and +Father Anton was its parent—it had always been so. +</P> + +<P> +"I will ask Father Anton," said Jean. +</P> + +<P> +"Father Anton? Who is Father Anton?" she demanded. +</P> + +<P> +"He is the curé," Jean answered. "I do not know of any place, but +Father Anton will know if there is any, and—" +</P> + +<P> +"Splendid!" she broke in excitedly. "Let us go and ask Father Anton at +once. Come along"—she crossed the café to the front door. "Come +along, Jean, and show me the way." +</P> + +<P> +Yes, certainly, she carried things by assault this American girl. She +bubbled with life and vivacity. And he was to walk with her now to +Father Anton's—half an hour ago he would as soon have dreamed of +possessing a fortune! It was incredible! It must be a marvellous +world that, where she came from—but no, even the women of her world +could not be like her! The suppleness of her form, it was divine; the +carriage, the poise, the smile—it was intoxication, it went to the +senses! +</P> + +<P> +"I am mad! It is as though—as though I were drunk with wine!" Jean +muttered—and followed her across the room. +</P> + +<P> +"Now where is this Father Anton of yours?"—as Jean joined her outside +the tavern. +</P> + +<P> +"There," said Jean, and pointed along the street. "Do you see the +church—behind the second cottage? Well, it is there—just on the +other side." +</P> + +<P> +She nodded—and Jean, glancing at her, found that she was not looking +in that direction at all. Instead, she seemed wholly engaged in +watching a boat start shoreward, as it pulled away from the side of a +smack anchored out in the bay. Father Anton might have been the last +thing that concerned her. Jean's eyes, a little puzzled, followed +hers. When he looked up again, the grey eyes were laughing at him. +</P> + +<P> +"Is it quite safe out there?" she asked, waving her hand. +</P> + +<P> +"Safe?" repeated Jean, in a bewildered way. +</P> + +<P> +"Stupid!" she cried merrily. "Yes, of course—safe! If I am to stay +here, I cannot lie all day upon the beach and do nothing. You have a +boat, haven't you, Jean?" +</P> + +<P> +"But, yes," said Jean. +</P> + +<P> +"Then I am quite sure it will be safe," she decided. "I must have a +boat, and, of course, a boatman. You will be the boatman, Jean. Oh, I +really believe that, after all, Bernay-sur-Mer will be possible. There +will be places where we can go, little excursions, and heaps of things +like that. There, that is settled! And now I am more eager than ever +to see Father Anton." +</P> + +<P> +Yes; it was settled! It was phrase of hers, that! To have demurred +would have been as impossible as to have said no. And, besides, he had +no wish to either demur or refuse. It seemed as though he were hurried +forward captive into some strange, unknown land of enchantment. It +staggered him, bewildered him, lured him, fired his imagination—and +there was no desire to rouse himself from what seemed like a wonderful +dream. No woman that he had ever seen, or imagined was like her. To +spend a day where he could feast his eyes upon her!—and did she not +now talk of many days! Even a fisherman might lift his eyes as high as +that—since she gave him leave. Afterwards, she would go away again; +but, <I>bon Dieu</I>, one could at least live in the present! It would be +something to remember! Her eyes were on him again. He felt them +studying him. Her hand brushed his arm. There was a faint, enticing +fragrance of violets in the air about her. +</P> + +<P> +"You are not very gallant, Jean!" she laughed out. "Aren't you pleased +with the suggestion; or would you rather—fish?" +</P> + +<P> +They had reached the church, and turned. +</P> + +<P> +"I was thinking," said Jean, with unconscious naïveté, "that I was +afraid Father Anton would not know of any place." +</P> + +<P> +She looked at him quickly, a flash in the grey eyes—then the lids +lowered. The next instant she was pointing ahead of her. +</P> + +<P> +"But there!" she cried out. "There is Monsieur le Curé's house, is it +not?" She clapped her hands in sudden delight. "Why, it is a +play-house, only a make-believe one! And how pretty!" +</P> + +<P> +Behind the church was a little garden, full-flowered; a little white +fence; a little white gate; and, at the end of the garden, a little +cottage, smaller than any, where none were large, in Bernay-sur-Mer, +and which was white in colour, too, if one might hazard a guess for the +vines that grew over it, covering it, submerging it, clothing it in a +clinging mass of green, until only the little stubby chimney peeked +shyly out from the centre of the slanting roof. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," said Jean; "and there is Father Anton himself." +</P> + +<P> +A bare-headed, silver-haired form in rusty black <I>soutane</I>, a watering +pot in hand, was bending over a bed of dahlias; but at the sound of +their approach the priest put down the watering pot, and came hurriedly +toward them to the gate. +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, Jean, my son!" he cried out heartily—and bowed with old-fashioned +courtliness to Jean's companion. "I heard there were strangers in +Bernay-sur-Mer, mademoiselle; but that they had gone on again. You are +very welcome. Won't you come in?" +</P> + +<P> +She leaned upon the gate, smiling—and shook her head. +</P> + +<P> +"No, thank you, Monsieur le Curé. I must not stay long, or my father +will be wondering what could have become of me. The truth is, that +I—we are in trouble, and Jean here has brought me to you." +</P> + +<P> +"Trouble!" exclaimed Father Anton anxiously, and his face grew suddenly +grave. +</P> + +<P> +She shook her head again, and laughed. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, it is not serious! You see—but I must introduce myself. I am +Myrna Bliss. My father is Henry Bliss—I wonder if you have ever heard +of him? We have lived for years and years in Paris." +</P> + +<P> +Father Anton was genuinely embarrassed. +</P> + +<P> +"I—I am afraid I never have," he admitted. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, well," she cried gaily, "you mustn't feel badly about it. His is +entirely a reflected glory—that is what I tell him. Art! Everything +is art with him, painting, sculpture, literature; and, as he can do +neither one nor the other himself, he endows a school for this, or a +<I>société</I> for that, and money exists for only one reason—the +advancement of art. And since he calls Paris the home of art, we live +in Paris. But now I am prattling like a school girl"—she laughed +infectiously. +</P> + +<P> +The curé's old face wrinkled into smiles. +</P> + +<P> +"It is very interesting, mademoiselle," he said. "And here in +Bernay-sur-Mer I fear we know too little of such things." He reached +across the fence and laid his hand affectionately on Jean's shoulder. +"But it is not quite all our fault, is it, Jean? The <I>sous</I> come hard +with the fishing, and we do not have much time for anything outside our +own little world. I should greatly like to talk with monsieur, your +father. Is it possible that you are to stay a little while here?" +</P> + +<P> +"If we do"—the girl's face was a picture of roguish merriment—"you +will not be able to escape him, I promise you, Monsieur le Curé—so +beware! But that is our trouble. My father is on what he calls a +little holiday—it is really that he needs rest and quiet. For a man +of his age, what with his own affairs and his 'art,' he is far too +active. Very well. Bernay-sur-Mer is ideal, only—except—Monsieur le +Curé, I am sure, will understand—except the Bas Rhône." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, the Bas Rhône!" said Father Anton. "It is that, then—the Bas +Rhône?" +</P> + +<P> +"Exactly!" she smiled. "And so Jean has brought me to you to suggest +something else for us." +</P> + +<P> +Father Anton joined his finger tips thoughtfully. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes; I see," he said. "My good friends, the Fregeaus, would do all in +their power for you, they are most excellent people; but, yes—h'm—I +see. It is a café much more than an inn, and for a café it answers +very well; and, after all, it is not their fault that there are not +proper accommodations for guests. Yes; I am afraid the accommodations +must be very inadequate. But you see, mademoiselle"—Father Anton's +voice had a quaint, gentle note of pleading—"we are quite off the main +road, and it is rare that a stranger stops in Bernay-sur-Mer, and since +they are poor they could not afford, even if they had the money, to +make an investment that would bring no return. But something +else—h'm! Truly, mademoiselle, I do not know—there is certainly no +other place to board." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, a little furnished cottage then," she suggested. "I have my own +maid, and, if there were some one else to help a little, nothing would +suit us better. Now, Monsieur le Curé, you are not going to be so +heartless as to tell me there are no cottages either!" +</P> + +<P> +For a moment Father Anton did not answer—then his face broke suddenly +into smiles. +</P> + +<P> +"But, no, mademoiselle," he declared quickly, nodding his head +delightedly at Jean, "I shall tell you nothing of the sort. One might +say it was almost providential. Nothing could be better! And the +finest cottage in Bernay-sur-Mer, too! Mademoiselle and her father +will be charmed with it—and all day I have been worrying about what to +do with Marie-Louise. Would it not be just the thing, Jean?" +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Ma foi</I>!" gasped Jean in surprise, staring from one to the other. +"The house on the bluff?" +</P> + +<P> +"And what else?" said Father Anton enthusiastically. "Listen, +mademoiselle; I will explain to you. It is the house out there on the +headland, where Gaston Bernier lived with his niece, Marie-Louise. +Three days ago in the great storm <I>le pauvre</I> Gaston was hurt, and that +night he died. Marie-Louise can no longer live there alone—it is not +right for a young girl. I thought to bring her here to live with me +and my old housekeeper; but now she can rent the house to you, and can +help with the work for she is a very good cook." +</P> + +<P> +"Father Anton, you are a treasure!" cried Myrna Bliss vivaciously. "We +will take the house. And the rent? Would, say, two hundred francs a +month be right?" +</P> + +<P> +"Two hundred francs?" repeated Father Anton incredulously, his eyes +widening. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes; and another hundred for Marie-Louise." +</P> + +<P> +Three hundred francs! It was not a large sum of money—it was a +fortune! Father Anton, in his years of ministry at Bernay-sur-Mer, +could not remember ever having seen a sum like that all at one time; +also, it was out of all proportion to what he would have thought +Marie-Louise should demand. The good curé's face was a picture with +its mingled emotions—he was torn between a desire that this good +fortune should come to Marie-Louise, and a fear in his honest heart +that he should be privy to the crime of extortion! +</P> + +<P> +Myrna Bliss laughed at him merrily. +</P> + +<P> +"Then that is settled!" she announced. "Three hundred francs. There +is nothing more to be said. The only question is, will Marie-Louise +let us have the house?" +</P> + +<P> +"Mademoiselle," said the old priest, his eyes twinkling, "may I say +it?—you are charming! As for the arrangements, have no fear. I would +go this evening, only I have some sick to visit. But very early in the +morning I will see Marie-Louise, and by the time mademoiselle and her +father have had breakfast the house will be at their disposal." +</P> + +<P> +She reached her hand across the gate to thank Father Anton and bid the +curé good evening—but Jean no longer heard a word. His mind seemed to +be clashing discordantly; his thoughts in dissension, in open hostility +one to another. She was to live in the house on the bluff. +Marie-Louise was to stay there, too. One moment he saw no objection to +the plan; the next moment, for a thousand vague, fragmentary reasons, +that in their entire thousand would not form a single concrete whole +that he could grasp, he did not like it at all. +</P> + +<P> +He answered Father Anton's "<I>au revoir</I>" mechanically, as they started +back for the Bas Rhône. She was in a hurry now, all life, all +excitement—half running. +</P> + +<P> +"Did I not tell you, Jean, that I would find just what I wanted?" she +called out in gay spirits. +</P> + +<P> +She had told him nothing of the sort. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," said Jean. +</P> + +<P> +They reached the Bas Rhône, and there, in the doorway, she turned. +</P> + +<P> +"I must find my father, and tell him," she said. There was a smile, a +flash of the grey eyes, a glint from the bronze-crowned head, a quick +little impetuous pressure on his arm, a laugh soft and musical as the +rippling of a brook; and then: "Until to-morrow, Jean." +</P> + +<P> +And she was gone. +</P> + +<P> +Until to-morrow! The words were strangely familiar. Papa Fregeau was +hurrying through the café. Jean turned away. He had no wish to talk +to Papa Fregeau—or any one else. He walked down to the beach—and his +eyes, across the bay, fixed on the headland. Yes, that was it! Until +to-morrow—that was what Marie-Louise had said—until to-morrow. +</P> + +<P> +He went on along the beach, his brain feverishly chaotic. She had been +like a vision, a glorious vision, suddenly gone, as she had stood there +in the doorway. Her name was Myrna Bliss. Why not, since Father Anton +could not go that night, why not go to Marie-Louise himself and tell +her about the house? Yes; he would do that. +</P> + +<P> +He crossed the beach to the road again, and started on—walking +rapidly. As he neared the little bridge, his pace slowed. At the +bridge he halted. Perhaps it would be better not to go—it would be +better left to Father Anton, that! +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Sacré bleu</I>!" cried Jean suddenly aloud. "What is the matter with +me? What has happened?" +</P> + +<P> +But he went no further along the road; for, after a moment, he turned, +retracing his steps slowly toward Bernay-sur-Mer. +</P> + +<P> +And so that night Jean did not go to Marie-Louise. But there, at the +house on the bluff, later on, Marie-Louise, after Mother Fregeau had +gone to bed, took the beacon that Jean had made and placed it upon the +table in the front room where, before, that other beacon, the great +lamp, had stood. And for a long time she sat before it, her elbows on +the table, now looking at the little clay figure, now staring through +the window to the headland's point where sometimes she could see the +surf splash silver white in the moonlight. It had been a happy +afternoon in many ways; but there was something that would not let it +be all happiness, for there was confusion in her thoughts. The house +was lonely now, and Uncle Gaston had gone; it did not seem true, it did +not seem that it could be he would not open that door again and come +thumping in with the nets over his shoulders and the wooden floats +bumping on the floor—and the tears unbidden filled her eyes. And her +talk with Jean somehow had not satisfied her, had not dispelled that +intuition that troubled her, for all that he had laughed at her for it; +and they had not, after all, settled what she was to do now that Uncle +Gaston was gone, for, instead of talking more about it, Jean had +forgotten all about her for ever so long while he had worked at the +little clay figure. +</P> + +<P> +Her eyes, from the window, fastened on the beacon with its open, +outstretched arms—and, suddenly, confusion went and great tenderness +came. He had made it for her, and he had said that—that it <I>was</I> her. +</P> + +<P> +"Jean's beacon," she said softly. +</P> + +<P> +And presently she went upstairs to the little attic room, and +undressed, and blew out the candle; and, in her white night-robe, the +black hair streaming over her shoulders, the moonlight upon her, she +knelt beside the bed. +</P> + +<P> +"Make me that, <I>mon Père</I>," she whispered; "make me that—Jean's beacon +all through my life." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap0105"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +— V — +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +"WHO IS JEAN LAPARDE?" +</H4> + +<P> +The mattress was of straw—and the straw had probably been garnered in +a previous generation, if not in a prehistoric age! It was so old that +it was a shifting, lumpy mass of brittle chaff, whose individual units +at unexpected moments punctured the ticking and, nettle-wise, stuck +through the coarse sheet. It was not comfortable. It had not been +comfortable all night. Truly, the best that could be said for the Bas +Rhône was that, as Father Anton in his gentle way had taken pains to +make it clear, its proprietors were well-intentioned—and that was a +source of comfort only as far as it went! +</P> + +<P> +Myrna Bliss wriggled drowsily into another position—and a moment later +wriggled back into the old one. Then she opened her eyes, and stared +about her. The morning sun was streaming in through the window. She +observed this with sleepy amazement. After all then, she must have +slept more than she had imagined, in spite of the awful bed. +</P> + +<P> +The <I>lap-lap-lap</I> of the sea came to her. In through the open window +floated the voices of children at play in the street; from down on the +beach the sound of men's voices, shouting and calling cheerily to each +other, reached her; from below stairs some sort of a family reunion +appeared to be in progress. She could hear that absurd Papa Fregeau +talking as though he were a soda-water bottle with the cork suddenly +exploded! +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, <I>mignonne—chérie</I>! You are back! You will go away no more—not +for a day! I have been in despair! It is the Americans! I have been +miserable! <I>Tiens, embrasse-moi</I>, my little Lucille!" +</P> + +<P> +There was the commotion of a playful struggle, then the resounding +smack of a kiss—and then a woman's voice. +</P> + +<P> +"Such a simpleton as you are, <I>mon</I> Jacques!"—it was as though one +were talking to a child. "So they have put you in despair, these +Americans! Well, then, I am back. And listen!"—importantly. "What +do you think?" +</P> + +<P> +"Think?" cried Papa Fregeau excitedly. "But I do not think!" +</P> + +<P> +"That is true," was the response; "so I will tell you. They are going +away this morning." +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Merci</I>!" exclaimed Papa Fregeau fervently. "I am very glad!" +</P> + +<P> +"They are going to Marie-Louise's." +</P> + +<P> +"To Marie-Louise's!"—incredulously. "You tell me that they are going +to Marie-Louise's?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes; to Marie-Louise's, stupid! Father Anton came an hour ago to make +the arrangements. They are to rent the house, and Marie-Louise is to +remain there <I>en domestique</I>. Now what have you to say to that?" +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Mon Dieu</I>!" ejaculated Papa Fregeau, with intense earnestness. "That +I am sorry for Marie-Louise!" +</P> + +<P> +Myrna Bliss laughed softly, delightedly to herself—and then, with a +sudden little gasp, sat bolt upright in bed. The whole thing, +everything since yesterday afternoon had been inconceivably +preposterous—and she herself preposterous most of all! If her father +ever heard the truth of it, what a scene there would be! +</P> + +<P> +She got out of bed impulsively, walked to the window, and leaned her +elbows on the sill, her brows gathered in a perplexed little frown. +Just what had happened anyway? She had decided ten minutes after they +had arrived in Bernay-sur-Mer that she would die of ennui if she stayed +there. They had started for a walk, she and her father, and, without +saying anything to him, she had turned back and taken it upon herself +to inform this fat, effervescent little hotel proprietor that they +would go on that afternoon. She had intended, during the walk, to tell +her father what she had done, and, in fact, had told him; and then on +her return after that—yes, that meeting on the bridge—she had +countermanded her orders, and not only countermanded them but had even +rented a cottage! Her father had seen nothing extraordinary in it, +which was natural enough—since he left all travelling arrangements to +her. Indeed, on the contrary, as Bernay-sur-Mer had seemed to appeal +to him, he had been rather taken with the idea—if perhaps a trifle +sceptical as to the success of the housekeeping plan. In a word, if +the discovery of what she believed to be suitable accommodations had +induced her to change her mind and stay in Bernay-sur-Mer, it was +perfectly satisfactory to him. The brows smoothed out. As far as her +father was concerned, that was all there was to it. She had been the +practical manager ever since her mother had died five years before. +</P> + +<P> +The brows puckered up again. Her father would never give it a second +thought, he would never for an instant imagine there was any ulterior +motive for what she had done. How could he—when the real reason was +so utterly absurd, ridiculous and unheard of! Fancy! What would that +select and ultra-exclusive set in Paris say? What if it ever came to +the ears of New York! Myrna Bliss to bury herself alive in a little +Mediterranean village that was probably not even on the map, and all at +a glance from the eyes of a—fisherman! They wouldn't believe it. Who +would believe it! It was unimaginable! +</P> + +<P> +Dainty little fingers reached up and drummed with their pink tips on +the window pane; the pucker became more pronounced. Well, she <I>had</I> +done it, nevertheless. And why was it so absurd, so ridiculous, so +impossible after all? She would do exactly the same thing over again +without an instant's hesitation. It was quite true the man was a +fisherman—but he did not <I>look</I> like a fisherman. He was magnificent! +It was not ridiculous at all—it was piquantly delightful. Neither was +it so absurdly impossible—if she did not stay in Bernay-sur-Mer, it +would only be to choose some other place equally as tiresome—and +without even a "fisherman" to compensate for it. What a face the man +had! It was not merely handsome, it was—well, it was the prototype of +what the artist coterie that buzzed around her father day and night was +forever attempting to give expression to, but which, until now, she had +never believed could exist in real life. He would be a refreshing +change this astounding man-creature, this Jean Laparde, after the vapid +attentions of the vapid men who made up her life in the social whirl of +Paris—Count von Heirlich and Lord Barnvegh, for examples, out of a +host of satellites who were constantly at her heels, because, of +course, she was an heiress; and whose attentions she endured because, +of course, some day she must marry, and because, of course again, to +marry anything less than a title, a name, fame, was quite out of the +question. As for that, no one expected anything but a brilliant match +for her—and certainly she expected nothing less for herself. What a +pity that they were not like Jean Laparde, those men of her world! +</P> + +<P> +The fingers, from the window pane, tossed back a truant coil of hair; +the white shoulders lifted in a little shrug. Paris—New York! That +was all the world she knew. New York once a year—Paris the rest of +the time. Expatriates—for art! That's what they were! Art—her +father was obsessed with it. It was a mania with him; it was the last +thing in the world that interested her. As a matter of fact, she +couldn't seem to think of anything that particularly interested her. +One tired quickly enough of the social merry-go-round—after a season +it became inane. One surely had the right to amuse one's self with a +new sensation—if one could find it! The man had the physique of a +young god. A fisherman—well, what of it? He was splendid. He was +more than splendid. Even the crude dress seemed to enhance him. It +was a face that had made her catch her breath in that long second when +their eyes had met. Yes, of course—why not admit it?—he interested +her. He was rugged, he was strong, and above all he was supremely a +man. Of course, it was only a matter of a week, a month, the time they +chose to stay there; but it would be a decided novelty while it lasted. +</P> + +<P> +She laughed suddenly aloud—a low, rippling little laugh. Actually the +man was already her slave! Imagine a man like that her slave! +Certainly it would be a new sensation. What a strange thrill it had +given her when she had first caught sight of him on the bridge the +afternoon before. Well, why shouldn't it have done so—a fisherman +with a face like that? It was amazing! Think of finding such a man in +such a situation! Was it any wonder that she had thrilled—even if he +were only a fisherman? In Paris, of course, she could not have done +what she had done, it would have been quite out of the question, there +were the conventions—but then in Paris one didn't see men like that! +</P> + +<P> +"And since," confided Myrna Bliss to a little urchin running in the +street below, who neither saw nor heard her, "we are not in Paris, but +in Bernay-sur-Mer, which is quite another story, you see it is not +absurd or ridiculous at all, and I and my fisherman—" +</P> + +<P> +She turned abruptly from the window at the sound of a knock and the +opening of her door. It was Nanette, her maid, with a tray. +</P> + +<P> +"I have mademoiselle's <I>déjeuner</I>," announced Nanette. "Monsieur Bliss +has already finished his, and asks if mademoiselle will soon be ready. +He is waiting with Monsieur le Curé for you." +</P> + +<P> +"Waiting—with Monsieur le Curé?"—Myrna's eyebrows went up in +well-simulated surprise. +</P> + +<P> +"To visit the cottage mademoiselle has taken," amplified Nanette, and +her retroussé nose was delicately elevated a trifle higher. Nanette, +very evidently, was one at all events who was not in favour of the plan. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, the cottage—of course!" exclaimed Myrna, as though suddenly +inspired. "I had forgotten all about it. Dress me quickly then, +Nanette." +</P> + +<P> +Nanette tossed a shapely dark head. +</P> + +<P> +"Is mademoiselle going to stay here long?"—Nanette at times felt +privileged to take liberties. +</P> + +<P> +"Gracious, Nanette!" complained Myrna sweetly. "What a question! How +can you possibly expect me to know?" +</P> + +<P> +Nanette arranged the tray perfunctorily. +</P> + +<P> +"There was a man who left a message with that imbecile proprietor for +mademoiselle early this morning," she observed. "Mademoiselle has +engaged a boatman?" +</P> + +<P> +"A boatman? Certainly not!" declared Myrna Bliss. "Not without seeing +the boat—and I have seen no boat!" +</P> + +<P> +"But mademoiselle engages a cottage without seeing the cottage," +murmured Nanette slyly. +</P> + +<P> +"That will do, Nanette!" said Myrna severely. "There was but one +cottage; there are dozens of boats. It is quite a different matter. +What did the man say?" +</P> + +<P> +"That he was obliged to go out for the four o'clock fishing this +morning," said Nanette, pouting a little at the rebuke; "but that he +would go to mademoiselle at the cottage early in the forenoon." +</P> + +<P> +A row of little white teeth crunched into a piece of crisp toast. +</P> + +<P> +"Very well, Nanette." Myrna's brows pursed up thoughtfully. "You may +get out that new marquisette from Fallard's; and, I think"—she glanced +out of the window—"my sunbonnet. And, Nanette"—suddenly +impatient—"hurry, please—since father is waiting." +</P> + +<P> +Myrna's impatience bore fruit. In ten minutes she was ready, and, +running down the stairs, went out to the street, where her father and +the curé, deep in conversation—on art undoubtedly, since her father +was doing most of the talking!—were pacing slowly up and down, as they +waited for her. +</P> + +<P> +Her sunbonnet was swinging in her hand, the big grey eyes were shining, +the glow of superb health was in her cheeks. +</P> + +<P> +"Good morning, Father Anton!" she called out gaily. "What a shame to +have kept you waiting!" +</P> + +<P> +The old priest turned toward her with unaffected pleasure, as he held +out his hand. +</P> + +<P> +"Good morning to you, mademoiselle"—he was smiling with eyes as well +as lips. "What a radiant little girl! It makes one full of life and +young again; you are, let me see, you are—a tonic!" +</P> + +<P> +She laughed as she turned to her father. +</P> + +<P> +"'Morning, Dad! Sleep well?" +</P> + +<P> +Henry Bliss removed his cigar to survey his daughter with whimsical +reproach; then he patted her cheek affectionately. +</P> + +<P> +"Fierce, wasn't it?" he chuckled. "Those beds are the worst ever! I +was telling the curé here about them." +</P> + +<P> +"It is too bad," said Father Anton solicitously. "It is regrettable. +I am so very sorry. But"—earnestly—"you must not think too hardly of +the Fregeaus. Since no guests sleep here, I am sure they can have no +idea that—" +</P> + +<P> +"No; of course not!" agreed Henry Bliss heartily, and laughed. "The +hard feelings are all in the beds—and we'll let them stay there. Now, +then, Myrna, are you ready to inspect this new domain of yours? And +shall we walk, or take the car? Father Anton says it is not far." +</P> + +<P> +"We will walk then," decided Myrna. +</P> + +<P> +It was the walk she had taken yesterday, at least it was the same as +far as the little bridge; and for that distance she walked beside her +father and the curé, chatting merrily, but there she loitered a little +behind them. Half impishly, half with a genuine impulse that she +rather welcomed than avoided, she told herself that it was quite unfair +to pass the little spot so indifferently. Was it not here that this +most bizarre of adventures had begun? She had stood here by the +railing, and he had stood there across on the other side, and—the red +leaped suddenly flaming into her cheeks. She had never looked at a man +like that before—no man had ever looked at her like that before! And +it had been spontaneous, instant, like a flash of fire that had lighted +up a dark and unknown pathway, which, in the momentary blaze of light, +was full of strange wonder; and which, because it was an unknown way, +and because the glimpse had shown so much in so brief an instant that +the brain fused all into confusion and nothing was concrete, resulted, +not in illuminating the way, but, the flash of light gone again, in +transforming the pathway only into a bewildering maze. +</P> + +<P> +She laughed a little after a while, shaking her head. Such an absurd +fancy! But what an entrancing, alluring little fancy! Decidedly, it +would be a new sensation to be lost in a maze like that—for a time. +She would tire of it soon enough—the thrill probably would not even +last as long as she would want it to. No thrill ever did! She bit her +lip suddenly in pretty vexation. It was stupid of the man to go off +fishing! Had he done it to pique her? The idea! He certainly could +not have the temerity to imagine that it lay within his power to pique +her. The sunbonnet swung to and fro abstractedly from its ribbon +strings. Wasn't it strange that he had—piqued her! +</P> + +<P> +She went on after her father and the curé. They were quite a way ahead +now, and she hastened to catch up with them. As she drew near, she +caught her father's words. +</P> + +<P> +"... Peyre on the <I>Histoire Générale des Beaux-Arts</I>, Monsieur le Curé, +I recommend it to you heartily. It is a most comprehensive little +volume, embracing in a condensed form the story of the arts from the +time of the Egyptians down to the present day, and—" +</P> + +<P> +Myrna, in spite of herself, laughed outright, at which both men turned +their heads. Her father, incorrigible, was at it again; and, once +started, there was no stopping him. Poor Father Anton! For the rest +of the way he would listen to art! +</P> + +<P> +"Did I not tell you to beware, Father Anton?" she cried out in comical +despair—and waved them to go on again. +</P> + +<P> +She had no desire to listen to art, its relation to nature, its +relation to science, its relation to civilisation, nor, above all, to a +dissertation on the modern school. She had heard it all before; and, +if it had not passed as quickly through one ear as it had come into the +other, her head, she was quite sure, would have driven her to +distraction. Besides, it was much more important to think about +something else—no, not what she had been thinking about a moment ago; +but, for instance, to be practical, about this menage whose wheels, +without knowing whether they were oiled or not, she had impulsively set +in motion. Would the cottage be at all habitable? Would this +Marie-Louise be at all suitable? Would Marie-Louise and Nanette get +along together? Nanette was insanely jealous of Jules—nothing but the +fact that Jules was with them would have induced Nanette, to whom Paris +was the beginning and the end of all things, to have come on such a +trip. Yes, there was a very great deal to think about—now that it +occurred to her! Myrna fell into a brown study, quite oblivious to her +surroundings. +</P> + +<P> +When she joined her father and the curé again, they had stopped at the +edge of the little wood on the headland, and a cottage, almost as +prettily vine-covered as Father Anton's, lay before them. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, Myrna," her father called, with a smile, "I must say your plunge +in the dark looks propitious so far." +</P> + +<P> +"No, no! Not a plunge in the dark!" protested Father Anton quickly, +his eyes full of expectant pleasure on Myrna. "That is not fair, +Monsieur Bliss! It was on my recommendation, was it not, mademoiselle? +And now—eh?—what does mademoiselle think of it?" +</P> + +<P> +It was like the imaginative conception of some painter. The cottage, +green with climbing vines, spotlessly white where the vines were +sparse, nestled in the trees—in front, as far as the eye could reach, +the glorious, deep, unfathomable blue of the Mediterranean; nearer, the +splash of surf, like myriad fountains, on the headland's rugged point; +while a tiny fringe of beach, just peeping from under the edge of the +cliff at the far side of the cottage, glistened as though full of +diamonds in the sunlight. +</P> + +<P> +"Father Anton—you are a dear!" Myrna cried impetuously. +</P> + +<P> +Her eyes roved delightedly here and there. There was a little trellis +with flowers over the back door—that little outhouse would do +splendidly as a garage. And then the front door opened, and her eyes +fixed on a girl's figure on the threshold—and somehow the figure was +familiar. +</P> + +<P> +"Who is that, Father Anton?" she demanded. +</P> + +<P> +"But it is Marie-Louise—who else?" smiled the priest. "I will call +her." +</P> + +<P> +"No," said Myrna; "we will go in." +</P> + +<P> +Of course! How absurd! She recognised the girl now. It was the girl +who had passed them on the bridge—Myrna's sunbonnet swung a little +abstractedly again—with Jean Laparde. +</P> + +<P> +Father Anton bustled forward. +</P> + +<P> +"Marie-Louise," he said, as they reached the door, "this is the lady +and gentleman who are to take the house, and—" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, but I think we have seen each other before," interposed Myrna +graciously. "Was it not you, Marie-Louise, who passed us on the bridge +yesterday afternoon?" +</P> + +<P> +Marie-Louise's dark eyes, deep, fearless, met the grey ones—and +dropped modestly. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, mademoiselle," she said. +</P> + +<P> +"Certainly!" said Henry Bliss pleasantly. "I remember you too, +and—ah!" With a sudden step, quite forgetting the amenities due his +daughter, he brushed by her into the room, and stooped over the clay +figure of the beacon. He picked it up, looked at it in a sort of +startled incredulity, as though he could not believe his eyes; then, +setting it down, went to the window, threw up the shade for better +light, and returned to the clay figure. And then, after a moment, he +began to mutter excitedly. "Yes—undoubtedly—of the flower of the +French school—Demaurais, Lestrange, Pitot—eh?—which? +And—yes—here—within a day or so—it is quite fresh!" He rushed back +to the doorway to Father Anton. "Who has been in the village +recently?"—his words were coming with a rush, he had the priest by the +shoulders and was unconsciously shaking him. "Was it a man with long +black hair over his coat collar and a beak nose? Was it a little short +man who always jerks his head as he talks? Or was it a big fellow, +very fat, and, yes, if it were Pitot he would probably be drunk? +Quick! Which one was it?" +</P> + +<P> +Father Anton, jaw dropped, dumb with amazement, could only shake his +head. This American! Had he gone suddenly mad? +</P> + +<P> +"Good heavens, dad, what is the matter?" Myrna cried out. +</P> + +<P> +He paid no attention to her. +</P> + +<P> +"You, then!"—he whirled on Marie-Louise, grasping her arm fiercely. +"Who has been here?" +</P> + +<P> +"But—but, m'sieu," stammered Marie-Louise, shrinking back in affright, +"no one has been here." +</P> + +<P> +Myrna pressed forward into the room. +</P> + +<P> +"Dad, what <I>is</I> the—" She got no further. +</P> + +<P> +"It is true—I am a fool. I was wrong. Look, Myrna!"—his face +flushed, his eyes lighted with the fire of an enthusiast, he was at the +table, lifting up the little clay figure of the fisherwoman with the +outstretched arms, the beacon, in his hands again. "Look, Myrna! No, +I am not mad—I am only a fool. I, who pride myself as a critic, was +fool enough for a moment to think this the work of perhaps Demaurais, +or Lestrange, or Pitot—when no one of the three even in his greatest +moment of inspiration could approach it! There is life in it. You +feel the very soul. It is sublime! But it is more than that—it is a +stupendous thing, for, since it has been freshly done, and no stranger +to these people has been here, the man who did it must be one of +themselves. Don't you understand, Myrna, don't you understand? The +world will ring with it. It is the discovery of a genius. I make the +statement without reservation. <I>This is the work of the greatest +sculptor France will have ever known</I>!" +</P> + +<P> +Father Anton had come forward a little timorously, lacing and unlacing +his fingers. Upon Myrna's face was a sort of bewildered stupefaction. +Marie-Louise, her breath coming in little gasps, was gazing wide-eyed +at the man who held in his hands her beacon, the clay figure she had +seen Jean make. +</P> + +<P> +"Is—is it true—what you say?" she whispered. +</P> + +<P> +Henry Bliss looked at her for a moment, startled—as though he was for +the first time aware of her presence. +</P> + +<P> +"You—yes, of course, you must know about this, as it is in the house +here," he burst out abruptly. "You know who made it?" +</P> + +<P> +"But, yes," said Marie-Louise, and now there was a sudden new note, a +trembling note of pride that struggled for expression in her voice. +"But, yes—it was Jean Laparde." +</P> + +<P> +"Laparde—Jean Laparde?"—his voice was hoarse in its eagerness. +"Quick!" he cried. "Laparde—Jean Laparde? Who is Jean Laparde?" +</P> + +<P> +A flush crept pink into Marie-Louise's face. +</P> + +<P> +"He is my fiancé," she said. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap0106"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +— VI — +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +THE GIFT +</H4> + +<P> +Father Anton, with a smile, his eyes twinkling, looked from one to the +other of the group as much as to say: "There! Is that not an +altogether charming denouement?" Myrna had yet to discover herself in +a situation to whose command she did not rise—inwardly a sudden +confusion upon her, her face expressed a polite interest. As for Henry +Bliss, the words were without any significance whatever—it was not +what he wanted to know. +</P> + +<P> +It was Marie-Louise, embarrassed, who broke the silence. +</P> + +<P> +"Will mademoiselle and monsieur look through the house now, and tell me +what rooms they will occupy?" +</P> + +<P> +Henry Bliss, for answer, caught Father Anton again by the shoulder. +</P> + +<P> +"This Jean Laparde," he flung out excitedly, "you ought to know all +about him! He must have done other things besides this"—he swept his +hand toward the beacon, which he had now very carefully replaced on the +table. +</P> + +<P> +"But, of course!" declared Father Anton, still smiling. "Mother +Fregeau will assure you—forever little faces and figures out of her +dough and the inside of her loaves." +</P> + +<P> +"No, no—good Lord!" exclaimed Henry Bliss. "I mean—" +</P> + +<P> +"I am telling you," interrupted Father Anton mildly. "He has been +forever at that since he was a boy, and then there are the clay dolls +for the children, of which there would be very many, at least a +hundred." +</P> + +<P> +"A hundred! A hundred clay <I>dolls</I> by the man who did this!" shouted +Henry Bliss eagerly. "And do you mean to say you never realised—oh, +good Lord! Where are they?" +</P> + +<P> +Father Anton's eyebrows went up in almost pitying astonishment. +</P> + +<P> +"But, monsieur," he said patiently, "where would they be? They do not +last long; and, even if the children did not break them almost +immediately, they would soon crumble to pieces like their own mud pies." +</P> + +<P> +"Mud!" Henry Bliss bent quickly over the beacon again. "Yes, so it +is! It is mostly mud. It is unbelievable! The man did not even have +modelling clay to work with!" He swung again on the curé. "Well, where +is this Jean Laparde? I want to see him at once!" +</P> + +<P> +Myrna's laugh rippled suddenly through the room. +</P> + +<P> +"Dad—don't get so excited. Your Jean Laparde won't run away. He's +out fishing now, but he said he would come out here this morning." +</P> + +<P> +"Out fishing—come out here this morning?" repeated her father, staring +at her. "How do you know?" +</P> + +<P> +Myrna shook her finger at him in playful severity. +</P> + +<P> +"If you had paid any more than the merest pretence of attention to me +last night, you would have remembered the name—no"—she laughed +again—"no, perhaps after all I didn't mention it, I'm not sure I +hadn't forgotten it myself; but he is the fisherman who took me to +Father Anton here, you know—the one I told you might possibly do as a +boatman for us while we were here." +</P> + +<P> +"Great grief! Do as a—<I>boatman</I>!" ejaculated Henry Bliss weakly. +"You, Monsieur le Curé, what time do these fishermen return?" +</P> + +<P> +"But anytime, now," Father Anton answered. "The boats go out very +early in the morning." +</P> + +<P> +"Good!" Henry Bliss pushed the curé impetuously toward the door. +"Then, you and I, Father Anton, will go right back to the village and +be there when he comes in." +</P> + +<P> +"But"—Father Anton was quite bewildered—one was literally carried off +one's feet—were they all alike, these Americans! "But," he protested +helplessly, as he was being pulled through the door, "but if the boats +are already in, and since mademoiselle said he was coming here, then—" +</P> + +<P> +"Then we will meet him on the road"—they were already out of the +house. "Now, then, Monsieur le Curé, if you are a loyal Frenchman, +step out quickly, for this is the greatest day in the history of +France, the greatest day, I tell you, in the"—the voice died away in +the distance. +</P> + +<P> +Marie-Louise had not moved. She was still standing in the centre of +the room, a strangely spellbound, dumfounded little figure. +</P> + +<P> +"Mademoiselle," she ventured timidly, "what—what is—" +</P> + +<P> +"I am sure I do not know," said Myrna languidly. "Have you no shoes or +stockings?" +</P> + +<P> +Marie-Louise glanced perplexedly at her small, bare feet. +</P> + +<P> +"But, yes, mademoiselle—for the village sometimes, and when one walks +in the fields." +</P> + +<P> +"Go and put them on, then," directed Myrna. "And remember always to +wear them while we are here. When you come back, I will go through the +house with you and tell you what to do." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, mademoiselle," said Marie-Louise nervously—there was a sense of +guilt upon her, but wherein lay the enormity of her offence she did not +understand. Nevertheless, was not mademoiselle of the great world, and +since mademoiselle was displeased, surely mademoiselle must know. She +turned hastily from the room. +</P> + +<P> +"No—wait!" Myrna's brain, for all her outward composure, was far from +calm. It seemed as though the little stone she had started rolling +down the hill in a—well, was it a whim?—was gathering many other +stones in its course and developing into an avalanche. She had no +desire to go into the details of the house with this Marie-Louise at +that moment; on the contrary, it was absolutely impossible. The one +thing she wanted was to be alone—to clear all this muddle out of her +head. "No—wait!" she repeated. "There will be quite time enough to +attend to that when Nanette and Jules arrive; and in the meantime you +had better go down to the Bas Rhône and help Nanette if you can. When +they are ready, come back with them." +</P> + +<P> +"Nanette, mademoiselle? But I do not know who Nanette is." +</P> + +<P> +"My maid," said Myrna tersely. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, mademoiselle"—Marie-Louise, with a quick nod, was running from +the room. "At once, mademoiselle—as soon as I have put on my shoes +and stockings." +</P> + +<P> +Myrna tossed her sunbonnet on a chair, and walked over to the table to +inspect the little clay figure. For ten minutes she stood in front of +it, now frowning, now with unconscious admiration the dominant +expression upon her face, now with puzzled bewilderment in her eyes. +Of the technique of any art she not only knew nothing, but secretly +held it in contempt; but she could not have been her father's daughter +to have lacked a sense of appreciation for the beautiful. At the end +of the ten minutes she picked up her sunbonnet again, and walked slowly +out of the house. +</P> + +<P> +At the headland's point, two hundred yards away, she sat down upon the +rocks. She could not seem to get that little clay figure out of her +head now. It was amazing how it took form before her eyes as +realistically as though it were still in front of her! What a +wonderful charm and appeal there was in it! She could see that for +herself, even if her father had not grown so excited over it. "The +greatest sculptor in France"—well, perhaps that was a little +exaggerated! But her father was nevertheless acknowledged to be a +critic second to none in the world of art, and he was far too chary of +his reputation to sacrifice it on a myth. Certainly then, there was at +least a promise in the man's work. What did her father mean to do? He +had not rushed off that way for nothing. It was really charming, that +little figure. She would get Jean to let her have it, buy it from him. +Imagine possessing the first piece of his work, if the man ever +amounted to anything! +</P> + +<P> +She threw a stone out into the water, watched it splash, watched the +spray of the breaking waves on what seemed like a reef away out to one +side of the headland, and watched a boat coming shoreward from out +beyond the reef again. There was a disturbed little gathering of her +brows. But suppose she did buy it, the thing would crumble to pieces +in a few days, and—stupid! Of course! Had she not been often in +those dirty <I>ateliers</I> that were always in a mess with their clay and +their plaster? One could send it to Marseilles to have a cast made; +and, afterwards, the cast could be sent home to Paris. +</P> + +<P> +What was her father going to do with this "discovery" of his, as he +called it? Discovery—<I>his</I>! A little thrill ran through her. It was +not his discovery—it was <I>hers</I>! It was she who had discovered Jean +Laparde—in that one look. The man's soul, a great smouldering volcano +of emotion, was in his face, his eyes. It was amazing that this had +happened; amazing almost beyond credence that, hidden in the little +village, a fisherman, untaught, unconscious even of his own power, had +produced a piece of work that had aroused her father, one of the great +art critics in France, to such a pitch of elated excitement—but +somehow it was not in the least bit amazing that it was <I>Jean Laparde</I> +who had done it! +</P> + +<P> +Her eyes fixed again on the boat, that was well in now between the reef +and the headland; and, with a sudden little gasp, she rose quickly to +her feet—it was Jean Laparde himself. What splendid width of +shoulder, what strength, and ease, and assurance in the sweep of the +oars that bent the blades backward from swirling little eddies, that +lifted the heavy boat to send it bounding forward as though it were a +feather-weight. It was Jean Laparde—the fiancé of Marie-Louise! +</P> + +<P> +It was to the front at last, that thought! It had been dominant from +the moment Marie-Louise had uttered the words, only she had attempted +to ignore it, lose it in the other phases of this bewildering morning. +But it was out now! Well, what of it? It was an impossible situation +this that she had created, was it not? There was no use in denying +even to herself that the man had aroused in her—what should she call +it?—a desire to cultivate him a little, since he would be so new, so +fresh, so quite different. And Marie-Louise was at the moment now +actually in her employ as—one could not call her a servant, it was +Marie-Louise's own house, and she was only there to help for a little +while at the curé's request—but still—the colour burned red in +Myrna's cheeks. +</P> + +<P> +The next instant, she smiled a little. What a simpleton she was! What +on earth did it matter! What could it possibly matter! Good heavens, +she wasn't going to take this Jean Laparde away from Marie-Louise! +<I>She</I> wasn't going to marry him! There wasn't the slightest reason in +the world why, just when the man turned out to be an embryonic genius +and promised to prove really interesting, she should change her +attitude toward him—and, anyway, it was almost a foregone conclusion +that her father now would monopolise Jean Laparde morning, noon and +night. +</P> + +<P> +She glanced at the boat—and started abruptly for the house. To remain +there would have been almost too obviously—a meeting. Jean had +evidently not gone to the village at all with the other boats—she +supposed there were other boats since the curé had spoken of them—but +had come directly in from wherever he had been fishing. +</P> + +<P> +She reached the house and through the window watched Jean send the boat +sweeping up to the beach, leap from it, and, seemingly without +exertion, pull it higher over the sand. He turned then, searching the +house with his eyes; and suddenly placed his hands trumpet-fashion to +his lips. +</P> + +<P> +"Marie-Louise! Ho, Marie-Louise!" she heard him shout, as he came +running up the cliff path from the beach. +</P> + +<P> +Virile in movement, a striking figure, there seemed all of command, +something heroic even in the rugged strength, something absolutely +undauntable about the man. And then she laughed merrily to herself, as +she stepped to the door. What a change! Who would have believed it! +Jean, at sight of her, had stopped as though he had been struck, +self-consciousness mocked at the air of command, and through the brown +tan of his face crept the red. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, it is you, Jean!" she exclaimed. +</P> + +<P> +Mechanically he reached up for his cap. +</P> + +<P> +"I—I did not think that mademoiselle had got here yet," he said, the +dark eyes in their steady gaze disconcertingly at variance with his +stammering speech. +</P> + +<P> +"We've been here ages," she told him quickly. "But the others have +gone back again. Marie-Louise has gone to help Nanette with the +things. And my father rushed off with that delightful old curé of +yours to look for you." +</P> + +<P> +"Rushed off to look for me?" echoed Jean in astonishment. "But I told +Jacques Fregeau to tell you that I would come here as soon—" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, of course, to look for you—but not for the purpose you imagine!" +she broke in smiling, and shook her head reproachfully at him. "Jean, +do you know that I am quite angry with you! Come here!" She led the +way into the house. "Now!"—pointing to the clay figure on the table. +"Is not that your work?" +</P> + +<P> +"But, yes, mademoiselle"—there was only a cursory glance at the +beacon; his eyes were on this fresh, glorious, wonderful woman, whose +white dress of some marvellous texture draped about her with such +exquisite, dainty grace ... and the throat was bare, and full, and +white as ivory is white ... that glint of bronze that was always +playing over the massive coils of hair ... the playful severity in the +pursed lips ... it was intoxication, it was fire ... he had been drunk +with it all the night, all that morning in the boat while he had fished. +</P> + +<P> +"Then why did you not tell me about it last night?" she demanded. +</P> + +<P> +With a start, he shrugged his shoulders—and perplexity came. +</P> + +<P> +"But it is nothing—that," he said slowly. "What was there to tell, +mademoiselle?" +</P> + +<P> +"Nothing!" She stared at him in amazement. "Do you really mean to say +that you think it is—nothing?" +</P> + +<P> +"But, of course!" he said simply. +</P> + +<P> +And then suddenly she smiled, and shook her head at him again. +</P> + +<P> +"Did I not tell you last night, Jean, that you were less like a +fisherman than any man I had ever seen?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes; mademoiselle said that." Was there a word of hers that he had +forgotten! +</P> + +<P> +"Very well, then," she began magisterially, "since you think nothing of +that little statue, I will tell you what I think. It is so much more +than 'nothing' that I am going to buy it from you. It is"—her voice +changed suddenly, soft in abandon, full in admiration—"oh, Jean, it is +superb, magnificent; it is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen; +and—and I think I want it more than I have ever wanted anything +before." +</P> + +<P> +She had come closer to him, touched him, her hand was on his sleeve, +her cheeks were flushed. That look—God, was he mad?—that <I>same</I> look +was in her eyes again. Yes, he was mad—with a madness that bade him +sweep her into his arms and crush her there in all her alluring beauty. +He was white—he felt the blood leave his face. She wanted +that—wanted that bit of clay that <I>he</I> had made! +</P> + +<P> +"It is not for sale, mademoiselle," he said hoarsely; "it is yours." +</P> + +<P> +"No, no, Jean!" she cried. "You do not understand. It is worth—oh, I +do not know how much—ever so much money. Father will be able to tell +us. It is on account of this that he rushed off to try and find you. +He is terribly excited about it." +</P> + +<P> +His hand at his side was clenched; his arm was rigid—he dared not move +it for fear she might draw her hand away—it would not come often, a +touch of intimacy like that. What did it matter about her father! +What did anything matter—but that fiery tide that was whipping through +his veins. +</P> + +<P> +"It is good of monsieur, it is good of mademoiselle to praise it," he +muttered. +</P> + +<P> +"But it is not good of us!" she asserted earnestly. "Really, I must +try to make you understand, Jean. I can't take it under false +pretences, you know—you might hate me for it afterwards. I am sure +you would. My father says it is a wonderful piece of work—that you +are a great artist." +</P> + +<P> +"I?" said Jean—and suddenly in a sweep of passion laughed a little +fiercely. "Impossible! But it is enough that mademoiselle, for some +reason that I cannot understand, thinks so much of it. It is hers." +</P> + +<P> +"And I tell you that it is not impossible!" she insisted seriously. +"Listen, Jean"—her hand closed a little tighter on his arm. "Suppose +that I took it, accepted it, and some day you should find that it had +become a tremendously famous thing—what then?" +</P> + +<P> +"It would still be unworthy of mademoiselle," he answered, in a low +tone. +</P> + +<P> +With a little gasp, she drew back a step and looked at him—but it was +the grey eyes that dropped, and for a moment to Jean, unconscious of +his own tense poise, the rapt burning in his eyes, she seemed all +glorious with that play of colour now that was even in the pulsing +throat. But the next instant she was smiling radiantly. +</P> + +<P> +"Thank you, Jean," she said naïvely. "I will take it very gladly, and +I will always keep it. Father will have a cast of it made at once, +and—" she stopped suddenly, turning quickly toward the door. +"Listen!" she said. "That's the motor, isn't it? Marie-Louise must +have met it on the road." +</P> + +<P> +An automobile had come to a stop by the side of the house; and, a +moment later, a girl's voice, high-pitched in sarcasm, reached them. +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Ma foi</I>! Fancy! She owns the house! What an aristocrat! No doubt +she will expect mademoiselle and monsieur to invite her to table with +them next! Oh, <I>là, là</I>, but you have lots to learn, <I>ma petite +paysanne</I>!" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, let her alone, Nanette!" exclaimed a man's voice sharply. "She +has done nothing but answer your own questions, except"—with a +laugh—"that she has ridden on the front seat!" +</P> + +<P> +It seemed to come with a shock to Jean that snatch of conversation, as +something cold, chilling the fire that but an instant gone had been +raging within him. It was an arraignment of himself, a slap in the +face, sharply, curtly given, a reminder that for all his temerity he +was—a fisherman. Myrna had gone to the front door. He swept his hand +in a dazed way across his eyes, then straightened suddenly—it was a +spell that he had been under. Nor was the spell gone; but now, at +least, he was in control of himself. He walked across the room to +where Myrna stood. +</P> + +<P> +"Mademoiselle," he offered quietly, "can I help with the baggage?" +</P> + +<P> +She turned to him, smiling. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, if you will, Jean!" she cried gratefully. "Please help Jules with +the trunks. And afterwards"—her hand was on his sleeve again—"though +I must see about arranging things, you mustn't go away. Father will be +back shortly, and you must wait." +</P> + +<P> +"I will wait," said Jean. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap0107"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +— VII — +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +WHERE GLORY AWAITS +</H4> + +<P> +His back to the cliff, and leaning against the gunwale of his boat, +which on landing a little while ago he had drawn up on the beach, Jean +dug abstractedly at the sand with the toe of his boot. He had helped +Jules, the chauffeur, to carry the baggage into the house, where Myrna +Bliss, her maid and Marie-Louise were now busily engaged +within—occasionally he could hear one or other of their voices—and he +was waiting. What for? He did not know. He had promised her that he +would wait. Her father wanted to see him because he made <I>poupées</I> out +of clay, and because he had made that little statue which, somehow, had +so delighted her. It was very curious—very curious that a little +thing like that should have taken their fancy! +</P> + +<P> +His hand passed nervously across his forehead. But that was of no +account, the statue! There were other things. He was living in a +dream—no, not a dream—something much more vital than a dream. From a +dream one awoke, and the dream was dispelled. He was awake now and the +spell was still upon him. In her presence he lost his reason, his +being seemed to become a seething furnace of passion that consumed him; +away from her, some strange, magnetic power kept bidding him return, +kept his mind picturing her, kept his thoughts upon her. It was but +half an hour ago that, alone with her in the cottage, he had almost +utterly lost control of himself. +</P> + +<P> +A hot flush was on his cheeks. It was bad, that! Some day he would +lose control of himself completely; some day the impulse to crush that +ravishing form in his arms, to look deep into those laughing, +self-possessed grey eyes until the laughter and the self-possession +were gone and he was master, would prove too strong for him. And +then—what? +</P> + +<P> +His hands clenched at his sides, the broad shoulders sloped a little +forward. Well—what then? His brain would not answer him, save only +with that persistent "she was a woman and he was a man." He laughed +shortly aloud. Was that true? How true was it? He glanced mockingly +at his clothes; his hands unclenched, and, feeling in a sort of +tentative way, slid along the gunwale of the boat. Yes; it was quite +evident that he was what he had always been, what he always would be—a +fisherman. It was quite evident too that he was mad. It was only last +night that he had seen her for the first time, only since last night +that this enchantment had fallen upon him—and now it possessed him, +mind, soul and body. One could not credit that! He laughed out +again—and suddenly the laugh died on his lips. +</P> + +<P> +He had heard no step upon the sand, but a hand now touched his arm. He +turned quickly. It was Marie-Louise. He had forgotten all about +Marie-Louise—since yesterday evening. He had seen her of course since +then, had walked home with her after that meeting on the bridge, had +called out for her when he had landed here on the beach a little while +ago, but for all that Marie-Louise had been forgotten. +</P> + +<P> +"Jean"—she was speaking in a low, anxious voice—"it's—it's not true, +is it, Jean?" +</P> + +<P> +The dark eyes were trying to smile through a troubled mist; the lips, +that he remembered he had likened yesterday to the divinely modelled +lips of that dream statue, were quivering now. +</P> + +<P> +Jean stared at her. What would she be like if she were dressed in +clothes, marvellous, dainty things, such as Myrna Bliss wore, with +little shoes and silken ankles? She was pretty of course, Marie-Louise +had always been pretty; but there was not the physical thrill, the +witchery in the eyes that turned his head. She was more sober—yes, +that was it—more sober. Marie-Louise took things more seriously, and— +</P> + +<P> +"Jean!" She seemed almost frightened now in her appeal. "Did you not +hear me? Jean—it isn't true, is it?" +</P> + +<P> +"True?" Jean roused himself with a little start. "What is not true? I +do not know what you are talking about." +</P> + +<P> +"The beacon, Jean"—she spoke hurriedly, breathlessly now. "A few +minutes ago mademoiselle told me to put it in the room she has chosen +for herself, and to be very careful of it because—because"—her voice +broke suddenly—"because she said that you had given it to her. +Jean—it's not true, is it?" +</P> + +<P> +For a moment Jean did not speak. There were tears in her eyes! A +twinge of guilty confusion seized him. Yes, it was so—Marie-Louise +had been forgotten. Yesterday he had given it to Marie-Louise. But +who would have thought it would make any difference to her—a thing +like that! She was perhaps angry for the moment, but it would be only +for the moment. +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Mais, sacré nom</I>!" he exclaimed, and forced a laugh. "And what of +it? It is nothing! I will make you another." +</P> + +<P> +She did not answer; but into the brown eyes came a miserable hurt, and +into the face a sudden whiteness. It was only the day before that he +had given it to her, and had said it was a beacon, and that the beacon +was herself with arms outstretched to welcome him always. It had meant +so much to her—and now it seemed to have meant so little to Jean. +</P> + +<P> +Jean shifted uneasily, as she did not speak. +</P> + +<P> +"I will make you another, Marie-Louise," he blurted out appeasingly. +"To-day—to-morrow—whenever you like, I will make you another. Then +it will be all right, eh, <I>petite</I>?" +</P> + +<P> +She shook her head—and the words came very slowly. +</P> + +<P> +"You can never make another beacon, Jean." +</P> + +<P> +"How—not another?" he cried impetuously. "I can make a thousand! Did +I not tell you that it was you—has it not those lips that I could +fashion even in the dark, even if you were far away from me! <I>Tiens</I>, +do you not see—I could make a thousand! And to-morrow you shall have +another." +</P> + +<P> +The dark eyes were full. +</P> + +<P> +"Was it yours to give, Jean?" she asked. +</P> + +<P> +It was true! He had nothing to say to that. She was crying. He was +angry now because he could say nothing, because there was no excuse for +what he had done—and yet he would do it again. But he could not tell +Marie-Louise that though, <I>pardieu</I>! She would only cry the harder. +And because she was right and he had nothing to say, he groped, angry +with himself, for some defence. +</P> + +<P> +"Ah!" he burst out sharply. "So that is it! Yesterday you would have +thought nothing of it, but now you have been listening to what they +say, and you believe it all—that it is worth a great deal of money, +maybe a hundred francs, eh? Well, it is not—it is worth nothing! You +have nothing to cry over." +</P> + +<P> +Wide-eyed, as though a whip-lash had curled across her face, she drew +back, her small hands shut tightly at her sides, as she looked at him. +And then somehow that little prayer that she had prayed to the <I>bon +Dieu</I> last night came back to her—"make me that, <I>mon Père</I>; make me +that—Jean's beacon all through my life"—and the bitter words that +were on her lips were crowded back, and she turned slowly away. +</P> + +<P> +But now Jean caught her arm. +</P> + +<P> +"No, no, Marie-Louise, I did not mean that!" he cried penitently. +"See, I did not mean that!" +</P> + +<P> +She made no answer. Her head was averted; her eyes fixed far out over +the water. +</P> + +<P> +Jean bit his lips. Certainly he had had no right to give it away, but +it was a small matter to make such a fuss over, and he had already +promised her another. Was it possible that she had sensed anything of +the wild passion that had come upon him for this beautiful American! +Was she already jealous? Well, it was easily knocked out of her head, +that—if one took the bull by the horns! And if he were mad it was no +reason that hurt should come to Marie-Louise because of it. Some day +it would be all over this madness, and was it not Marie-Louise and he +who were to make their little home together? He forced a laugh again, +and caught her shoulders and drew her closer. +</P> + +<P> +"Confess, Marie-Louise," he said teasingly, "that it is because I gave +it to another woman. Is it not so, eh? That you are—oh, <I>là, +là</I>!—that little Marie-Louise is jealous of mademoiselle." +</P> + +<P> +Her head lifted, a new light suddenly in her eyes—one of incredulous +amazement. +</P> + +<P> +"Jealous of mademoiselle!" she repeated wonderingly. "Of mademoiselle +who is of the <I>grand monde</I> and so far above us and not of our world at +all—and you who are a fisherman! How could I be jealous? How could +such a thing be possible? Oh, Jean, don't you understand, it is not +that you gave it to her—it is that you gave it at all." +</P> + +<P> +"But what does it matter, then," demanded Jean, inwardly relieved, +"since I will make you as many more as you please? To-morrow you shall +have another much better than this one." +</P> + +<P> +Footsteps sounded from the gravel walk on the cliff above; and +Marie-Louise, glancing around, lifted Jean's hands from her shoulders. +</P> + +<P> +"I have told you, Jean, that you can never make another," she said, +with a little catch in her voice; then hurriedly: "It is mademoiselle +and her father coming to see you. I must go." +</P> + +<P> +"And I have told you," declared Jean, with sudden, fierce assertion, +"that I can make a thousand, and all better than this one!" +</P> + +<P> +She bent her head to hide the blinding tears that were filling her eyes +again. It meant nothing to him, that which had been so great a pledge +to her. It was only a <I>poupée</I>, a clay doll, one of dozens that he had +given to the children to amuse them. And the things he had said about +it meant nothing—they had only been words—only words, but she could +not forget them. A little sob rose in her throat, and was choked +bravely back. They were coming down the path now, mademoiselle and her +father, and she must go. +</P> + +<P> +"You do not understand," she said brokenly—and, turning, ran quickly +along the beach. +</P> + +<P> +For a space Jean watched her as she sped over the sand, until, ignoring +the path, she climbed lithely up the rocks at the far end of the beach, +and disappeared in the direction of the house. His hand, a knotted +lump, drawn back for a smashing blow on the gunwale of the boat, a blow +that should relieve his feelings, opened hesitantly instead and passed +a little dazedly across his eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Sacré maudit</I>!" he muttered in slow earnestness under his breath. +</P> + +<P> +Since last night the world was upside-down! Since last night he did +not know himself! He knew nothing! Only that all Bernay-sur-Mer was +changed. That everything was changed. That he had made Marie-Louise +cry. That they had talked about that accursed piece of clay that had +made Marie-Louise cry, as though it were worth talking about! +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Sacré maudit</I>!" muttered Jean again. "What does it all mean?" +</P> + +<P> +And then he was watching her, this glorious American, coming now along +the beach toward him with the man who Marie-Louise had said was +mademoiselle's father. +</P> + +<P> +"Jean!"—she was calling out to him. "Here is father at last! Did you +think we were never coming?" +</P> + +<P> +Two hands fell upon his shoulders, holding him off at arms' length; and +the man, with frank eagerness, was staring into his face. Over her +father's shoulder, Myrna was laughing roguishly. +</P> + +<P> +"So you are Jean Laparde?" Henry Bliss exclaimed heartily. "Well, +well! My daughter told me I would lose half my surprise when I had a +good look at you, and I am free to admit she was right." One hand fell +from Jean's shoulder, caught Jean's hand and wrung it in a genial grip. +"Well, Jean, my boy, I want to say to you that if you will listen to +me, this will be a day that you will remember as long as you live." +</P> + +<P> +From one to the other Jean stared bewilderedly. +</P> + +<P> +"It is to the clay figure that monsieur refers, I know," he said +slowly; "but I do not understand. Mademoiselle was kind enough to +praise it, but—" He shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly. +</P> + +<P> +"But—nothing!" laughed Henry Bliss impulsively. "Here—sit down!" He +sat down himself on the boat's gunwale, and turned to his daughter. +"Myrna, we're going to talk business—are you going to stay?" +</P> + +<P> +"Of course, I'm going to stay!" she declared merrily, perching herself +beside her father and smiling up at Jean, who still remained standing. +"It will take both of us to convince him. Jean, father wants to take +you to Paris." +</P> + +<P> +"To Paris!"—the words came from Jean with a sort of startled jerk. +His eyes searched the two faces for an instant uncertainly, and then he +smiled incredulously. "Mademoiselle is pleased to have a little joke +with me—yes?" he said quietly. +</P> + +<P> +It was Henry Bliss who answered. +</P> + +<P> +"Indeed, she is not!" he asserted, with brisk emphasis. "That is +exactly what I have to propose, my boy. My daughter tells me she +cannot make you believe that the superb little statue you have made +amounts to anything more than a gouged-out piece of mud. I'm not so +much surprised that you have not sensed its actual worth, for I think +that almost invariably the really big men in art, the men of real +genius, are the last to appreciate themselves; but the astounding thing +is that you have seen nothing in it at all. As a matter of fact, I +can't believe it. It is impossible! It is simply that you have given +it no thought. Think a little about it, Jean. How did you come to +make it? How did you conceive it? Where did you get your model?" +</P> + +<P> +"But I do not know," said Jean a little absently—something, the fire, +the enthusiasm, the earnestness in the other's voice was kindling a +strange response within him. "I do not know. I think it was the +bronze statue in the great square of the city." +</P> + +<P> +"The—what?" demanded Henry Bliss quickly. "What city? I know them +all—and I do not recall anything that could have served as a model for +you." +</P> + +<P> +"And you told me, Jean," Myrna added, wagging her finger at him in +pretty reproach, "that you had never been away from Bernay-sur-Mer." +</P> + +<P> +Jean laughed uncomfortably, self-consciously. +</P> + +<P> +"It is nothing!" he said. "You do not understand. It is foolish! The +statue and the square and the city are only in the dream that comes +sometimes." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah—a dream!" ejaculated Henry Bliss, with a quick nod of his head. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Jean!" Myrna clapped her hands delightedly. "Tell us about it." +</P> + +<P> +"There is nothing to tell, mademoiselle," he replied, colouring. "It +is just a dream that comes sometimes when I am fishing, when I lie +awake at night, when I am not thinking of it. That is all, +mademoiselle. It means nothing." +</P> + +<P> +"It means a great deal!" said Henry Bliss, jumping excitedly to his +feet. "And at least it should help you to understand that it is not so +impossible after all when I tell you that, barring little crudities of +technique that are a paltry consideration, there is no sculptor in +France to-day could produce a piece of work comparable to that which +you have done." +</P> + +<P> +Jean's lips were slightly parted. Excitement was upon him too. A +strange stirring was in his soul. +</P> + +<P> +"But I cannot believe that," he said in a low voice. +</P> + +<P> +Henry Bliss's hands were on Jean's shoulders once more, pressing them +in a hard, earnest grip. +</P> + +<P> +"Nevertheless, it is true!" he asserted forcibly, "You do not know me; +but those who do could tell you that I am qualified to speak. And I +tell you that it is true. I tell you that in Paris fame, wealth, the +greatest name in France awaits you! You are through to-day with this +life forever, my boy, if you will come with me to Paris." +</P> + +<P> +Fame, wealth, the greatest name in France! Jean felt the blood leave +his face. His brain seemed to whirl and to be afire. Yes, those were +the words, and the man was not playing with him; but it was some wild +hallucination, some bizarre mistake. To-day, to be through with the +hard, penniless life of a fisherman forever—and to work hereafter only +with what before had been his play! No, that was not true—it could +not be true. He meant well, this man, the father of the girl whose +eyes seemed to burn into his now and insist too that it was true, but +the little statue had been too easily done to be anything more than +perhaps a pretty little thing. Fame, a great name—that strange +stirring of his soul again! God, why had this man aroused that thought +within him, when it was not, could not be true? +</P> + +<P> +"Monsieur," he said, and his voice in its hoarseness sounded strangely +in his own ears; "monsieur, has made a mistake. It cannot be so." +</P> + +<P> +"Think so!" returned Henry Bliss bluntly. "I do not make mistakes of +that kind, my boy. But I will convince you. In a few days you will +see. I have telegraphed for some of the famous critics of France, men +of the Academy, men whose names are known all over Europe, and they +will tell you what I have told you—and their despair that it is I, not +they, who have discovered you will be so pitifully genuine that even +you will understand. And to-morrow we will motor to Marseilles and get +some modelling clay for you, and you will see for yourself what you can +do with that. And then, Jean, you will go to Paris with me—and work." +</P> + +<P> +"If it were true, if it should be true," said Jean numbly, "still I +could not go. One does not make <I>sous</I> enough at the fishing to go to +Paris." +</P> + +<P> +"But, great heavens!" ejaculated Henry Bliss. "That is precisely what +I am offering you, young man—money. I am rich. I will pay every +expense. I will establish you." +</P> + +<P> +Jean shook his head. +</P> + +<P> +"I could not do that—take your money," he said simply. +</P> + +<P> +"Couldn't take it!" exploded the American earnestly—and then he +laughed—and then grew serious once more. "Listen, my boy! I do not +want you to think for a moment that this is a purely charitable little +scheme on my part—far from it! It is most of it, I am afraid, utter +selfishness. I love art—for many years I have devoted myself to it. +I cannot create myself—God knows the miserable attempts and the +miserable failures that have been mine!—and so I have tried to help +others to do what I could not do myself"—Henry Bliss was smiling now +in a kindly, wistful way. "And now to discover the greatest sculptor +of the age, to bring him out of obscurity into fame and power—can you +not see, Jean, how selfish I am? And so why do you stand there +hesitating?" +</P> + +<P> +Into Myrna's face, for the girl had risen and was now standing beside +them, into the man's face so close to his, Jean stared—and then his +eyes swept about him, over his surroundings. It was magnificent, but +it was not reality—for here was the beach, and here was the boat, and +in the boat were his nets, and there was the nick in the handle of the +oar where he had fended off that night from the Perigeau Reef, and out +there, surf-splashed, was the reef itself, and his clothes were the +same rough, coarse clothes that he always wore just like every other +fisherman in Bernay-sur-Mer. It was magnificent, but it was not +reality—and yet his heart was pounding with mighty hammer beats, and +the blood was surging fiercely through his veins. +</P> + +<P> +"And as for the money," Henry Bliss went on quietly. "You need have no +qualms on that score, my boy. Pay it back by all means, if you'll feel +the better for it. In a year, two years, you'll be a wealthy man. +Why, Jean, don't you understand—there isn't one of the men who will be +here shortly but would pay you any price you chose to ask for that +little statue you gave to my daughter here? So, even on a basis of +dollars and cents alone, as it stands now, you couldn't owe me +anything, don't you see?" +</P> + +<P> +What were they saying to him! Fame, a great sculptor, wealth, a name, +his name, the name of Jean Laparde to be known throughout all France! +Why did it come back to him now, that night of the great storm when he +had stood and watched the scene, rapt and awed, on his way to +Marie-Louise? What strange blasphemy was that, that had been his, that +had envied the <I>bon Dieu</I> the creation of that mighty picture? +</P> + +<P> +"Jean"—Myrna had caught his arm, her head was between her father's now +and his, the soft, bronzed hair for an instant brushed his forehead, +her breath was on his cheek, the grey eyes were smiling into +his—"Jean, wouldn't you like to go to Paris?" +</P> + +<P> +To Paris! She lived in Paris—she was always in Paris—always there. +A day, a week, two weeks, a month he would have seen her here—in Paris +there would be neither days nor weeks nor months to count. The grey +eyes were veiled suddenly, demurely, under the long lashes—but the +little hand on his arm, with a quick, added pressure, remained. His +head swam dizzily—there was an untamed, pulsing elation upon him, a +greed for her that racked and tormented him, a greed to clasp her head +between his hands and lift up her face and press kiss after kiss upon +those eyelids, that mouth, until in the very insatiability of his +passion she should fling her arms around his neck and return his +embrace! +</P> + +<P> +"Yes—<I>yes</I>!" he said tensely, fiercely. "<I>Mon Dieu</I>, yes—I would +like to go to Paris!" +</P> + +<P> +Her hand fell from his arm. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Jean—I'm so glad!"—it seemed as though she were whispering +softly to him. +</P> + +<P> +"Good!" cried Henry Bliss enthusiastically, with a double slap on +Jean's shoulder. +</P> + +<P> +Jean did not speak. It was not easy in an instant to quench that fire +that was devouring him, it was not easy to understand that to-day all +his life was to be changed. He looked at Myrna—the grey eyes were +gaily mocking him, as she nodded her head. He looked at her +father—Henry Bliss was laughing ingenuously like a pleased school-boy. +</P> + +<P> +"I know just how you feel!" said Henry Bliss genially. "All up in the +air—eh? Well, I feel that way myself. It is the most amazing thing +that ever happened! It seems as though there were a dozen questions I +wanted to ask you all at once. And to begin with, those <I>poupées</I> now, +how did you—no, hold on! Myrna, we'll motor over to Marseilles for +the clay to-day, instead of waiting until to-morrow. We'll have +something else to show old Bidelot by the time he gets here! You go up +to the house and order an early luncheon. Jean will join us, and we'll +have from now to Marseilles and back again to talk." +</P> + +<P> +"Splendid!" agreed Myrna. "You will, won't you, Jean?" +</P> + +<P> +"I?" said Jean, in sudden dismay. He, to eat with the <I>grand monde</I>! +But perhaps he had not understood—they would give him lunch with Jules +and Nanette and Marie-Louise. He had heard Nanette make that very +plain to Marie-Louise a little while ago. "I—I have my dinner with +me," he stammered, and pointed to a paper parcel in the stern of the +boat. "I will be ready when mademoiselle and monsieur are ready." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, will you?" laughed Henry Bliss. "Well, I guess not! You'll come +up and lunch with Myrna and me." +</P> + +<P> +"No," said Jean, embarrassed, "I—" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, you will," insisted Henry Bliss. +</P> + +<P> +"Why, Jean," expostulated Myrna, "of course you will, we—" she stopped +abruptly. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "I think I know! It's what that +stupid Nanette said to Marie-Louise about sitting at table with us, +isn't it?" +</P> + +<P> +"What's that?" demanded Henry Bliss quickly. "What has Marie-Louise to +do with—h'm—yes—I remember"—his face screwed up perplexedly. "Her +fiancé, she said—h'm—yes—it <I>is</I> a bit awkward, isn't it?" +</P> + +<P> +"It's nothing of the kind!" declared Myrna, and, with a laugh, +possessed herself of the paper parcel from the boat. "It's quite a +different matter. If only half of what father has said is true, Jean, +it would be an honour for any one to have Jean Laparde as a guest. And +anyway I've got your lunch now!" She waved it in the air, threatening +him merrily with it; then turned, and ran toward the house. "You come +when you're called, sir!" she flung back over her shoulder, laughing +again. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap0108"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +— VIII — +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +SHADOWS BEFORE +</H4> + +<P> +Who, in all France, a week ago, had heard of Bernay-sur-Mer? Upon +whose lips to-day was not the name of that little Mediterranean +village? Men, the great men of France, came at the bidding of their +confrere, the American millionaire art-critic; came sceptically—and +stayed to wonder. And because there were no accommodations in +Bernay-sur-Mer, they made their headquarters at Marseilles, and their +daily pilgrimages from there; an arrangement that, if in a measure +inconvenient, was not without its compensation, for at Marseilles was +being made the plaster cast of that exquisite little figure, fashioned +so amazingly from scarcely more than mud, that marked a new epoch to +them in the world of sculpture, the birth of a supreme genius, a +surpassing glory for the art of France! +</P> + +<P> +They came and watched Jean at his work; for there was clay now such as +Jean had never imagined, clay that seemed to give form itself, of its +own initiative, to wonderful conceptions. They watched and marvelled; +and at night they carried him back with them to Marseilles to fête him, +until indeed to Jean the world of yesterday was as some vast haze, +befogged, that had shut down behind him. +</P> + +<P> +"In a year, with the study of technique in Paris!" murmured Henry Bliss +ecstatically. +</P> + +<P> +And old Bidelot, seventy years of age, grizzle-haired, the most +caustic, bitter critic of them all, stormed in his wrath. +</P> + +<P> +"Technique! You talk of technique—for <I>him</I>! He is a school in +himself—a school that will revolutionise the art. You talk of +technique for a genius awakened out of the sleep of ignorance, who in a +day accomplishes undying work that no other man in Paris, in Rome—bah! +where you will—could accomplish in twice a lifetime! You are senile, +my poor friend Bliss—you are in your dotage!" +</P> + +<P> +Jean Laparde! Was it possible that this was Jean Laparde? The simple +fisherfolk stared awe-struck at each other, at the metamorphosis that +had come to Bernay-sur-Mer, at the great people who came and went, to +whom one instinctively lifted one's hat—the great people who now +lifted their hats to Jean. It was true! Could they not see with their +own eyes? One, too, then, should lift one's hat to Jean. And did not +the good Father Anton read to them from the newspapers that all France +was ringing with the name of Jean Laparde? +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Sacré nom d'un miracle</I>!" swore Pierre Lachance heavily. "And once +he made clay <I>poupées</I> for little Ninon! <I>Bon Dieu</I>, think of that!" +</P> + +<P> +Bernay-sur-Mer had set Jean apart, above itself. +</P> + +<P> +But the old curé was troubled in his heart. And one night, after a +week had gone since the American strangers had come to Bernay-sur-Mer, +Father Anton shook his head over his newspaper as he read of Jean +Laparde—and found difficulty with his spectacles, for his thoughts +were of Marie-Louise. +</P> + +<P> +It was only a week ago that she had come to him so happily, so gladly, +the proud light in her eyes, to talk of the great thing Jean had +done—and she had changed a great deal in the week. The proud light +would come back quickly enough at mention of Jean, but she had grown +strangely quiet and silent. And Jean, too, had changed. It seemed, as +indeed it was true, that Jean was no longer one of the village. +</P> + +<P> +The old priest took off his offending spectacles, rubbed them with his +handkerchief, and replaced them only to find that the mistiness was in +his own wet eyes. +</P> + +<P> +Jean did not seem the same in his new clothes. Of course, it was quite +natural that Jean should have discarded his fisherman's dress. +Mademoiselle Bliss had said very truly that though it might be +picturesque in Bernay-sur-Mer, in Paris it would be only eccentric; and +besides, to go to Marseilles with his new friends of his new world, one +needed to be dressed as they were not to be ridiculous. Monsieur Bliss +had been very generous. The American was very whole-heartedly +interested in his protégé. Jean would lack for nothing that either +money or influence could procure. +</P> + +<P> +But it was not only the clothes—Jean himself had changed. Father +Anton shook his head again slowly. It had come gradually during the +week, and he, who loved Jean as a son, had not failed to see it. At +first it had been amazement, bewilderment, incredulity, then a dawning +belief in the genius of his power that they preached to him, and then a +fierce assurance that it was so; it had begun with wonder at the +camaraderie with which the famous men who had come there treated him, +at the respect that Bernay-sur-Mer paid to him—and it had ended with +the acceptance of it as his due, and had come to be looked for with a +tinge of arrogance as though he had drunk of heady wine. Yes, it was a +change! Jean was afire now, a different man, consumed, possessed with +the lure of fame, the golden vista that was before his eyes, steeping +his soul in it, reaching out to it, straining toward it like a young +eagle that suddenly liberated from captivity takes wings to the great +void. +</P> + +<P> +And so the paper slid unheeded to the floor from the old priest's knees +that night, a week after the American strangers had come to +Bernay-sur-Mer, and the spectacles were removed again—but this time +the eyes were wiped. He was glad for Jean, proud in his love for the +greatness that was to come—but somehow in his heart there was sadness, +too. It seemed that between Marie-Louise and Jean a shadow crept, and +lengthened, and there was a parting of the ways. +</P> + +<P> +"I love you both, my children, Marie-Louise and Jean," the old curé +whispered. "I am an old man. Perhaps I am foolish in my fears. I +pray the good God for you both." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap0109"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +— IX — +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +FORKED ROADS +</H4> + +<P> +It was the room Myrna Bliss had occupied. Mother Fregeau had insisted; +Jacques Fregeau had implored. It was fitting that the best at the Bas +Rhône should be Jean's. The little back room that had been his for ten +years was quite impossible. It was different now. It would be but to +make him ridiculous—what with all these grand strangers that were +around him! And besides, <I>merveille du bon Dieu</I>, was he not now +himself the greatest of the great ones! +</P> + +<P> +In through the window the late afternoon sun played over the faded +wallpaper of the <I>chambre de luxe</I>; from without there was the hum of +voices, exclamations of amazement, cries of delight and admiration, the +curious composite sound of a gathered, eager crowd. And Jean, well +back from the sill that he might not be seen, glanced outside, it was +his—his! The work that he had done during the past week in the +<I>atelier</I> they had made for him in the barn behind the Bas Rhône! It +was finished! Monsieur Bidelot was exhibiting it now to +Bernay-sur-Mer. The great Academician was standing in the tonneau of +the automobile and holding it up for every one to look at—the +fisherman with his boat and net in clay. Ah, they understood that, the +people of Bernay-sur-Mer! But they understood only that it was +magnificent because Bidelot and Monsieur Bliss and the great men who +had come amongst them told them that it was magnificent. +</P> + +<P> +For years he had made the <I>poupées</I>, and they had seen nothing—and he +had seen nothing. But now they knew because they were told; and now he +knew because his soul, his brain was ablaze with the knowledge of +creative power, because what had gone before was nothing, because what +was to come would sweep the past, that little thing that Bidelot in his +emotion cried over, into insignificance. +</P> + +<P> +He drew back, his head high; his outflung arms, hands clenched, +stretched heavenward. These strangers, these great critics had said +it, and it was so! The name of Jean Laparde would never die! +</P> + +<P> +He stripped off the long sculptor's apron that covered him from neck to +knees, and held it out at arm's length, gazing first at it and then at +the rough fisherman's clothes that hung, where Mother Fregeau had +placed them, on the end peg on the wall—a little apart, significantly +it seemed, whether by accident or design, from the new clothes that had +come from Marseilles. And then he laughed out suddenly in a quick, +exalted way, and tossed the apron on the bed. It was all changed, +that! He was through with the fisherman's dress, he was through with +Bernay-sur-Mer! To-night he was to dine with Bidelot and a score of +others in Marseilles, and after that in a few days it would be—Paris. +</P> + +<P> +He undressed hurriedly, and began to dress again in a clean suit—but a +little slowly now, none too deftly. They were still strange to him +these clothes; but then everything was strange. The people around him +were strange. At times he felt awkward, constrained in their +presence—and at times he could laugh down at them as from a superior +height. Ay, he could laugh—they were at his feet! Only—he frowned +heavily—he could not laugh at Myrna Bliss. He was not master there! +And yet she, somehow, did not erect the barrier. It was himself that +did that—because he could not forget that behind the roguish smile in +the grey eyes might lurk the thought that, after all, he was only a +fisherman. +</P> + +<P> +A fisherman! They were cheering now outside. His hands shut tightly. +A fisherman! He was no longer a fisherman! He was Jean Laparde, a +sculptor of France, a man before whom lay a path of glory, a man whom +the nation would acclaim, a man of whose future all stood in envy! +They had told him that, these men whom France had already honoured, +these men who had accepted him as more than their equal. But there was +no need for them to tell him—he knew it in his soul. None, no man, +the world itself, could hold back now the genius of Jean Laparde! +</P> + +<P> +Paris! He was pacing the room now, his eyes afire. To-morrow or the +next day, when the Blisses had made their plans, Paris and fame was +his. What a life it was that now opened out before him! A place +amongst the highest, the world to resound with the name of Jean +Laparde—and those grey eyes, that bronze hair, that glorious beauty of +the American—God! he would immortalise her in clay, in bronze, in +marble. +</P> + +<P> +Ay, they might well cheer while the chance was theirs, these people of +Bernay-sur-Mer! To-morrow or the next day he would be saying good-bye +to them, and—he stood suddenly still—and good-bye, too, to +Marie-Louise. The thought put a damper upon his spirits; his brows +gathered in deep furrows of impatient perplexity. +</P> + +<P> +He had not seen much of Marie-Louise in the last week—he had seen her +scarcely at all. Only twice—when she with many others had stood in +the doorway to watch his work. She had smiled at him then, as though +it were her work, too, as though it were a joint proprietorship—but +she had gone before he could speak to her. And at the cottage, when he +had been there at the invitation of Myrna or her father, Marie-Louise, +strangely enough, now that he thought of it, was never to be seen. +</P> + +<P> +He would have to speak to her, of course, about going away; but what +chance, with the whirl he had been in, had he had to do it? She would +know that he was going to Paris, for everybody knew it—but he would +have to speak to her himself about it before he went. And what was he +to say? Certainly, he loved Marie-Louise—but the great chance of his +life was before him. What was he to say to her? He would go to Paris +for a time, make this great name for himself, and then +afterwards—<I>what</I>? +</P> + +<P> +He refused to tolerate the question. He had refused to tolerate it all +week. It was enough for the present that he was going for a time to +Paris. Marie-Louise was sensible enough not to make a scene. She +could see readily enough that he must go and that she must stay. How, +for instance, could she associate with women of fashion and society +like Myrna Bliss, who would be the women of the new world that must +necessarily form part of his life hereafter. What was he thinking of? +Was it the "afterwards" again? Was he not coming back to Marie-Louise? +Was he choosing now between his art and Marie-Louise? No; he was +not—he would not! That was an issue for the future. It would work +itself out. Why should he plague himself about it! +</P> + +<P> +He loved Marie-Louise, of course; but it would have been easier now if +there had been nothing between them. He could not go to Marie-Louise +and say: Marie-Louise, I love you; but it is finished—you can see that +the <I>grand monde</I> would make a very great difference between Jean +Laparde, the great sculptor, and Marie-Louise the fisherwoman of +Bernay-sur-Mer. No; he could not say that, but—<I>sacré nom</I>!—was he +back to the everlasting "afterwards" again, when he refused so +resolutely to go beyond the present? Was it not enough that he was +simply going to Paris for a time—a matter that would seem natural +enough to her, and of which she would be glad because great things had +come to him? He would talk to her like that—that would be +enough—Marie-Louise was a sensible girl. One could not say to her +that it would be better to finish everything, he would never say that +to Marie-Louise—but if, <I>par example</I>, he and Marie-Louise had never +talked of the marriage there would be nothing now to trouble him. +And—he swung around sharply as a knock sounded on the door. +</P> + +<P> +"Come!" he called. +</P> + +<P> +Papa Fregeau stuck in his head. +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Pardon</I>, Monsieur Jean"—it was "monsieur" now—"it is Mademoiselle +Bliss who is alone in the café below. Will Monsieur Jean see her for a +moment before he goes out?" +</P> + +<P> +"In an instant," Jean answered quickly. "Tell mademoiselle that I will +be there in an instant." +</P> + +<P> +Papa Fregeau hesitated, stared about the room, and stared at Jean, his +fat cheeks grotesquely expanded—and his arms rose suddenly in a +gesture of profound helplessness. +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Mon Dieu</I>!" he muttered heavily. "Is it possible that it is our +little Jean there—ah, <I>pardon</I>"—he stammered—"<I>Monsieur</I> Jean"—and +made a hasty exit from the room, as though utterly confounded at his +own temerity. +</P> + +<P> +But Jean, following his reply, had paid no further attention to Papa +Fregeau. He had learned to knot the long, flowing tie that Myrna had +chosen as part of his dress, for she had said, had she not, that it was +the tie the artists wore in Paris? He knotted it now with extra care, +put on his coat, snatched up his hat, and ran downstairs to the café +below. +</P> + +<P> +She was waiting for him back by the little <I>comptoir</I> where he had +stood that evening when she had first spoken to him. She had been like +a glorious vision that had burst suddenly upon him that evening—she +was a thousand times more glorious now, for her smile was eager with an +intimacy that promised—what did it promise? He did not know. It was +there—and her eyes were shining, and the white throat was divinely +beautiful—and the thrill of her presence quickened the beat of his +heart. +</P> + +<P> +Her laugh rang through the room, silver-toned. +</P> + +<P> +"Jean," she cried merrily, "you are harder to see these days than a +prime minister! What do you mean, sir? Have you deserted us?" +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Ma foi</I>!" protested Jean, a little anxiously. "Mademoiselle does not +mean that! Was I not at lunch with her to-day, and yesterday, and the +day before that?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, and all day at the work, and every evening in Marseilles"—she +manufactured a dainty pout through her smile. "And even now that I +have snatched a little moment, I must not keep you for they are waiting +for you outside." +</P> + +<P> +"Let them wait!" said Jean tensely. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, no; we mustn't do that," she said laughingly, shaking her head. +"So listen, Jean. I have come to tell you that—can you guess what? +That you are not going to Paris with us after all." +</P> + +<P> +"Not going to Paris!"—Jean gazed at her bewilderedly, as he repeated +the words. +</P> + +<P> +"With <I>us</I>—silly boy!" she smiled teasingly. "Are you disappointed?" +</P> + +<P> +She teased, and mocked, and delighted him, and fired his blood by +amazing and elusive turns. He could not cope with her yet. +</P> + +<P> +"But mademoiselle knows," he blundered. "I—I do not understand. It +is a great disappointment." +</P> + +<P> +"Then it mustn't be!" she declared brightly. "For it is my idea, and +if you are not pleased with it, it is I who will be terribly +disappointed. It is just a little while ago that father and I arranged +the plans. We are to go to-morrow direct to Paris, and as soon as we +get there—now listen very attentively, Jean!—we are going to pick out +an <I>atelier</I> for you and fit it up. And you are not to come until we +send you word that everything is ready. And the day you arrive I shall +be hostess at the studio at a reception to which all Paris will be +invited. Everybody that is worth while will come, and your entrée will +be a triumph. Now, Jean, will that not be splendid?" +</P> + +<P> +She was smiling at him, vivacious, flushed with excitement. +Splendid—yes, it would be splendid! An entrée to Paris like that! It +was the first tangible glimpse of reality out of the chaotic blaze of +luring, golden dreams. +</P> + +<P> +"It—it is too good of mademoiselle!" he stammered excitedly. +</P> + +<P> +Low, musical, her laugh rippled through the room again, as she looked +at him. The man was magnificent—the head, the shoulders, the splendid +strength, the mobile, changing lights and shadows in his face like a +child who had not yet learned to mask its emotions, and all this +coupled with the deliciously picturesque background of the discovery of +his art, would make him the rage in Paris. Paris would literally go +wild over him! And she? Well, he would be still more a new sensation +than ever—and perhaps, who knew?—but the man was too easily +aroused—and then there was the possibility that her father, that +Bidelot and the others had overrated him, that he would be but the +phenomenon of the moment, only to sink after a while into uninteresting +mediocrity—she would see. But for the present at least Paris would +echo and re-echo with the name of Jean Laparde. Her eyebrows arched +demurely, innocently. There was something else she had to say to Jean. +She had never spoken to him of Marie-Louise—naturally. But she must +speak now. Marie-Louise, a peasant girl, a bare-footed fisherwoman, in +Paris as Jean's fiancée was perfectly impossible! +</P> + +<P> +"Jean," she said ingenuously, "you know we took the cottage without +much formality as far as any definite length of time was concerned. Of +course we expected to stay longer, and if all this had not happened we +certainly should have done so. So, do you think, when we speak to +Marie-Louise about going, that she would be perfectly satisfied with a +month's rent? I told father I would ask you." +</P> + +<P> +Jean's face clouded. +</P> + +<P> +"You have not told Marie-Louise then that you are going to-morrow?" he +asked slowly. +</P> + +<P> +"How could we—when we did not know ourselves until a little while +ago?" she answered. +</P> + +<P> +"No; that is so," he said. Then, with a short, conscious laugh: "I +have not spoken to Marie-Louise myself." +</P> + +<P> +"Of course you haven't!" she returned quickly, "And you have been wise." +</P> + +<P> +"Wise?"—Jean looked at her, puzzled. +</P> + +<P> +"Marie-Louise is not blind," said Myrna quietly. "It is far better +that she should have seen things for herself—and she could not help +seeing them during the last week." +</P> + +<P> +"You mean?" Jean began—and stopped. +</P> + +<P> +"You know what I mean, Jean," she said gravely. "That she must have +seen what everybody else sees—what you see yourself. That if she ever +had any idea of going to Paris with you, it is quite out of the +question. It is different now—everything is changed. You are not a +fisherman any longer; you have a great place to take in the world that +she cannot take beside you. A week in Paris and, even if neither of +you see it now, you would both see it only too bitterly and clearly +then. For both your sakes it is better settled now." +</P> + +<P> +Jean was staring across the room to where, outside, the crowd was +packed densely in the road. Had he not thought of just those things +that she had been saying? Had he not thought of them all week? They +were true; but still there was Marie-Louise who—what was that? They +were cheering him there outside—it made his blood tingle, he felt the +mad elation of it, his soul seemed to leap out to meet the acclaim! +</P> + +<P> +"But that is not all, Jean"—she was speaking again. "There is another +thing, something you owe to—oh, how shall I say it?—to your country, +and—" She stopped suddenly and caught his arm. "Listen!" she +breathed. "Listen!" +</P> + +<P> +It was Bidelot, the great Academician, his voice raised in impassioned +words. Through the window they could see him standing, bare-headed, in +the automobile. +</P> + +<P> +"... Bernay-sur-Mer will evermore live in the hearts of Frenchmen—you +have given to France the immortal name of Jean Laparde." +</P> + +<P> +Her hands, both of them now, were clasped tightly on his arm. +</P> + +<P> +"Jean!" she whispered. "Jean!" +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Mon Dieu</I>!"—the words came hoarsely from Jean's throat. They were +cheering again. He moved, like iron impelled to the magnet, across the +room. He looked at Myrna. He had never seen her eyes so bright. +</P> + +<P> +"It is only the beginning, Jean"—she seemed half hysterical herself. +"But in Paris, Jean—in Paris you shall see!" +</P> + +<P> +They were at the door, and suddenly she flung it wide open. There was +a roar of voices. She was smiling at him from the doorway. They were +shouting his name. They rushed at him, and, lifting him shoulder high, +carried him to the automobile. Fame—was this only a taste of it? No +more than that? In Paris—what was it he should see in Paris? They +were shouting again. It was like some fiery draught that his soul was +drinking in. He craved it with a lust that was passionate, +all-possessing. He cried out to those around him. He did not know +what he said. And then Bidelot was speaking to him, and the automobile +was whirling down the road, followed by the shouts of all +Bernay-sur-Mer. +</P> + +<P> +All Bernay-sur-Mer? No; not all. For as the car flashed by, halfway +between the little bridge and the eastern headland, the fringe of +bushes by the roadside parted, a dark head lifted, and Marie-Louise +gazed after it. It was all so strange, and she could not quite +understand. Once, twice before, on other evenings, she had watched the +car pass. They were all of the great world those men with Jean in the +car; of the great world of which she knew nothing, only that the +village spoke of the strangers with awe. And now Jean was one of +them—and they seemed so proud of him, so proud to make him one of +themselves, these great men. And she was proud of him, too, oh, so +proud and glad and happy—only back of it all was a little chill of +dread and fear, and she could not quite understand. She had smiled at +Jean from the edge of the crowd that was clustered around the door of +the barn those days when he had been working at the clay—and then she +had stolen away and cried so bitterly. She did not know why she had +done that. If only some one would tell her what it all meant! Was it +because Jean was going away for a little time? The dark eyes widened +slowly. Was it only for a little time? She had not talked to Jean +since that morning on the beach, and that was so long, long ago. It +wasn't Jean's fault, though, nearly so much as hers. She had really +tried to evade him. No, not to evade Jean; but to evade the others out +of the shyness and diffidence for the great strangers who were now +constantly around him. Would there be always these strangers around +him? +</P> + +<P> +She drew herself up suddenly, her small hands fiercely clenched. She +hated these strangers! That was it! They were always coming between +Jean and herself! They were always there! They made of Jean a +different man; they made him one of themselves, and in doing that they +were snatching him away from her, taking him across what seemed like +some vast gulf that she could not traverse herself. She hated this +Monsieur American, and this mademoiselle; and she hated the day they +had come, for it had all begun that day. The red burned angrily in her +cheeks, the lithe form quivered in a quick rush of passion—and then, +instantly penitent, with a little sob, she flung herself down upon the +grass. +</P> + +<P> +No; she did not hate them! What had she said! The <I>bon Dieu</I> would be +very angry with her for that. And they had been very kind and good to +her, this monsieur and this mademoiselle. And to hate all the others +was to commit a sin, for were they not there because Jean—she raised +her head quickly, parting the bushes again, as she caught the sound of +steps and voices from the road. +</P> + +<P> +It was Monsieur Bliss speaking in French to Father Anton, who walked +between Monsieur Bliss and mademoiselle. +</P> + +<P> +"Why should he not work here? Why should he go to Paris? What a +question, my dear Monsieur le Curé! It is because here is nothing; +because in Paris there is everything. It is there that he will study +the great works of famous sculptors; it is there that he will have +models and facilities for his work; it is there that he will have +inspiration from the art around him; it is there that, with his genius, +he will sift and choose, profiting from the different schools even as +he creates a new one for himself; and it is there that the leading men +of France will unite with the social world to make the name of Jean +Laparde known and honoured wherever art is known." +</P> + +<P> +"But," said Father Anton anxiously, "but he will come back—to +Marie-Louise." +</P> + +<P> +Henry Bliss's hand fell sympathetically upon the old priest's shoulder, +as he shook his head. +</P> + +<P> +"I do not know," he said soberly. "Who can tell? It depends upon +Jean—and Marie-Louise. Frankly, I do not think he will come back, for +there is always the danger that the greater he becomes the greater will +become the distance between them—and Jean will unquestionably become a +national figure. But it is a vastly different thing with him than it +is with her. It is innate in him to take that place gracefully, even +as his genius is innate in him. To her, I am afraid, it would be an +impossible and an impracticable life. It is likely she would be +miserable to begin with and feel herself a drag upon him, for, we must +admit, she could not, as we say in America, hold up her end in his new +life. It is one of those tragedies of life, isn't it, that we cannot +shape one way or the other? It is something they alone must work out. +It is not a little matter, this future of Jean's. France has claimed +Jean, Monsieur le Curé, and it may well be, as Myrna here said a moment +ago, there is no place in his new life for Marie-Louise. I—" +</P> + +<P> +They had passed on. +</P> + +<P> +It seemed to Marie-Louise that she was very cold, that somehow she +could not move. There were three figures out there on the road walking +along. It was very strange that so ordinary a thing as that should be +taking place. She seemed to be numbed, to be waiting somehow for a +return to consciousness. Was that consciousness that was returning +now, was that it—this dull, monotonous pain? And that great choking +in her heart—what was that? She was standing erect, and words were +quivering on her lips. +</P> + +<P> +"There is no place in his new life for Marie-Louise." +</P> + +<P> +She was staring out before her; but the road, and, beyond it, the white +beach, and, beyond that again, the blue of the sea with the great +golden shaft of light from the setting sun upon it was gone—and there +was only nothingness. Only her lips moved. +</P> + +<P> +"There is no place—in his new life—for Marie-Louise." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap0110"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +— X — +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +A DAUGHTER OF FRANCE +</H4> + +<P> +How still the house was! Only once during the night had Marie-Louise +heard a sound as she had sat, dressed, by the window in the little +attic room. And that sound had been the whir of an automobile rushing +by on the road—it had been Jean returning from Marseilles. That was +while it was very dark, very long ago—now it was daylight again, and +the sun was streaming into the room. +</P> + +<P> +The chaste, sweet face was tired and weary and aged a little; but on +the lips, sensitive, delicate, making even more beautiful their +contour, was a brave, resolute little smile, as her eyes rested on the +small white bed, neatly made, unslept in. It was over now, the fight +that had been so hard and so cruel to fight; and she needed only the +courage to go on to the end. +</P> + +<P> +Over and over again, all through the night, she had thought it out. +She loved Jean. She loved Jean so much! She had trembled once when +she had tried to think how much, and the thought had come so quickly, +before she could arrest it, that she loved Jean as much as she loved +God—and then she had prayed the <I>bon Dieu</I> not to be angry with her +for the sin, for she had not meant to think such thoughts as that. +</P> + +<P> +It was true what they had said when they had passed by on the road +yesterday evening. There was no place in his new life for her. A +hundred little things all through the week had shown her that, only, +until yesterday evening when Monsieur Bliss had spoken, she had not +understood what they meant—Nanette, that first day, when Jean had come +to lunch with mademoiselle and monsieur; the curious, side-long glances +that the villagers gave her now; a strange, embarrassed reserve in +Father Anton, when the good curé had spoken to her lately; that wide, +vast gulf that lay between the world mademoiselle lived in, the world +that Jean was going to, and her own world. They had all seen +it—except herself. And she had not understood because she had not +allowed herself to think what it might mean, what she knew now it +meant—that she must lose Jean. +</P> + +<P> +To let Jean go out of her life because France had claimed him—that was +what her soul had whispered to her all through the night. A Daughter +of France, her Uncle Gaston had called her proudly—it was Jean who had +told her what her uncle had said—that he had taught her to love God +and be never afraid. But she was afraid now, she had been afraid all +through the night, for it seemed as if there were no more happiness, as +though a great pain that would never go away again had come to her. +</P> + +<P> +France had claimed Jean. He was to be a famous man. Did they not all +talk of his glorious future? It was different with Jean—years ago +even she had known that. She herself had told him he was different +from the fishermen of Bernay-sur-Mer. Jean was born to the life that +he was going to. Was he not even now taking his place amongst these +great strangers as though he had been accustomed to do so always? And +she, if she should try to do it, they would laugh at her, and she would +bring ridicule upon Jean, and she could not do what Jean could do. She +was a peasant girl whom mademoiselle scolded about going without shoes +and stockings. +</P> + +<P> +And Jean must surely have seen these things, too. But Jean, though he +had heedlessly hurt her so when he had given away again the little +beacon, would never speak to her of this, because this was a much +greater thing which was to change all their lives. It was she who must +speak to Jean, it was she who must tell him that she understood that +the great future which lay before him must not be harmed; that she must +not hold him back; that she must not stand in his way; that she would +only hurt him in that dazzling, bewildering world that would disdain a +fishergirl; that it was France, not she, who came first. +</P> + +<P> +The night had brought her that. It was only the courage she needed now +to act upon it. +</P> + +<P> +She stood up, looking through the window—and the great dark eyes +filled with a blinding mist. +</P> + +<P> +"Jean! Jean!" she said brokenly aloud. +</P> + +<P> +A little while she stood there, and then walked slowly across the room +to the bed. And as once she had knelt there before, she dropped again +upon her knees beside it. And now the smile came bravely again. They +were wrong. It was not true. There was a place in his life for +her—something that she could do now. There was one way in which her +love could still help Jean in the wonderful life that had come to him. +</P> + +<P> +The dark head bent to the coverlet. +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Mon Père</I>," she whispered, "make me that—Jean's beacon now." +</P> + +<P> +And after a time she rose, and bathed her face, and fastened the black +coils of hair that had become unloosed, and, as she heard Nanette +stirring below, went quietly downstairs. +</P> + +<P> +She must see Jean. They were going away to-day, mademoiselle and +monsieur, and Nanette and Jules; and Jean was to follow them in a few +days. She had heard mademoiselle and her father discussing it at their +supper last evening. She must see Jean now before the others went, +so—so that everybody would understand. +</P> + +<P> +She stole out of the house, gained the road and started to run along it +toward the village. Jean would be up long ago, all his life he had +risen hours before this, and she would be back by the time mademoiselle +and monsieur were up and needed her. She stopped suddenly, and in +quick dismay glanced down at her bare feet. She had forgotten to put +on her shoes and stockings. Suppose mademoiselle should see her +returning like that! +</P> + +<P> +And then Marie-Louise shook her head slowly, and went on again. It was +not right to disobey, but it could not matter very much now, for +mademoiselle was going away in the afternoon. And besides she could +run much faster without them, and—the tears came with a rush to her +eyes—they seemed all at once to mean so much, those shoes and +stockings. It—it was the shoes and stockings and all they meant that +was taking her out of Jean's life. She understood it all so well now. +</P> + +<P> +She brushed the tears a little angrily from her eyes. She must not do +that. To go to Jean and cry! Far better not to go at all! +Afterwards, when they were gone, these Americans, and when Jean was +gone, and she was alone and only the <I>bon Dieu</I> to see, then perhaps +the tears would be too strong for her. But now she must talk very +bravely to Jean, and not make it harder for him; for, no matter what +happened or what was to come, Jean, too, in his love, would feel the +parting. +</P> + +<P> +She understood Jean better now, too. The night had made so many things +much clearer. Had he not confessed that he was not always happy as a +fisherman in Bernay-sur-Mer? And must it not have been just this, this +greatness within him, that had made him discontented? And now that it +had come true, a far greater thing than he could have dreamed of, +changing his whole life, must it not for the time have made him forget +everything else? It had not killed his love for her, it had not done +that—but this thing must be first before either of their loves. +Afterwards, perhaps, it might kill his love—afterwards, yes, +afterwards it might do that. She tried to smile a little. It was what +she was going now to bring about—afterwards it <I>must</I> kill his love. +It was the only way. And that would come surely, very surely—his +giving away of the beacon, so lightly forgetting what he told her it +had meant, taught her that. If he went now, if she bade him go now, it +was not for a little time—it was for always. +</P> + +<P> +She was running, very fast, breathlessly—as though she were trying to +outrun her thoughts. It was coming again, the same bitter fight that +she had fought out through the darkness, through all those long hours +alone—but she must not let it come, that sadness, that yearning that +tried to make her falter and hold back. The way was very plain. If +she loved Jean, if she really loved him, she must not let that love do +anything but what would help him in his new, great life—she must cling +to that. It would not be love if she did anything else; it would only +mean that she loved herself more than she loved Jean. +</P> + +<P> +"To be never afraid"—Uncle Gaston had taught her that, and the words +were on her lips now—"To be never afraid." +</P> + +<P> +She was walking again now, for she had reached the village. Some one +called to her from a cottage door, and she called back cheerfully as +she passed on to the Bas Rhône, where Papa Fregeau was standing in the +doorway. +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Tiens, petite</I>!" the fat little proprietor cried heartily. "But it +is good to see our little Marie-Louise! You do not come often these +days. They make you work too hard, those Americans, perhaps? But +to-day they are going—eh? Wait, I will call Lucille." +</P> + +<P> +"Good morning, Jacques," she answered. "Yes; it is to-day that they +are going, so do not call Mother Fregeau, for there is a great deal to +do at the house and I must hurry back." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah!" observed Papa Fregeau. "You have come then with a message?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," she said hurriedly; "for Jean. Do you know where he is?" +</P> + +<P> +"But, <I>là, là</I>!" chuckled Papa Fregeau. "But, yes; he is upstairs in +his room. But wait—I must tell you. I have just helped him carry it +up. It is a very grand American affair, and he is like a child with +it. It arrived from Marseilles last night after he had gone." +</P> + +<P> +"What did?" inquired Marie-Louise patiently. +</P> + +<P> +"What did!" ejaculated Papa Fregeau. "But did I not tell you? The +American trunk, <I>pardieu</I>! that he is to go away with, and—" The fat +little man grew suddenly confused. "<I>Tiens</I>!" he stammered. "He is +upstairs in his room, Marie-Louise. I am an old fool—eh—an old +fool!"—and he waddled away. +</P> + +<P> +Why should it have hurt a little more because Jacques Fregeau had said +Jean was going away? And why should Jacques Fregeau have been able to +read it in her eyes? She was not so brave perhaps as she had thought. +And her heart was pounding now very quickly and so hard that it brought +pain, as she went up the stairs. +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Mon Père</I>"—her lips were whispering the same prayer over +again—"make me that—Jean's beacon now." +</P> + +<P> +And then she was knocking at the door. +</P> + +<P> +For an instant she hesitated, as his voice called to her to enter; then +she opened the door and stepped inside. It was Jean, this great fine +figure of a man, who turned so quickly toward her; but it was already +the Jean of the world where they wore shoes and stockings, and his +clothes were like the clothes of Monsieur Bliss. They made him very +handsome, very grand; only somehow they made it seem that her errand +was useless now, that she had come too late, that Jean was already gone. +</P> + +<P> +Her eyes met his, smiled—and, from his face, strayed about the room. +It was very fine that American trunk, but not very large. It was like +one that mademoiselle had, that she called a steamer trunk, and carried +on the automobile—and the trunk was empty, and the tray was on the +floor beside it. +</P> + +<P> +"Marie-Louise!" he cried—and then, a little awkwardly, he caught her +hands. "But—but what has brought you here, Marie-Louise?" +</P> + +<P> +"To see you, Jean," she told him simply. +</P> + +<P> +For a moment he stared at her uneasily. Was this then to be the scene +that he had dreaded, that he had been putting off? And then he laughed +a little unnaturally. +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, did you think, then, Marie-Louise, that I had forgotten you? You +must not think that! Only, <I>mon Dieu</I>, what with Bidelot, and the +critics, and Marseilles, and the work all day at the new design, what +could I do? But Bidelot and the rest have returned to Paris, and +mademoiselle and monsieur go to-day; and this afternoon I was going to +find you and tell you about the great plans they have all made for me." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes; I know, Jean," she answered. "And that is what I have come +for—to have a little talk about you and me." +</P> + +<P> +"About my going away, you mean?" he said, infusing a lightness into his +voice. "But you must not feel sad about that, Marie-Louise. You would +not have me lose a chance like that! And it is only for a little +while, until I have learned what, they say, Paris will teach me. I +shall do great things in Paris, Marie-Louise—and then I shall come +back." +</P> + +<P> +She shook her head slowly. +</P> + +<P> +"Jean," she said very quietly, "it is about your coming back that I +want to speak to you. I have thought it all out last night. It is not +for a little while. When you go it is for always. You can never come +back." +</P> + +<P> +"Never come back! Ah, is it that then that is troubling you?" he said +eagerly. "You mean that you would not mind my going for a little +while, only you think it is for more than that?" +</P> + +<P> +"You do not understand, Jean"—it seemed as though she must cry out in +wild abandon, as though the tears must come and fill her eyes, as +though she were not brave at all. Would not the <I>bon Dieu</I> help her +now! She drew her hands away from him, and turned from him for an +instant. "You can never come back, Jean; you can never come back to +the old life. You will go on and on, further and further away from it, +making a great name for yourself, and your friends will be all like the +<I>grand monde</I> who have been here, and I know that I cannot go into that +life, too—I understand that all so well. And—and so, Jean, I have +come to tell you that you are free." +</P> + +<P> +"Free!" he cried—and gazed at her in stupefaction. The colour came +and went from his face. He had not thought of this from her! And yet +it was what he had said in his soul—if only there were nothing between +Marie-Louise and himself! It was as if a weight had been lifted from +him—only replacing the weight was a miserable pricking of conscience. +"Free! What are you saying?" +</P> + +<P> +And now the dark eyes were bright and deep and unfaltering—and +suddenly she drew her form erect, and her head was thrown proudly back. +</P> + +<P> +"Free, Jean, because you must not think any more of me; because you are +to be a great man in your country and it is your duty to go, for France +has called you, and France is first; because"—her voice, quivering, +yet triumphant, was ringing through the room—"because I give you to +France, Jean! You do not belong to me now—you belong to France!" +</P> + +<P> +For a moment he did not speak. There seemed a thousand emotions, +soul-born, surging upon him. Her words thrilled him; it was over; +there was relief; it was done. She had gone where he had not dared to +go in his thoughts—to the end. He would never come back, she said. +He was free. But he could not have her think that he could let her go +like that! +</P> + +<P> +"No, no, Marie-Louise!" he burst out. "Do you think that even if I +belonged to France, even if all my life were changed, that I could ever +forget you, that I could forget Bernay-sur-Mer, and all the people and +my life here?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," she said, "you will forget." +</P> + +<P> +"Never!" he asserted fiercely. +</P> + +<P> +"Jean"—her voice was low again—"it is the <I>bon Dieu</I> last night who +has made me understand. I do not know what is in the new world that +you are going to, only that you will be one of the greatest and perhaps +one of the richest men in France. And I understand you better, Jean, I +think, than you understand yourself. This fame and power will mean +more to you than anything else, and it will grow and grow and grow, +Jean. And, oh, Jean, I am afraid you will forget that it is not you at +all who does these great things but that it is the <I>bon Dieu</I> who lets +you do them, and that you will grow proud, Jean, and lose all the best +out of your life because you will even forget that once those clothes +hanging there"—she pointed toward the rough fisherman's suit—"were +yours." +</P> + +<P> +It was strange to hear Marie-Louise talking so! He did not entirely +understand. Something was bewildering him. She was telling him that +he must think no more of her, that it was finished. And there was no +scene. And she did not reproach him. And there were no tears. And it +did not seem as though it were quite real. He had pictured quite +another kind of scene, where there would be passion and angry words. +And there was nothing of that—only Marie-Louise, like a grown-up +Marie-Louise, like a mother almost, speaking so gravely and anxiously +to him of things one would not expect Marie-Louise to know anything +about. +</P> + +<P> +She turned from him impulsively; and from the peg took down the cap and +the rough suit, and from the floor gathered up the heavy boots with the +coarse socks tucked into their tops—and, as he watched her in +amazement, she thrust them suddenly into his arms. +</P> + +<P> +"Promise me, Jean," she said in the same low way, "that you will keep +these with you always, and that sometimes in your great world you will +look at them and remember—that they, too, belong to France"—and then +suddenly her voice broke, and she had run from the room. +</P> + +<P> +She was gone. Jean's eyes, from the doorway, shifted to the clothes +that cluttered up his arms—and for a long time he did not move. Then +one hand lifted slowly, and in a dazed sort of way brushed the hair +back from his eyes. It was a strange thing, that—to take these things +with him to remember—what was it she had said?—to remember that they, +too, belonged to France. +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Mon Dieu</I>!" he whispered—and, with a queer lift of his shoulders, +turned mechanically to the trunk beside him. "<I>Mon Dieu</I>!" he +whispered again—and now there was a twisted little smile of pain upon +his lips as understanding came, and almost reverently he laid the +things in the bottom of the trunk. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap0111"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +— XI — +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +THE PENDULUM +</H4> + +<P> +How many miles had they come? Jean did not know. It had been far—but +far along a road of golden dreams, where time and distance mattered +only because they were so quickly passed. +</P> + +<P> +It was Myrna Bliss who had suggested it because, had she not said? she +wanted to have a little talk with him alone before she left for Paris +that afternoon—and they would walk out along the road before her +father started, and the automobile would pick her up on the way. +</P> + +<P> +And so they had come, and so she had talked and he had +listened—feasting his eyes upon the superb, alluring figure that +swung, so splendidly supreme, along beside him. She had told him of +Paris—Paris, the City Beautiful—of the great city that was the glory +of France, of its magnificent boulevards, its statues, its arches, its +wonderful architecture, its wealth of art garnered from the ages, its +happy mirth, its gaiety, its richness and its life, the life that would +now be his. And he had listened, rapt, absorbed, fascinated, as though +to some entrancing melody, now martial, now in softer strain, that +stirred his pulse as it carried him beyond himself, and unfettered his +imagination until it swept, free as a bird in air, into the land of +dreams, that knew a fierce, ecstatic echo in his soul—the melody of +her voice. +</P> + +<P> +But now there had come a jarring note into that melody; and a sudden, +swift emotion, that mingled dismay, a passionate longing, a panic sense +of impotency, was upon him. The quick throb of the motor was sounding +from down the road behind them. Monsieur Bliss was coming now. In a +moment she would be gone. +</P> + +<P> +She had heard it, too, for she ceased speaking abruptly, and, halting, +turned to face him. +</P> + +<P> +"Isn't it too bad, Jean?" she cried disappointedly. "And I had hardly +begun to tell you about it! But then, never mind, the rest of it all +you will see for yourself in a few more days, when you get to Paris." +</P> + +<P> +In a moment she would be gone! What was it that held him back—that +had always held him back before? He was strong enough—strong enough +to crush her to him, to cover that gloriously beautiful face with his +kisses, to bathe his face in the fragrance of her hair, to feel her +heart, the throb, the pulse, the life of her body against his own! +What was it that, strong as he was, was stronger than he? +</P> + +<P> +"It—it is good-bye," he said, in a low, tense way. +</P> + +<P> +She felt the passion that was possessing him—he read it in the +startled glance of the grey eyes before they were veiled; in the ivory +of the perfect throat grown colourful with the mounting red; in the +parted lips before the teasing, merry smile was forced there, as she +stepped back a little away from him. She knew! She knew, as he knew, +that his soul was aflame—and it was she, not he, who dammed back the +tide of his passion with that "something" that was so powerful an ally +of hers, so readily, so always at her instant command. She knew, as he +knew, that his soul was aflame—and yet she had not repulsed him. What +did it mean? That she <I>cared</I>! But why did she laugh so lightly now, +why was she so perfectly self-possessed? What did it mean? That she +was playing with him! +</P> + +<P> +"How absurd, Jean!" she laughed gaily. "Of course, it isn't +'good-bye'; that is"—she glanced at him demurely—"that is, unless +you've changed your mind about coming to Paris." Then, impulsively +eager: "But you haven't done that, have you? And you want to come more +than ever now after what I have told you, don't you? And, Jean"—she +came suddenly close to him again, and her face, its demureness gone, +was puckered up in very earnest little wrinkles—"there isn't anything, +you won't let anything keep you from coming—will you?" +</P> + +<P> +Keep him from Paris—from her! Why had she asked that? He laughed out +boisterously, harshly. It was very near now, that accursed automobile! +Monsieur Bliss was calling out to them. Keep him from—Paris! He +could only laugh out again wildly, as he looked at her. +</P> + +<P> +"Jean!"—it was a quick, hurried exclamation, not all composure now, +and her eyes were hidden, and her face was turned away. "Jean, good +gracious, don't you hear father calling to you? Look, here he is!" +</P> + +<P> +Jean swept his hand across his eyes. It was the madness upon him. +Yes, here was Monsieur Bliss beside him, and she and her father were +both talking at once. It was Paris! Always Paris that they talked of! +In a week, in ten days, he would be there. And then they had both +shaken hands with him, the grey eyes had smiled into his for an +instant, and she had sprung from him into the automobile. It was a +daze. They had gone. He was standing in the road watching them. She +was fluttering a scarf at him, as she leaned far over the back of the +car—her voice, full-throated, was throbbing in his ears. +</P> + +<P> +"<I>An revoir</I>, Jean! <I>Au revoir</I>—till Paris!" +</P> + +<P> +The car disappeared over the brow of a little hill, came into sight +again as it topped the opposite rise, became a blur and then a tiny +dot, scarcely discernible, far on along the road. And still he stood +there. +</P> + +<P> +It was gone at last. He turned then, and started back along the road +toward Bernay-sur-Mer; now walking slowly, now suddenly changing his +pace to a quick, impulsive stride. His eyes were on the road before +him, but he saw nothing. Her voice was ringing in his ears again, and +again he was living in that golden land of dreams—with her. +</P> + +<P> +Paris! The City Beautiful! Paris—where he should know fame and +power, where his genius should kindle a flame of enthusiasm that would +spread throughout all France! Paris—where men should do him honour! +Paris—where riches were! Paris—where she was! +</P> + +<P> +His brain reeled with it. It was not wild imagining. A power, a +mighty power, the power that made him master of his art lived and +breathed in every fibre of his being. He needed no tongue of others +now to tell him that this power was his; the knowledge of it was in his +soul until he knew, knew as he knew that he had being and existence, +that the work of Jean Laparde would stand magnificent and supreme +before the eyes of the world. He saw himself the centre, the leader of +a glittering entourage. Fame! Men of the highest ranks should envy +him—the gamins of Paris should know his name. He threw back his head +on his great shoulders. Conceit, all this? No; it was stupendous—but +it was not conceit. He knew—his soul knew it. He was more sure of +himself now than even those great critics of France had been sure. +They had seen nothing—he had not begun. A year, two years in Paris, +the tools to work with, the models of flesh and blood at his +command—and, ah, God, what would he not do! They should see, they +should see then! And they should stand and wonder, as they had not +wondered before—at Jean Laparde! +</P> + +<P> +He laughed suddenly aloud. Father Anton had preached a sermon once in +the little church, he remembered it now—that fame was an empty thing. +An empty thing! He laughed again. It was the simplicity of the good +curé, who believed such things because, <I>pardieu</I>! the curé was a +gentle soul and knew no better. What should Father Anton, who never +went anywhere, into whose life came nothing but the little daily +affairs of the fisherfolk in Bernay-sur-Mer, who could never have had +any experience in the things outside the life of the village that +turned everlastingly like a wheel in its grooves, know of fame? It was +not the fault of Father Anton that he talked so, for he got those +things out of his books, and, having no reason out of his own knowledge +of life to know any better, believed them! +</P> + +<P> +Jean shrugged his shoulders. One felt sorry for Father Anton! Perhaps +once in two years the curé journeyed as far as Marseilles—and the few +miles was a great event! What could one expect Father Anton to +discover for himself out of life? +</P> + +<P> +Fame—an empty thing! Poor Father Anton, who, because he believed it, +so earnestly preached it to Papa Fregeau and Pierre Lachance who never +went even as far as Marseilles, and who therefore in turn were very +content to believe it, too! An empty thing? It was <I>everything</I>! +</P> + +<P> +He drew in his breath sharply; his hand was feverishly tossing back the +hair from his forehead. It was everything! It was wealth, it was +power, it was might, it was greatness. It was real; it brought things +to the very senses one possessed, things that one could see and hear +and touch and taste and smell. They were real—real, those things! It +brought money that bought all things; it brought position, honour and +command, a name amongst the great names of France; it thrilled the soul +and fired the blood; it was limitless, boundless, without horizon. It +brought all things beyond the dreams that one could dream, the plaudits +of his fellow-men, the wild-flung shouts of acclamation from +hoarse-throated multitudes; it brought riches; it brought affluence; +and it brought—love. +</P> + +<P> +Love! Ay, it would bring love! It would bring him that more than it +would bring him any other thing. He knew now what had held him back +from crushing that maddeningly alluring form in his arms, from giving +free rein to the passion that was his, from giving him the mastery of +her. It was that same thing that Marie-Louise sensed between herself +and what she called the <I>grand monde</I>. He, too, had not yet bridged +the gulf. He had not yet been able to look into those grey eyes of the +beautiful American and forget, deep in his soul, that she was +different, that he had been Jean Laparde the poor fisherman and not +always Jean Laparde the great sculptor. Was she playing with him? +What did it matter? The day would come when she would not <I>play</I>! She +would be his—and this fame, that was so empty a thing, would give her +to him. If for no other thing than that he would go to Paris. She +would be his—as all the world would be his! His! That is what fame +would bring him! Would she play with him then in his greatness! +</P> + +<P> +Paris! Paris! It lay before him, a glittering, entrancing vista; it +held out its arms to him, and beckoned him; it heaped honour and glory +and riches upon him; it gave him—-her! +</P> + +<P> +His hands were clenched at his sides, and the skin over the knuckles, +tight-drawn, showed white; his stride was rapid, fierce; he was +breathing quickly; his face was flushed; his eyes were burning. Paris, +his art that would bring him fame, the fame that would bring him +her—nor heaven nor hell would hold him back! +</P> + +<P> +And then suddenly in the middle of the road he stopped, and his hand +tore at his collar as though it choked him. Subconsciously he had seen +stretching out before him the sparkling blue of the quiet sea, the +headland, the little strip of beach where he and Gaston used to keep +the boats, a blur of white where the house on the bluff showed through +the trees—he had come that far on his way back. Subconsciously, in a +meaningless way, he had seen this; but now it was blotted from him in a +flash, and in its place came a scene that, though imaginary, was vivid, +real, actual, where before reality itself had meant nothing. +</P> + +<P> +It was black, intensely black, and the wild howling of the wind was in +his ears. The rain was lashing at his face, and all along the beach +echoed the terrific boom and roar of the surf. And now there came the +crash of thunder, and quick upon its heels the heavens opening in +darting, zigzag tongue-flames, lurid, magnificent, awesome, as the +lightning flashes leapt across the sky. And he was standing on that +little strip of beach, and far out across the waters, shrouded in a +white smother of spume and spray, the figure of Marie-Louise stood +outlined on the edge of the Perigeau Reef. And now he was crossing +that stretch between them, and living again the physical agony that had +been his; and now he was in the water, clinging to the gunwale of the +boat, and in all the wild abandon of the storm her lips and his were +pressed together in that long kiss that seemed to span all life and all +eternity. +</P> + +<P> +As though spellbound, a whiteness creeping into his face, Jean stood +tense and motionless there in the road. Why had this come now—he had +never let it come in the week that was past. Why should it have come +now, like floodgates opened against his will, to overwhelm him? Ah, +was it that? That little figure, that was just discernible, far off on +that beach, the little figure, bare-footed, that was sitting now on the +stem of his boat where it was drawn up on the sand, and whose face was +cupped in her hands, and who seemed to be staring so intently out +toward the Perigeau Reef! That was Marie-Louise there—Marie-Louise. +Was it the sight of her that had brought this thing upon him? And now +the scene was changed again. And it was against the window panes that +the rain lashed, and against the sashes that the wind tore, and the +lamp threw its light on the grey-grim face of old Gaston Bernier on the +bed. +</P> + +<P> +Jean shivered a little. What was coming now? What was that? Gaston's +hand was upon his. He could hear Gaston's voice: "Jean, do you love +Marie-Louise?" And then Gaston was repeating the question, and +repeating it again: "Jean, do you love Marie-Louise?" And the old +rugged strength seemed back again in Gaston Bernier, as he, rose up in +bed, and his voice in a strange, stern note rang through the room: +"Swear it, Jean ... to a dying man and in God's presence ... swear that +you will..." +</P> + +<P> +"God! My God!" Jean cried out aloud—and like a blind man feeling +before him, turned from the road, stumbled a little way through the +fields, and flung himself face down upon the grass. +</P> + +<P> +There was torment and dismay upon him. His mind was in riot; his soul +bare and naked now before him. Paris! No; he must go instead to +Marie-Louise and tell her that he would stay in Bernay-sur-Mer, that +they would live their lives together, because they loved each other. +Yes; he loved Marie-Louise, not with the mad passion he had for this +American who bewitched him, but as he had loved her all the years since +they were children. He had told Gaston that, and it was true. It was +the act of a <I>misérable</I> to go away! No; he would not go now. It was +true, all that he had told Marie-Louise, that she should stand on the +beach and hold out her arms to him in welcome when he pulled ashore +from the fishing, and that they would be always happy together. And +yet—and yet had not Marie-Louise herself said that he belonged to +France, and said herself that he must go for the great career that lay +before him, for the great work that he was to do? +</P> + +<P> +He cried out aloud sharply, as though in hurt—and prone upon his face, +his hands outstretched before him, lay still for a little time. +</P> + +<P> +It seemed to come insidiously, calling to him, luring him, wrestling, +fighting, battling with the soul of him—Paris! Here there was love, +but there, too, was love. One was calm; the other like the wild tumult +of the storm that in its might, primal, elemental, swept him blindly +forward. Paris—she would be there, she who held him in a spell, who +made him forget Marie-Louise. And there was fame and glory there, +honour and wealth—all, all, everything that the world could give. And +it was his, all his—he had only to reach out and take it. There, all +France would be at his feet. It made his brain swim with the mad +intoxication of it. It was as a man dying with thirst who sees afar +the water that is life to him. Here, he could never be contented now, +he could never be happy, and in a year, two years, Marie-Louise, +therefore, would be unhappy, too. But—but he could not go ... that +night that he had held Gaston Bernier's hand ... and there was +Marie-Louise that he loved ... Marie-Louise with the pure, fearless +face, the great eyes that were full of a world of things, of calm, of +trust, of tenderness and love, the lips, the wonderful lips that were +so divinely carved, the lips like which there were no others. And he +must choose now forever between Marie-Louise and—Paris. If he went, +he would never come back. He was honest with himself now. He knew +that. Marie-Louise knew that. He must choose now. Choose! Had he +not already decided that he would—that he would—<I>what</I>? +</P> + +<P> +It began all over again, and after that again for a hundred times, +until the brain of the man was sick and weary, and the torment of it +had brought the moisture to his forehead and into his eyes a fevered, +hunted look—and still he lay there, and the hours went by. And after +a time, beneath the rim of the sea in the west, the sun sank down, and +the golden afterglow, soft and rich and warm, was as a gentle, parting +benediction upon the earth—and Jean's head was buried in his outflung +arms. And twilight came—and after that the evening—then darkness, +and the myriad, twinkling stars of a night, calm and serene, were +overhead—and it grew late. +</P> + +<P> +And there came a soul-wrung cry from Jean, as he lifted a worn and +haggard face to the moonlight. +</P> + +<P> +"What shall I do? What shall I do?" +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap0201"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +BOOK II: TWO YEARS LATER +</H3> + +<BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +— I — +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +THE DUPLICITY OF FATHER ANTON +</H4> + +<P> +It was early evening in Paris; an evening in winter—and cold. Father +Anton drew his chair quite close to the little stove that, not without +some prickings of conscience at his prodigality, he had fed lavishly +with coals from the half empty scuttle beside it; and, leaning forward, +alternately extended his palms to the heat and rubbed them vigorously +together. The room, or rather the two small rooms, that comprised his +lodgings in one of the poorest neighbourhoods of the city, were, since +the windows were tightly closed and the sides of the stove a dull red, +stifling hot; but Father Anton was not a young man, and the winter of +Paris was not the balmy winter of his beloved South. +</P> + +<P> +He took off his spectacles, polished them abstractedly on the sleeve of +his <I>soutane</I>, replaced them, and picked up a book. He opened the +book, turned a few pages without looking at them, and with a little +sigh laid the book upon his knees. It was only in strict privacy that +he permitted himself an indulgence in regrets and the somewhat doubtful +solace of retrospection. And now he opened the stove door. It always +seemed that in the glowing coals and the little spurts of flames one +could picture so much more clearly the blue of the Mediterranean, the +sunny skies, the clean white cottages of Bernay-sur-Mer, the boats +dotting the sea and beach, and Papa Fregeau standing in the doorway of +the Bas Rhône, and Pierre Lachance trudging along the street with a +great pile of nets slung over his shoulders. +</P> + +<P> +Father Anton shook his head slowly. It was very strange, the workings +of Providence. He had always thought to die in Bernay-sur-Mer. And +now already he had been in Paris a year! But the sacrifice was very +little, it mattered nothing at all, and if he had longings and dreams +of the days that were gone, he was still very happy here and should be +thankful to God for the wonderful work that had been given him to do; +only he remembered his dismay that morning, when, unannounced, the +bishop had come to Bernay-sur-Mer and had told him word had been +received from Paris that Monsieur Bliss, the millionaire American, +would give the enormous sum of five hundred thousand francs a year to +be distributed amongst the poor of Paris on the condition that he, +Father Anton, would undertake its distribution. And he remembered how +the bishop had explained that it had been suggested to Monsieur Bliss +that perhaps he, Father Anton, would not care to leave Bernay-sur-Mer +and his people there, and that there were others, younger men, nearer +at hand, who, under the guidance and direction of the ecclesiastical +authorities, would willingly and gladly undertake the work. And, above +all else, he remembered what monsignor had told him had been the reply +of Monsieur Bliss: "No; it isn't because Father Anton is a clergyman +that I want him, it's because he's the man I've been looking for," that +most astounding American had said. "There isn't any creed, or +religion, or sect, or anything like that in this—or any supervision. +What I'm after is practical results, and nothing else. I just want a +piece of bread to go where it is needed, and no questions asked. I've +always had the idea, but I didn't have the man. I've got him now. +Father Anton might not care to leave Bernay-sur-Mer—eh? H'm! There's +five hundred thousand francs a year at his disposal for the poor of +Paris—ask him if he thinks he can do any good with it?" +</P> + +<P> +And so he had come to Paris. It was magnificent that—the generosity +of Monsieur Bliss! And Monsieur Bliss was amazing! He had found a +most beautiful little apartment, most beautifully furnished, in a very +fashionable part of the city, and with two servants already installed, +awaiting him. Imagine! It was impossible! How could one reach the +poor unless one lived amongst them? And to maintain an establishment +when—Father Anton sighed again—when even the enormous sum of five +hundred thousand francs was all too little! +</P> + +<P> +He glanced around the room. Even as it was, his quarters must seem +ostentatious compared with the poverty about him—the Widow Migneault, +for example, in the rear room of the <I>troisième étage</I> above him. But +what could one do? There was no arguing with those Americans! They +had insisted on furnishing the place to their own satisfaction. +</P> + +<P> +Father Anton's eyes returned to the glowing coals in the stove. He was +very happy because his work was the work that he, too, had dreamed of; +but one could not help thinking sometimes of Bernay-sur-Mer, and all +the lifelong friends, and the people who were so close to his heart. +And if he loved to picture them in his mind, and if there was perhaps a +little ache at the thought that he had left them, he was none the less +thankful to the <I>bon Dieu</I> that he could do so much now with what was +left of his life. +</P> + +<P> +What were they all doing in Bernay-sur-Mer to-night? What was +Marie-Louise doing? It was two months now since she had written him. +She did not write as often as she used to write. He shook his head +sadly. She had had her sorrow, poor Marie-Louise! What a boundless +store of love there was in that brave little heart! If only it would +be given to some worthy young fellow now—Father Anton wrinkled his +brows in deep thought, as though he would decide the matter on the +spot—say, Amidé Dubois, who was a fine, honest lad; they would both be +very happy, and Marie-Louise would forget the sooner. Yes, certainly, +Amidé Dubois would do admirably. +</P> + +<P> +A clatter of hoofs, the rattle of wheels over the cobble stones on the +street, and the sudden cessation of both in front of the house, broke +in on the curé's musings. He rose slowly from his chair, and, going to +the window, peered out. His curiosity was rewarded only to the extent +of seeing a fiacre driving away again. It was rather strange, that! +Fiacres were not in the habit of stopping before any house in that +section of Paris. It would be some one for him then undoubtedly. +Monsieur Bliss, perhaps. No; not Monsieur Bliss, for was there not the +grand reception to-night that the Société des Beaux-Arts was tendering +to Jean Laparde, and for which Monsieur Bliss had sent him a card, but +to which he was not going. It was to be a great affair at which the +President of the Republic was to be present, and a rusty <I>soutane</I> +would be not a little out of place there—and besides, the Jean of +Bernay-sur-Mer and the Jean of Paris were not the same. Perhaps one +should not let such thoughts come—but it was true. +</P> + +<P> +Father Anton listened. Yes; he had been right. Some one was knocking +at the door now. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes—come!" he called, and hurried hospitably across the room, as the +door opened—and stopped in stunned amazement—and ran forward again, +holding out his arms. "Marie-Louise!" he cried. +</P> + +<P> +Half laughing, half crying, she was in his arms; her own around his +neck. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Father Anton! Dear, dear Father Anton!" she was repeating over +and over again. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, well—but, but—well, well," was all he could say—and kissed +her, and pressed her face against his shoulder, and patted her head. +</P> + +<P> +And then he held her off to look at her. It was the same Marie-Louise, +with the same bright eyes, even if they were glistening now with tears; +the same Marie-Louise, just as though this was Bernay-sur-Mer and not +Paris at all, for there was no hat to hide the great black tresses of +hair, and there was just the same simple style of loose blouse and +ankle skirt that she always wore in the little village, and it might +well have been that he and she were there again, there in +Bernay-sur-Mer—only on the floor, where she had dropped it as she ran +to meet him, was a neatly tied-up little bundle that spoke of the long +journey. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, well!" he ejaculated helplessly again, and closed the door, and +drew her to a chair and sat down, while she knelt affectionately on the +floor at his knees. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh!" she said excitedly. "I did not think Paris could be so big a +place. And there was such a crowd in the station, and such a crowd +outside, and so many streets, and all the people I spoke to only shook +their heads when I asked for Father Anton, and—and then I began to be +a little frightened. And then—what do you think? Imagine! Was I not +grand? For a franc-fifty a <I>coccer</I> said he would drive me to the +address, and—<I>me voici</I>! Did I not do well?" +</P> + +<P> +"Splendidly!" he agreed approvingly. "But, Marie-Louise, I do not +understand. It is a great surprise. You did not write; you said +nothing about coming to Paris. Why did you not tell me you were +coming?" +</P> + +<P> +She looked up at him merrily. +</P> + +<P> +"Must I answer that—quite truthfully?" +</P> + +<P> +"Of course!" he said, smiling indulgently. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, then," she said demurely, "I was afraid you would say I should +not come—and now that I am here you cannot say it." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah," he exclaimed, with mock severity, "that is a serious confession +you are making, Marie-Louise! So! And you thought I would not +approve, eh? What then has happened in Bernay-sur-Mer?" +</P> + +<P> +"Nothing has happened," she answered—but now she looked away from him +as she spoke. "I have sold my house there." +</P> + +<P> +"Nothing! Sold your house?" Father Anton began to take alarm. He +took Marie-Louise's face between his hands and forced her to look at +him. Yes, yes, the gaiety, the lightness of spirit was only +make-believe; the tears were more genuine than the smile that came +tremulously to her lips. "Marie-Louise," he said anxiously, "what is +it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Nothing!" she said again. "Only—only I could not stay there any +longer"—and suddenly, in a flood of tears, she buried her face on the +old priest's knees. +</P> + +<P> +"But, Marie-Louise—Marie-Louise!" he protested in helpless dismay—and +laid his hand soothingly on the bowed head. +</P> + +<P> +She looked up in an instant, dashing the tears away angrily. +</P> + +<P> +"I am a baby!" she cried, trying to laugh. "It was the journey, and +the new things, and seeing you again—but it is over now." Then, a +little hesitantly: "Tell me of Jean." +</P> + +<P> +"Jean?" repeated Father Anton, startled. "Jean?" He looked at her +closely. Could it be that? And then, with a little gasp, as he seemed +to read the truth in her eyes: "It—it is Jean then, Marie-Louise, who +has brought you to Paris?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," she answered, in a low voice. +</P> + +<P> +The curé's face grew very grave. +</P> + +<P> +"You have heard from him?" +</P> + +<P> +She shook her head. +</P> + +<P> +"I have never heard from Jean since the day he left +Bernay-sur-Mer"—she was plucking with her fingers at the skirt of the +priest's <I>soutane</I>. +</P> + +<P> +There was a long silence, broken at last by the old priest's deep sigh. +</P> + +<P> +"You still love Jean, my child?" he asked gently. +</P> + +<P> +"I have always loved him," she said simply. +</P> + +<P> +Father Anton fumbled with his spectacles. His heart had grown very +heavy. It seemed that the cruelest, saddest thing in the world had +happened. +</P> + +<P> +"Tell me about him!" she demanded eagerly. "You see him every day, +father." +</P> + +<P> +"I have not seen Jean in many months," he replied sadly. +</P> + +<P> +"Not seen him!" she echoed in consternation. "But he is here—in +Paris—isn't he?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes; he is here," the curé said slowly. "But Paris is a big place, +and—and even old friends sometimes do not meet often." +</P> + +<P> +"But tell me about him!" she persisted. "He has become a great man—a +very great, great man?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," said Father Anton gravely, "he has become a great man—the +greatest perhaps in all of France." Then suddenly, laying his hands on +Marie-Louise's shoulders: "Marie-Louise, what is in your heart? Why +have you come here?" +</P> + +<P> +"But I have told you, and you know," she said. "To see Jean." +</P> + +<P> +The curé's hands tightened upon her shoulders. What was he to say to +her? How was he to tell her of the danger she in her innocence would +never guess, that lay so cold and ominous a thing upon his own heart? +How was he to put into words his fear of Jean for this pure soul that +was at his knees? As wide as the world was the distance that lay now +between Marie-Louise and Jean—but it was not that, not even that Jean +was openly attentive to Myrna Bliss—that was only a little thing. +Jean was not the Jean of Bernay-sur-Mer. The man was glutted now with +power and wealth. And swaying him was not the love of art that might +have lifted him to a loftier plane, it was the prostitution of that +divine, God-given genius for the lust of fame. And for fame he had +exchanged his soul. What was there sacred to Jean now? It was a life +closely approximating that of a roué that Jean lived. And for +Marie-Louise, with her love a weapon that might so easily be turned +against her, to come in touch with—no, no; it was not to be thought of! +</P> + +<P> +"Marie-Louise," he said hoarsely, "you must go back. You do not +understand. Jean is very different now—he is not the Jean—" +</P> + +<P> +"I know," she interposed, with a catch in her voice. "I know—better +than you think I know. It is you who do not understand. He is of the +<I>grand monde</I>, I understand that; and I—I am what I am, and it must be +always so. But I love him, father. Is it wrong that I should love +him? I will never speak to him, and he shall never know that I am +here; but I must see him, and see his work, and—and—oh, don't you +understand?" +</P> + +<P> +"And after that?" asked the old priest sorrowfully. +</P> + +<P> +"What does it matter—after that?" she said tensely. "I do not know." +</P> + +<P> +"No, Marie-Louise," he said earnestly, "no, my child, no good can come +of it. You must go back to Bernay-sur-Mer." +</P> + +<P> +She drew away from him, staring at him a little wildly. +</P> + +<P> +"But do you not understand?" she cried out with a sudden rush of +passion. "But do you not understand that it is stronger than I—that I +could not stay in Bernay-sur-Mer because I was always thinking, +thinking—that I could not go back there now any more than I could stay +there before? I must do this! I will do it! Nothing shall stop me! +And if you will not help me, then—" +</P> + +<P> +Father Anton drew her gently back against his knees. Yes; he was +beginning to understand—that the problem was not to be settled so +easily as by the mere expedient of telling Marie-Louise she must go +back to Bernay-sur-Mer. Those small clenched hands, those tight lips +were eloquent of finality. It became simply a matter of accepting a +fact. He might insist a dozen times that she should go. It would be +useless. She would not go! The old priest's brows furrowed in +anxiety. This love for Jean was still first in the girl's heart. +Words, arguments, were of no avail against the longing that was supreme +with her, that had brought her on the long journey across all France. +But her love was the love that pictured the frank, strong, simple +fisherman of Bernay-sur-Mer. If she should see Jean as he really was! +If she should see for herself the change in him, the abandon of his +life; and, too, see the glittering circles in which he moved! The +first would dispel her love for him; the second would show her in any +case the utter futility of it. As long as she held this love, that he +had hoped and prayed she had forgotten, it spoiled her life. It could +only bring her misery, unhappiness and sorrow. It would hurt cruelly, +this disenchantment; but it would save her, this poor child, whom he +loved as he would have loved a daughter of his own. Yes; if she should +see Jean as he really was, see him intimately enough to realise the +truth of the life he was leading! But how could that be brought +about—and at the same time protect her and keep her <I>safe</I>? +</P> + +<P> +She rose slowly to her feet, and stood before him, her hands still +tightly shut at her sides. +</P> + +<P> +"I was so sure, so sure that you would help me!" she said miserably. +And then, in pleading abandon, she flung out her arms to him. "Oh, +won't you, Father Anton, won't you? Won't you try to understand? It +can do no harm, only—only it is all my life—just to see him, to be +near him for a little while, to know that it has all been a wonderful +thing for him—and he will never know, I will not let him know." +</P> + +<P> +The curé's hands clasped and unclasped nervously. +</P> + +<P> +"Would you promise that, Marie-Louise? That you would not speak to +him, that you would not let him know you were here in Paris?" +</P> + +<P> +She answered him almost passionately, in hurt pride. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, how little you understand!" she cried. "Do you think that my love +is like that? Do you think that for anything in the world I would +force myself into his life? Do you think that is why I came? Yes; I +will promise that!" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, well," said Father Anton soothingly, "we will see. But +first—eh?—a little supper? You are tired, my little Marie-Louise, +and hungry after the long journey. Come now, you will help me! We +will make a little omelette, and boil the coffee, and pretend that we +are in Bernay-sur-Mer—eh?" +</P> + +<P> +He began to bustle around the room, setting out bread and cheese from +the cupboard, and putting the coffee-pot upon the stove—and presently +they sat down to the simple meal. +</P> + +<P> +Marie-Louise ate very little; and finally, when she pushed her plate +away, the tears were in her eyes again. +</P> + +<P> +"I cannot eat any more," she said. "I—oh, Father Anton, you said that +you would see. You meant that—that you <I>would</I> help me, didn't you?" +</P> + +<P> +It was plain, it was very plain that nothing would distract her for a +moment! Father Anton sighed again, and got up from his chair, and +began to pace the room. He had been turning a plan over and over in +his mind while he had watched her so anxiously during the meal. It was +strange how readily it had come to him, that plan! A monitor within +whispered the suggestion that perhaps it had come readily because it +was deception! The curé passed his hand in a troubled way back and +forth through his white hair. He had seen little of Jean—it was +perhaps because he reminded Jean of Bernay-sur-Mer and the past that +Jean was anxious to forget, that Jean had gradually come, in manner +more than words, to intimate that the old friendship was distasteful. +But if latterly he had seen little of Jean, at least when he had first +come to Paris his visits to the studio had been frequent enough to +enable him to form an intimate acquaintance with Hector, the red-haired +concierge of Jean's studio and apartment, and with madame, Hector's +wife. Nor had he permitted this intimacy to wane. He could not forget +that he had loved Jean, and through these good people he still kept his +interest alive. It was but a few days ago that Hector had complained +that the work was too much for his wife alone, that after some nights +at the studio with a gay company the morning presented a debacle to +clear up that was a day's work in itself. It was too much for her; and +they came often, those nights. +</P> + +<P> +Father Anton glanced at Marie-Louise. She was still watching him, a +sort of pitiful, eager expectancy in her face. His eyes fell to the +floor, as he continued to pace up and down. It could be arranged. +Jean rose very late. Marie-Louise could go early in the mornings to +tidy up the studio and the <I>atelier</I>. He could tell Hector she was a +charge of his, an honest girl to be trusted, who would do the work for +a few francs; and Hector in turn could obtain Jean's consent. +Marie-Louise would see for herself the life Jean led—and, besides, +Hector and his wife were not tongue-tied! But it was a terribly cruel +thing to do! The old priest's hands clasped and unclasped again in +genuine distress. It was terribly cruel! But it was little +Marie-Louise, whom he loved so tenderly, whose future was at stake. It +must not always be as it was to-day—sadness and hopelessness for the +brave young heart that should be so full of joy and life. +</P> + +<P> +He halted before Marie-Louise. Yes, it was the right thing to do; +there was no other way; she must be disillusioned; she should see +Jean's life at the studio; and to-night at the great reception she +should see Jean himself. Only his heart was very heavy—it was so hard +a thing to do. +</P> + +<P> +"Listen, Marie-Louise," he said abruptly. "I will help you, but it is +on the condition to which you have agreed—that Jean is in no way to +know that you are here. I will arrange with his concierge that very +early in the mornings, before Jean is up and when nobody is there, you +shall have the care of his studio and <I>atelier</I>, so you will be able to +see all you want to of his work; and to the concierge you are simply a +charge of mine who is in need of the few francs you will earn." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Father Anton, how good you are!"—she had jumped up joyfully from +her chair, and was in his arms again. "But I do not want the money. I +have plenty—from my house, you know." +</P> + +<P> +"But if you took no money, they would not understand why you would +work," explained Father Anton hurriedly. The depth of his duplicity +was very great! The gentle soul of Father Anton was conscience +stricken at her gratitude, her innocence. If he had not gone so far he +would retreat. She was crying in his arms. Never before had he known +what it was not to be able to look another in the eyes. He was glad +that Marie-Louise's head was hidden on his shoulder for he could not +have looked at her. Father Anton felt himself a criminal. It was not +a rôle that lay lightly upon him. +</P> + +<P> +"And Jean himself," she whispered. "When shall I see Jean?" +</P> + +<P> +Father Anton coughed nervously. +</P> + +<P> +"There—there is a reception to-night," he said hesitantly. He coughed +again. "For Jean. You might see him there perhaps—from the gallery. +I—I have a card." +</P> + +<P> +She sprang away from him, with a quick exclamation of excitement. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, come then!" she cried impulsively, and caught his hand to pull him +toward the door. +</P> + +<P> +Father Anton turned away his head. Tears had sprung to his eyes. He +was indeed a criminal—the criminal of the ages! But if it would save +Marie-Louise! Ah, yes, he must keep that thought always before him. +He looked at her again, as he fumbled once more with his spectacles. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, yes; at once!" he said mechanically. "But"—he was staring at +her now in sudden consternation—"but you cannot go like that! Have +you no other clothes?" +</P> + +<P> +She pointed at the little bundle on the floor. +</P> + +<P> +He shook his head. +</P> + +<P> +"No hat? No coat?" +</P> + +<P> +"No-o," she said tremulously, as though she sensed an impending tragedy. +</P> + +<P> +"But this is not Bernay-sur-Mer, Marie-Louise!" he said, in concern. +"You cannot go about dressed like that in Paris; and, besides, you +would freeze, my child." +</P> + +<P> +She looked at him in silence—a sort of pitiful despair, mingling +bitter disappointment and helpless dependence, in her eyes, in the +expression of her face. +</P> + +<P> +"Tut, tut!" murmured Father Anton, pulling at his under lip. And then +quickly: "But wait—wait! We shall see!" And he ran into the other +room. +</P> + +<P> +There were always clothes there—for his poor. The rich people, the +friends of Monsieur and Mademoiselle Bliss were always sending him +their old things for distribution amongst his poor. Mademoiselle Bliss +had sent him a package that afternoon. He remembered that there was a +long cloak and a hat amongst the other things. Ah, yes; here they +were! He held them up to look at them in the light from the doorway of +the connecting rooms. They had strange notions about "old things," the +rich! These, for example—he turned them about in the light—were as +good as new. They bought clothes one day, the rich, wore them the +afternoon, and gave them to him the next morning—because overnight +there had been created a new style! Father Anton smiled at his little +conceit. But it was almost literally true. He had seen Myrna Bliss +wearing these very things only a few days ago—the same black velvet +cloak, and the same black velvet turban with the little white cockade. +At least, he supposed it was a cockade! Ah, well—he shrugged his +shoulders—his poor were the gainers! +</P> + +<P> +"Here, Marie-Louise!" he called out, returning into the front room. +"You may have these, child." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh!" she exclaimed, as she took them. Her eyes widened. "Oh—they +are pretty! But—but, Father Anton, where did you get them? They are +new." +</P> + +<P> +"No, not quite," he smiled; "but new enough, I think, to last you all +the winter. They were"—he stopped suddenly, in gentle tactfulness. +Marie-Louise knew Myrna Bliss—it might cause her diffidence if she +were aware that the cloak and hat had been mademoiselle's. "They were +sent to me by the rich people amongst many other things," he amended, +"to be distributed where"—he smiled again—"where I think they will do +most good. So now they are yours. Put them on, and we will go." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Father Anton!" she cried again, in wonder at the sudden luxury +that was hers—and slipped on the cloak; and ran to the curé's shaving +glass, which was the only semblance of a mirror in evidence, to set the +turban daintily upon her head. "Dear, dear Father Anton—how good you +are!" +</P> + +<P> +But Father Anton did not answer. He was brushing his threadbare black +overcoat—and making a very poor business of it. There was a great +lump in his throat that refused to go either up or down—and he brushed +continuously at one sleeve, because that was all he could see through +the sudden mist that had come before his eyes. And then, as he caught +her gazing at him, he put on the coat hurriedly. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, yes," he said hastily. "But we are all ready, are we not—eh? +Come then, Marie-Louise, we will go." +</P> + +<P> +And presently they were on the street—and somehow to Father Anton the +crisp cold of the night was very grateful, preferable for once to the +soft warmth of his far-away South, since the hot flushes now kept +coming and burning in his cheeks, as he walked abstractedly along. And +they were silent for a little while, until a pressure of her fingers on +his arm aroused him, and he turned his head to look at her. Her +cheeks, too, he could see even in the murky light from the street +lamps, were flushed, and the dark eyes were very bright. +</P> + +<P> +"Couldn't—couldn't we hurry a little, Monsieur le Curé?" she suggested +timidly. +</P> + +<P> +"Hurry? Ah—you are cold!" he said contritely, and quickened his step. +</P> + +<P> +"No," she answered. "I—it is only that it might be over—that we +might be too late." +</P> + +<P> +The words brought an added twinge to the already sore and overburdened +soul of Father Anton. It was the heart of Marie-Louise that spoke, the +heart that had no room but only for Jean. Ah, yes; but did he not +understand that already! Had she not come across all France for Jean? +But that was not all! How ignorant of this great world-city, its life, +its customs, its fineness, its sordidness her words proclaimed her to +be—how dependent they proclaimed her to be! But did he not know that +too? How great indeed had been his own bewilderment, and confusion, +and dismay when he had first come to Paris a year ago—even he who was +accustomed to journeying, for had he not gone almost once a year from +Bernay-sur-Mer to Marseilles? How well he remembered it—but, tut, +tut—of what avail was that? This was a vastly different matter, a +very serious matter. Marie-Louise was a woman, so young, so beautiful, +and in her ignorance, in her ingenuousness which was so marked a trait +because she was so purely innocent, she—ah!—he found himself asking +the <I>bon Dieu</I> to watch very carefully over Marie-Louise; and, very +earnestly, with sad misgivings, as a corollary to that prayer, to +forgive him if he were doing wrong in betraying the very innocence, the +trust and simple confidence for which he asked protection for her from +others. +</P> + +<P> +"Father Anton, will—will we be late?" she ventured, evidently alarmed +into the belief, since he had not replied, that so dire a misfortune +was even more than a possibility. +</P> + +<P> +And then he answered her very gravely. +</P> + +<P> +"No, Marie-Louise. You need have no fear. It will only have begun; +and even if it were midnight we should still be in time. Affairs like +this are for all the evening, you see. Indeed, before going there, now +that I come to think of it, perhaps we had better see about finding +lodgings for you first. I know several very estimable families in this +neighbourhood who would be glad to give you a room for a small sum, and +you would be quite close to me, and—" +</P> + +<P> +"But could we not do that afterwards?" she interposed quickly. +</P> + +<P> +"Why, yes, of course, afterwards—if we do not stay too long at the +reception," Father Anton acquiesced. "You would rather do that, +Marie-Louise?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes!" she said—and the word came tensely—and she pulled impulsively +upon his arm. +</P> + +<P> +And so then they hurried along, and after a little time the streets +grew brighter, better lighted, and from streets became great +boulevards, and from an occasional passer-by they were in the midst of +many people where one must needs elbow one's way to get along; but +Marie-Louise, save in a subconscious way that brought no concrete sense +of meaning, saw none of this—she saw only Jean again, the sturdy, +rugged figure that seemed to stand so clearly outlined now before her, +so real, so actual, so living, as he had been that night when he had +borne Gaston up the path in his strong arms; and the roar of the +traffic upon the streets was as the roar of that mighty storm and the +thunder of the sea breaking so pitilessly, so unceasingly upon the +rocks. And Father Anton spoke to her, pointing to this and that as +they went along—but she did not hear the curé. She was listening only +to another voice. "In just a little minute I shall see Jean ... I +shall see Jean ... I shall see Jean," her soul said. "I shall see +Jean." +</P> + +<P> +And then she was standing before a great building, and the building was +ablaze with lights, and carriage after carriage, automobile after +automobile was drawing up before a strange sort of canopy where even +the street itself was laid with crimson carpet, and out of the +carriages and the cars poured a constant stream of wonderfully dressed, +fur-clad women and their escorts. And suddenly she drew back with a +start. What had she done? She had stepped upon the soft carpet and in +under the canopy—and a man bewilderingly covered with gold lace, who +could be no less than a Marshal of France, though he seemed so effusive +and polite as he opened the carriage doors to welcome each new arrival, +was fixing her sternly with his eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"Come, Marie-Louise," prompted Father Anton. +</P> + +<P> +She felt the blood leave her face, and she drew very close to Father +Anton, clinging tightly to his arm. How fast her breath came! There +was laughter, merriment around her; they pressed against her, they +touched her, these wonderfully dressed people. How soft the carpet +was! How one's feet sank into it! It was a sacrilege that she should +walk upon it! How that constant murmur of voices rose and fell, rose +and fell! What were they saying? It seemed that she should know! +What was it? Yes, yes! "Jean Laparde ... Jean Laparde ... Jean +Laparde." From in front, from behind her, on either side, on every +tongue was the name of Jean Laparde. And it thrilled her, and her soul +in a clarion echo caught up the refrain. "Jean Laparde ... Jean +Laparde ... Jean Laparde!" And it seemed as though a thousand emotions +surging upon her were welded together and massed and made into one, and +that one was comparable to none she had ever known before because it +was too great, and overpowering, and bewildering to understand. Only +now she could lift up her head, and the blood was rushing proudly to +her cheeks again. +</P> + +<P> +And now they were in a great marble vestibule, and Father Anton was +handing a card to an attendant, and speaking to the man. +</P> + +<P> +"But Monsieur le Curé has full <I>entrée</I>—to the floor," the man replied. +</P> + +<P> +She did not catch Father Anton's answer—but the attendant was bowing +and speaking again. +</P> + +<P> +"But certainly, monsieur—as Monsieur le Curé desires. To the right, +monsieur." +</P> + +<P> +And then there were stairs, beautiful wide marble stairs, and the press +of people was left behind, for there seemed to be but few who climbed +the stairs; and then—and then—she was in a balcony, and below +her—ah, she could not see—it was all blurred before her—and there +seemed a great fear upon her, for her heart pounded so hard and so +fiercely. And then, strangely, as a mist rises from the sea, it began +to clear away, that blur from before her eyes, and myriad lights from a +massive chandelier, that was suspended from a great dome overhead, +played on the bare, flashing shoulders of women on the floor below her, +played on the jewels that adorned coiffures and necks, played on +glittering uniforms, on a scene magnificent and splendid—and focused, +as her eyes fixed and held, on that one outstanding figure, the figure +that was like to the figure of a demi-god, the only figure, the only +one that she saw now in all that vast assemblage, who stood erect, +strong and massive-shouldered, the black hair, a little longer now, +flung in careless abandon back from the broad, white forehead. It was +Jean! It was Jean! +</P> + +<P> +"Jean!" she whispered—and her hand stole into Father Anton's. "Jean!" +</P> + +<P> +And he was not changed—only that short, pointed beard, that seemed to +add a something, that made him more imposing. It was Jean, the same +Jean—only there was a grace, an ease, a command, a kingship in his +poise as he stood there, and—yes—yes—they came—one after the +other—the men, the women—and bowed before him. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you remember Monsieur and Mademoiselle Bliss?" Father Anton said +gently. "See—they are there beside Jean. And that tall man to whom +they are talking is a very famous statesman for one so young. His name +is Paul Valmain." +</P> + +<P> +They did not interest her. There was only Jean. And she could not +look long enough at him. There was music playing somewhere, softly, +very softly, scarcely audible above the sound of so many voices all +talking at once, voices that ascended in a subdued roar like the sound +of a shell that one held to one's ear. She tried to think, and she +could not. Afterwards she would think. Now she could only look. +</P> + +<P> +Father Anton touched her arm. Was it already time to go? No, no—not +yet! Not yet—for a little while! She had come so far, so long a way +just for this—to see Jean. +</P> + +<P> +"It is the President of the Republic coming, Marie-Louise—see! +Listen!" +</P> + +<P> +There was tumult about her. Those in the gallery around her were +clapping their hands, waving their handkerchiefs; and the music she had +heard playing so softly crashed suddenly into the strains of that song +of glory, immortal, undying, that was cradled in the very soul of +France itself—the Marseillaise. And as it fired the blood, that +melody, martial, stirring, that men had died for, ay, and women, too, +the outburst around her rose to hysterical heat, and thunders of +applause rolled and reverberated through the room that was bigger than +any room she had ever seen or dreamed of. And they were calling Jean's +name again—and the President, the great President was there with Jean. +</P> + +<P> +"Jean Laparde! Jean Laparde! <I>Vive</I> Jean Laparde!" +</P> + +<P> +She could not see any more. Her eyes were blinded with tears now, and +they were proud tears, and they were glad tears, and they were +wondering tears that she could not comprehend herself. Jean's beacon! +Had the <I>bon Dieu</I> permitted her to be that in a little way, given it +to her to have helped just a little, to have had just a little share in +bringing Jean to this great moment, this wonderful triumph? Jean's +beacon! How vividly that scene of the years ago came back, when she +had told Jean he did not belong to her—and reliving that scene, here +in the presence of its great fulfilment, she spoke aloud unconsciously. +</P> + +<P> +"It is true! He does not belong to me. He belongs to France!" +</P> + +<P> +And Father Anton, because he did not understand, because it seemed that +the disillusionment must have been so much more complete and so much +more cruel and hard to bear than he had feared it would be, and because +her renunciation was accepted so bravely, turned away his head and did +not answer. +</P> + +<P> +And Marie-Louise's fingers closed in a tense, involuntary pressure over +Father Anton's hand—and she spoke again. +</P> + +<P> +"He belongs to France!" +</P> + +<P> +And then, after another moment: +</P> + +<P> +"Take me—back now—Father Anton, please." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap0202"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +— II — +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +26 RUE VANITAIRE +</H4> + +<P> +Myrna Bliss tapped petulantly with the toe of her small shoe on the +floor of the limousine, glanced at the diamond-encircled bracelet watch +on her wrist, remarked more or less abstractedly that it was a minute +or so after five o'clock, and stared through the plate glass windows at +the backs of her liveried chauffeur and footman. The reception of the +night before had, so far as she was concerned, been marked by two +incidents, which, at the present moment, were very fully occupying her +thoughts. +</P> + +<P> +It had required all her tact and ingenuity to avert a declaration from +Paul Valmain, which would have been a disaster, because any declaration +was a disaster until that moment arrived when one reached the point +where one began to fear that horrible word "passée" and it became +necessary to accept the inevitable—and marry. A declaration, as any +one could see, whether it was accepted or refused, had its +consequences—one's proprietorship in a man became either restricted to +that one man alone, which in turn was very like locking one's self in a +cage and handing over the key; or it was lost altogether. And Paul +Valmain was almost as much run after by her set as Jean Laparde! +Fancy! Only thirty, a bachelor—and already the leader of his +political party! Yes, decidedly, besides being amazingly handsome and +amazingly brilliant, Paul was a figure in France! +</P> + +<P> +The man was passionately, madly in love with her; and so was +Jean—which went without saying! Imagine! The two lions of social +Paris! Nothing, not an affair, was complete without them—and she had +only to lift a finger as to two slaves! Therefore social Paris was +utterly and completely under her domination. She, literally, was +Paris. It was very plain! So long as she exercised a proprietorship +over both of them, Paris was at her feet. It was not a question of +choice between them—not at all. Jean was the lion, so much so that +she could even hold court with Jean alone; but with both, her position +was impregnable. The trouble was—her brows puckered into anxious +little furrows—that at the first opportunity Paul would renew the +attack. It was very nice to have Paris at one's feet, but it was quite +another matter to keep it there. Paul, of course, was the more +difficult of the two to keep in hand. Jean, because he had never +seemed to shake off entirely that diffidence toward her born of +Bernay-sur-Mer, she had so far been able to manage quite simply, +only—her eyes shifted from the chauffeur's back to the toe of her +shoe, and her foot ceased its petulant tapping on the floor—that was +the other incident of last night. +</P> + +<P> +It had happened just after the arrival of the President. Jean had +sought her out. She remembered the heightened colour in his cheeks, +the sort of nervous brilliance in his eyes. He had been drunk—drunk +with the wealth, the glamour, the power that was his; intoxicated with +the fame, the adulation, the triumph of the moment. He was a glutton +for that—for fame. There was very little else that mattered to Jean. +He was the supreme type of egoist. She could dissect Jean very coolly +and with precision, she thought. +</P> + +<P> +"The studio, to-morrow afternoon at five, Myrna—don't fail," he had +said—and had passed on. +</P> + +<P> +There had been a certain air of authority in his tones—to which she +had promptly taken exception, and to which, in an annoying and +persistent way, she still took exception. Furthermore, it conveyed a +possible, and alarming hint that his docility perhaps was wearing thin. +Well, that would never do at all! She was going, of course, to the +studio now—-but she would take care of Jean! Five o'clock, he had +said. She would be a little late—as she intended to be. At half past +five she had asked Paul Valmain and a choice circle of the younger set +to drop in at 26 Rue Vanitaire, as a graceful little courtesy, so to +speak, to congratulate Jean on his triumph of the night before! The +grey eyes held a smile in which mockery and merriment were mingled. +One's defences should always be in order! +</P> + +<P> +The small shoe began to tap on the floor of the car again. What a +short time—what a long time those two years had been since sleepy, +anæsthetised Bernay-sur-Mer! Jean had attracted her then because he +had been a "new" sensation—and he had attracted her ever since because +he continued to be "the" sensation. But attraction and love were quite +different, were they not? Success after success, triumph after triumph +had been his. It had been astounding, stupefying, magnificent! At +first it had been the inner circle of devotees of art, such as those +who had gone to Bernay-sur-Mer, who had hailed him; then, in furious +and bewildering sequence, Paris, then France, then Europe—and, +equally, so her letters told her, he was the rage in America. None +made comparisons—there were no comparisons to make. The man towered, +stood alone, without rival, as the greatest sculptor of the age. And, +in a sense, he had not begun. Men like old Bidelot and her father said +that, stupendous as it already was, his genius had not yet attained its +full development; that, marvellous as was the power, force and realism +of his conceptions, the exquisite beauty of his execution, there still +remained an intangible something yet to be achieved. +</P> + +<P> +Myrna shrugged her pretty shoulders. +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, just that <I>tout petit chose</I>!" old Bidelot called it. "So +fleeting, so evanescent, so—so—" and he would wave his arms like a +grand opera conductor. "Soul," her father called it, in his turn. +"The boy hasn't lived enough yet. He'll get it, and then—well, +there's only one word to describe it—immortal!" +</P> + +<P> +Myrna made a wry grimace. What was the use of all that? What did they +want? And what rubbish! A man whose work was incomparable, that all +the world was going crazy over! And what, after all, did old Bidelot +and her father know about it, anyway? Old Bidelot, for example, +couldn't make a piece of clay resemble a doughnut, except for the hole, +if he tried for a thousand years. And as for her father—Myrna choked +a laugh. +</P> + +<P> +She glanced at her watch again—and then, quickly, out of the window. +It was ten minutes past five, and the car was slowing up in front of +the studio. In twenty minutes the others would be here—she had told +<I>them</I> to be prompt. Some day, it was very possible, she might marry +Jean—but not yet. She was far too well contented with her life as it +was! She had managed Jean and his tentative outbursts—for his +docility, as she dubbed it, had not been mere tameness—with perfect +success for two years; and now, if, as she was somewhat inclined to +surmise, his actions of last evening presaged another, she was quite +capable of managing that—for twenty minutes. +</P> + +<P> +She alighted from the car, and, instructing her chauffeur that he need +not wait, ran up the steps of the sort of stoop that was over the +concierge's door and apartment beneath. Hector's red head and +doll's-blue eyes, for once, a little to her surprise, were not in +evidence on the arrival of a car. The front door, however, was not +locked. She pushed it open, entered the hallway, crossed to the door +of the salon, and knocked. There was no answer. There was, however, +nothing strange about that—Jean, probably, was in the studio proper, +the <I>atelier</I> beyond. Well, she would surprise him! +</P> + +<P> +She opened the salon door softly, closed it softly, stepped into the +centre of the large, magnificently appointed room, whose decorations +and remodelling she and her father had planned; and, calmly unbuttoning +her long glove, stood looking around her. And then her fingers held +quite rigidly on a glove button. She had not seen him as she had +entered! Jean was rising from a divan behind her, near the door. Her +arm, still extended, the other hand still on the glove button, she +turned her head and shoulders like a statue on a pivot, to watch him in +amazement. Without a word, he had stepped swiftly to the door, locked +it—and now he was putting the key in his pocket. +</P> + +<P> +"Jean, what are you doing?" she exclaimed sharply. +</P> + +<P> +He laughed a little—in a low way. It was the first sound he had made. +She stared at him, a thrill upon her that she could not quite +define—it was not fear; it was more an uncomfortable disquiet, in +which surprise and bewilderment were dominant. But now, as he faced +her, she noticed that the same high colour was in his cheeks, the same +nervous brilliancy was in his eyes as had been there the night +before—and he was not even dressed, he who was so punctilious in the +late afternoons in that regard. It was as though he might have but +thrown aside his big sculptor's over-dress, for he was in loose white +shirt with flowing tie, and belted trousers. Usually she liked him +like that; it seemed to accentuate, bring out, unfetter the splendid +physique of the man; but now—she shrugged her shoulders with +well-affected composure. Myrna Bliss was too self-poised to be swept +from her feet by any situation. Jean was acting very strangely! What +was the matter with him? She stripped off her gloves coolly, and +tossed her outer wraps on a chair. +</P> + +<P> +"You have been working long hours to-day perhaps, Jean"—her voice +expressed cold disapproval—"you are not dressed yet." +</P> + +<P> +Jean's hand swept the great shocks of hair back from his forehead, and +again he laughed in the same low way. +</P> + +<P> +"I have not been working to-day. I have been waiting—for five +o'clock." +</P> + +<P> +What did he mean? She was genuinely disturbed now. Had he been +drinking—after the reception—through the night—and since? He was +certainly not himself! It was outrageous, if it were not in fun, that +he had locked the door! She walked across the room to the bell-cord +and pulled it. The bell rang clamorously in the concierge's apartment +below. +</P> + +<P> +"I will have Hector prepare some coffee, while you are upstairs +dressing, Jean," she said imperiously. "Now, go and dress. You are +behaving in a most peculiar manner." +</P> + +<P> +He made no answer—only stood there looking at her, his head thrown +back on his powerful shoulders, his eyes still abnormally bright, +though the flush was receding now from the strong, handsome face, that, +as it grew white, grew very set. Where was Hector? She pulled the +cord again. Again the bell jangled in the concierge's below. +</P> + +<P> +"Hector and Madame Mi-mi, his wife, are on a holiday—with five francs +apiece in their pockets—at the Bois, I think—to celebrate last +night"—he jerked out the words in a colourless, even way. +</P> + +<P> +She noticed that his lips twitched, that the knuckles of his hands were +white because his hands at his sides were so tightly clenched. He had +sent Hector and madame away—she was quite alone in the place with him. +What did it mean? Jean had never been like this before. But she was +at least quite mistress of herself! She drew herself up, walked back +across the room, picked up her gloves and wraps, and returned to the +door. +</P> + +<P> +"Open that door!" she commanded levelly. "What do you mean by acting +like this? How dare you act like this? Are you mad—have you lost +your senses? Do you realise what you are doing?" +</P> + +<P> +He laughed outright now—with sudden harshness, bitterly. +</P> + +<P> +"Mad?" he repeated in a choked voice. "Yes; I am mad! I have been mad +for two years—and I have been a fool. I am mad now—but I am no +longer a fool. I am going to know now—I am going to have an answer +now—this afternoon—before you leave this room. When are you going to +marry me?" +</P> + +<P> +"Marry you?"—she started back. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't do that!" he flung out passionately. "Don't <I>act</I>! It is no +surprise, that—eh? You know! Your soul knows! I love you—I have +loved you since that first time on the bridge, you remember, don't +you—that bridge—when your eyes turned my blood to fire? You knew it +then—you know it now!" +</P> + +<P> +Once she had told herself, once in those early days before familiarity, +intimacy perhaps, had blunted the eager edge of curiosity and interest +with which she had studied her new sensation much as one might study a +specimen under a microscope, that the man was a smouldering volcano, +the soul of him elemental and turbulent. It had grown dim and hazy, +that little mental note of classification—but she remembered it now. +It was true! Why had she ever lost sight of it? What would he do? +She was not afraid, only—only—he must not have the mastery, even for +a single instant. There had been eruptions before—little ones. She +had always controlled him—he was just like some great, big animal—one +must never let go the leash! And, besides, some day, probably, she +<I>would</I> marry him! +</P> + +<P> +She laughed now in her turn—shortly. +</P> + +<P> +"And do you think, do you imagine, Monsieur Jean"—her voice rang +sharply through the room—"that you will attain your object any the +more readily by acting like this?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes; I think so!"—Jean was stepping toward her, reaching out his arms +to grasp her. +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Jean</I>!"—she retreated backward, with a startled cry. The man's face +was positively livid, the eyes were burning into hers. +</P> + +<P> +"I love you!"—his voice was hoarse, shrill, out of control. "I love +you! My God, I love you! Do you think that you can own a man's soul +and not pay the price? You made me love you! In a thousand ways you +asked for my love—in a thousand ways you—" +</P> + +<P> +"Jean!" she cried at him again—half running now back across the room. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, you did!" he shouted passionately, following her. "Yes, you +did—or you have been playing with me! But if you have been playing +with me, the playing is ended now, do you understand? It is ended! +And whether you have been playing or not, you have made me love you, +and you are mine—you belong to me—you shall be mine! That is how +much I love you! You are mine—<I>mine</I>! You shall tell that cursed +Paul Valmain to go about his business! Do you understand that, too? I +saw you last night!" +</P> + +<P> +She caught at the straw—as, flinging aside the portières in her +retreat, she backed through the archway into the <I>atelier</I>. +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, it is that, then? It is Paul Valmain then, that is the cause of +this! Well, at least, Paul Valmain is incapable of such actions!" +</P> + +<P> +"There is much that Paul Valmain is incapable of!" he answered +furiously. "And one thing is that he, or any other man, shall ever +have you!" +</P> + +<P> +She glanced hurriedly over her shoulder. It was a large room, the +<I>atelier</I>, larger even than the salon, but she was almost across it +now, and the huge statue of Jean's "<I>Fille du Régiment</I>," his "Daughter +of the Regiment," his newest work, that was nearing completion, blocked +the way. +</P> + +<P> +"Jean," she burst out desperately, "what is it? What do you mean? +There is no need for this! There—there was no need to lock that door, +to send Hector away! Do you know what you are doing? Have you lost +your reason to treat me like this? Have you forgotten what—what you +owe to my father—that—that I am his daughter?" +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, you will twist and wriggle, and you will not answer, eh?"—the +words seemed to scorch and burn on his lips. "It is always like this! +You evade, you elude, you ask other questions. You know why I have +done this! I have told you. I owe your father nothing—nothing! Do +you hear—nothing! It is he who owes! Ask him! They are his own +words come true. Ask him what the name of Jean Laparde has done for +him! He is not merely a paltry millionaire to-day—he is a famous man! +The debt is paid a thousandfold—even to the money, franc for franc, +that he has spent. You know well enough why I have done this! It is +not like the days of Bernay-sur-Mer when the poor fisherman dared only +dream and smother the passion in him like some mean, crawling thing, +and thank the God who made him, and hold himself blessed for the crumbs +that were flung to him—a smile from those lips of yours—a finger +touch upon the sleeve, when it seemed all heaven and hell could not +keep my arms back from you! I have waited! I let you put me off +until—until the hour should come when no man or woman in the world +should put off Jean Laparde! Until—yes, <I>sacré nom de +misericorde</I>!—until I should be able to forget, forget, forget, do you +understand, <I>forget</I> that I was once a poor fisherman when I looked at +you. Well, it has come, that hour! What tribute in all the history of +France was ever paid to man as was paid to me last night? <I>Sacré nom</I>, +it is no fisherman that speaks to you now! It is I—Jean Laparde, the +sculptor of France! I am rich! Kings, princes, the nobles, the world +comes to my door and begs—do you hear, <I>begs</I> the entrée! What more +do you ask? My God"—he was clutching at his cravat, loosening it from +his throat, as though it were choking him—"you shall no longer put off +my love!" +</P> + +<P> +She had halted—because she could retreat no further. The face of the +statue, a life-size figure of a girl in tattered uniform, the corsage +torn, the hair dishevelled, the form crouched a little as though +pressing forward in the face of mighty stress, the hands beating at a +drum that was slung from the shoulders, looked down upon her. And it +seemed to bring quick, instant, another weapon to her hand. That +<I>something</I> in the face, those lips! It was in every piece of work he +had ever done. All talked of it, all saw it—and wondered. A strange +exhilaration was upon her. She was not afraid. In his passion, +passion like this, Jean was superb. To have aroused passion such as +this in a man was as to have drunk of wine! But to yield? +Never—until the day when she was quite ready to yield. To master him, +hold him, curb him—yes, a thousand times! His face was close to hers, +his breath was hot upon her cheeks, his hands were stretching out for +her again. She pushed him away violently. +</P> + +<P> +"You talk of love!" she flashed out. "What do you know of love? What +<I>kind</I> of love could you have for me?" She swept her hand around, +pointing to the statue. "Who is this secret model that all Paris talks +about—that everybody has been talking about for months—that lives in +the face and always in the lips of everything you do? That though the +face of one statue is like the face of no other one, yet she is there! +You talk to me of love! At what strange hours does she come here, that +no one sees her? How does she come? Where do you keep her?" +</P> + +<P> +For an instant, Jean drew back, staring at her wildly—but only for an +instant. The next, he had caught her arm in an iron grip. +</P> + +<P> +"You are clever!" he whispered hoarsely. "You are too <I>damned</I> clever! +You are at it again, eh—to sidetrack me? It has been like that for +two years now—always in some way, by some trick, you put me off! But +you will put me off no more. You can play no trick here. We are +alone, and I will not be tricked. It is not true what you say! There +is no model like that! It is a lie!" His voice swelled until it rang +out in a strong, vibrant note. "The model is here—here in my +heart—in my brain! That face and form is the face and form of France! +It is the womanhood of France, the glory of my country! No man before +has ever conceived it. It was for me—for me—Jean Laparde—to do! Do +you hear—it is the face and the womanhood of France! You do not +understand—you are not a Frenchwoman. And you do not understand +me—who am a Frenchman!" His voice dropped low again, hoarse in its +passion. "You have gone too far!" His grip on her arm tightened. +"You love me, or you have played with me—it is all the same! The two +years have made you mine! You <I>are</I> mine—now—now! You would starve +my love, would you, you wonderful, beautiful, glorious woman!" +</P> + +<P> +He was drawing her closer and closer to him. Passion, loosened, freed, +rocking the man to the soul, was in eyes and face, in the half parted +lips, in the short, quick, panting breath. And for a moment, +fascinated, she was lifeless; then with all her strength she wrenched +and strove to free herself. +</P> + +<P> +"You would not <I>dare</I>!" she gasped. "You would not—" +</P> + +<P> +"Dare!"—the word was a wild, hollow laugh. "Dare! Does a man dare to +save his soul from torment? See—your lips! Your lips! Ah, God—your +lips!" +</P> + +<P> +She was his—<I>his</I>! She was in his arms, crushed to him! His—as his +mad desire had bade him crush her in his arms long since in that other +life in Bernay-sur-Mer; his—as he had dreamed of crushing her in his +arms, of crushing her ravishing form close to him in the dreams of the +days and nights, every day and night since then. It was all blind +madness, a delirium of ecstasy. How warm and hot those lips of hers +from which his soul was drinking! God, how she struggled! But her +lips—her lips were his—his to rain his kisses of passionate thirst +upon—and upon her face, and upon her eyes, and upon her hair. If only +she would not struggle so, that he might smother his face, bury it in +the intoxicating fragrance of that hair! +</P> + +<P> +She beat at him with her fists. He could not hold her still. She was +strong, strong as some young lioness. They were swaying around the +room, now this way, new that—and now through the portières into the +salon. She made no cry—how could she cry?—he strangled the cries +unborn upon her lips with his kisses! Ah, he had her now—she was +passive at last—her head was bent far back in his arms. Yes, +now—now! To feel the life, the heart throb, the pulse of that lithe +form against his own—to hold his lips to hers in a kiss long as all +eternity—to— +</P> + +<P> +And then in a numbed, blank way he was standing back and staring at +her. Footsteps, laughter, voices were coming from the street outside, +coming up the steps—and, where it had seemed that her strength was +gone, in a paroxysm of terror, of desperation, she had torn herself +away from him. And now—yes—her face was as white as death itself. +What made it like that? What had happened? He passed his hand dazedly +across his eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"Quick! That door!" she breathed frantically. "They must not find it +<I>locked</I>!" She snatched up her outer wraps, slipped them on, and, with +a most marvellous display of composure, assumed a languid attitude in a +chair. Outwardly, Myrna Bliss was quite calm and undisturbed again. +"Quick! The door—<I>quick</I>!" she whispered. +</P> + +<P> +The door! Some one was coming! Yes, of course! His brain was +reeling, stupefied. The door! He fumbled in his pocket for the key, +and in a mechanical way turned it in the lock. And then they were +trooping into the salon, a dozen of them, men and women. +</P> + +<P> +"Wasn't it a charming idea!" some one exclaimed in effusive greeting. +"But the credit is all Myrna's, of course. We've come, you know, to—" +</P> + +<P> +Jean did not hear any more. With a start, he raised his head and +glanced down the room. Myrna's idea—this! A little twisted smile of +understanding came to Jean's lips. Self-possessed, animated, she was +already the centre of a group where everybody was talking at once. +</P> + +<P> +And then Paul Valmain's pale, aristocratic, esthetic face came before +him. The man was bowing, murmuring polite conventionalities; only +somehow the man's eyes, instead of meeting his, seemed to be set with +peculiar fixedness upon some object. Automatically, Jean followed +their direction with his own—to his own hand hanging at his side. +</P> + +<P> +The door key was still clasped in his fingers! +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap0203"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +— III — +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +IN THE DEAD OF THE NIGHT +</H4> + +<P> +The temptation was very great. But what would Father Anton say? What +would Madame Garneau, with whom she lodged, <I>think</I>? To go out at this +time of night! It was very late. It was long after midnight, because +it was very long ago when she had heard some distant church clock +strike twelve—and since then it had struck many times, the quarters, +the half hours, only she had lost count. +</P> + +<P> +Marie-Louise drew her cloak a little more closely around her, as she +leaned on the casement of her open window—and then remained quite +still and motionless again. +</P> + +<P> +Irrelevantly it seemed, her thoughts turned on Hector, the concierge. +How very blue Hector's eyes were, and how very red his hair, and +altogether how very droll a figure he made with his absurd +self-importance; and how fat his wife was, whom he so ridiculously +called Mi-mi! And then that conversation between the concierge and his +wife in Jean's salon early that morning, at which she had been present, +began to run through her mind. +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Tiens</I>!" Hector had said to his wife. "But will she not make the +thrifty wife for some lucky fellow, our little Louise Bern, here—eh? +She is already waiting an hour in the mornings to be let in. An hour, +mind you, <I>ma belle</I> Mi-mi—and we who think we rise so early! It is a +lesson that! Would you have her standing out in the cold? Why not a +key that she may come in and do her work?" +</P> + +<P> +"But Monsieur Jean," madame had objected mildly, "might be angry if he +knew." +</P> + +<P> +"Monsieur Jean," Hector had replied fatuously, and folding his arms +with an air, "is very well content to leave such matters to me. I do +not pester Monsieur Jean with details. On the night after the +reception, even in the exceedingly bad humour in which I found him, +when I told him that I had thought the matter over, and that the work +was too hard, and that you were wasting away—you see, <I>ma</I> Mi-mi, how +I lie for you—and that I had decided—'decided' was the word I +used—that I must have some one in the mornings to help with the work, +did he not say: 'But assuredly, Hector, assuredly; whatever you think +is right. I depend upon you, <I>mon ami</I>.' And does that not show that +we understand each other, Monsieur Jean and I—eh?" +</P> + +<P> +"It was Father Anton, not you, whose idea it was," madame had corrected +with conscientious earnestness. "It was Father Anton, that evening +after we had returned from the Bois and before you had seen Monsieur +Jean, who suggested it, and spoke of Louise here. And that was not +what Monsieur Jean said, for I was listening outside the door. He said +you were a red-headed buffoon, and to go to the devil and not bother +him." +</P> + +<P> +"And what then?" Hector, though slightly disconcerted, had rejoined +with acerbity. "Your tongue is forever clacking! Do I ever recount an +event but that you must put in your word? But that is not the point. +It is Father Anton who says Louise is an honest girl and to be +trusted—and that is enough!" +</P> + +<P> +It was not so irrelevant after all. She was twisting the key in her +fingers now. The key to Jean's house in the Rue Vanitaire. How still +the night was! It seemed so strange that in so great a city where +there were such multitudes of people it could be so still. It was +almost as still as that other night when she had sat at her window in +Bernay-sur-Mer, that night when the <I>bon Dieu</I> had made her see that +for Jean's sake their ways lay so very wide apart. She was glad, very +glad that the <I>bon Dieu</I> had helped her then to put nothing in Jean's +way, because Jean had done so very much more even than any one had +dreamed of. +</P> + +<P> +But it was so strange, so strange! To hear everybody talking about +Jean—on the streets—little snatches of conversation—even here +amongst the very poor—even Madame Garneau, who that afternoon had +stopped in the scrubbing of the floor, and, waving the scrubbing brush +excitedly to point the words, must needs tell her, Marie-Louise, all +about the great Laparde! How proud they all were of Jean, because Jean +had brought such honour upon their beloved France! But it was so +strange, so strange—that they did not know—that they did not know +that, oh, for so many, many years it had been just Jean and +Marie-Louise, and glad, glad days, with the blue sky above, and the +strong arms upon the oars—and—and that she loved Jean, that all her +life she had loved him, that all her life until she should come to die +she would love Jean. It was strange that all these people did not +know, because it seemed that she knew nothing else, because it seemed +to be the only thing in all the world. But it was good that they did +not know, because otherwise she could not even be here as she was, she +could not even be Louise Bern for a little while, and be near Jean, and +see the work that she loved because it was Jean's work, and +because—and because those marvellous figures that he fashioned seemed +somehow now to mean everything that there was in life for her, as +though her own life were wrapped up In them, given in exchange for +them, as though indeed she were a very part of them, and they were of +her blood and flesh. +</P> + +<P> +She pressed her hands very tightly together over the key, and then +opened them and let the key lay in her palm to look at it in the +moonlight. She had seen so little in the studio, so very little! In +the three mornings she had been there, there had always been Madame +Mi-mi to fuss around her, to instruct her in her work, or, failing that +as an excuse—to gossip. And if it were not madame, then it was +Hector—and often it was both. And she had so wanted to be alone +there—it was not very much to ask, that—just to be alone there for a +little time with Jean's things around her, to be very quiet, to be +alone. +</P> + +<P> +Why should she not go now? It was not a sin that she would commit. It +was only that if Father Anton knew, or Madame Garneau knew they would +not understand—but they would never know. No one would ever know. +Jean would be upstairs asleep; and Hector and his wife would be +downstairs in bed. That statue, that wonderful statue of the girl with +the drum, would be more wonderful than ever with the bright moonlight +pouring in upon it through that great glass roof of the <I>atelier</I>. She +had seen so little of it, because when she was there it was always +wrapped up in damp cloths; she had seen it only when that absurd Hector +had exhibited it to her with a patronising air as though he had +modelled it himself, making use of a flood of technical expressions of +which she did not understand a word, and of whose meaning she was quite +sure he was equally ignorant, but having heard the words around the +studio repeated them like a parrot. She had seen so little of it, when +her soul cried out to see so much. It haunted her, that statue—why, +she did not know. It was before her always—in her dreams, which were +always dreams of the salon and the <I>atelier</I>, the figure with the drum +always stood out above everything else, even though everything else, +even though the very smallest things and details there were so dear and +intimate too. Was it a sin to go and stand and look, when her heart +was so full of the longing that it would not be denied? Who was there +to say, "you went to Jean's studio at two o'clock in the morning," +when, in the quiet and the stillness there, there would be only +herself, and that great figure with the drum, and the <I>bon Dieu</I>, who +made Jean do such wondrous things, to know? +</P> + +<P> +She turned from the window and tiptoed across the little room, and took +the little black velvet turban with its white cockade, that Father +Anton had given her, down from where it hung upon a nail on the wall, +and fastened her cloak tightly about her for fear that it might brush +against something and make a noise, and stole then to the door, and out +into the hallway, and to the front door of the tenement. Yes, she +would go—but no one must know—only herself, and that great figure +with the drum, and—and the <I>bon Dieu</I>, who would understand. +</P> + +<P> +And so she went out into the night, and across the city, and to the Rue +Vanitaire, and to Jean's studio; and all the way her heart was beating +quickly, and she was a little frightened, and avoided the people that +she met, for no one must know—and even at the last, when the goal was +reached, and she stood before the house and saw that it was dark in all +the windows, and she had only to enter, there came even then a little +added thrill of fear. The street, she had thought, was deserted, and +suddenly, as she stood there, it—it seemed as though some one hiding +across the street had stepped out of concealment, and as suddenly had +disappeared again. She caught her breath, and stood for a long tense +moment gazing in that direction. And then at last she smiled a little +tremulously. It—it was only a shadow. Yes, she was quite sure now +that it was only a shadow—she could see the flickering of the street +lamp on the wall of the building, where she had thought she had seen +something else. It was very foolish of her to be like this. She had +never been afraid in Bernay-sur-Mer—only everything here was so +strange—and it was very late—and—and she was going into Jean's +studio—and no one must know. And then she mounted the steps very +cautiously, and unlocked the door and closed it softly—and in another +moment, slipping across the hall, past the foot of the stairs that led +to Jean's sleeping apartments above, she had entered the salon and shut +the door behind her. +</P> + +<P> +It was quite dark here, too dark almost to distinguish anything—the +only light was a tiny, truant moonbeam that strayed in from the +<I>atelier</I> between the portières of the archway. It was in there—the +great figure with the drum! But she would not go there for a moment +yet. It was here, too, that Jean was present in everything about her. +It was here that his friends, those that he cared for now, the people +of the <I>grand monde</I> came to see Jean. She could not see the things +around her, but they were very clearly pictured in her mind—the +beautiful rugs, so soft and silky to the touch, that hung from the +walls; the queer, spindly furniture, that did not seem made for use at +all, that she had been afraid to touch at first for fear it would +break, it looked so fragile; the dark, glossy floor, like a mirror, +that she had polished only that morning; the—her thoughts were +suddenly, disturbingly, flying off at a tangent. +</P> + +<P> +That morning! It brought a quick twinge of pain to Marie-Louise's +heart. The salon had been—had been—oh, she did not know how to +describe it—only Madame Mi-mi had said it was often like that, that +Jean led the gay life, and why not, since he had the <I>sous</I> to pay and +was rich? There had been broken glasses, and confusion, and callous +ruin of things that were priceless, and cards strewn over the +floor—and—and somehow she had not been able to keep her eyes from +being wet all the time she had been cleaning up the room. It—it made +her heart very heavy, and very sorrowful. And yet, too, in a way, she +could understand—because she understood Jean. Long, long ago she had +been afraid—afraid of his success for him, even while she had prayed +for it. If Jean had only a mother, only some one whose love would hold +him back. If he were married—if he had a wife—it would change all +this sort of life that he led now. Yes; if he were married! She could +think of that quite calmly, in a perfectly impersonal way. Why should +she not? Some day Jean would marry—marry some one out of this new +world in which she had no part, which to her was so very strange and +foreign and hard to understand; but which to Jean was so natural, and +which, henceforth, could be the only life he would know. Yes; she +could think of his marrying quite calmly. And why not? She had no +longer part in that—she had passed out of Jean's life long ago, that +day in Bernay-sur-Mer. Perhaps it would be Mademoiselle Bliss—Hector +had hinted at it and winked prodigiously. She found her hand clenching +very hard at her side. It seemed very, very strange, and it was very, +very curious that, while she could think quite calmly of Jean marrying +some one because it would be very good for Jean to marry, a pang came +and her heart rebelled when the "some one," instead of being vague and +general and indefinite, became a particular "some one" that was very +definite and was not vague at all! +</P> + +<P> +Marie-Louise sighed a little. She did not understand. Everything was +so hard to understand. She sighed again—and then, walking slowly +across the room, she parted the portières and stepped into the +<I>atelier</I>. +</P> + +<P> +Here, for an instant, she stood hesitant, just inside the archway, +looking about her. How bright the moonlight was, and how it poured in +and bathed everything in its soft luminous glow, except that, +strangely, there seemed to be a shadow on the white-wrapt statue of the +girl that puzzled her for a moment—ah, yes, it was the door of the +dressing-room, the room where Hector said the models prepared for their +poses, that was wide open and kept the moonlight from the statue. She +moved forward, closed the door quietly, and went then and uncovered the +clay figure and stood before it. She could look her fill now—yet it +seemed that she could never do that, for her craving and her longing +were insatiable. All other things in this life of Jean's, in this life +of hers that she was living for a little while, filled her with dismay +and confusion; but this, this work of Jean's, this figure before her +was real, it seemed somehow to bring her closer to her own world, to +those things she could understand. She did not know why—only that it +was so, and that it was perhaps because of that the girl with the drum +had been haunting her so constantly. +</P> + +<P> +She sat down at last on the little platform that served Jean to stand +upon for his work. It thrilled her, made her pulse leap, this strong, +magnificent figure of womanhood, this torn and tattered soldier-girl; +and one sensed and felt and lived, it seemed, the battle-wrack around +the figure; one saw, it seemed, the stern, set-faced, shot-thinned +ranks that followed to the beating of the drum; one listened to catch +the tramp of feet, the hoarse cheers, the roar of guns. It seemed to +be the call of France, the call to victory and glory, or to death +perhaps, but to dishonour never; it seemed to breathe the love of +country that was beyond all thought of self, fearful of no odds; it +seemed to mean that in the heart of France itself lived the courage +that had never measured sacrifice; it seemed as though those clay lips +parted, and above the din of conflict, of battle and of strife she +could hear the voice ring out in deathless words: "Forward—for France!" +</P> + +<P> +But it was not only that alone that held her enthralled. It was the +face, with the moonlight full upon it now. It was beautiful, it was +glorious—but there was something more. There was something in the +face that seemed to stir a memory, a world of memories within her. +There was something familiar in the face—there seemed to be something +there that she recognised and yet could not define. She had seen that +face all her life—all her life. It belonged to every one that she had +ever known in Bernay-sur-Mer—and yet it belonged to no one at all that +she could name. But then—it was not finished yet. Perhaps when it +was finished she would know. It would be finished now in a few days +more, Hector had said; and he had said, too, that it would be the +greatest work Jean had ever done. +</P> + +<P> +If she could only watch it until it was finished! If she could only do +that—afterwards she would go away. It was only for a little while +that she had come to Paris—only for a little while. If she could do +that! If she could come to-morrow night, and the nights after that +until it was all finished, just as she had come to-night! Yes, +yes—<I>yes</I>! Yes, she would come! She would watch it grow, and watch +so eagerly and so tensely the face that was so well-known yet so +elusive now! +</P> + +<P> +"<I>La Fille du Régiment</I>!" Her hands cupping her chin, she sat there as +motionless, as silent as the statue itself; sat there absorbed, +unconscious of the passing time. It was strange the face should be +familiar! It was strange that there, too, had been something familiar +in the face of that figure in the park that Father Anton had taken her +to see, in the face of every other figure that the curé had pointed out +to her as Jean's work! She had gone back to look at them alone; but +they, although they were finished, had not answered her question, had +not told her who they were. But this one, this one was <I>almost</I> +telling her now—there was only to come a touch, just a touch from +Jean's hand—that would perhaps be there when she came to-morrow +night—and then she would know. +</P> + +<P> +And so she sat there, and the hours passed, and the moonlight faded, +and the grey of dawn crept into the room—and Marie-Louise roused +herself with a start. And at first dismay was upon her. It was +morning—too late to go home! And then she shook her head, and smiled +happily—happily, because she had spent glad and happy hours, and there +was no need to be dismayed. Presently, she would go about her work—to +which she had come early, that was all. And at her lodging, Madame +Garneau would find the bed made because it was always made before she +left there in the morning, before Madame Garneau was up. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap0204"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +— IV — +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +THE ACCUSATION +</H4> + +<P> +There was a sullen, angry set to Jean's lips, a scowl on his face that +gathered his forehead into heavy furrows, as, at his accustomed morning +hour, a little after nine, he entered the <I>atelier</I>. He had not slept +well the night before—nor for the nights before that—not since that +afternoon here with Myrna. How could one sleep with things in the mess +they were—to say nothing of the night before last when he had not +tried to sleep, and had held high revel with a few choice spirits in a +sort of dare-devil challenge to the premonition that promised him a +reckoning for those few moments in which he had sought to quench the +passion that raged in his soul, that set his brain afire! +</P> + +<P> +He crossed the room, mechanically donned his sculptor's blouse, or +over-dress, threw off the wrappings from the "Fille du Régiment," +picked up a modelling tool, stepped upon the platform—and stared into +the face that looked back at him from the high-flung, splendid head of +clay. He snarled suddenly, clenching his fist. They prated to him of +secret models! Bah! It was too much for them! They could not +understand—it was beyond them—that was all! It was there, all of it, +the courage, the resolution, the purity, the strength, the virility of +the womanhood of France—all—all—it was all there—and they thought +it wonderful, incomparable—only they prated of a secret model—<I>nom de +Dieu</I>—when it was themselves, when it was France that was the +model—and they had not grasped the apotheosis of their separate +individualities in the sublime glory of the composite whole! Ha, +ha—perhaps it was because they were modest! +</P> + +<P> +He smiled with intolerant contempt. They prated of a secret model, +they applauded, they cheered, they showered him with wealth, with fame, +the world knew the name of Jean Laparde—and, because they were unable +to comprehend, they asked for something more, something that, no doubt, +should label his work like raised letters for the blind—and then +perhaps it would be only to find that they had still to acquire the +alphabet! Bah—it was sickening, that! But it was also maddening! +There was old Bidelot, who came each day to the studio. Bidelot was a +fool—a senile old fool, who sat and wept weak tears because the statue +was so beautiful; and wept weaker tears because, like a spoilt child, +he cried for something that he wanted without knowing what it was! +</P> + +<P> +"You talk—you rant—you whimper—you bemoan!" he had flared out +angrily at Bidelot yesterday afternoon. "Well, what is it? Do you +find it a pitiful affair, then, my '<I>Fille du Régiment</I>'?" +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, Jean! Ah, no! Ah, no!" old Bidelot had cried. "It is not that! +It is exquisite, it is magnificent, it is superb, it transcends +anything the world has ever seen. It is so great that if only there +were a little something, ah, <I>mon</I> Jean, a little something, it would +be the work of a god and not a man!" +</P> + +<P> +"And that something? What is it?" he had demanded. +</P> + +<P> +And old Bidelot had wrung his hands, and the tears had coursed down his +cheeks. +</P> + +<P> +"I do not know! I do not know!" the famous critic had answered almost +hysterically. "If I knew I would tell you. It is but a touch—but a +touch." +</P> + +<P> +Old Bidelot was emotional—an ass! Old Bidelot was fast approaching +his dotage! Jean shrugged his shoulders wrathfully. It was not true, +of course! It lacked nothing, that face—and yet—and yet that sort of +thing disquieted him, irritated him. It was a masterpiece—and its +only fault was that it had not been made by a god! <I>Ciel</I>! Was there +ever anything more absurd than that! Well, in any event, it was to +bring him one hundred and twenty-five thousand francs; and his next +commission, which was for the Government of France, would be for double +that amount. Old Bidelot and his "touch"! For France, when this was +finished, he would do that dream statue, if—<I>damn</I> that dream statue! +</P> + +<P> +Jean snarled again. What was the matter with him! The cursed thing +was always in his mind; but never would it come and appear before him, +lifelike and actual, that bronze figure of the woman, as once it had +done. Instead, it seemed to have faded more and more completely away, +until it was as invisible as the base of the statue which he had never +been able to see at all, and yet at which the passers-by in his dreams +had gazed with the same rapt attention as at the woman's figure—it had +faded until the whole existed simply as an indistinct blur upon the +memory. If he could visualise that figure again, get the detail, he +could supply a base of some sort that would go with it; that would come +simply enough once he got to work. <I>Would</I> it! He had thought until +his brain was sick, for hours on end, trying to imagine a fitting +subject, big enough, splendid enough to harmonise with what he +remembered was the majestic beauty of the woman's figure—and the hours +had only made the task seem the more beyond him, his each succeeding +imaginary design the more inadequate and pitiful. +</P> + +<P> +It made him angry now, increased and inflamed his already irritable and +savage mood. Why had he started in to think of that! Why, in heaven's +name, should he think of everything that morning that he did not want +to think of! Why, when nothing else would come, should the cold, +enigmatical face of Paul Valmain staring at that confounded key, come +so readily before him, and—he hurled his modelling tool suddenly, +savagely, into the far corner of the room; and, stepping down from the +platform, pulled viciously at the bell. He was yanking his blouse off +over his head, as Hector appeared. +</P> + +<P> +"Get my car, Hector!" he snapped tersely. "I am going out." +</P> + +<P> +Hector's blue eyes widened in amazement. The car in the morning—the +morning that was sacred to work! +</P> + +<P> +"The car, m'sieu?" he repeated, as though he had not heard aright. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, imbecile—the car!" Jean snapped again. +</P> + +<P> +"But, m'sieu!" It was unheard of! It had never occurred before! "But +is m'sieu not going to work this morning, and—" +</P> + +<P> +"The <I>car</I>!" +</P> + +<P> +"But, yes, m'sieu—instantly—instantly, m'sieu!" Hector stammered—and +retreated hastily from the room. +</P> + +<P> +Jean followed him—spent a few impatient moments kicking at the +sidewalk while he waited; and then, at the wheel of his big, powerful +machine, went tearing up the street. Work! It was worse than useless +in the vile humour he was in. The car had been an inspiration; he +would go nowhere in particular, but he would drive—fast. That was +what he wanted, some excitement, some exhilaration. He would go out +into the country, anywhere, with the whole day before him, and—no! He +would go first to Myrna's house! Why not! He scowled heavily again. +It was getting beyond endurance, that sort of thing! There had been +three, no, four days of it now! The decision quite fitted in with his +mood—whatever might be the result. Yes, <I>nom d'un nom</I>, he would go +there—and at once! +</P> + +<P> +It was but a short way; and, at the expiration of a few minutes, Jean +stopped his car in front of the magnificent residence that Henry Bliss +maintained in a style that was almost regal, jumped out, and ran up the +steps. +</P> + +<P> +"Mademoiselle Bliss," he said to the liveried automaton that answered +his summons. +</P> + +<P> +"Mademoiselle Bliss is out, Monsieur Laparde," replied the man. +</P> + +<P> +"Very well, then—Monsieur Bliss," returned Jean, a little grimly. +</P> + +<P> +"Monsieur Bliss is not at home, Monsieur Laparde," replied the man. +</P> + +<P> +Jean bit his lip. That Henry Bliss might still be away, since he had +gone to London some days before, was probably true; but that Myrna was +out at ten o'clock in the morning—the man, under instructions, was +lying, of course! He stood hesitant, his rage increasing, half +inclined to reach out and twist the neck of this bedecked +functionary—and then, with a short laugh, he swung on his heel, went +down the steps again, and climbed back into the car. +</P> + +<P> +The car shot forward in a savage bound. She was probably watching him +from behind the curtain of a window! His hands clenched fiercely on +the steering wheel—and he flung the throttle wide. It was enough! +This had lasted long enough! It was her idea of punishment, perhaps! +"Mademoiselle Bliss is out, Monsieur Laparde"—he mimicked the +colourless-voiced flunky viciously. To telephones, personal calls—the +same answer; to notes—no answer at all. Well, she would answer—and +soon! He would take care of that, and—he jammed the brakes +frantically on the machine, as a figure, barely escaping disaster as +the result of his reckless driving, jumped wildly away from in front of +the car; while a voice shouted in sharp protest: +</P> + +<P> +"Hey, there—where are you going!" +</P> + +<P> +"To the devil!" snarled Jean—and chuckled the next instant with sudden +malicious delight, as he recognised the other. It was Father Anton—on +his way to the Bliss residence, probably. +</P> + +<P> +"You are travelling fast, my son!"—grave and quiet, the note of +protest gone, Father Anton's voice came back from the curb—and then +the old priest was blotted from sight, and the car was speeding down +the boulevard again. +</P> + +<P> +Hah! Father Anton! Father Anton—the grandmother! Father Anton, who +had thought on arriving in Paris to lecture him, Jean Laparde, on how +he should live, and sermonise on the pleasures of the flesh, and the +dangers of power and wealth and position, and to haunt the studio with +a sanctimoniously grieved expression everlastingly on his face! Ha, +ha! Father Anton! Father Anton was the man who once had preached so +fatuously on the nothingness of fame! Well, Father Anton, if he were +not blind, could—again Jean checked the car violently, this time in +response to a harsh, strident, authoritative command. +</P> + +<P> +And then a gendarme was running alongside, gesticulating furiously—but +the next moment the man was touching his cap. +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, it is Monsieur Laparde! <I>Pardon, mille pardons</I>, Monsieur +Laparde!" The man's voice dropped to a low tone, as he leaned in over +the side of the car. "But if monsieur will be good enough to have a +care. It will get us into trouble if we do not do our duty, and +monsieur would not like that to happen. Ah, monsieur"—at Jean's +five-franc piece. "Ah—" +</P> + +<P> +The car was off again. But now Jean laughed aloud. Fame! Who was +there that did not know Jean Laparde—from the President of France to +the gamin of the gutters! It began to salve a little his irritation, +his ugly mood. To the devil with Father Anton—as he had just now had +the pleasure of intimating to him. There was little that was empty in +the fame that was his. Wealth had been poured upon him; there was +nothing, nothing that was beyond his reach, nothing that he could +desire and be obliged to refuse himself; and, yes—<I>'cré nom</I>, one +could say it for it was true—throughout all France he was worshipped +as though he were a demigod. He had only to enter a café anywhere, and +in a moment from the tables around he would catch the whispers: "Look! +There is Jean Laparde, the great sculptor!" And position—what man in +all of France, or in Europe, occupied a position comparable to his! +None! There was none! He would change places with no one! He owed +allegiance to none; he received it from all. He received the cheers, +the acclaim of the populace; the decorations of governments and +royalty! And none could take this from him. It was his! And there +were to be years of it—all the years he lived. He was young yet. +Years of it! He was Jean Laparde, Jean Laparde, Jean Laparde—the man +whose name sent a magic thrill even to his own soul. God, how he loved +it all with a passion and a desire and an insatiability that was rooted +in his very breath of life! +</P> + +<P> +The car was speeding now out through the suburbs of the great +city—on—on—on! His thoughts were bringing him exhilaration in +abundant measure; something in the sense of freedom, in the swift +motion, brought him elated excitement. His blood was whipping +buoyantly through his veins. There would be a day of this—to go +somewhere, anywhere—without plan, or predetermination, this road or +that, it mattered not at all—a day of it—prompted no longer by the +sullen, disgruntled mood that had caused him to set out, but by a more +potent and saner spirit of almost boyish vagabondage that bade him keep +on. +</P> + +<P> +Myrna! He smiled now. He was a fool to have spoilt the last few days +for himself just because he had not seen her! Let her have her way for +a while, if it pleased her! No doubt she was trying to discipline him! +It was delightful, that! Discipline Jean Laparde! It was he who would +play the rôle of disciplinarian before he was through—not she! He +loved her, wanted her—and, by Heaven, he was Jean Laparde! And what +Jean Laparde wanted was his! She belonged to him, and his she would +be, and no other man's! Paul Valmain, eh? Next time he would deal +with Paul Valmain, and not with Myrna. The poor fool—who ranted and +raved and screamed like a cockatoo on the floor of the Chamber of +Deputies, and dreamed that it was impassioned eloquence! It would be +well for Paul Valmain to take another road than that of Jean Laparde! +The poor fool—that did not know the power of Jean Laparde! He held +Paul Valmain, as he held every other man in France, between his thumb +and forefinger—to pinch, if he saw fit. A whisper in the ear of this +one and that, and Paul Valmain was as dead politically as though he had +never been born. +</P> + +<P> +And now Jean threw back his head and laughed boisterously. All that +was no exaggeration; it was literally true. He even held Myrna in +exactly the same position. He could break her socially—as readily as +he could break a twig from a tree! It was even ludicrous, it was so +simple. Imagine Myrna in such a state! Imagine what would happen if +he let it be known that Jean Laparde would attend no function at which +Mademoiselle Bliss was a guest! It was too funny, too droll! And she +had dreams perhaps of disciplining Jean Laparde! +</P> + +<P> +His face flushed a little. She was his! He had felt those warm, rich +lips against his own! He would feel them there again a thousand +times—ay, and soon again! He would not wait this time—as he had +waited, fool that he had been, before! But for a day or so, if it +pleased her to ride upon a high horse, let her go fast and +furious—afterwards, that was quite another matter. Afterwards, those +lips would be his again, that glorious, pulsing body would be in his +arms again—and in the meantime—here was a great level stretch of road +before him—and the day was before him—and the to-morrow could take +care of itself! +</P> + +<P> +And so Jean rode far that day; and lunched at a quaint little village +near the Belgian frontier; and quite lost himself; and dined in a +farmhouse; and finally, set upon the road again, reached Paris after +midnight, where he alighted in front of his club. He was in a "humour" +now, as he put it himself. A little supper and a hand at cards would +complete, round out a day of rare delight. He was even humming an air +to himself, as he entered the club. +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Pardon</I>, Monsieur Laparde!"—the doorman was bowing respectfully. +"Monsieur Valmain is in one of the private writing rooms—the one at +the head of the stairs, monsieur." +</P> + +<P> +Jean stopped his humming, and stared at the man. +</P> + +<P> +"Well—and what of that?" he demanded. +</P> + +<P> +"But, monsieur!" murmured the man, a little abashed. "Monsieur expects +to meet Monsieur Valmain, does he not? Monsieur Valmain left word." +</P> + +<P> +Jean scowled, and passed on. Paul Valmain! Paul Valmain! Paul +Valmain! What devil of perversity had seen fit to drag Paul Valmain +upon the scene? Was his day to be ruined by a bad taste in his mouth? +What did the man want? +</P> + +<P> +He went upstairs, knocked upon the door indicated, and, without waiting +for an answer, opened it rather brusquely, stepped inside—and, with an +exclamation of angry surprise, gazed at the man who seemed literally to +have rushed across the room to confront him. Paul Valmain's face was +positively livid, the eyes burned as though consumed with fever, the +hands shook, and the tall form quivered in the most astonishing +fashion. Was the man mad? +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, Monsieur Jean Laparde!" the other cried out. "You have come at +last! You saw fit to absent yourself to-day! I have been five times +to the studio! But you thought it better to answer my message finally, +eh? You did well! I should have gone again in an hour to dig you out!" +</P> + +<P> +Jean eyed the other for a moment, contempt struggling with bewilderment +for the mastery at the man's actions and incoherent outburst. +</P> + +<P> +"You have perhaps been drinking," he said coldly. "I received no +message until I entered the club here an instant ago. And I am not to +be 'dug out,' Monsieur Valmain! You are using strange language. If +you are drunk, apologise; otherwise—" +</P> + +<P> +"Otherwise!"—the word came like a devil's laugh from Paul Valmain; and +before Jean could move, or, taken by surprise, guard himself, the flat +of Paul Valmain's hand had swung in a stinging blow across Jean's +mouth. "You—<I>hound</I>!" +</P> + +<P> +The blood came surging into Jean's face, and with a bound he had the +other by the shoulders—and then, somehow, he found himself +laughing—not merrily—laughing in a sort of contemptuous rage. He +could take Paul Valmain with his own great strength and do with him +what he pleased. But that was not the way a blow such as he had +received was to be answered! And, anyway, what was the matter with the +man? He must have lost his senses! +</P> + +<P> +"You—hound!"—Paul Valmain was repeating hoarsely, his lips twitching +in his passion. "I watched last night outside your studio. I watched, +and oh, God!—I saw her enter." +</P> + +<P> +Jean's hands dropped from the man's shoulders in blank amazement. Yes, +certainly, the man was either drunk or mad! Certainly, he was not +responsible for what he was saying. +</P> + +<P> +"There was no one who entered my studio last night," he said almost +pityingly. +</P> + +<P> +"You liar!"—Paul Valmain was like a man beside himself, demented. +"You liar—you liar—you liar! I saw her! I know now who this secret +model is whose divine form you desecrate, you black-souled libertine! +I saw her go in at two o'clock in the morning—<I>and at daylight she had +not come out again</I>." +</P> + +<P> +Jean shrugged his shoulders intolerantly. The man was quite out of his +head from some cause or other, but that was no reason why he should be +called upon to endure the other's irresponsible ranting. +</P> + +<P> +"You poor fool!" he exclaimed irritably. "So you know who it is, do +you? And what then? If it brings you such poignant, personal grief, +why did you let her go in? Why did you not tell her that—" +</P> + +<P> +"It was too late"—white to the lips, Paul Valmain raised his clenched +fists—"it was too late—after months of it! I could save her only one +thing—the knowledge that I knew her shame. I was across the street—I +saw her—God pity me—I loved her—the black cloak and hat she wore +only a few days before when we were together! I have lived in hell and +torment and fear that it might be so since that afternoon—that +afternoon—did you think I did not see the key in your hand, and—" +</P> + +<P> +"What do you mean?"—there was a sudden blackness curiously streaked +with red before Jean's eyes; the blood was sweeping in a mad tide +upward in his face to pound like trip-hammers at his temples—the man's +words could bear only one interpretation, a hideous one, that outraged +his soul, and roused a seething fury within him. "What do you mean?" +he said again between his teeth. +</P> + +<P> +"I mean," Paul Valmain answered, "I mean—damn you, you know what I +mean! I mean that from two o'clock in the morning until daylight Myrna +Bliss was in your rooms, and—" +</P> + +<P> +"You devil from hell!" Jean shouted—and leaped at the other's throat. +If the man struggled he did not realise it. The man was only an +impotent, powerless thing in his grasp—and he flung him away, flung +him crashing to the floor. "I will kill you for that!" he whispered. +"To-night—you can find a friend downstairs to act for you—I another." +</P> + +<P> +Paul Valmain staggered to his feet. +</P> + +<P> +"I have waited all day for the same purpose!" The devil's laugh was on +the grey lips again. +</P> + +<P> +"It is <I>à l'outrance</I>, Monsieur Valmain—you understand!"—Jean choked +in his fury. "<I>A l'outrance</I>!" +</P> + +<P> +"As you shall see!" +</P> + +<P> +"And the studio—if it suits you! We shall not be disturbed. There is +room there, and you will find it as pleasant a place as any in which to +die!" +</P> + +<P> +"Where you will!" retorted Paul Valmain. "Where you will—so there is +no delay!" +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap0205"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +— V — +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +THE SECRET MODEL +</H4> + +<P> +Marie-Louise glanced quickly up at the house. Yes; it was all dark! +There was no light in Hector's apartments below; nor in the salon; nor +in Jean's rooms above. She had scarcely dared to look, for fear that +she had come too soon, that Hector perhaps was still up, that Jean +perhaps might be with some of his friends in the salon. But it was all +dark. She was quite breathless, for she had run nearly all the way +from Madame Garneau's in her eagerness; but that did not matter at all +now, for she was not to be disappointed, since, after all, she had not +come too soon. It was much earlier than it had been last night, when +she had come for the first time to be all alone there in the studio in +the moonlight, where the hours had passed so swiftly and been all too +short; but it had seemed that the day would never end, that night would +never come again, and the evening had dragged so cruelly as she had sat +by her window—and so when that church clock from somewhere in the +distance had struck midnight she could wait no longer, for perhaps +to-night Jean would have finished the face, and perhaps to-night it +would not all be so vague and trouble her so because it seemed that in +some strange way it was so familiar, though she could not tell why. +</P> + +<P> +She took the key from the pocket of her dress, and stole softly up the +steps. How glad she was now that she had not waited any longer! She +would have so much more time there in the <I>atelier</I> with the wonderful +figures that Jean made, that were not clay at all, but that breathed +and lived, and to whom she could talk about Jean, and about his great +triumph, and tell them all that was in her heart, and they would listen +to her and understand as no one else could, and never tell any one that +she had been there. And she would not be afraid of them at all any +more, not even at first, as she had been last night because they looked +so ghostlike in the white cloths that were wrapped around them. +</P> + +<P> +She looked hurriedly about her, then opened the door, stepped inside, +and crossed noiselessly into the salon. She could not quite still the +pounding of her heart, because it was night, and because it was dark, +and because she was doing something that no one must know; but she was +not at all afraid now. Since last night she had been so sure that +there was nothing to fear. Hector and Madame Mi-mi had thought it the +most natural thing to find her working there that morning when they had +got up. Was it not for that she had been given the key? And to-morrow +morning again when daylight came it would be the same; and now—she was +hurrying through the salon to the <I>atelier</I>—and now she was to see +that splendid, glorious figure, the "<I>Fille du Régiment</I>," again, and +see the face that perhaps, oh, perhaps to-night, after Jean's work of +the day upon it, would be finished, and that she would recognise. +</P> + +<P> +She slipped between the portières into the moonlit room, and—she could +not wait even to take off her cloak and turban—tiptoed eagerly, +excitedly across the <I>atelier</I>, mounted upon the modelling platform, +and threw back the white damp cloth, revealing the figure's head. And +then, for a moment, she could only gaze at it, puzzled and bewildered; +and then, very slowly and regretfully, she sat down upon the platform. +The face had not been touched. It—it was exactly as it had been last +night. Somehow, Jean had not done any work that day—or else, perhaps, +he had worked on some of the other figures. +</P> + +<P> +She sat staring at the face of the clay figure in a disappointment that +was almost dismay—and then suddenly she smiled. After all, it was she +herself who was the cause of her disappointment; she had wanted to see +that face with its finished touch so much that, in her eagerness, she +had quite made herself believe that she would find it so—whereas it +might be days and days yet before Jean would have completed it. And +instead of being disappointed, she should be very happy that the <I>bon +Dieu</I> had made it possible for her to come here at all, to be so close +to Jean, and to be able to spend these hours here with his work—and +even if it were days and days before it was finished, could she not +still come here every night until it was done, and could she not still +be able to see it then? +</P> + +<P> +As she looked around her, the white-wrapt figures seemed to nod to her +and promise her that it would be so. How quiet and still it was, and +how peacefully the moonlight filled the <I>atelier</I>—Jean's <I>atelier</I>. +It was so different a scene from that magnificent reception where +France in all its glory had honoured Jean; where the marble stairs, the +lights, the throngs, the glittering uniforms, the marvellously dressed +women with their furs and jewels had awed and frightened her, and yet +had filled her, too, with ecstasy because it was Jean's triumph, and +had brought thankfulness into her resignation because she had seen with +her own eyes how great he had become and how little had been her own +sacrifice to achieve so much. Yes, it was strange how different was +that scene and this around her now—and yet they were both so intimate +a part of Jean's life. And they were so very different to her in a +personal way. She did not want to see that world of the rich and the +great any more, because she could not understand it, and no one there +could understand her; but here—she was so glad and happy to be +here—here she could understand, and here these figures understood her +when she spoke to them because they knew that she had given all she had +to give, not out of her own strength but out of the strength that the +<I>bon Dieu</I> had given her, that they might be created by Jean's hands. +Here, Jean was so near to her; there, in that other world, he was so +far away—so far away that she had gone utterly out of his life, even +out of his thoughts. +</P> + +<P> +She sighed a little as she sat there on the modelling platform; and +then there came again that little smile of self-reproof, and with it a +chiding shake of her head. It was well that it was so. There was no +other way. It would have brought only distress and pain to Jean if he +were always to remember, and—and it was far better so. The gulf +between them was so wide and deep that it could never be passed, and if +she were still living in Jean's heart it could only make life a very +terrible thing for them both. And so—and so—yes, she should be very +thankful for that, too; be very thankful for both their sakes that he +had so entirely forgotten her. +</P> + +<P> +The white-wrapt figures seemed to nod most gravely in assent again—it +was only a tree branch in the courtyard frolicking with a moonbeam and +sending a little playful shadow over them that seemed to make them +move, but that was how they always talked to her, and made their +understanding seem so real. +</P> + +<P> +She sat quite still for a little while, gazing at the face of the +"<I>Fille du Régiment</I>" before her; and then, clapping her hands softly +together and with an impulsive little exclamation of delight she stood +up excitedly. Perhaps Jean had been working upon the statue, even if +he had not touched the face. And, anyway, there was more to see than +just the face—the figure itself was just as wonderful, just as +beautiful. Quickly, but very carefully, she loosened and removed the +covering from the body and base of the figure, let the covering fall +upon the floor—and, stepping back to look at it, stood suddenly +transfixed, her hands pressed tightly against her bosom, her face white +with fear. +</P> + +<P> +Some one was coming! She strained her eyes across the <I>atelier</I>, +holding them for an instant, fascinated, upon the portières. No, no; +surely she had been mistaken! It could have been only fancy, and—a +low cry came from her lips. The front door had closed; there were +footsteps in the hall, a number of them it seemed; and—and that was +Jean's voice! +</P> + +<P> +"The salon, messieurs, if you please!" +</P> + +<P> +They were coming! They were entering the salon! What could she do? +She could not get away or escape! There was no way to get out! They +were already in the salon! She looked wildly, helplessly around +her—and then, with a little gasp that mingled relief and trepidation, +her eyes fixed on the door of the models' dressing room. She began to +steal toward it, holding her breath. How terribly her heart pounded! +She could not go very fast, because then she would make a noise and +they would hear her. And that was Jean's voice again, this time from +the salon itself, from just on the other side of the portières, it +seemed. +</P> + +<P> +"The <I>atelier</I> will serve us better than this polished floor, +messieurs." +</P> + +<P> +Oh, if she could only reach the dressing room in time! How hoarse +Jean's voice seemed to be! She was nearly there now—nearly there! If +only the <I>bon Dieu</I> would help her! It was only a step more—just one! +Now—now she was there! She slipped into the little place that was +hardly any bigger than a large closet, and drew the door shut behind +her, as the portières were swished apart and the rings on the pole +clattered with a terrifying noise. And then she found that she was +very weak, and that her knees were trembling as though they would give +way beneath her. +</P> + +<P> +It was very dark. She dared not move for fear she might knock into +something and make a noise. She told herself that she must stand very +still. She could hear them out in the <I>atelier</I> now in a muffled sort +of a way; they were walking around and around, and it sounded as though +they were moving things about. And then she seemed to go cold with +fear again, and a sense of dismay surged upon her. The "<I>Fille du +Régiment</I>" was uncovered! She had had no time, even if she had thought +of it, to replace the covering. What would Jean do? Would he think it +was an accident, that the wrapping had been carelessly done, would he +blame Hector, or—would he think some one had been there, that some one +was perhaps there now, and—and suppose he should come to the dressing +room door, and open it, and—and find her there! +</P> + +<P> +She was frightened now, terribly afraid—more afraid than she had ever +been in her life before. If Jean should find her there, what would he +think of her? The blood rushed in a fierce crimson tide to her face. +She would rather die than that! But it was not only herself, it was +not only that—there was Jean. She had no right to obtrude herself +into his life and to disturb it. But surely—surely the <I>bon Dieu</I> +would keep him away from the door! She had been very foolish and very +wicked ever to have come, ever to have risked so much, only the +temptation had been so great, and her heart had pleaded so hard; +but—but if only no harm should come of it all this time, she would +promise that—that she would not come there any more like this at night. +</P> + +<P> +Perhaps he had not seen it! Perhaps he had not noticed it! And yet it +was not just moonlight out there any more, and the <I>atelier</I> was +lighted now, for she could see the tiny rays as they filtered in under +the door where it did not fit well over the threshold. She listened +intently, almost expecting to hear Jean cry out about the covering of +the "<I>Fille du Régiment</I>," but they still seemed to be moving around a +great deal, and the voices were indistinguishable, and she could +understand nothing of what they were saying, except only a name that +she caught because it was repeated several times—the name of Paul +Valmain. It seemed somehow to be familiar. Yes; she remembered. He +was one of Jean's friends of the <I>grand monde</I>, the man that Father +Anton had pointed out beside Monsieur and Mademoiselle Bliss in that +group with Jean on the night of the great reception. +</P> + +<P> +It seemed as though hours were passing as she stood there. It seemed +to grow unbearably hot in that small, dark place; it seemed even that +it was hard to breathe. Perhaps it was her fear that was suffocating +her! She unfastened the black velvet cloak and let it hang more +loosely, wide apart, upon her shoulders—and held her hand agitatedly +upon her bare throat, that was now exposed by the low-necked blouse. +Would they never go! And what were they doing there? It was very +strange! They seemed to keep on tramping and even running around, and +there was no sound of voices now—only a most peculiar sound that made +her think of Papa Fregeau when he stood in the kitchen of the Bas Rhône +and sharpened his carving knife on his long bone-handled steel. +</P> + +<P> +Then all grew suddenly quiet—and the quiet was as suddenly broken by a +voice, loud enough and distinct enough for her to hear. +</P> + +<P> +"It is nothing! But a touch, monsieur—continue!" +</P> + +<P> +Marie-Louise's eyes widened, and slowly her form grew rigid and tense, +and her hand at her throat slipped away and caught at the neck of her +blouse, and in a spasmodic clutch tore it wider apart. That voice—she +did not know whose it was—but there was no mistaking the cold, sullen +fury in it. And the tramping of feet had begun again—and that sound +again, the rasp of steel, was hideous now, bringing her a sickening +dread. +</P> + +<P> +It was as though for a moment she were too stunned to move. They were +fighting out there in Jean's <I>atelier</I>—with—with swords. And +perhaps—perhaps it was Jean who was fighting. And if—if he should +be—no, no!—she dare not even let the thought take form in her mind. +But she must see—somehow, she must see! How dark it was, and how +those sounds brought terror now! She could not stand there and—and +think; she must see that at least it was not Jean, or else—or else she +would scream out in her agony of suspense. +</P> + +<P> +She groped out with her hand for the door. She could open it very +silently, just a little way—they would be too occupied to notice it. +Her hand trembled as it fell upon the knob. She pushed the door open a +crack, an inch. There seemed to burst in upon her, in upon the +contrasting utter darkness, a blinding light that dazzled her so that +she could see nothing; and to burst in upon her a horrible riot of +noise—heavy, panting gasps for breath, the quick shuffle of feet upon +the floor, the grating, the ring, the metallic grinding of rapier +blades. +</P> + +<P> +In terror, she pushed the door open another inch—and held it rigidly, +as, suddenly, her heart seemed to stop its beat. There came a gurgling +moan—then—then an instant's deathlike silence—and then, with a wild +cry, she flung the door wide open, and, as it crashed back against the +wall, she stumbled out into the <I>atelier</I>. +</P> + +<P> +She could see now, but it was as though it were not herself at all who +looked around the room, for her brain seemed suddenly to be acting in +an impersonal, numbed, apathetic way. She could see everything very +clearly, but it was as though some one else, not she, were seeing it. +She stretched out her arms before her like one who was blind to feel +her way, and started across the <I>atelier</I>. She should have run, she +should have run so fast, so fast, something within her told her she +should run, but her limbs seemed scarcely able to support her +weight—she could only stumble across the <I>atelier</I> with her arms +stretched out. That was not Jean who stood in the centre of the room +holding a rapier in his hand, it was Paul Valmain. And the man who +stood beside Paul Valmain was not Jean. And there were two other men, +but neither of them was Jean. But they held a silent, grey-faced, +unconscious form in their arms that they were lowering to the +floor—and that was Jean. And they looked at her as she came, looked +at her in so strange and startled a way; and Paul Valmain took a step +toward her, and cried out, and drew suddenly back—and then—and then +she was on her knees, and Jean's head was gathered into her arms, and +he was so white, so terribly white, and he made no sound—and—and— +</P> + +<P> +"Jean! Jean!"—she was crying his name passionately, piteously, crying +it over and over again. "Jean! Jean!" +</P> + +<P> +And he made no answer—only lay there white and still. And then some +one took her arm and tried to draw her away—and some one spoke to her. +</P> + +<P> +"Mademoiselle must permit me," the voice said gravely. "I am the +doctor." +</P> + +<P> +They took Jean from her, and the man who had said he was the doctor +bent over Jean—and, still on her knees, she watched them. Why should +they take him from her—now? It could do no one any harm now that she +should have Jean, when Jean did not know, when perhaps—she lifted her +head quickly, lifted it far back until the white throat and bosom lay +bare; until the pure, glorious face, with its wonderful contour, its +divinely beautiful lips, tense with outraged grief, looked full into +another face that was thrust suddenly before her. It was Paul Valmain +who had done this, and he dared to come and stand over her now, and +hold in his hand the—why did she not scream out—-the blade was red! +</P> + +<P> +"Look! Look!"—his face ashen, Paul Valmain was pointing to the +unwrapped figure of the "<I>Fille du Régiment</I>." "The face—the lips!" +he whispered hoarsely. "The lips—it is you who are his model! It was +you—last night! That hat! That cloak! My God!" he cried out, and +the rapier, falling from his hand, clattered upon the floor. "My God, +what have I done!" +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap0206"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +— VI — +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +"JEAN MUST NOT KNOW" +</H4> + +<P> +Jean's model! Even in that moment, when it seemed that all else was +extraneous, that nothing mattered save that white face, that still form +on the floor, the thought brought a strange, troubled amazement—but it +was gone almost instantly, as her mind, still refusing to centre on +anything but the one great fear that perhaps Jean might die, carried +her swiftly back to what was passing around her. She looked again at +the doctor as he knelt on the floor and worked with deft fingers over +Jean, and something in those grey hairs, in that kindly face, even if +it were so grave now, gave her a little courage—surely, surely he +would not let Jean die; she looked at the man who, too, was kneeling +beside Jean—but he meant nothing to her, she could only wonder why he +was there; she looked at Paul Valmain—and shuddered. It was Paul +Valmain who had done this, who perhaps had killed Jean—and he was +still staring at her in such a fixed, horrible, fascinated way. She +rose quickly to her feet, clenching her hands. +</P> + +<P> +And then the doctor, raising his head suddenly, was speaking in quiet +tones: +</P> + +<P> +"I need hardly say that if Monsieur Laparde recovers, we are in honour +pledged to secrecy, messieurs. Monsieur Vinailles and I will carry +Monsieur Laparde upstairs to his bed, so that clatter-tongued concierge +and his wife will know nothing of this—and to-morrow, if they are told +that Monsieur Laparde has met with an accident it will be enough. +Monsieur Vinailles and I will attend to everything here; and I would +suggest, Monsieur Valmain, that you and Monsieur LeFair withdraw at +once. I will send you a report in half an hour." +</P> + +<P> +Paul Valmain shook his head. +</P> + +<P> +"No," he said, in a low, shaken voice. "LeFair will go—I remain +here." He pointed suddenly to Marie-Louise. "I must speak to +her—alone. Go, LeFair—wait for me at my rooms." +</P> + +<P> +Marie-Louise drew hurriedly back. +</P> + +<P> +"No, no!" she exclaimed sharply. The man filled her with abhorrence; +and now, besides, he was trying to keep her away from Jean—and +nothing, nothing in all the world would make her leave Jean's side now. +</P> + +<P> +But no one seemed to be paying any attention to her—not even Paul +Valmain any more, who had turned away, and, whispering as he went, was +walking rapidly into the salon with the man they had called LeFair. +The doctor had slipped his wrist through the handle of his black bag to +leave his hands free, and he and the other man were lifting Jean up in +their arms—and then, numbly, as they carried him from the room, she +followed. +</P> + +<P> +She saw nothing now only Jean's face, so ghastly in pallor, with its +closed eyes, and with the black hair tumbling over his forehead. It +brought a greater fear upon her; but she kept telling herself that she +must be brave, for perhaps they would let her help them when they got +upstairs, perhaps there would be something that she could do. +</P> + +<P> +They went on through the salon, and out into the hall, and began to +mount the stairs—and then some one, hurrying from the direction of the +front door, caught her arm. +</P> + +<P> +"Wait, mademoiselle, wait!" a voice said hoarsely. "Wait—I must speak +to you!" +</P> + +<P> +It was Paul Valmain again. She pushed him violently away from her, +and, without looking back at him, went on after the others. +</P> + +<P> +On the landing at the head of the stairs, they halted for a moment to +open a door, and then for the first time the doctor appeared to notice +that she had been following. +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Pardon</I>, mademoiselle," he said a little brusquely. "If mademoiselle +will be good enough to wait below!" +</P> + +<P> +They were trying to keep her from Jean again. Every one tried to keep +her from Jean. She clenched her hands passionately. But now—now they +should not keep her away any longer. +</P> + +<P> +"No!" she cried out fiercely. "You shall not send me away! I will not +go—I will not!" +</P> + +<P> +He stared at her for an instant, then shrugged his shoulders. +</P> + +<P> +"Very well, mademoiselle. It is perhaps your privilege. I have not +time to question it. But since you remain, perhaps you will be good +enough to help us." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes!" she said eagerly. "Oh, yes! Tell me what to do." +</P> + +<P> +"Water!" he said tersely. "A basin—cloths!" +</P> + +<P> +With a quick nod of understanding, she ran ahead of them through the +door, and hurried on down the hall. She had never been there in Jean's +apartment before, but Madame Mi-mi had not been loath to tell her all +about it—and so it was not strange to her, and there was something to +do now and that seemed to relieve the dull pain that had been torturing +her brain, and she could remember again every little detail that Madame +Mi-mi had described. The sitting-room, the dressing-room, the bedroom, +the dining-room, and from the dining-room into the kitchen—it was a +complete menage, though Jean used it so little, save to sleep there, +and for his <I>déjeuners</I> which Madame Mi-mi prepared. She procured the +basin, filled it, and hurried back with it—going through the rooms +this time instead of the corridor—to where in the bedroom they had +placed Jean upon the bed. And then there were the cloths—a sheet +would serve best for bandages, and that was kept in the linen closet, +where too there were clean towels, Madame Mi-mi had said. She could +think very clearly now, and she could be much more brave because there +was something to do. She flew to the closet, tore a sheet into strips, +gathered up some towels, and returned with them again to the bedroom. +</P> + +<P> +The doctor glanced at her approvingly. +</P> + +<P> +"Thank you, mademoiselle," he said, in a much more kindly tone. "That +will be all for the present." +</P> + +<P> +But if they were more kindly, his words, they were too a sort of +dismissal. She did not know what to do for a moment; and then she went +slowly to the foot of the bed and knelt down—she would be out of their +way there, and ready in an instant if the doctor called again. She +would have given so much to help him in the intimate way this Monsieur +Vinailles was helping, to hold Jean, to touch Jean, but—but they +seemed so occupied, both of them, and—and she must not interfere. She +could only watch, while the agony of suspense crept upon her again; +watch the grey-haired man, in his shirt sleeves now, working so +quickly, so silently—and then suddenly she turned away her head, and +her heart sank with dread. It was so terrible a wound that she had +caught sight of in Jean's side, as the doctor straightened up for an +instant! It—it did not seem that any one could live with—with that. +And Jean lay so still, so motionless, and in his unconsciousness seemed +so much like—like dead. She shivered a little, and fought back the +tears, and tried resolutely to think of something else—of anything—of +how beautifully Madame Mi-mi had told her Jean's rooms here were +furnished. +</P> + +<P> +She forced herself to look around her. Yes, yes, it was as Madame +Mi-mi had said—the carpet seemed to shine as though it were of silk; +and the bed was very large and made of brass, which was something she +had never seen before; and in all the rooms, as she had passed through +them, she had been conscious that everything was very magnificent, just +as the salon downstairs was very magnificent. And here on that big, +carved dresser were wonderful candlesticks like those Father Anton used +to have at the altar in Bernay-sur-Mer, only these were perhaps real +silver, just as Father Anton had said that some day, when the parish +grew very rich, theirs would be instead of only looking like it, +and—she turned quickly back again toward the bed. Monsieur Vinailles +and the doctor were speaking. +</P> + +<P> +"But what would you have!" Monsieur Vinailles was exclaiming in a low +voice. "I know no more than you what it was about—and neither does +LeFair. We tried to bring about an understanding, LeFair and I, before +we called for you, or at least get them to consent to a delay in which +their tempers might cool; but neither Valmain nor Jean would listen to +us. Not a word! If LeFair and I would not act for them, they would +get some one else. <I>Voilà tout</I>! What would you have!" +</P> + +<P> +"H'm!" returned the doctor gruffly. "Well, then, Vinailles, as I shall +not need you any more for the moment, I think you had better go and +tell Monsieur Bliss what has happened." +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Sacré</I>—no!" ejaculated Vinailles. "I prefer some one else should do +that! And besides, I do not think that he has returned to Paris yet." +</P> + +<P> +"Then Mademoiselle Bliss," insisted the doctor quietly. "It is all +one! They are Jean's family, as it were, are they not—eh? And then +is not Mademoiselle Bliss as good as his fiancée? Well? I consider +that she, or Monsieur Bliss, or both of them, should know." +</P> + +<P> +"You mean," said Vinailles, in a startled tone, "that Jean is—" +</P> + +<P> +"I mean nothing!" answered the doctor bluntly. "He is a long time +unconscious, and he is not responding well to stimulants, that is all. +On the other hand, you need not unnecessarily alarm any one; if I get +him through the next hour or so, and no septic complications set in +later on, we'll have him on his feet in a few days. If you take Jean's +car you should be back in fifteen or twenty minutes. Go at once, +Vinailles." +</P> + +<P> +"Very well," Vinailles agreed a little reluctantly—and left the room. +</P> + +<P> +What did the doctor mean? Marie-Louise crept timidly around to the +opposite side of the bed where she could watch his face, and where she +could see Jean's face too. What did the doctor mean? If—if +everything went right, Jean would be well in a few days, but—but he +was in danger now. She questioned the grave face piteously with her +eyes—but received no response. The doctor was bending over Jean, and +did not look up. +</P> + +<P> +The minutes passed, ten, fifteen perhaps, as she knelt there—and then +it seemed that she could not endure it any longer, and that all her +self-restraint was at an end. +</P> + +<P> +"Jean!" she whispered—and because they were stronger than she, and +because she could keep them back no longer, the tears came in a flood, +and she reached out and caught Jean's hand that was outstretched on the +bed, and held it between both her own, and buried her face between her +own two arms. +</P> + +<P> +She felt the doctor's hand laid gently on her shoulder. +</P> + +<P> +"Do not give way, mademoiselle," he said soothingly. "Courage! We +shall win, I promise you." +</P> + +<P> +She grew quieter after a little while—and again she tried to think. +They had sent for Mademoiselle Bliss, and very soon mademoiselle would +be here. It was the mademoiselle who had spoken to her so sharply that +day because she had not put on her shoes and stockings.... Hector had +said that Mademoiselle Bliss and Jean were to marry ... and—and that +was what the doctor had just said to Monsieur Vinailles ... and—and so +it was true. And what then? What—if Mademoiselle Bliss found her +here? She would do Mademoiselle Bliss no harm to stay here! Her hands +closed tighter over the one in her grasp. How cold Jean's hand was! +What would she do—what would she do? She did not want to go, it +seemed so hard to go, and it was so little to ask, so little out of all +her life, just to stay there and kneel beside Jean and hold his hand, +and—she raised her head, quickly, suddenly. The hand in hers twitched +a little, there came a half moan, half gasp, and then Jean's voice, +mumbling, wandering, reached her. +</P> + +<P> +"Gaston, see, we are back! Put your arms around my neck, <I>mon brave</I>, +and I will lift you up, and—" The words grew thick upon his tongue, +lost their coherence, and died away. And then he began to speak again, +and Marie-Louise leaned closer to catch the words. "See, it is a +beacon—and it is for you, Marie-Louise, because it is you ... <I>sacré +nom</I>, why do you say that? ... I can make a thousand ... has it not +those lips that I could fashion even in the dark ... a thousand, I tell +you ... how—not another, when—" +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Tiens</I>!" exclaimed the doctor briskly. "That is good! He is +regaining consciousness now, and—heh!—but what is the matter, +mademoiselle?" +</P> + +<P> +With a startled little cry, Marie-Louise was on her feet. She was +vaguely conscious that, while they seemed to call up all her life, all +the old life of Bernay-sur-Mer, her life and Jean's when they had been +together, Jean's words too held some strange relation to something that +had just happened here that night, some strange, puzzling, bewildering +significance—and that then all this seemed swept away from her on the +instant before a still greater significance in the doctor's words. +What had the doctor said—that Jean was returning to consciousness! It +brought joy and gladness and hope surging over her; but it brought too +something cruel and hard and cold, as though a sentence had been +pronounced upon her. She must go now, whether she wanted to or not. +Jean must not see her. It was not Mademoiselle Bliss she had to +consider now—it was Jean. He must not see her—he must not even know +that she had been there. He must not, he must not see her—he must not +know! And then a sort of panic fear seized her, and she ran around the +bed to the doctor's side. +</P> + +<P> +"Monsieur, monsieur, I must go!" she cried agitatedly. "And he must +not know—he must not know that I—that—that any one has been here. +Monsieur, will—will you promise that?" +</P> + +<P> +"But, mademoiselle!"—he looked at her in amazement. "But, +mademoiselle, I—" +</P> + +<P> +She caught his hands wildly, and dropped upon her knees. +</P> + +<P> +"See, monsieur, see, I beg it of you!" she pleaded almost hysterically. +"It is not much to ask—that you will not tell. Promise me, monsieur, +promise me! Why should he know, why should any one know? I have done +no harm! And it—it is for his sake that I ask it. Monsieur, +monsieur, you will promise!" +</P> + +<P> +"I see no reason now why I should say anything," he answered gravely; +"but if I promise it must be with a reservation. I will promise you, +mademoiselle, that unless circumstances leave me no choice I will say +nothing." Then, quickly, as he leaned toward the bed: "But if he is +not to see you, you must go at once!" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes!" she breathed. "Yes! You are good, monsieur—you are very, very +good. And—and Monsieur Vinailles, and Mademoiselle Bliss, if Monsieur +Vinailles should have told her—you will not let them tell Jean any one +was here?" +</P> + +<P> +"I will speak to them," he said quietly. "But go then, mademoiselle, +immediately!" +</P> + +<P> +"And—and, monsieur"—her voice breaking—"Jean will not—not die?" +</P> + +<P> +"No, mademoiselle, he will not die, I think I can promise that now +without any reservation," he replied with a smile. "But, <I>ma foi</I>, if +he is not to know—eh!" +</P> + +<P> +She stole a half frightened, half wistful glance toward the bed—then +ran from the room and out into the hall. +</P> + +<P> +"He must not know! He must not know!"—she kept saying that to +herself; repeating it again and again, as she went slowly down the +stairs. It seemed as though those were the words that summed up her +life, that she had been saying them in her soul ever since the day +those strangers had come to Bernay-sur-Mer. "Jean must not know!" +</P> + +<P> +She halted suddenly on the lower step, and her face whitened a little. +Paul Valmain was standing in the doorway of the salon. He was still +here then, this Paul Valmain, the man who—who had tried to kill Jean! +</P> + +<P> +"Mademoiselle!" he cried out. "See, I am still waiting! I must speak +to you—here—in the salon—in the <I>atelier</I> for a moment!" +</P> + +<P> +It seemed that she must run from him, that she abhorred him—and +yet—and yet—"Jean must not know!" She must get Paul Valmain to +promise too—Paul Valmain, and that other man who had been with him. +</P> + +<P> +"Mademoiselle!" he said again. "I—" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," she said—and stepped past him through the salon door. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap0207"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +— VII — +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +MEA CULPA +</H4> + +<P> +The man frightened her. He had caught her arm the moment she had +entered the salon, and had hurried her roughly across the room and into +the <I>atelier</I>; and, besides, his face was ghastly it was so colourless, +and it kept twitching, and his eyes burned with such an unnatural light. +</P> + +<P> +"My arm, monsieur!" she cried out. "You are hurting me!" +</P> + +<P> +He laughed at her in a hollow way, and only tightened his hold, as he +pulled her in front of the clay figure of the "<I>Fille du Régiment</I>." +</P> + +<P> +"Stand so!" he burst out. "With your head—so! As you were when you +came from that dressing room! So—so!"—he pushed her chin up, and +grasped her by the shoulders. +</P> + +<P> +"Monsieur!" she cried out again, and struggled to free herself. +"Monsieur, what are you doing?" +</P> + +<P> +"Wait, I tell you!" he almost shouted. +</P> + +<P> +Frightened before, she was terrified now, and besides she hated the man +with all her strength, and her soul shrank from him because it was he +who had so nearly killed Jean; but she had come to plead with him, she +must not forget that, only—only he was acting so strangely. And then +suddenly, startling her, she remembered that it was he who had said she +was Jean's model. That was why he was staring so wildly first at her +and then at the face of the girl with the drum, and back at her again, +and then at the clay figure. +</P> + +<P> +"It is so!" he said hoarsely. "It is so! But wait—wait!" His hands +dropped from her shoulders, and he ran from one figure to another about +the studio, pausing before each one to gaze at it fixedly and intently. +"The lips—always the lips—always your lips—the wonderful, +inscrutable lips that all France is forever raving about!"—the words +came in sharp, broken snatches. "Never the face in its entirety, but +always the lips—and always with the lips some additional feature, the +forehead, or the poise, or the eyes—always you!" +</P> + +<P> +At first she followed the man with her eyes in a sort of incredulous, +fearsome wonder; and then slowly, seemingly without volition of her +own, drawn to it as by a magnet, she turned to face and stare at the +figure of the "<I>Fille du Régiment</I>." Was it true, could it be true +that it was she, her lips that Jean had made there in those lips of +clay? Was that what that strange sense of familiarity had meant, and +which she had not understood? No, no—Jean had forgotten, forgotten +long ago! It was not true, it was not possible! And yet—and yet they +<I>were</I> her lips—her eyes would not lie to her. And this then was what +had seemed to give a significance, that she could not explain at the +time, to those words of Jean's of a little while ago. This man Paul +Valmain had said she was Jean's model before she went upstairs, and +then Jean had talked about the beacon. "It is a beacon—and it is for +you, Marie-Louise, because it is you ... has it not those lips that I +could fashion even in the dark?" he had said. She had not been able to +connect the two things then; but now—now she knew. Jean's model—all +through those two years she had been Jean's model! And yet how could +it be possible! The very thought seemed to leave her abashed—it—it +seemed as though she were committing a sacrilege to let herself imagine +that she, who was only Marie-Louise Bernier, a fishergirl of +Bernay-sur-Mer, was the model for Jean's beautiful work that made all +the great people of France so proud to call him one of themselves! It +was not strange that she had failed to understand what that sense of +familiarity in the clay faces had meant—she would never, never have +dared to think of such a thing by herself—and it would have been so +far away, that thought, that of itself it would never have come. Why +was she suddenly so weak now, as though a wondrous joy, so great that +it overwhelmed her, was surging upon her—and why was that cold fear, +that seemed to tell the joy that it was trespassing where it had no +place, stirring within her? What did this thing mean for her—that +those lips of clay were hers! It brought so much, so many different +emotions, and each of them was so overpowering in itself, and they all +came crowding so upon her at once, that it seemed she must cry out in +her cruel bewilderment. +</P> + +<P> +And then Paul Valmain was standing before her again. +</P> + +<P> +"So!"—he flung out his arms. "So—it is out at last, the secret! He +has kept you well under cover, mademoiselle!" +</P> + +<P> +The words came to her with a shock, rousing her from her thoughts. He +did not understand. He must not think that Jean knew; because that was +why she was there now—to tell him that Jean must not know. +</P> + +<P> +"No!" she said quickly. "No, no, monsieur! And, oh, monsieur, you +must not let—let Jean know that I was here to-night. It—it is some +mistake about—about the model, monsieur. He has not seen me since he +has been in Paris, and—" +</P> + +<P> +"What!" he broke in harshly. "You deny that you have been coming here?" +</P> + +<P> +"Only last night, monsieur," she said eagerly. "Only last night for +the first time." +</P> + +<P> +"It is well that you admit at least that!" he jeered, in a sort of +furious irony. "I congratulate you, mademoiselle! My profound +respects! In a single visit then you have accomplished wonders, even +with so beautiful a face and figure! You have made Jean Laparde famous +all over the world; and you have made me perhaps—a murderer!" +</P> + +<P> +She stared at him wide-eyed. What did he mean? +</P> + +<P> +"But, monsieur—monsieur—I swear it to you!" she stammered. "It was +only last night for the first time." +</P> + +<P> +He laughed mirthlessly, and shrugged his shoulders. +</P> + +<P> +"As you will, mademoiselle! A night or a thousand spent with Monsieur +Laparde, it is all one to me! It is your own affair! But"—his voice +rose suddenly in uncontrollable passion—"but, <I>sacré nom de Dieu</I>, +there is something that is my affair! That cloak! That hat! Where +did you get them?" He was clutching with one hand at the garment, +pulling at it with vicious twitches to emphasise his words. +</P> + +<P> +She drew back from him, the blood hot and burning in her cheeks. A +night or a thousand with Jean! He thought—he thought—<I>that</I>! And he +talked of her hat and cloak! What did they matter, what did anything +matter, except that—that shameful thought of his that stabbed at her, +and, with its sudden pain, brought a horrible giddiness and a horrible +ringing in her ears? +</P> + +<P> +"Answer me!" he cried fiercely. "Why are you wearing those things now? +Where did you get them? Why were you masquerading last night in that +hat and cloak, that belong to Mademoiselle Bliss, when I saw you enter +here?" +</P> + +<P> +"Mademoiselle Bliss!"—she could only repeat the words numbly. "It is +her hat and coat?" The room seemed to swim around her. She put her +hands to her eyes. A new terror was creeping upon her. The hat and +cloak belonged to Mademoiselle Bliss! Vaguely, dimly, understanding +began to come. He had thought that she was Mademoiselle Bliss, and +because of that—no, no! The <I>bon Dieu</I> would not let her suffer that +too! It was so terrible—everything was so terrible this night—there +could not be anything more, for it was already beyond what she could +bear. She stretched out her hands to him imploringly. "It—it is not +because you thought that I was Mademoiselle Bliss"—she was pleading +piteously for a denial—"that—that you—that it is because of me you +fought with Jean, and that Jean is—is—" +</P> + +<P> +"Are you trying to play with me?" he rasped out savagely. "What else +but that? You were here all night last night. Yes, I thought you were +Mademoiselle Bliss! Yes, it was because of that I would have killed +Monsieur Laparde! Is that plain enough, mademoiselle? And now will +you answer me? Where did you get those things, and for what hellish +reason were you wearing them? Answer me, I tell you!" He caught her, +and shook her violently. "Answer me!" he fumed. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, answer him!" came a mocking voice suddenly from the archway of +the salon. +</P> + +<P> +With a cry, Marie-Louise tore herself away—and, swaying, stared wildly +across the room. It was mademoiselle! It was Mademoiselle Bliss +standing there between the portières! +</P> + +<P> +A low laugh rippled through the <I>atelier</I>—unmusically, because it held +a jarring, ominous note; and then Myrna Bliss was speaking again. +</P> + +<P> +"Monsieur Vinailles told me that some girl here had made quite a <I>coup +de théâtre</I>," she said calmly—too calmly to be natural. She fixed her +grey eyes, narrowed a little now, on Marie-Louise. "I had no idea that +it was <I>you</I>. How astounding!" She swung toward Paul Valmain. "Yes; +Monsieur Valmain, I have been listening behind the portières. From the +hall door, when I entered the house with Monsieur Vinailles a few +moments ago, I caught sight of mademoiselle and yourself across the +salon, thanks to the half open portières; and—mademoiselle, there, +will perhaps understand this better than you—in spite of my anxiety +for Jean, I sent Monsieur Vinailles upstairs alone. Do I make it +plain, Monsieur Valmain, that I overheard your last remarks?" +</P> + +<P> +Marie-Louise glanced distractedly from one to the other. Mademoiselle +Bliss was smiling—only it was a very strange smile. Why was she +smiling like that? And Monsieur Valmain's face was twitching again, +only it seemed that, where there had been anger before, there was now a +curious mingling of confusion and passionate eagerness. +</P> + +<P> +"Then," he said, and took a step forward, "then—" +</P> + +<P> +"Then," Myrna Bliss interrupted evenly, and came slowly across the +<I>atelier</I>, "then, of course, I understand everything, Monsieur Valmain. +And I suppose I should feel flattered that you should take it upon +yourself to avenge"—her voice was rising now, and the grey eyes were +flashing dangerously—"to avenge my honour! How like a knight of old, +Monsieur Valmain! How heroic! I have heard that Monsieur Valmain is +one of the finest swordsmen in France; I have never heard that Monsieur +Laparde was an adept at the art, but that, indeed, he was almost +ignorant of it, and—" +</P> + +<P> +"Mademoiselle!" he exclaimed hoarsely. "Mademoiselle—Myrna! You have +no right to say that! It is not true!" He drew himself up, clenching +his hands. "By God, not even you shall say that to me, to Paul +Valmain! I offered—no, I insisted that we should fight with pistols. +Laparde would not hear of it—they would make too much noise." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah—a noise!" she said colourlessly. "And what then, Monsieur +Valmain? Have you any other excuse for what you have done?" +</P> + +<P> +"You know why I did it, if you have been listening!" he cried out. +"You know why! You know that it was because I loved you—that I love +you! That my soul was in hell with what I believed to be true!" +</P> + +<P> +It seemed to Marie-Louise that she was living through some terrible, +horrible dream. She reached out behind her, groping for the modelling +platform, and sank down upon it. Mademoiselle's laugh was echoing +through the room again, and there was something—something so menacing +in it that it made her shudder. +</P> + +<P> +"Love!"—Myrna Bliss was quivering with passion, as she stepped +fiercely toward Paul Valmain. "Love! If I were a man, I would kill +you for that kind of love! I would kill you! You beast! You dared to +think—to think that I had come here in the middle of the night alone, +to—to spend the night here! You dared to think that of me! +That—that I was—" +</P> + +<P> +"Myrna! Mademoiselle!"—his hands went out to her. His face was +ghastly white. "Wait! For God's sake—wait! You do not understand!" +He whirled around and pointed to Marie-Louise. "Look at her! Look! +It is your cloak—your hat! It was dark across the street. She was +wearing your hat and cloak!" +</P> + +<P> +"I heard you say all that before!" she retorted instantly. "I do not +care what she was wearing! I do not care what she looked like! You +dared to think that it was me! You dared to hold me as little better +than a woman of the streets! You dared to do that—you despicable +hound!" Her fingers were opening and shutting spasmodically. "I hate +you! I loathe you! I would strangle you for it, if I were strong +enough!" +</P> + +<P> +He shrank back from her, his lips working. +</P> + +<P> +"You are merciless!" he said in a choked way. "You—you do not +understand. You—you do not understand what helped to make me—to—why +I came to be there last night. It was the key of that door there, the +key of the door to the salon, the afternoon after the reception." +</P> + +<P> +Myrna Bliss appeared to control herself with an effort. +</P> + +<P> +"The key!"—there was well-simulated bewilderment in the quick, angry +exclamation. +</P> + +<P> +"When we came in," he said hurriedly. "Laparde, who was acting +strangely, had just unlocked the door, and he was still holding the key +in his hand without knowing it." +</P> + +<P> +It was a moment before she spoke—while her eyes swept him scornfully +from head to foot. +</P> + +<P> +"I wish Jean had killed you!"—her lips were just parted over her +clenched teeth. "So—you have the temerity to add another insult to +the first! That Jean and I were together in a locked room! I remember +the key now. And so Jean was acting strangely! It was to be a little +surprise party for Jean—was it not? Is it strange if he were +surprised then? When he heard all of you coming, laughing and talking +and tramping up the stairs, he ran to the door to open it, and I +remember now that the key fell out of the lock and to the floor, and +that he picked it up. How amazing that perhaps he held it in his hand, +Monsieur Valmain! And do you imagine, Monsieur Valmain, that it was an +opportune time for me, who not only knew you were coming, but who had +arranged the affair, to indulge in the amours that your vilely fertile +mind—" +</P> + +<P> +"Stop, mademoiselle!" he cried wildly. "I was mad—mad with my love +for you. I understand too well now! I understood that I had made a +terrible mistake, <I>misérable</I> that I am, when this girl, when it was +too late, came out of that dressing room there, when—when Laparde had +fallen. I am a fool, a blind, senseless fool; but—but, mademoiselle, +it was my love—you will forgive, you—" +</P> + +<P> +"Besides a fool, you are a coward!" she said pitilessly. "But you do +not understand everything yet—and you shall have no further chance to +warp and twist things to suit your perverted fancy, Monsieur Valmain. +I think I could quite easily tell you where this girl, in whom you +imagine you have discovered Jean's model, obtained those clothes—and +if she will not tell you, I will. And then you will leave here, and +you will take pains, Monsieur Valmain, that we do not meet again. Do +you hear that? I tell you again that I hate you, that I loathe you, +and that if I were a man I would know how to make you answer for it!" +She stepped quickly to Marie-Louise's side. "Look up at me!" she +ordered curtly. "This man says that hat and cloak are mine, and it is +true—they were mine. Tell him where you got them!" +</P> + +<P> +Marie-Louise did not move, except that she clasped her hands together a +little more tightly in her lap. She could not tell; for suddenly she +thought of Father Anton, and a sense of loyalty to Father Anton +insisted that she should not tell. If mademoiselle knew, as +mademoiselle said, that was another matter, and she could not change +that now; but to tell it herself—no, she could not do that, for that +was to admit that the good curé was in the secret of her presence in +Paris, and after that it would be known almost surely that he had +arranged with Hector and Madame Mi-mi for her to come there to the +<I>atelier</I>. +</P> + +<P> +"Well?" prompted Myrna Bliss, sharply. +</P> + +<P> +Marie-Louise shook her head. +</P> + +<P> +Myrna Bliss stamped her foot angrily. +</P> + +<P> +"Are you stupid enough to imagine that you are protecting Father Anton? +I promise you I shall have a word with that gentleman in the morning! +And since you could have got that hat and cloak nowhere else, tell +Monsieur Valmain that Father Anton gave them to you, and have done with +it!" +</P> + +<P> +Marie-Louise looked up. Mademoiselle had said it, and—and Father +Anton certainly would not deny it. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," she said under her breath. "Father Anton gave them to me." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, why didn't you say so at first?" snapped Myrna. She turned +again furiously on Paul Valmain. "You hear, Monsieur Valmain! You are +well acquainted with Father Anton. Go to him, if you have any doubts. +You have only to know now how Father Anton obtained them"—her words +were curling, biting, stinging like a whiplash in their bitter scorn. +"Well, listen! I and a few of my friends have become <I>charitable</I> +since father established his fund. It is contagious, Monsieur Valmain! +We, too, give bounteously to Father Anton for distribution amongst the +poor—we give our discarded garments! I sent him that hat and cloak in +a bundle with some other things, a few days ago. Is it quite plain, +Monsieur Valmain? Are you satisfied? Well, then"—she swung an +outstretched arm toward the door—"go!" +</P> + +<P> +"But, mademoiselle—<I>pour l'amour de Dieu</I>!" he protested brokenly. +"Do you not see that I am in agony, in torment for what I have done, +that—" +</P> + +<P> +"Go!" she raged—and stamped with her foot upon the floor again. +</P> + +<P> +For a moment he stood lurching a little on his feet, as though he had +been struck a blow; and then, white-faced, he drew himself up and bowed +to her. +</P> + +<P> +"As you will, mademoiselle!" he said in a low voice, and walked past +her toward the door. +</P> + +<P> +Myrna Bliss turned to watch him—and halfway across the room halted him. +</P> + +<P> +"Wait!"—she pointed to the rapiers lying on the floor. "Take those +things with you! And one word more, Monsieur Valmain! I do not intend +to pose in Paris in the abandoned rôle you were so quick to cast me +for. You perhaps understand that! I do not propose that anything +shall be known of what has happened here to-night. I shall see to it +that nothing is said by the others, but a word of this from you, +Monsieur Valmain, or from Monsieur LeFair, who Monsieur Vinailles tells +me was acting as your second, and—" +</P> + +<P> +"Mademoiselle might have spared me that!" he said monotonously—and, +picking up the rapiers, walked on through the salon and out into the +hall. +</P> + +<P> +In a sort of miserably fascinated way Marie-Louise had followed him +with her eyes. She heard the outer door close behind him—and then +mechanically she rose to her feet, as Myrna Bliss came and stood before +her. +</P> + +<P> +"So"—Myrna's voice was quivering, tense with passion—"so it remained +for Monsieur Valmain to discover the secret of the wonderful, +beautiful, entrancing model! Monsieur Valmain is right, of course. I +knew it at once, the moment I heard him say so. I was not very clever, +I suppose, or I should have seen it for myself long ago; only—you +quite understand this of course—I had forgotten, utterly forgotten, +that you even existed! But it seems that Jean could not live without +his little peasant; nor the little peasant without Jean! It is +perfectly comprehensible now why there should have been such secrecy +about his model. And so you have been living with Jean, have you, ever +since he came to Paris? The naïve, innocent little <I>ingénue</I> of +Bernay-sur-Mer!" +</P> + +<P> +And then Marie-Louise lifted her head high again, and, while the hot +flushes came and swept her face, the great dark eyes held steadily on +the grey ones that were hard and cold like steel. It was not +mademoiselle of the <I>grand monde</I> before her any more; it was a woman +whose tongue was making a sacrilege of all that was holy and cherished +in her life, making a hideous mockery of her love that was so sacred +and pure to her, making it a foul thing, smirching it, defiling it—it +was not Mademoiselle Bliss of another world than hers whom she +approached with diffidence and awe; it was a woman taunting her with a +shame from which her soul recoiled, and there came surging upon her, +born of the primitive, elemental life that had been hers, the days upon +the oars, the nights of rugged battling with the storms, a fury that +was physical in its cry for expression. +</P> + +<P> +"It is not true! It is not true!" she panted—and, her hands clenched +tightly, raised as though to strike, she took a quick step forward. +</P> + +<P> +Startled, Myrna Bliss involuntarily sprang back—but the next instant +she was laughing threateningly. +</P> + +<P> +"You little spitfire!" she exclaimed angrily. "And so it is not true! +Look at that statue behind you, look at any in this room, at any Jean +has ever done since he has been in Paris, and—oh, yes, I see it quite +plainly myself, now that I have been shown—it is you, you everywhere! +And you have the brazenness, the impudence to say that you have not +been living with Jean, that you have not been coming here at all hours +of the night for the last two years—as you have to-night—as you did +last night! Bah, you pitiful little hypocrite, would any one believe +you?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, they would believe me!" Marie-Louise cried passionately. "And +<I>you</I> will believe me! I will make you believe me! I will make you! +I will make you! I—" Her voice broke suddenly, and with a half sob +she dropped her hands to her sides. Her fury had gone and in its place +had come only a desperate earnestness to make mademoiselle believe. +She had been thinking of herself alone—and there was Jean! If +mademoiselle would not believe her, the shame would be Jean's too, and +the guilt that mademoiselle imagined would be Jean's guilt too. And +even if she must tell all about Father Anton bringing her to Hector and +Madame Mi-mi, she must make mademoiselle believe. "Mademoiselle"—she +was pleading now, her voice choking as she spoke—"mademoiselle, +see—listen! You must—you must believe! It is true, every word I +have said is true! And it is true that I love Jean, and that that is +why I came, but—but Jean has never seen me since that day he left +Bernay-sur-Mer. See, mademoiselle—listen! It is only a few days +since I came to Paris—see, mademoiselle, even this hat and cloak +proves it. I did not know that it was cold, that one needed such +things in Paris, and I had nothing except just the clothes I had worn +in Bernay-sur-Mer, and the night I came I went to Father Anton and he +gave the hat and cloak to me—but I did not know, mademoiselle, that +they had been yours. I wanted to see Jean again, not to let him know +that I was here, but only to see him, only to see his work. It was two +years, mademoiselle, two years—and Father Anton understood, only he +made me promise, mademoiselle, that I would not speak to Jean, that I +would not let Jean know that I was here. Listen—listen, +mademoiselle!" Marie-Louise's hands were raised again—but +entreatingly now. "It was only to see Jean again, and see his work, +and then I was going away. For nothing, for nothing in the world would +I let Jean know that I had come. And so—and so, mademoiselle, so +Father Anton arranged with Hector that I should do the work about the +salon and the <I>atelier</I>, but very early in the mornings before Jean was +up; and then because I came so early Hector gave me the key—and last +night—oh, mademoiselle, mademoiselle, can you not understand?—I came +here, and—and I came again to-night. See, mademoiselle—it is so easy +to believe! You do believe! Father Anton will tell you that it is all +true, and that I have been in Bernay-sur-Mer all this time. +Mademoiselle, mademoiselle—you do believe!" +</P> + +<P> +Myrna Bliss was staring at Marie-Louise in startled amazement. +</P> + +<P> +"You mean—you mean," she said, in a low, tense way; "you mean that +Jean knows nothing of this—that he does not know that you are even in +Paris, that he has not seen you since he left Bernay-sur-Mer?" +</P> + +<P> +"But, yes; yes, yes, yes, mademoiselle, it is so, all that—it is so!" +Marie-Louise answered feverishly. "And—and he must not know now, +mademoiselle—he must not know now." +</P> + +<P> +And then Myrna Bliss smiled ironically. +</P> + +<P> +"I will see to that!" she said grimly. "You need have no fear on that +score, if what you say is true!" She turned abruptly from +Marie-Louise, walked straight to the "<I>Fille du Régiment</I>," and gazed +at it for a moment. Then, scarcely aloud: "'The womanhood of France,' +he had said ... 'The model in his heart.'" And so Jean did not know! +Well, if that were so, she would take very good care that he never did +know! It seemed incredible, but the girl's sincerity was not to be +denied. She laughed out sharply, and wheeled back upon Marie-Louise. +"Well, and what now?" she said coldly; and then, thrusting quickly: +"Are you aware that I am to marry Monsieur Laparde?" +</P> + +<P> +Marie-Louise's face blanched. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," she said faintly. +</P> + +<P> +"And so"—the scathing tones were back in Myrna's voice—"and so you +were just playing with fire! Well, are you satisfied with what you +have done? If Jean Laparde lives it will be no thanks to you; if he +dies it will be you who—" +</P> + +<P> +Marie-Louise put out her hands as though to ward off a blow. She was +swaying upon her feet. +</P> + +<P> +"Not that—not that, mademoiselle!"—she could scarcely force the words +to her lips. "Do not say it, mademoiselle! I know that it is +true—God in his infinite pity, have pity on me!—but do not say it! I +will go away, mademoiselle—I will go away—for always. I will wait +only to know that—that Jean is well, for the <I>bon Dieu</I> will not let +him die—and then—and then I will go—and then I—" A great sob shook +her frame, and covering her face with her hands she sank down again +upon the modelling platform. +</P> + +<P> +She was conscious that Mademoiselle Bliss was standing there, that the +grey eyes were fixed upon her; and then that from the salon some one +called to mademoiselle—but she did not hear mademoiselle go, only when +she looked up again she was alone in the atelier. And it was very kind +of mademoiselle to go so softly, and to say no more. +</P> + +<P> +She rose slowly to her feet, and passed through the atelier, and +through the salon, and out into the hall, and to the stairs—and paused +there to listen with pitiful eagerness. But there was no sound from +above—there was only the voice of her soul that kept whispering so +cruelly, "it is you ... it is you ... it is you ... it is not Paul +Valmain who has done this ... it is you ... it is you." +</P> + +<P> +And there at the foot of the stairs she knelt down for a moment; then +rose, and crossed the hall slowly to the door, and opened it—and +walked blindly out. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap0208"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +— VIII — +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +FLIGHT +</H4> + +<P> +Madame Garneau's hair straggled untidily about her head, her hands were +red, calloused, inclined indeed to be grimy, she had passed even that +poets'-consolation-prize age of forty, and she had no figure; but +Madame Garneau was possessed of a heart. She pushed open the door of +Marie-Louise's room, and dangled in her hand a yellow paper bag that +was grease specked on the bottom. +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Voilà</I>, my little lodger!" she cried gaily. "I have this for you, +and you will never guess what it is; and, besides, I have something +else—a message for you from Father Anton. Now which will you have +first?" +</P> + +<P> +Marie-Louise, from her chair by the window, rose quickly to her feet, +with a little exclamation of pleased surprise. +</P> + +<P> +Madame Garneau immediately pushed her back into the chair. +</P> + +<P> +"But you are to remain quiet—eh, <I>ma petite</I>!" She wagged her finger +severely in front of Marie-Louise's nose. "Now sit still, or you shall +have neither one nor the other!" +</P> + +<P> +"What nonsense!" laughed Marie-Louise, as she stood up once more. "I +am quite well again—and I am even to go out this morning." +</P> + +<P> +The paper bag banged belligerently on Madame Garneau's hip, as she +placed her arms akimbo. +</P> + +<P> +"You are to go out! And who said you are to go out?" +</P> + +<P> +"But, who else—the doctor," Marie-Louise answered with a smile. +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, the doctor!" sniffed Madame Garneau disdainfully. "I have my +opinion of doctors! In two or three days it will be time enough!" She +wagged her forefinger again, and held up the bag. "Eh, <I>bien</I>—can you +guess?" +</P> + +<P> +"Never!" admitted Marie-Louise, shaking her head prettily. +</P> + +<P> +"Cream-puffs!" announced Madame Garneau triumphantly. It was perhaps +the most indigestible edible with which she could have outraged a diet +list, but in that quarter of Paris, where <I>sous</I> were scarce, +cream-puffs were the delicacy <I>par excellence</I>, and therefore a +delicacy for all occasions, rare enough in any event, when they could +be obtained. And besides, as Madame Garneau had said, she had her +opinion of doctors—Madame Garneau, even if unconsciously so, was +consistent! "Cream-puffs, <I>ma petite</I>! From the <I>patisserie</I> around +the corner—I sent the gamin, who brought the message from Father +Anton, for them. And now what do you say?" +</P> + +<P> +Marie-Louise had neither heart nor appetite for cream-puffs, but she +must needs peek excitedly in through the top of the bag, and thank +Madame Garneau effusively, while she protested earnestly at the +extravagance. +</P> + +<P> +"It is nothing!" declared Madame Garneau, her honest face flushed with +pleasure. She placed the bag on the foot of the bed. "It is +nothing—<I>ma foi</I>! And now about Father Anton. He was to have come +this afternoon, eh?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," said Marie-Louise. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, then," said Madame Garneau, "he is not coming." +</P> + +<P> +"Not coming!" +</P> + +<P> +"It is his poor!" Madame Garneau exclaimed tartly. "Your Father Anton +has no sense! I would teach him a lesson if I had anything to do with +him! Fancy! The idea! And at his age! He will kill himself! The +gamin's mother was sick, and Father Anton must sit up the night, and +stay there all this day! And it is not once, but all the time he does +that! Bah, I have no patience with him! His heart is too soft! It is +well for his poor that I am not Father Anton!" There was finality in +the shrug of Madame Garneau's shoulders. She glanced at Marie-Louise, +and then her eyes fell upon the paper bag. "Oh, I forgot to tell you!" +she said anxiously. "There is a cream-puff gone from the +quarter-dozen. I gave one to the gamin, he made such eyes at the bag." +She tucked in a refractory wisp of hair that was straying over her ear. +"Well, then, as I was saying, he is not coming this afternoon, but he +will come this evening; and he said you were not to worry at all, +because what he was talking to you about yesterday—whatever that +is!—is all arranged." +</P> + +<P> +All arranged! It came as a sudden shock. Marie-Louise turned her head +quickly away, and, with her back to Madame Garneau, stood looking out +of the window. All arranged! Then what should she do—what should she +do? She put her hands wearily to her eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Mais, là, là</I>!" soothed Madame Garneau. "You must not be +disappointed. It is only for a few hours. He will come this evening." +</P> + +<P> +Marie-Louise forced a laugh. +</P> + +<P> +"But I am not disappointed," she answered. "I do not mind at all." +She was still staring down into the street. If Madame Garneau would +only go so that she could think what to do, and—no! She knew what she +must do, she had thought it all out before; it was only that the moment +when she must act upon her decision was thrust so suddenly upon her. +"Oh, Madame Garneau, I was almost forgetting!" she cried—and, turning +from the window, ran to the dilapidated and wobbly bureau, pulled open +a drawer, and took out her purse. "It is a week since I have paid for +my room—a week to-day, isn't it?" +</P> + +<P> +Madame Garneau promptly retreated toward the door. +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Mais, non</I>! <I>Mais, non</I>!" she protested. "When one is sick, one +does not earn the <I>sous</I>! Next week, the week after, when you are at +work again, you shall—" +</P> + +<P> +Marie-Louise laughingly caught Madame Garneau's hand, and began to +count the franc pieces into it; while Madame Garneau, still protesting, +kept up her retreat for the door. +</P> + +<P> +"There!"—Marie-Louise triumphantly closed the other's fingers over the +money. +</P> + +<P> +"But, no!" Madame Garneau expostulated vigorously. "But I will not +hear of it! What do you imagine! I—" +</P> + +<P> +And then Marie-Louise pushed the other playfully through the door, and +closed the door, and placed her back against it, and laughed as she +heard Madame Garneau grumbling outside and finally go grumbling +away—but the laugh was all for Madame Garneau. When she could no +longer hear Madame Garneau, she clasped her hands tightly to her bosom, +and caught her breath. That was done! She had both paid and got +Madame Garneau from the room. +</P> + +<P> +She stood still by the door, her shoulders drooped; her hands dropped +to her sides, and her fingers began to pluck nervously at the folds of +her dress, as she stared unseeingly before her. Father Anton had it +all arranged—the words brought so much, meant so much, and seemed to +embody in themselves all that had happened in the week that had passed +since the night when Jean and Monsieur Valmain had fought in the +studio. She had wandered blindly and like one dazed all the rest of +that night through the streets of Paris; and it must only have been the +<I>bon Dieu</I> who had led her at last to where, lying unconscious on the +floor outside the door of his room, Father Anton had found her in the +morning. And then—how good they had all been to her!—Father Anton, +and Madame Garneau, and Doctor Maurier, the grey-haired, kindly doctor +who had been with Jean that night, and who would take not a <I>sou</I> for +his visits to her, but only fill the room with sunshine through his +good news of Jean. +</P> + +<P> +She remembered that she had asked Father Anton for Jean's doctor +because then she would always have word of Jean—and she remembered +Father Anton's dismay at the request. "But, Marie-Louise," Father +Anton had said anxiously, "you do not know what you are asking! He is +the most famous man in Paris, and—" "And he will come," she had told +Father Anton. And she had been right, for Doctor Maurier had come; and +so each day she had had news of Jean, and now Jean was so well that he +was walking about the studio again. +</P> + +<P> +But most of all how good Father Anton had been! She had told him +all—everything—and he had not been angry with her; though she knew, +from little things he had said inadvertently, that Mademoiselle Bliss +had been very angry with him. Dear old Father Anton! He had tried to +take all the blame upon himself, because he said he had been +deceitful—though she could not understand that, no matter how hard he +tried to make her believe it, for he had only helped her to see Jean +and to be near Jean, and that was what she herself had pleaded with him +to do. +</P> + +<P> +And then, as she had grown stronger and had begun to talk of going +away, Father Anton had agreed with her, but he had insisted that she +should go back to Bernay-sur-Mer. And he had become so earnest and +determined that it must be Bernay-sur-Mer, and because she knew that it +was his love for her that made him so anxious about her future, she +could not bring herself to tell him what she really meant to do, what, +in the long hours through the nights as she had lain awake, she had +made up her mind to do—to go somewhere, she did not know where, but +somewhere far away where there would be nothing to remind her of +Jean—not that she could forget, no matter where she went, but that +scenes and associations, as they had done in the past two years, might +not again prove too strong for her. And so, rather than pain Father +Anton by an absolute refusal, or the admission that even he was to go +out of her life, she had told him only that she did not want to go back +to Bernay-sur-Mer, that her house was sold, and that every one there +would think it very strange that she had gone away like that only to +return again so soon. +</P> + +<P> +But he was not to be shaken in his determination. "Ah, even if that +were true," Father Anton had said to her only yesterday, "nevertheless, +my little Marie-Louise, it is the thing you must do. I cannot let you +do anything else; and in a little while—who knows!—you will be very +happy there again. But it is not true, for there is a way that I have +been thinking about as I came here. As for the house, it is as well +that it is sold; you have the money, and besides it is much better that +you should not live there alone—you will live for a while with those +honest Fregeaus, who will be overjoyed. And as for the rest—see, +Marie-Louise, this is what we will do! I will speak to Monsieur Bliss +and tell him that I wish to go back for a little visit, and we will go +together—and the good people of Bernay-sur-Mer will not think it +strange at all then, for I will tell them that you have been with me +here in Paris, and that it is I who have persuaded you that it is best +for you to go back and live in Bernay-sur-Mer. <I>Tiens</I>, could anything +be better? And I will speak to Monsieur Bliss at once." +</P> + +<P> +She knew quite well what was in Father Anton's mind. If she were in +Bernay-sur-Mer he would feel that she was quite safe, that no harm +could come to her; and he had mentioned, so innocently as he believed, +Amidé Dubois once or twice, and he was perhaps imagining that some day +she would marry there. But he did not understand! She shook her head +slowly; and then, suddenly rousing herself, she walked across the room +to the little bureau, and took out her things, and laid them upon the +bed, and began to make them up into a little bundle—the same bundle +she had carried with her from Bernay-sur-Mer. He did not understand! +</P> + +<P> +It was all arranged! Father Anton had seen Monsieur Bliss then—and +perhaps it would be to-morrow, or maybe even to-night that Father Anton +would want her to go with him. But she could not go back to +Bernay-sur-Mer! For nothing in the world would she go back there! If +there were no other reasons, there was one that alone made it +impossible—some day Jean might return there himself for a visit. And +she must go somewhere where there was no possibility that she and Jean +should ever see each other—and she must go now while she had the +chance. There was nothing to keep her any longer; she was quite well +and strong again, and she knew that Jean was getting well, and—and she +had seen Jean and his work, and she could picture his splendid life +stretching out before him in which even his marriage with Mademoiselle +Bliss, who was very rich and of the <I>grand monde</I>, would help to make +him even greater, and—and so there remained nothing more to hold her +there. It was very wonderful that it should be her lips that Jean had +fashioned—unconsciously, as Father Anton said—into his clay. It was +very wonderful! It was something that the <I>bon Dieu</I> had given her to +make her glad; to make the sadness and remorse for the tragedy she had +brought about less terrible; to make her know that, after all, her +share in Jean's career had not just ended with that day, so long ago in +Bernay-sur-Mer, when she had given him to France. +</P> + +<P> +She tied the bundle neatly. She was ready to go now, and she picked it +up, took a step toward the door—and, holding the bundle in her hand, +paused hesitantly. She could not go like that—Father Anton would be +in a state of frenzy over her. She—she could write him a little note. +Yes; she would do that. She set the bundle down, and hurriedly untied +it. She remembered that when she had written down Father Anton's +address before leaving Bernay-sur-Mer she had put the pencil in the +pocket of her apron. Yes; here it was, but—she looked around her in +sudden anxiety—there was nothing, no paper to write on. Her eyes +rested upon the bed. Madame Garneau's cream-puffs! She picked up the +bag, tore a piece from it, and, taking it to the window sill, wrote a +few hurried sentences. It was just to say that she could never go to +Bernay-sur-Mer; just to say that she was going away, very far away +somewhere, and that he must not be sad about her, or try to find her +for she did not know where she was going herself; just to say that she +loved him, and that he had been so good, so very, very good to her, and +that she would pray always to the <I>bon Dieu</I> for him. +</P> + +<P> +There was a mist in her eyes as she folded the yellow, grease-spotted +paper—she could buy an envelope and a stamp and mail it to Father +Anton. She took up her bundle again, and went to the door; and, making +sure that Madame Garneau was not in sight, hurried out of the house to +the street. Here, she ran until she had turned the first corner and +could no longer be seen from the house, then walked quietly along. +</P> + +<P> +Blocks away, she stepped into a little store. +</P> + +<P> +"Monsieur," she said to the man who served her with her envelope and +stamp, "monsieur, will you be kind enough to tell me the way to the +railway station?" +</P> + +<P> +"To which one, mademoiselle?" he inquired politely. "The <I>Gare de +l'Est, the Gare du Nord, the Gare St. Lazare</I>, the—" +</P> + +<P> +She had not thought that there might be more than one, but one would +take her away equally as well as another—it made no difference. Only +he would think it very strange that she did not know which one she +wanted. +</P> + +<P> +"The <I>Gare St. Lazare</I>, if you please, monsieur," she ventured +quickly—and thanked him when he had told her, and went out on the +street again. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap0209"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +— IX — +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +MYRNA'S STRATEGY +</H4> + +<P> +"Two months—three months in America! And to be married there!" +ejaculated Henry Bliss, as he stared at his daughter in utter +bewilderment. +</P> + +<P> +Myrna, from the depths of her father's favourite lounging chair, which +she had appropriated on entering the library after dinner that evening, +nodded her head in a quite matter-of-fact way. +</P> + +<P> +"Isn't this rather—rather sudden?" inquired Henry Bliss, mustering a +facetious irony to his rescue. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, no!" said Myrna demurely. "I decided upon it almost a week ago." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, you did!"—a wry smile flickered on her father's lips. "A week +ago, eh? And what does Jean say?" +</P> + +<P> +"Jean doesn't say anything," replied Myrna complacently. "He doesn't +know anything about it—it wasn't necessary until the time came. I +haven't said anything to any one—until now." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, upon my soul!" exclaimed her father. "You are beginning early +with your future husband, Myrna! So then, we are both to be twisted +around your finger—eh? I shall have to speak to Jean—warn him. For +myself, of course, it's quite hopeless, I've given it up years ago; but +as for Jean, that's quite another matter—it's all in starting right, +with a firm hand, you know!" His eyes twinkled. "I'll have a little +confidential talk with Jean." +</P> + +<P> +"Don't be ridiculous, father!" she laughed. She rose from her chair. +"Well, that's settled; and now I—" +</P> + +<P> +"Eh—what? Settled! Nothing is settled! What's settled?" he +spluttered anxiously. +</P> + +<P> +"That we are going to America, of course," said Myrna sweetly. "You, +and Jean, and I." +</P> + +<P> +"Now, see here, Myrna," protested her father, with what he meant for +severity, "a trip to America is all very well, but it isn't the sort of +thing one decides on the spur of the moment." +</P> + +<P> +"Of course it isn't!"—Myrna's eyebrows went up archly. "Didn't I tell +you that I have been arranging it for a whole week? I was only waiting +for cable replies to some of my letters before speaking to you, and—" +</P> + +<P> +"And of course as you have not overlooked minor details, I suppose we +sail sometime next week!" her father interrupted with mild sarcasm. +</P> + +<P> +"No," said Myrna placidly. "From Havre, the day after to-morrow, by +the <I>Lorraine</I>." +</P> + +<P> +Henry Bliss sat down weakly in a chair. He removed his cigar from his +lips, and made one or two helpless passes with it in the air. +</P> + +<P> +"Impossible!" he finally exploded. "Absolutely impossible! Utterly +out of the question!" +</P> + +<P> +"I don't see why," observed Myrna, quite undisturbed. +</P> + +<P> +"You don't see why? No, of course, you don't see why"—Henry Bliss was +still waving his cigar. "Well, I can't run away at a moment's notice, +can I? Good heavens! The day after to-morrow! There's a thousand and +one affairs that would have to be attended to before I could even think +of it!" +</P> + +<P> +"Which, of course, isn't true at all"—Myrna's laugh rippled merrily +through the room. "There are perhaps a dozen social engagements, and +two or three other affairs for which you will have to send 'regrets,' +and"—she perched herself cosily on the arm of her father's chair—"and +your secretary will do that for you. In fact, I told him he was to do +it to-morrow morning." +</P> + +<P> +"You—<I>what</I>? Well, I'll be damned!" gasped Henry Bliss. +</P> + +<P> +"Father!" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, it was excusable!" muttered Henry Bliss. "I—I am half inclined +to repeat it." +</P> + +<P> +Myrna's arm slipped around her father's neck. He was quite manageable, +of course—but still he had to be managed. For, if what had come +within so narrow a margin of being a tragedy with a fatal ending had +forced her hand and forced the inevitable, as it were, upon her, she +could at least see to it that the adjustment of the new order of things +was of her own arranging. It was inevitable that she would marry Jean, +she had decided that long ago; it was only the "day" itself which, +until all this had introduced a new factor into her plans, had been at +all vague in her mind. But with Paul Valmain eliminated, and her +quarrel with Jean made up as he had lain there dangerously hurt that +night of the duel, everything had taken on a totally different aspect. +Perhaps she had yielded a little weakly under sick-bed influences, but +however that might be, she was now Jean's fiancée, though it was not +publicly announced; as, coming upon the heels of Jean's mysterious +accident and Paul Valmain's sudden departure from Paris, it would to a +certainty have caused talk and gossip, which for very good reasons she +was most anxious to avoid; for, a wheel within a wheel, if talk went +too far the truth might come out, and the truth at all hazards was the +one thing that Jean must not know. This was one reason why, almost +from the moment that she had grasped the situation that night in Jean's +studio, she had determined to get Jean away from Paris the instant he +was able to go. But there was a still stronger and more potent reason. +The marriage of Jean Laparde, the world-famous sculptor, and Myrna +Bliss, heiress to millions, a society leader in both Paris and New +York, was not an affair to be consummated in a moment, nor to have its +preparations go unmarked. It would be the most brilliant function that +society had ever known on either side of the water—to that she had +quite definitely made up her mind! But all that would take time; and +meanwhile, more to be feared than any talk, was the possibility of Jean +seeing Marie-Louise—and the possibility, or rather, perhaps, the +opportunity that would be afforded to Marie-Louise herself, whom she, +Myrna, was by no means inclined to trust! She was quite convinced that +Jean had not seen the girl since he had left Bernay-sur-Mer, that to a +certain extent the girl had told the truth, but that made it all the +more imperative that he should not see her now; for if, though +unconsciously so, Marie-Louise was so intimate a part of his life that +the girl took form constantly in his work, it would be, to put it +mildly, just as well if they did not meet—until after Jean was +married. After that—well, after that, she was quite capable of +looking after a <I>husband</I>! In the meantime she would take good care +that the possibility of such a contretemps was entirely obviated by +going to America, spending the few months necessary for the marriage +preparations there, months in which Jean would be the recipient of even +greater honours than Paris had accorded him, be married, and—well, +that was all! It was very simple! What this impertinent little +peasant girl had attempted once, even if Father Anton did intend to +take her back to Bernay-sur-Mer, she was quite capable of attempting +again—if she had the chance! +</P> + +<P> +Myrna nestled her arm snugly around her father's neck, and held up two +daintily extended fingers before his eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"Now, listen, father," she said, puckering up her forehead prettily. +"Now I am going to be very serious. There are two very good reasons +why we will go. First, now that Jean is able to be up again, a sea +trip is the one thing above all others that he needs. Doctor Maurier +prescribes it." +</P> + +<P> +"Insists on it, I suppose!" observed Henry Bliss dryly. +</P> + +<P> +"He will," said Myrna, laughing, "if I ask him to." +</P> + +<P> +"H'm!" commented Henry Bliss, the wrinkles around his eyes beginning to +nest into a smile. "Well—and the other reason?" +</P> + +<P> +"The other one," said Myrna, and laid her head down against her +father's cheek; "the other one is—I must whisper it—now, listen—is +because I've set my heart on it, and I want to go." +</P> + +<P> +"Which settles it!" groaned Henry Bliss, with mock lugubriousness. +"Well"—he got up from his chair, and brushed vigorously at the cigar +ash which, incident to Myrna's embrace, bedecked his waistcoat—"well, +I'll see what Jean says about it." +</P> + +<P> +"Why, of course!" agreed Myrna innocently. "It all depends upon Jean. +We'll leave it that way, father." +</P> + +<P> +Henry Bliss looked at her, gasped once—and grinned in spite of himself. +</P> + +<P> +"There isn't any other trifling matter you'd like to call my attention +to this evening, is there?" he hazarded, pinching his daughter's cheek +playfully. "Because, if there is, I'm—" He paused, as a footman +coughed discreetly from the doorway. "Well?" he demanded. +</P> + +<P> +"It is Monsieur le Curé, Monsieur Bliss," said the man. +</P> + +<P> +"Show him in," instructed Henry Bliss—and, as the man retired, glanced +quickly at his daughter. "I hope, Myrna, that—" +</P> + +<P> +"That we've made up our differences!" she supplied, with sudden +impatience. "That I quite understand that the gentle old soul in an +endeavour to set the world right meant well, and was actuated by the +loftiest of motives! Oh, yes, I think Father Anton and I understand +each other perfectly, and—" +</P> + +<P> +"Monsieur le Curé!" announced the footman. +</P> + +<P> +Myrna calmly turned her back—but only to whirl suddenly around again, +as, with a sharp exclamation, her father stepped quickly toward the +door. +</P> + +<P> +"Good heavens, my dear man, what is the matter with you?" Henry Bliss +cried out in consternation. +</P> + +<P> +Father Anton's white hair was unbrushed; he was unshaved; and his face +already haggard, his eyes already deep-set and blue-circled from his +twenty-four hours of bedside vigil, now bore added and unmistakable +signs of violent mental agitation and distraction. His hand, that held +a piece of torn yellow paper, trembled as though with the ague. +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, Monsieur Bliss—ah, <I>pardon</I>, mademoiselle!" he stammered, and +attempted a bow. "I—I have run very fast—and—I—I—" +</P> + +<P> +"Is anything the matter?" inquired Myrna coolly, joining the two at the +door. +</P> + +<P> +Father Anton looked at her piteously. +</P> + +<P> +"She is gone!" he said, his lips quivering. +</P> + +<P> +"Gone!" repeated Henry Bliss bewilderedly. "Who is gone?" +</P> + +<P> +"Our charming little Marie-Louise of Bernay-sur-Mer, of course! Who +else?"—Myrna laughed sharply. "Well, <I>mon cher</I> Monsieur le Curé, +will you tell us how it happened? I had an idea you were very shortly +to return with her to Bernay-sur-Mer. It seems I was mistaken!" +</P> + +<P> +"But I do not know how it happened!"—Father Anton shook his head +distractedly. "I was away last night and to-day. This evening when I +returned to my rooms I found this letter from her"—he stared at the +torn yellow paper in his hand, and the tears began to well into his +eyes. "She said that she was going away—that she could not go back to +Bernay-sur-Mer—that I was not to look for her—that she did not know +where she was going herself. I waited for nothing. I ran at once to +Madame Garneau's. Madame Garneau had seen nothing of Marie-Louise +since this morning. We looked in Marie-Louise's room. Her clothes +were gone. And then—and then I ran here to get help to find her." +</P> + +<P> +"And so," said Myrna icily, "are we never to hear the last of her? The +trouble in the first place is of your own making, Father Anton—it is +unfortunate that others have to suffer for it! Well, what does it +mean? She did not want to go back to Bernay-sur-Mer—she has run away +from you—from everybody that could keep track of her. Why? That she +can go to Jean again without being found out?" She shrugged her +shoulders. "However, under the circumstances, if that is so, it will +do her little good, since Jean himself is going away to—" +</P> + +<P> +"No, no!" Father Anton cried out brokenly. "You do not know +Marie-Louise! You do not know Marie-Louise to say that! She, more +than any one else, would not let Jean know. It is because her heart is +broken that she has gone. And it is true, I am to blame." The tears +were running down his cheeks; he held out his hands to them +imploringly. "She is not well—she is only just recovered from her +illness, my little Marie-Louise, and—and—" the words died away in a +sort of frightened sob, at a quick, warning touch upon his arm from +Myrna. +</P> + +<P> +Steps came running across the hall—and the next moment Jean himself +was standing in the doorway. +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Tiens</I>!" he cried out gaily. "It is the first time I have left the +studio. I would not let the man announce me. <I>Me voici</I>! Here I am! +It is a surprise—eh? But—eh!—what is the matter?" He stared at the +three—at Henry Bliss, who was evidencing palpable confusion; at Myrna, +who seemed suddenly to have lost her colour; at Father Anton, who had +tears trickling down his face, and acted as though he were gazing at a +ghost. +</P> + +<P> +"It—it is Jean!" faltered Father Anton nervously, the letter +fluttering from his hand to the floor. +</P> + +<P> +"But, yes, of course, it is Jean! Who else?" Jean laughed—and +stepped forward mechanically to pick up the paper. "Permit me. I—" +</P> + +<P> +A dainty satin-slippered toe was covering the letter. Myrna was +smiling reprovingly. +</P> + +<P> +"It is quite time enough for you to be gallant, Jean, when you can do +so without the danger of reopening your wound!" she said sweetly. +"Have you not been told often enough that you are not to stoop down +like that? Father Anton is much better able than you to pick it up!" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, yes," said Father Anton hurriedly, reaching for the paper and +tucking it into the breast of his <I>soutane</I>. "Yes, you—you must be +careful of yourself, Jean." +</P> + +<P> +"Nonsense!" declared Jean. "I am perfectly recovered!" He stared at +the three in turn again for a moment. "But—but perhaps I am +intruding—<I>de trop</I>?" +</P> + +<P> +"Not at all!" Myrna answered composedly. "It is a matter that concerns +only father and Monsieur le Curé; and they"—she glanced brightly at +her father—"I am sure, will be only too glad to get away to father's +den where they can discuss it by themselves." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes—er—yes, of course," coughed Henry Bliss. "It's—er—good to see +you out again, Jean, my boy." Then jocularly, in an attempt to +disguise his self-consciousness: "Come along, Father Anton"—he caught +the other's arm, and led the curé out of the room—"there are perhaps +others who prefer to be by themselves." +</P> + +<P> +A slightly puzzled expression on his face, Jean watched them out of +sight across the hall; then turned inquiringly to Myrna. +</P> + +<P> +Myrna's shoulders lifted daintily. +</P> + +<P> +"If it isn't one thing, it's another," she said, as though the subject +bored her. "There has always been something or other ever since father +started that fund of his; and the curé trots to father with everything. +This time, it seems that one of Father Anton's protégées has run away +from him; and, as you saw, the curé is beside himself." Again the +shoulders lifted "But you, Jean"—infusing a sudden note of perturbed +anxiety into her voice—"are you sure you were wise in coming out +to-night? What brought you?" +</P> + +<P> +And then Jean threw back his head, and laughed, and closed the +door—and caught her in his arms. +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Mon Dieu</I>!" he cried, holding her close to him, and trying to kiss +the suddenly averted face. "Do you ask what brought me? Well, then, I +will tell you! Did you not say that you would come this afternoon, and +did you not promise that we would settle about our marriage? And you +did not come, and all the afternoon I was waiting, and now"—his face +fell a little, as she slipped away from him—"and now that I am here +you run away from me." +</P> + +<P> +"You are too impulsive, Jean! You are destruction on gowns!" she +laughed, and backed merrily away from him to sink down gracefully in a +chair. +</P> + +<P> +"Gowns!" he echoed, a sudden flush of anger coming to his cheeks, as he +followed her. "What does it matter, a gown, when—" +</P> + +<P> +"Now, don't be cross!" she commanded teasingly; and, gaily regal, +extended her hand. "See, here is my hand to kiss." +</P> + +<P> +He hesitated; and then, as, a little sullenly, he bent and touched her +fingers with his lips, she laughed again. She loved to excite and +watch moods in Jean—as now for instance, when the tall, strong figure +was drawn up haughtily, and the emotions, that he would never learn to +hide, were so apparent in his face, as he bit his lips and pulled at +his short, pointed beard. Jean was as readable as a book at all times, +and always would be—which was not a bad trait for a husband to +possess! And this was Jean Laparde, the man of genius, unquestionably +at that moment the most famous man in France! She smiled at him +through half veiled eyes. To be Madame Laparde! Socially, it meant an +incomparable triumph; intimately, it meant—well, at least, it was +obvious enough that the marriage need hold no terror of tyranny in +store for her! Jean, for all his greatness, and save for his +occasional passionate outbursts, was as plastic as his own clay. Her +eyelids lifted, and in the grey eyes was laughter. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, and why the brown study? What are you thinking about?" she +demanded pertly. +</P> + +<P> +"I was thinking of Paul Valmain," he answered abruptly. +</P> + +<P> +"Paul Valmain!" she repeated—and sat suddenly upright in her chair. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," said Jean, a little bitterly. "That he would have small reason +to be jealous, even now that we are engaged." +</P> + +<P> +"Don't be absurd!" she retorted sharply. +</P> + +<P> +Jean shrugged his shoulders. +</P> + +<P> +"And speaking of Paul Valmain," he went on, a menacing note creeping +into his tones, "I have been talking to Hector again this afternoon +about that night—the night that Valmain said he saw you enter the +house." +</P> + +<P> +She looked at him quickly. Surely, after what she had said to Hector, +Hector had not dared to speak of the girl to whom he had +given—reprehensibly, she had taken pains to make Hector understand—a +key to Jean's studio. She believed she had frightened Hector and +Madame Mi-mi too thoroughly for that, and yet—if he had! +</P> + +<P> +"Well?"—serenely, as her eyebrows went up. +</P> + +<P> +"Nothing! He knows nothing! He heard nothing!" Jean flung out +impatiently. "But Hector is a fool, and Valmain said he saw you go in." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, was I there?" she inquired frigidly. +</P> + +<P> +"No, you were not there—naturally!" he asserted with wrathful +finality. "But—I have been thinking—if it were some one else!" +</P> + +<P> +"Ah!" Myrna's smile was cold, as she rose with a curiously ominous air +from her chair. "Ah! Some one else! Well, since you bring up the +subject again, do you imagine I am so stupid that such a possibility +has not also occurred to <I>me</I>? Your conscience seems to trouble you, +Monsieur Jean! If there was some one else—a woman in your rooms from +two o'clock at night until daylight—you should know better who it was, +I imagine, than either Hector or Madame Mi-mi! And since I am your +fiancée, Monsieur Jean—perhaps you will explain!" +</P> + +<P> +"But, <I>sacre nom d'un diable</I>!" Jean shouted in angry amazement. "I +know of no woman!" +</P> + +<P> +"If there was a woman there it is inconceivable that you should not +know it"—Myrna's voice was monotonous, relentless. +</P> + +<P> +"But, I tell you—<I>no</I>!"—Jean's hands went up in the air, as he raged +in exasperation. "Do you understand, that I tell you—no? It is not +so! There was no woman there!" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, then?"—still monotonously. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, then?" Jean stormed furiously, clenching his fists, "it can be +nothing but that cursed Valmain and his damned jealousy! It can be +nothing but a lie, all of it, that he has made up! It is all a lie +then—nothing but a lie! And so I am not through with him! He will +answer for it! I am not through with him! It will not be with swords +this time—we will fight with pistols, and I will kill him! He thinks +he has no longer any reason to hide and stay away—but, <I>nom de Dieu</I>, +he will see! I promise you that! Vinailles told me that Valmain would +be back the day after to-morrow, and"—he laughed out harshly—"the day +after to-morrow—" +</P> + +<P> +"You are going to America," said Myrna calmly. +</P> + +<P> +Jean's clenched fist, raised, remained motionless in mid-air. He +stared at her open-mouthed. +</P> + +<P> +"To—to America!" he gasped. +</P> + +<P> +"To be married there," supplemented Myrna composedly. +</P> + +<P> +"To be married there!"—he repeated the words in his bewilderment like +a parrot. +</P> + +<P> +"And to receive an ovation, to be accorded a triumph such as you have +never dreamed of." Her laugh trilled out deliciously. "You will see +how they do things in America!" +</P> + +<P> +He was still staring at her in dumfounded amazement. +</P> + +<P> +"To America—to be married—a triumph!" he mumbled dazedly. "But—but +who—" +</P> + +<P> +"I did," said Myrna, laughing at him again. "Did you not remind me +that I had promised to tell you about our marriage to-day? Well, we +are to be married in America. Are you not delighted?" +</P> + +<P> +"But—but, yes! <I>Mon Dieu</I>! But—but, yes!" stammered Jean helplessly. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, then," said Myrna, puckering up her brows in prettily affected +deliberation, "I think, Monsieur Jean, you may kiss me—once." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap0210"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +— X — +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +THROUGH THE FOG +</H4> + +<P> +With an angry tightening of his lips, as he caught sight of Myrna still +the centre of the same masculine <I>entourage</I>, Jean turned from the +window where he had paused for an instant to glance into the ship's +main saloon, transformed for the moment into a ballroom, and resumed +his moody pacing up and down the deck. He pulled his ulster more +closely about him, for the night was cold, lighted a cigarette and +puffed at it irritably, as he was forced to acknowledge the, for the +most part effusive, salutes that his fellow passengers went out of +their way to accord him, as in couples and groups they constantly came +and went between the saloon and the deck. Then, after another turn or +two, he tossed away his cigarette with a vicious jerk, sought out the +most secluded portion of the deck—a recess near the ship's +funnels—and, appropriating a steamer chair, flung himself into it. +</P> + +<P> +He had barely ensconced himself there, however, when, with a muttered +oath, he sat angrily upright in the chair again. Was there no place on +the cursed ship where he could be alone for five minutes with his own +thoughts? He had left the dance after a heated, if short, altercation +with Myrna, been annoyed by the advances of those on deck, and now two +women had elected to halt within earshot of him around the corner to +<I>discuss</I> him! +</P> + +<P> +"Well," murmured a voice sweetly, "have you met the famous Monsieur +Laparde yet?" +</P> + +<P> +"No"—eagerly. "Have you?" +</P> + +<P> +"No—not exactly, my dear"—patronisingly. "But I'll promise to +introduce you in the morning." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, <I>will</I> you? How perfectly gorgeous! You <I>are</I> a dear! But how +have you managed it? Tell me all about it! I'm simply dying to know +how you succeeded!" +</P> + +<P> +"It wasn't at all difficult"—in naïve self-disparagement. "I met Mr. +Bliss. He's simply charming, and so unaffected! He is going to tell +me all about the art schools in Paris—of course, I'm terribly +interested! There are three in their party, you know—Mr. Bliss and +his daughter, and Monsieur Laparde." +</P> + +<P> +"Do you think she's pretty? I don't see what all the men are raving +about! And did you notice her dress to-night—those black velvet +shoulder straps are actually startling!" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes—<I>aren't</I> they? I've heard so many remarks about them! But I +suppose she is pretty—in a way. It's being whispered around that she +is going to marry Monsieur Laparde. I wonder if it's true?" +</P> + +<P> +"Huh!"—with a sniff. "Well, if it is true, Monsieur Laparde does not +do what I would do if I were a man in his place. It's simply +outrageous the way she carries on, if she's engaged. I wouldn't stand +it for a moment! She must have the wool pretty thoroughly pulled over +his eyes, if he imagines she is in love with him!" +</P> + +<P> +"In love with his name, my dear"—in cooing amendment. "I don't +suppose she <I>does</I> care for anything else. She doesn't appeal to me as +that kind of a woman. I'm sure I think just as you do about her. I +wouldn't care to trust her very far from what I've seen of her—she's +the sort that always strikes me as being capable of saying <I>anything</I> +behind one's back! She flirts mercilessly!" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes; and fancy a man like Monsieur Laparde permitting himself to be +made ridiculous! Did you notice this morning, when everybody wanted to +walk, that the deck was utterly impassable with her court spreading +their chairs two or three deep all around her? Of course, one can't +<I>say</I> anything! And all the time she had Monsieur Laparde trotting +back and forth like an overgrown errand boy, carrying books and wraps +and—" +</P> + +<P> +"No, my dear, you are quite wrong there. She couldn't make a man like +Monsieur Laparde ridiculous—she could only make one feel sorry for +him." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, anyway, it's quite evident that she—oh, isn't that Lord Mornely +just going inside? Gracious, I had no idea I was getting so cold! Do +come! I'm nearly perished! We'll catch our deaths out here!" +</P> + +<P> +The arms of the steamer chair creaked as Jean's hands clenched upon +them. His face was crimson with passion. What right had these cursed +and <I>banale</I> women to meddle in his affairs, and to discuss him? His +hands gripped harder on the chair and it creaked again. So, then, this +was the talk and gossip of the ship—and everybody knew it! If it were +idle talk he could have laughed at it, and gone and bowed before them +sardonically, and taken his revenge in their confusion; but it was +true, and it only made his fury the greater. They had but voiced his +own thoughts of five minutes ago, and his thoughts of yesterday, and of +the day before, and of the days before that, since almost from the +moment indeed that Myrna had promised to be his wife—the moment that +once, like a poor, deluded fool, he had thought would be counted the +greatest in his life! A hundred little things during his convalescence +had been like signposts of bitter disappointment. She cared nothing +for Jean Laparde the man; she was marrying Jean Laparde the +sculptor-genius, whose name was on every tongue! She did not know the +meaning of love! She loved only what his name might bring her. There +was no tenderness, no intimacy. She <I>put up</I> with him—<I>sacré +nom</I>!—that was all! He had refused to believe it in those few days in +Paris. He had shut his eyes to it then. He could not shut his eyes to +it here on board ship—where everybody's eyes, even those damned cats'! +were open. And now she seemed to assume that, since he was her +property, her possession, and that the whole matter, as far as it +concerned her, was quite and entirely settled to her satisfaction, she +could devote herself to a new affair every half-hour, while he, he, +Jean Laparde, the great Laparde, looked on—and grinned! +</P> + +<P> +He rose savagely from his chair, and, turning up the collar of his +ulster and pulling his cap far down over his eyes, went along to the +extreme end of the deck. Here, unprotected by the canvas +weather-cloths such as those along the ship's side that closed in the +promenade, sheltering the passengers from the damp, driving mist of a +North Atlantic fog, it was wet and uninviting enough to guarantee him +immunity from any intrusion. Below him, as he looked over the rail, +the steerage deck, dim, dismal, forbidding, was deserted save for a few +people, who, probably choosing the lesser of two evils, braving the +night in preference to sharing the fetid atmosphere below with many +hundred others, were huddled about in miserable discomfort. He stared +at this sight for a moment; then turned around, and leaned with his +back against the rail to face the gay, brilliantly-lighted scene far +down at the other end of the promenade deck. He watched this +sullenly—the extravagantly gowned women and their escorts coming and +going like hiving bees from the deck to the saloon ... clustering +around the entrance ... retailing the ship's gossip ... a breath of air +... a cigarette ... and back to the dance again. Who cared what the +night was like? Who cared if, far up above on the mighty liner's +bridge, oil-skinned figures peered out anxiously into the night? Who +cared or thought of those huddled forms on the steerage deck? Who +cared—the sea was smooth, and one could dance? +</P> + +<P> +Jean dug his hands deep down into his pockets and closed them fiercely. +The long, hoarse-throated cry of the fog siren boomed out and vibrated +through the ship—and died away; and, sharp in contrast, came again the +calm, steady pulse and throb of the engines, and laughter, and the +dreamy, sobbing notes of a waltz. +</P> + +<P> +And now a depression, utter and profound, a more grievous thing than +the fury that had preceded it, was settling upon him. It was not only +Myrna, the knowledge forced home upon him that he was but a vehicle for +her ambitions, that their marriage was to be a hollow thing, a form, a +husk covering the semblance of love—it was the sea! Until this trip +he had not seen it since he had left Bernay-sur-Mer. It held a +thousand memories. He had fought them back angrily, defiantly ever +since he had come on board—but they had been present almost from the +hour that the shores of the France he loved had faded from sight, and +at unexpected moments this thing and that had flashed suddenly upon +him, striking with quick, stabbing passes under his guard. But now, +his spirits at a low ebb, reckless of combating even poignant +memories—those memories were surging overwhelmingly upon him. It +seemed to mirror his life like some strange kaleidoscope, the sea that +he had always known; it seemed to stir something within him that was +soul-deep in his life—the smell of it in his nostrils, the feel of it +upon his cheeks was flinging wide apart now the floodgates of the past. +</P> + +<P> +Living, vivid before him was the sparkling, wonderful blue of that +southern sea, fringed with the little white cottages of Bernay-sur-Mer +that had been his home; and beneath bare feet he felt again the smooth, +fine, yielding sand upon the beach where as a baby he had crawled, +where still a baby he had taken his first step, where as a man he had +struggled for his place among men and once had played a man's part. +The cheery voices of the fishermen as they launched their boats were in +his ears; they called to him; and laughed; and, because all were his +friends, twitted him good-naturedly, twitted him and teased him +about—about Marie-Louise. Marie-Louise! A low, sharp, involuntary +cry of pain rose to his lips. With a violent effort he tried to shake +himself free from his thoughts—but it was as though he were in the +grip of some strange, immutable power that held him bound and shackled, +while with lightning-like rapidity, whether he would or no, upon him +rushed the ever-changing scenes. The face of Madame Fregeau, his +foster-mother, coarse-featured perhaps, but beautiful because it was a +sweet and wholesome face, came before him; and her arms that were +rough, and red, and shapeless were around his neck in an old-time +embrace. She had loved him, the good Mother Fregeau! Came the faces +of Pierre Lachance, of Papa Fregeau, of little Ninon, of a score of +toddling mites clapping their hands in childish ecstasy over the clay +<I>poupées</I> he had made for them—and all these had been his friends. +And all these were gone now, all were gone, and in their place +was—what? He raised his head. Hoarse-tongued, the siren cried again. +It seemed like the wail of a lost soul out-flung into the night, into +the vastness, calling, calling where there was none to answer—echoing +the loneliness that was filling his heart that night. +</P> + +<P> +He had forgotten all these things in Paris; he had made himself +forget—and besides there had been Myrna. He had fought for her, +striven for her tempestuously, fiercely, as a prize that nor heaven nor +hell could hold back from him—and, ghastly in its mocking irony, it +was only when the prize was won that, like some wondrously beautiful, +iridescent bubble, glorious in its colours as the sunlight played upon +it, it burst and nothing but the dregs of it remained as he reached out +and grasped it in his hands. He had looked for the love, the passion +that he could give in return; he had found only a cold-blooded +strategical move on the checkerboard of social aspirations. He was not +blind any more—nor angry. It was only a profound and bitter +loneliness that he knew. It would be a dreary thing, that +marriage—and dreary years. Once, when he had no right, he had forced +his kisses upon her; he had no more inclination now to force from her +what should be so freely offered—and was withheld! +</P> + +<P> +Who cared for Jean Laparde? Not Myrna! He had bought her as he had +sworn he would buy her, and his own words had come true—with fame. He +was the great Laparde! But who cared for <I>Jean</I> Laparde? None that he +knew now! All that was in the past; all that was in the little village +on the Mediterranean shore in the days when he had made the clay +<I>poupées</I> on the banks of the creek, and dreamed of that wondrous dream +statue that had been so real a thing to him—and now even that was +gone—and he was alone. +</P> + +<P> +Ah, they were back again, those scenes of Bernay-sur-Mer! Whose face +was that? Gaston Bernier! Old Gaston! And what was this that he was +living again, that was so cruel in its realism? That night on the +Perigeau ... that night when old Gaston died ... that day when he had +made the beacon for Marie-Louise, the beacon with its arms outstretched +that—he covered his face suddenly with his hands. If he could only +strangle these thoughts—God, the loneliness and the pain they brought! +</P> + +<P> +How the strains of that waltz seemed to sob out like some +broken-hearted, lost and wandering thing! He shivered a little. How +cold the night was, how wet and damp! How the engines throbbed, +throbbed, throbbed, and seemed to catch the tempo of the distant music, +and like muffled drums beat time to it as to a dirge! +</P> + +<P> +His hands dropped to his sides. From far down the deck came Myrna's +rippling, silvery peal of laughter; and, through the group around her, +he caught the sparkle of the magnificent diamond necklace at her +throat, the white, fluffy wrap of fur thrown across her shoulders—and +heard her laugh again. And at her laugh, he turned bitterly around to +the rail to face the night as the ship drove into it, to let the wind +and the wet mist blow into his face, to look down on the steerage deck +below him. What a contrast! There, just beneath where he stood, in +the filmy light that shone out from an open alleyway, alone, +unsheltered, a pathetic figure in the drifting mist, her clothes damp +around her, a woman leaned with bowed head against the ship's side. A +wave of pity, but a pity that knew bitterness and irony, came upon him. +What would he read in the face of this poor immigrant if he could but +see it? Misery? She looked miserable enough! Loneliness? Was she +lonely, too? Was she as lonely as he? And then, as though in answer +to his thoughts, she turned suddenly, lifting her face, and with a +gesture of infinite yearning, of infinite longing, stretched out her +arms toward the land, toward France, so far behind. +</P> + +<P> +He did not move. He uttered no sound. In that moment, as she made +that gesture, he was living only subconsciously. It was his beacon +with outstretched arms, with those pure, perfect lips, with that sweet, +gentle face, beautiful even with the pallor that was upon it. <I>It was +Marie-Louise</I>! +</P> + +<P> +The voices, the waltz strains, the throb of the engine, the sounds +about him, the lift and fall of the liner's deck, the blackness of the +night, all were blotted from him. He was conscious only of that figure +on the deck below. There she stood, her arms +outstretched—outstretched as he had modelled her in that figure that +first had brought him fame, and his own words of the days gone by were +ringing in his ears again. "See, it is a beacon—the welcome of the +fisherman home from the sea. And are you not that, Marie-Louise, and +will you not stand on the shore at evening and hold out your arms for +me as I pull home in the boat? Are you not the beacon, +Marie-Louise—for me?" A welcome he had called it then, that posture +of outstretched arms, that now symbolised, mute in its anguish, the +tearing away from her of all that life had ever held to make it glad +and joyous, the love of cherished France, her native country, her home, +the friends that made home dear, those that loved her, those she loved. +Those she loved! And of them all, she had loved him, Jean Laparde—the +most! It seemed to sound the depths of some abysmal treason in his +soul. Whom or what had she to welcome now? It seemed to sum up all +the tragedy that life could hold, and sweep upon him and engulf him. +It was Marie-Louise standing there on the steerage deck! It was +Marie-Louise! He did not need to ask why—the answer was in his own +soul. +</P> + +<P> +And now a moan broke from his lips; and condemnation, stripped of +mercy, naked, bare in its remorseless arraignment, surged upon him. +Honour, and glory, and wealth, and power, and fame, and luxury were +his—and what had she, alone here in the cold, wet misery of the +steerage, driven to the deck perhaps for a breath of pure air from +where below a thousand, babel-tongued, were cattle-herded? What had +she—where he had all? If the memories of that little white-cottaged +haven on the sun-kissed shores of the Mediterranean had brought him a +bitter loneliness—what must those memories be bringing to her? There, +in Bernay-sur-Mer, was the only life that she had ever known; there +were the simple folk who loved her; there were her friends, her +associations; there was her little world; there was her all—and he had +driven her from it! As surely as though by brutal physical force, he +had driven her from it! Yes; he had done that! That was why she was +here! +</P> + +<P> +His face, grey as the mist around him, went down on his arms upon the +rail, and a sob shook the great shoulders. Where were the dreams that +she and he had dreamed of life there together in the love that had +known its birth in childhood? Where were they? Who had shattered +them, that she was no longer there, but stood an outcast, friendless +and alone, here in the steerage of the ship that was taking her from +France? Where was the oath that he had sworn to Gaston as the brave +old fisherman had died? "There is a crucifix there; swear that you +will guard her and that you will let no harm come to her." Forsworn! +A traitor! He had chosen fame, and power, and position—and she, in +her pure, unselfish love, had stood aside for him! +</P> + +<P> +Again the sullen boom of the siren mourned out into the night, held, +quavered, died away. Silence, intense, absolute! Then, stealing again +upon the senses, the slap and wash of water against the liner's hull, +the medley of a thousand ship sounds. +</P> + +<P> +"<I>God</I>!"—the soul-torn cry fluttered from Jean's lips. +</P> + +<P> +He had chosen wealth, and power, and fame, and position, and they had +been Marie-Louise's gift to him—and his gift to her in return had been +the bitterest dregs of life! And now wealth, and power, and fame, and +position were his to-day, his beyond that of any other man's, he knew +them all; they were his; he knew the adulation and the fawning of the +great; but out of it all, out of the pomp and pageantry and the +glitter, the tinsel and the gleam of gold, where was the one supreme, +undying, immortal truth of life—who cared for Jean Laparde? +</P> + +<P> +And then, as he raised his head and looked at her again, a strange, +glad wonder crept upon him. Who cared for Jean Laparde? Out of all +the world, who cared for Jean Laparde? In the figure there, +wind-swept, the damp, thin clothing clinging closely about her form, in +the face, half-veiled by the night and mist, he saw again that figure +on the Perigeau Reef that once he had been man enough to risk his all, +his life to save; and the kiss that had been his, the kiss that pledged +them to each other in the fury of that storm, seemed warm again upon +his lips—a pledge again—his answer! Who cared for Jean Laparde? +</P> + +<P> +He strained toward her over the rail. It seemed as though some flame +of glory were lighting up her face, and, reflected back, was lighting +up his own soul with understanding. Those lips, the face, the throat, +everything, all—he knew it now!—it was <I>she</I> that he had been +modelling there in Paris! It was she who was the womanhood of France +to him because her soul and his were one, she who had been living in +his heart, she that he loved—she who cared for Jean Laparde! +</P> + +<P> +He lifted his head, bared now, far back on the massive shoulders. +There was one way, and one way only, that he could claim her now. To +be the Jean Laparde of old again! To slough from him the trappings +that had stood a barrier between them! To be the Jean Laparde again of +the world she knew! +</P> + +<P> +He leaned further over the rail. She was moving away. He watched her, +his face aglow—watched her until she was lost in the darkness along +the deck. +</P> + +<P> +"Marie-Louise! Marie-Louise!" he whispered, and reached out his arms. +"I am coming to you, Marie-Louise—my beacon—to you, Marie-Louise." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap0211"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +— XI — +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +THE "DEATH" OF JEAN LAPARDE +</H4> + +<P> +How wonderful the metamorphosis in all around him! How glad and gay +and happy were the waltz strains floating merrily upon the air from far +down the deck, how exquisite the melody and harmony rippling through +the chords! And the chill and ugliness of the night were gone; and the +loneliness was gone; and it was as though a glorious moonlit, +star-decked sky were overhead; and the wet mist that drove upon him was +as some magical, refreshing balm that laved his face! And in his heart +was song. +</P> + +<P> +"Marie-Louise! Marie-Louise! I am coming to you, Marie-Louise—my +beacon—to you, Marie-Louise." He stretched out his arms again across +the rail; and then turning, and hurrying because there was a lightness +in his steps that would not let them lag, he sought the deck +companionway close at hand, and ran up to the deck above. +</P> + +<P> +Not concrete yet, only dim and misty in his mind a plan took form. +Only one thing stood out, sharp-lined, clear, absolute, irrevocable in +itself—he must go to Marie-Louise paying the price. For, apart from +all else, apart from the certainty that if he went to her as the great +Laparde she would only bid him return again, not in bitterness but in +her splendid self-abnegation, apart from this—how else could he make +her believe him? He, a man who once had forsworn his oath; he, who +once, in her stead, had chosen in ghastly selfishness the fame, the +position, the place that were now his—how else could he make her +believe him? How else, unless he flung them from him, when once for +these very things, a traitor to his manhood and to her, he had turned +his back upon her, could she believe that now he held them as naught +compared to her; how else could she believe that in his soul and heart, +dominant, supreme, lived now only a love for her, greater than it had +ever been because it was chastened now, a love near like to her own +great wondrous love that she had offered him—and he had spurned? How +else—unless to-night the great Laparde should die, and in his place +should live again the Jean Laparde she once had known, the humble +fisherman of Bernay-sur-Mer? The fisherman of Bernay-sur-Mer! Yes, +that was it! It seemed to crystallise suddenly, sharply, into +definite, tangible form, the shadowy, nebulous plan that, from the +moment his decision had been made as he had stood and watched her there +below him on the steerage deck, had been seeking for expression in his +mind. The fisherman of Bernay-sur-Mer! None would recognise in the +fisherman of Bernay-sur-Mer the Jean Laparde that the world knew—none +save her! +</P> + +<P> +He was before the door of his luxurious deck-suite, and in feverish +excitement now he flung it open, closed and locked it behind him, +switched on the lights, and ran through the sitting-room into the +bedroom beyond. Here, where there had been confusion, his things +thrown everywhere when he had dressed for dinner and the dance, all was +now in order, and his two steamer trunks were neatly stowed away—the +steward's work—beneath the brass bed. He dropped on his knees, and +hurriedly dragged one out—the one that Myrna Bliss had chosen for him +that day when they had gone to Marseilles from Bernay-sur-Mer. If only +Hector had not disturbed it! <I>Bon Dieu</I>, if Hector had not meddled +with it! He wrenched up the lid. It was Marie-Louise who had thrust +that fisherman's suit into his arms that day when she had told him he +was free! What was it she had said? Yes, yes! "Promise me, Jean, +that you will keep these with you always, and that sometimes in your +great world you will look at them and remember—that they too belong to +France." And he had laid them in the bottom of the trunk; and, because +he had not forgotten so soon, when Hector, whom he had found already +installed at the studio, had unpacked for him on his first arrival in +Paris, he had told Hector always to leave them there, never to take +them out—but after that he had forgotten. He lifted out the tray, and +began to remove the clothing that lay beneath it. It was Hector who +had packed the trunk for the journey, and—with an exultant cry, he +straightened up, the old, worn, heavy boots, the coarse socks still +tucked into their tops, in his hands. +</P> + +<P> +He put these down, and reached into the trunk again. Yes, they were +all here—the cap; the woollen shirt; the rough suit, crumpled, +white-spotted with the old salt stains of the sea. +</P> + +<P> +And then for a moment he stood and looked at them—and looked about the +cabin—and for a moment fear came. As a blow that staggered him there +fell upon him the full significance of their glaring contrast with the +rich fittings of the stateroom-de-luxe about him. They seemed to mock +at him, these garments, and jeeringly bid him put them back again into +the trunk—as he <I>had</I> done once before. What hideously insincere jest +did he imagine he was playing with himself, they sneered at him! What +had he to do with toil, and poverty, and hardship, with the life these +things stood for—he who knew the palaces of kings, he who had luxury, +he who had fame, he who had all that he had ever longed for, he who had +everything that money, that position, that authority could procure, he +who had but to rub the lamp and demand of the world his will? +</P> + +<P> +"No, no!" he cried out suddenly aloud—and, with a quick, impulsive +movement, tore off his ulster and threw it on the bed. It was +Marie-Louise now—Marie-Louise! Once she had given her all for him. +It was Marie-Louise, wonderful, beautiful, pitiful, the saddest soul in +all the world, out there alone on the steerage deck! +</P> + +<P> +And then he stood still again, hesitant, listening. Some one was +knocking on the cabin door. And now the door was tried—the knock +repeated. Disturbed, uncertain, he still hesitated—then, stepping +into the sitting-room, he closed the connecting door between it and the +bedroom, and unlocked and opened the door to the deck. +</P> + +<P> +It was Henry Bliss. +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, you're here, Jean!" the other exclaimed, with what was obviously +an attempt at unconcern, as he stepped into the cabin. "I've been +looking for you all over the ship. What are you doing up here in your +room alone, with all this gaiety going on below? Eh—what's the +matter?" +</P> + +<P> +Jean stared at Henry Bliss a little sullenly. Since the other had +come, was there—it remained only to get rid of him as soon as possible. +</P> + +<P> +"There is nothing the matter," he said shortly—and shrugged his +shoulders. +</P> + +<P> +Henry Bliss frowned, and rubbed his hand over his chin nervously. +</P> + +<P> +"Confound it, Jean!" he burst out abruptly. "I know better! You and +Myrna have been having another—er—another misunderstanding. In fact, +she—that is, I discovered it a few moments ago. I"—he glanced about +him as though to make sure they were alone, and caught Jean's arm +confidentially—"I spoke to her very seriously, very seriously about +it. I—I am sure it is nothing. It is only that you take these things +very much to heart, Jean, while she laughs at them." +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Pardieu</I>!" ejaculated Jean ironically. "That is so!" +</P> + +<P> +"No, no!" said Henry Bliss, hurriedly and in confusion. "No—I—that +is not what I meant, Jean. Not at all what I meant! I mean that if +she takes it lightly, it cannot—er—be so—er—" +</P> + +<P> +"I know what you mean," said Jean moodily. "I have discovered it for +myself." +</P> + +<P> +"Tut, tut!" protested Henry Bliss anxiously. "This will never do at +all, Jean! You must both make an effort to understand each other +better. Myrna is very—er—high-spirited—very! You see that, of +course, Jean—eh? Well? Tut, tut! That is all! You must not be too +firm or—er—exacting with her at first. I have found—that is, I have +not found that to be the most tactful way of handling her. Now slip on +your overcoat, my boy, and we'll go down together." +</P> + +<P> +Again Jean shrugged his shoulders. Would it be necessary to open the +door and bow even Henry Bliss out? +</P> + +<P> +"No," he said, with pointed finality; "not now. I prefer to remain +here for a little while—alone." +</P> + +<P> +Henry Bliss, perturbed and upset, coughed uneasily—and suddenly began +to fumble through his pockets. His fingers encountering first a cigar, +he took it out mechanically, and, as evidence of the composure he did +not possess, bit off the end with deliberate care. Then he fumbled +through his pockets again, and this time produced a marconigram. He +tapped it playfully with one finger, and smiled engagingly at Jean. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, well, I knew I had a panacea with me," he said cheerily. "This +came by wireless half an hour ago; it's what sent me out on the hunt +for you, and ran me into Myrna, and made me stumble on the lovers' +quarrel that I am sure will end just like all the rest of them—eh—my +boy? Listen!"—unfolding the message. "It is from a gentleman with +whom I am well acquainted, who is very prominent in art circles in New +York, stating that he has just learned that you are en route for +America, and asking, on behalf of the leading New York societies, if +you will accept a public reception on the steamer's arrival in New +York. There you are, my boy! Think of that! I promise you that it +will be something to eclipse anything you could imagine. We <I>do</I> +things in America—if I say it myself! It will be the triumph of your +career. Bands, flags, bunting, cheers, the dock <I>en fête</I>—to say +nothing of reporters"—he was laughing now, and patting Jean's arm +excitedly. "They'll show you, my boy, what they think of Jean Laparde +in America! That's the kind of a welcome they're getting ready for +you—it will be the greatest moment of your life! But here"—he stole +an almost wistful glance at Jean, and stepping over to the writing desk +at the side of the cabin, laid the marconigram down—"I'll just leave +this here, and"—he coughed again, and moved tactfully to the +door—"and you just kind of think about that instead of anything else, +and—er—in about half an hour or so, I'll bring Myrna along up, and +we'll talk it all over together—eh—my boy?" +</P> + +<P> +He waved his hand genially, and, without waiting for a reply, went out. +</P> + +<P> +For a moment Jean did not move; then his eyes, as though drawn +irresistibly in that direction, shifted from the door that had closed +on Henry Bliss to the marconigram lying on the desk—and abruptly he +walked over and picked up the wireless message. He read it through +laboriously, for his English still came hard to him—and read it again, +more slowly, lingering over the words, muttering snatches of the +sentences aloud. "... Shall spare no effort ... endeavour worthily to +express our sentiments ... splendid genius of which France is so justly +proud..." +</P> + +<P> +And, holding it there in his hands, a dull flush came and spread itself +over Jean's face. The triumph of his career, Henry Bliss had said—the +greatest moment of his life! This great and wonderful America, of +which he had heard so much, was waiting for him eagerly—waiting for +him—Jean Laparde—Jean Laparde! This was to be his welcome to that +New Land where all was on a scale so tremendous and magnificent. To +his ears there came the mighty roar of thousands shouting again and +again the name of Jean Laparde; before his eyes a sea of faces looked +up into his from dense-lined streets as he drove along—and all, all in +that vast multitude were cheering, waving, acclaiming Jean Laparde. +They were waiting for him there at the gateway to America, open-handed, +royal in their hospitality, to pay him honour such as he had never +known before. They were waiting for him there—for him—for Jean +Laparde! They were waiting— +</P> + +<P> +The flush faded from his face, and a whiteness came, and upon his +forehead oozed out a bead of moisture—and, as the seconds passed, he +hung there almost limply, swaying a little in the agony that was upon +him. And then slowly the paper that was in his hands was torn across, +and the pieces fluttered to the floor, and the great head rose proud in +kingship on the broad shoulders—the kingship of himself, the kingship +of Jean Laparde. +</P> + +<P> +Ay, they were waiting for him—but there was another beside who was +waiting too! He looked at the torn pieces of paper on the floor—and +his laugh rang suddenly clear and buoyant through the cabin. Once he +had sold his soul for such as that; but to-night, in spite of these +devil's tempters that sought to shake his resolution—there was his +answer! There was his answer—the answer that had come to him through +the fog and mist as through a veil rent suddenly asunder, the answer +that was in Marie-Louise's outstretched arms, the answer that was in +her banishment from the friends and the France she loved, in the bitter +wrong that he had done, in her love that now he knew for its priceless +worth! There in that torn paper was his answer! +</P> + +<P> +And he laughed again—and as he laughed, he ran to the door and locked +it for the second time. There would be no more of that, no more +interruption, no more of those tempter thoughts, no more of them! And, +for the moment, no more thought even of Marie-Louise. He had need to +centre all his attention upon his immediate acts now, for he must be +very careful what he did. And he had little time—had not Henry Bliss +said that in half an hour he would return with Myrna? +</P> + +<P> +He ran back into the bedroom, tore off his coat, vest and shirt; and, +catching up his toilet-case, hurried into the bathroom. Here, he +clipped off his beard and shaved it close—then quickly, a sort of +tense, keyed-up excitement constantly growing upon him, he returned +once more to the bedroom, and, stripping off the remainder of his +clothes, began to put on the fisherman's suit. How heavy and stiff the +boots felt upon his feet, how rough and coarse the socks were against +his skin—and yet how their familiarity thrilled him! He swung his +arms, wondering and laughing at the free play of his muscles in the +loose shirt, and memories and thoughts began to press upon him—but he +checked them almost instantly, for there was no time now for that. +</P> + +<P> +He finished dressing hastily. He must leave no clue behind him that +would occasion even a suspicion that he had not carried out the purpose +that the world, and essentially those on board the ship, must be made +to believe was the last act of Jean Laparde. Amongst a thousand, +amongst the conglomerate races that cluttered the ship's steerage, +where even amongst themselves few knew each other, where difference in +language precluded all but the most scattered and superficial +acquaintanceship, none would recognise Jean Laparde in the rough-garbed +fisherman—provided always that no search was instituted, provided +always that there should be no <I>incentive</I> in the mind of any one to +search, provided always that it was accepted as a fact—that Jean +Laparde was dead! He could not hope perhaps, between now and the time +they reached New York, or, at least, on landing, to escape the +attention of the ship's officers or the shore officials; but with Jean +Laparde a suicide in the mist and fog of that Atlantic night, he would +be no more to them than one as rough and ignorant and poor as those +others in the steerage—no more than a stowaway. +</P> + +<P> +Jean dropped down on his knees again beside the trunk, and began to +replace the articles he had been obliged to remove in order to get at +the fisherman's suit. Nothing—not a sign of anything approaching +disorder must appear. They would look through everything—Myrna and +her father! He shrugged his shoulders whimsically. The visit of Henry +Bliss to the cabin, the other's knowledge of the quarrel with Myrna, +the other's concern over his, Jean's, moodiness, was, after all, not to +be regretted! It would have its significance for Henry Bliss! +</P> + +<P> +He pushed the trunk back beside its mate under the bed. Money now! A +sudden, sharp exclamation, almost of dismay, escaped him. He had +little or no money—a few French notes, sufficient for his needs on +board ship only. Monsieur Bliss had said more was unnecessary—that he +could make drafts through the other's banking connections in New York +as he needed them. He searched through the clothes he had taken off, +found his pocketbook, opened it, and counted the contents—five +twenty-franc notes, a ten-franc gold piece, some silver—that was all! +Less than twenty-five dollars in American money! Well, if it was +all—it was all! It could not be helped! He shoved the pocketbook +philosophically into his pocket; and, gathering up the clothes he had +worn, tied them into a bundle. There remained only the heavy ulster. +</P> + +<P> +He looked slowly, critically about him; and, satisfied that he had +overlooked nothing, walked swiftly into the sitting-room, seated +himself at the writing desk, and, from one of its pigeon-holes, pulled +out a sheet of the ship's notepaper. He hesitated a moment +thoughtfully—then picked up a pen. +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Je m'ennui de tout</I>—I am tired of it all," he wrote. He balanced +the pen in his fingers, and stared at the words cynically. What a +commotion it would cause! What food for excitement, for the hysteria +of those who cared nothing save for the self-importance it brought them +in being so intimately connected with so famous a tragedy as to have +been on the <I>same</I> ship where it occurred! They would remember what he +had eaten for dinner that night, and quarrel over who had last seen +him; and they would envelope themselves with an air of pained and +morbid gloom—and cling to the gloom tenaciously because they delighted +in it! What an event! And out of them all, with the exception of +Henry Bliss, there was none who—ah, yes! Ironically, as the grim +humour of it struck him, a smile curled Jean's lips. The stewards who +had looked after him would care very much! That one might die, if one +wished, was all very well; but to be inconsiderate enough to jump +overboard without leaving the <I>douceurs</I> of the voyage behind, could be +construed as nothing less than a personal affront! He reached suddenly +into his pocket, the irony of the thought lost in a flash of +inspiration, and pulled out his pocketbook. It was the one crowning +touch required to stamp as a fact, beyond a peradventure of doubt, the +conviction that he had made away with himself. He could ill spare any +of the money; but he could much less afford to ignore anything that +would lend colour to his plan and so minimise the risk of discovery! +He opened the pocketbook again, took from it three of the twenty-franc +notes, tucked these into his pocket, and laid the pocketbook with the +balance of the money inside of it down upon the desk. It was not a +fitting amount, doubtless—but there was his pocketbook and all there +was in it! What more could any one give? He took up his pen, and +finished his note. "Please divide what is in my pocketbook amongst my +stewards. Adieu! Jean." +</P> + +<P> +He folded the note, placed it in an envelope, sealed it, addressed it +to Henry Bliss, and, carrying it with him, returned to the bedroom and +pinned it securely to the sleeve of his ulster. Then, taking up both +the ulster and the bundle he had made of the clothes in which he had +been dressed that evening, and leaving the lights turned on, he went to +the outer cabin door, opened it cautiously, and peered out. Here, on +the upper deck, there was no one in sight. He opened the door wide, +marked the spot where the light, flooding from the room, lay across the +ship's rail; then, stepping out on the deck, he closed the door softly +behind him. +</P> + +<P> +For a moment he stood in the darkness, looking about him, listening. +There was nothing—only the ship-sounds—only the confused voices and +laughter of the passengers on the deck below—only, faint-borne, the +music from the ship's saloon. And then, he crept across the deck to +the rail; and, drawing himself back to give his arm full play, he +hurled the bundle with all his strength far out over the ship's +side—and as he hurled it, in requiem as it were for Jean Laparde, +through the night there crashed, and boomed, and moaned, and whined +anew the sullen blast of the siren. +</P> + +<P> +It startled him momentarily; but the next instant he stooped and laid +the ulster upon the deck beside the rail. It was perhaps fastidious in +a suicide to remove his ulster, but the light from his room, when the +door was opened, that would shine upon the white paper pinned on the +sleeve, would disclose a sufficient motive! +</P> + +<P> +It was done! In all the world now for him there was only one to share +his life—a life whose future course he could not see, nor guess; but a +life where, greatest of all gifts, most splendid of all splendours, was +love. There was but one—only one—and that one out of all the world +was she alone who cared for Jean Laparde. And she did not know yet +that he was there, that he was going to her, that he would never leave +her again—but in a moment she would know! In only another moment now +I Ah, he could see the pure, beautiful face shine in welcome with the +gladdest light it had ever known; the great eyes, deep, true and +fearless, grow dim and misty in their wondrous smile; those lips, +divine in contour, lift in tenderest passion to his; her arms stretch +out, no more in cruel longing, in bitter emptiness, but stretch +out—stretch out to him! +</P> + +<P> +"Marie-Louise! Marie-Louise!"—like a prayer, softly, he breathed her +name; and, thrilled, eager, his blood afire, he turned from the rail, +and ran to the deck companionway. +</P> + +<P> +Barring a possible encounter with a ship's officer who might stop and +question him, he would have little trouble in reaching the steerage +deck. He was not obliged to enter any part of the ship's saloons or +alley-ways—he had only to descend to the deck below, and from there it +was but a half dozen steps to the head of the ladder with its little +sign "passengers forbidden" that led directly to the steerage deck. +True, it was possible that some of the steerage passengers might notice +him descending the ladder, but they would be too far away and it was +too dark for them to see his face from any distance; and to them, in +any event, unaccustomed to question, it would mean nothing more, if +indeed they gave it any thought at all, than some one of the ship's +crew in the ordinary performance of his duty. +</P> + +<P> +At the head of the companionway Jean stopped to assure himself that the +saloon passengers were still avoiding the wet, unsheltered portion of +the deck beneath; and then, descending quickly, he stole across the +deck-space below, gained the second ladder, and, boldly now, but with +the swift agility born of the fishing days of Bernay-sur-Mer that any +seaman might have envied, swung himself down to the steerage deck. And +here, almost leisurely, he turned, and, seeking the darkest shadows, +and so disappearing from the sight of any of the steerage passengers +who, still huddled about the deck, might have noticed him, he stood +motionless, close up against the ship's superstructure. It was perhaps +an exaggerated precaution; but it would preclude the possibility of any +one of them connecting him, when he eventually went amongst them, with +the man who had come down the ladder and presumably had disappeared in +some, to them mysterious, where all was mysterious, recess of the ship. +</P> + +<P> +His heart was pounding, he could feel the hot blood flush his cheeks, +as his eyes strained through the gloom and semi-darkness, searching the +deck. Was she still there—somewhere? Surely, surely she had not yet +gone below! For then it would be very hard, perhaps impossible, to +find her until to-morrow, and he could not wait so long as that; for it +was to-night that he was to take Marie-Louise in his arms again, and +hold her there, and stand, they two, and look into each other's eyes, +glad, beyond any gladness else, in the love that God had given back to +them. To-morrow? No! To-night! To-night! It must be to-night! +Surely she was still here! Yes—who was that, whose form he could just +make out in the darkness at the ship's side far along the deck? +</P> + +<P> +He moved quickly now, still keeping in the shadows, until he reached +the side of the ship furthest away from the ladder by which he had +descended, and then stepped out across the deck. He passed little +knots of people, and voices in strange tongues that he had never heard +before fell upon his ears; but he gave them no heed—there was only +that figure, alone, apart, toward which he was hurrying. And +now—yes—he was sure! Her back was turned, and, as before, she was +leaning ever the ship's side, but—yes—yes—it was Marie-Louise! +</P> + +<P> +He halted a yard away from her, trembling with an emotion that brought +a strange weakness to his limbs, and reached out his arms—her name +quivering, low and passionate, his soul in his voice, upon his lips. +</P> + +<P> +"Marie-Louise!" +</P> + +<P> +She turned sharply, in a frightened, startled way, and for a moment +stared at him; and then, even in the darkness, he could see her face +grow deathly white, while her hand groped blindly out behind her for +support. +</P> + +<P> +"Dead!" she whispered. "I was praying to the <I>bon Dieu</I> for you, Jean. +And now you are dead, and you have come to me." +</P> + +<P> +"Ay!" he cried blunderingly in his joy. "Ay, that is true, +Marie-Louise! Jean Laparde is dead!" +</P> + +<P> +She moaned a little, and shrank back, and pressed her hands to her face. +</P> + +<P> +"Dead!" she whispered again. "You are dead, Jean, and you have come to +me." +</P> + +<P> +She was swaying as he caught her in his arms. Fool, accursed fool, +that he had not understood! +</P> + +<P> +"No, no; Marie-Louise, <I>chérie, ma bien-aimée</I>!" he said tenderly. +"See, are my arms not real about you? See, it is I, it is really I! +It is not death, it is love that has brought me! See, Marie-Louise, +lie very still for a little while in my arms, and you will not be any +more afraid." +</P> + +<P> +It seemed as though for a space she were in a faint, so white her face +was, so quiet she lay; and then her hand felt out and touched his +shoulder, and his face, and his hair in a wondering, hesitant, +incredulous way. +</P> + +<P> +Her lips moved. +</P> + +<P> +"You—you are like Jean as he used to be before he went away to the +<I>grand monde</I>." +</P> + +<P> +He bent his head, and laid his cheek against her cheek. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, Marie-Louise," he said softly. "And now I shall always be that +Jean. Try very hard now to understand, little one! See, I am back +again—for always—for always—and I will never go away from you any +more. Don't you see, <I>petite</I>, that it is really Jean?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," she said, in a low, dead voice, "it is Jean; but how can it be +Jean—here—on this great ship—when Jean, I know, is in France—for I +left Jean in France." +</P> + +<P> +And then Jean laughed—because it would help to drive the sense of +unreality from her mind, and because in his heart was only joyous +laughter. +</P> + +<P> +"It is very simple, that! I came with Monsieur Bliss and mademoiselle. +And it is no more strange for me to be here than for you—than that I +should have seen you a little while ago from the deck up there, +Marie-Louise." +</P> + +<P> +She seemed to rouse herself as though in dawning comprehension, raising +herself a little in his arms. +</P> + +<P> +"But the clothes—those clothes that you are wearing!" she faltered. +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, Marie-Louise!" he cried out happily. "Do you not remember? Was +it not you who told me that day that I was to keep them with me always? +And see, I have kept them—and they have brought me back to you!" +</P> + +<P> +He felt her tremble suddenly, and draw away. +</P> + +<P> +"Let me go, Jean." And, as he released her, she stood for an instant +clinging to the ship's side, her head turned away, before she spoke +again. "You—you put them on to come down here to me?" she said dully, +at last. +</P> + +<P> +"But, yes! But, yes! What else?" he answered eagerly. "To come to +you, Marie-Louise!" +</P> + +<P> +She faced him, pitifully white. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Jean, Jean! Why did you do it?"—it was a bitter, hopeless cry. +"What good could this hour bring to you, what could it give you when +you go back there that you have not already got, while for me"—her +voice broke—"it was so hard before—so hard before, and now—" +</P> + +<P> +She did not understand! She did not understand! He caught her hands. +</P> + +<P> +"It is not for an hour!"—his voice was ringing, vibrant, glad. "It is +not for an hour, Marie-Louise, it is for—always—always! I am not +going back. I have come for always—to be with you always now, +Marie-Louise, as long as we shall live. Look up, Marie-Louise! Look +up, and smile with those wondrous lips, and put your arms around my +neck, and lay your head upon my shoulder, for there is none here to see +or heed." +</P> + +<P> +She did not move; and, as she stood there staring at him, the colour +came into her face—and went again, leaving it as white and drawn as it +had been before. +</P> + +<P> +"You are not going back"—she scarcely breathed the words. Then, +almost wildly: "Jean, what do you mean? Your life, your work, your—" +</P> + +<P> +"Are yours, my Marie-Louise," he said quickly. "It was that I meant +when I told you Jean Laparde was dead." +</P> + +<P> +"Mine! You would do this—for me—for me—Jean?"—it was as though she +were speaking to herself, so low her voice was, as she leaned slowly +toward him. "For me?" she said again; and in a tender, wistful way +took his face between her hands, and looked a long time into his eyes +while her own grew dim. "You are very wonderful, and big, and brave, +and strong, Jean," she whispered presently; and there was a little +quickened pressure of her hands upon his cheeks, and then they fell +away—and she shook her head. "But it can never be, Jean—it can never +be. You must go back." +</P> + +<P> +"Never be!" Jean echoed—but now there was a sudden fierce triumph in +his voice. "It <I>must</I> be now, for there is no other way. I cannot go +back! Have I not told you that Jean Laparde is dead? Listen, listen, +Marie-Louise, my little one. Up there I have destroyed all traces of +myself, and in a little while they will find the note I left, and +believe that I have thrown myself overboard. Ah, Marie-Louise, when I +saw you here to-night—see, you were standing down there with your arms +stretched out! But how can I tell you—the joy, the grief, the +<I>misérable</I> I had been? But it was only you then—you, Marie-Louise, +my Marie-Louise again! And I must show you it was true that my life +should be yours, that I knew at last all else against your love was +nothing, that I had been as some sick soul wandering, deluded, in a +world of phantom things—ah, I do not say it well, Marie-Louise, but +you must read my heart, and out of that great love of yours forgive. +And I must make you believe—my beacon! Do you remember that? My +beacon! Ah, Marie-Louise, for a little while I lost it in the darkness +and the storm, but now it is bright again, and it shall always burn for +me. And so, see, I have come; and it is the long past back again, and +the between is gone, and it is again as the night old Gaston died, and +you and I, Marie-Louise, are alone together in all the world." +</P> + +<P> +"Jean! Jean!" she said brokenly—and turned away her head, and, +leaning there, buried it in her arms. When she looked up again her +face was wet with tears. +</P> + +<P> +He held out his arms to her, and smiled. +</P> + +<P> +But now again she shook her head; and, as her lips quivered, gently +pushed his arms away, and took one hand of his in both her own. +</P> + +<P> +"Jean, it is not too late," she was trying bravely to control her +voice. "You must go back. The <I>bon Dieu</I> has given you a great life +to live, and a great work to do—the work you love." +</P> + +<P> +"It was not the work that I loved—it was Jean Laparde," he said, with +a bitter laugh. "But now, I tell you again, Jean Laparde is dead." +</P> + +<P> +"There is your life and there is your work," she went on, as though she +had not heard him. "And, Jean—Jean, I have seen them both, and—and +so I know." +</P> + +<P> +"You have seen them!" he repeated in a puzzled way. "What is that you +say?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," she said. "Jean, it was I who went to your studio that night. +It was I that Monsieur Valmain saw enter there. I had a cloak and hat +that Father Anton had given me that had belonged to Mademoiselle Bliss." +</P> + +<P> +"You?" he cried out, in wild amazement. +</P> + +<P> +"Wait!" she said tensely. "It does not matter if you know now, since +you have seen me here; and I am telling you because—because I must +make you understand that I know what your life is there in the great +world, and how the name of Jean Laparde is honoured, and how now, more +than ever before, Jean, you belong to France—and that you must go +back—and that this can never, never be, Jean—and that I can never let +you do this thing." +</P> + +<P> +He stared at her for a moment and could not speak. It was Marie-Louise +who had been at the studio that night! There was bewilderment upon +him; and there was something of finality in the gentle voice that swept +the laughter from his heart, and brought a cold, dead thing there in +its place. And then a sudden, eager uplift came. +</P> + +<P> +"You were there that night!" he said swiftly. "What brought you there, +Marie-Louise? What brought you there—to Paris—from Bernay-sur-Mer?" +</P> + +<P> +She did not answer. +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, I know! I know!" he cried out joyously. "It was your love, +Marie-Louise—your love that brought you there. And so you love me +now, Marie-Louise—and how then can you talk of sending me away?" +</P> + +<P> +"I have always loved you, Jean," she said simply. "It is because I +love you that I must not let you do this thing." +</P> + +<P> +"And it is because I love you that I <I>will</I> do it!" he burst out +passionately. "Marie-Louise, you were there that night! But is that +all? You do not say it, but perhaps you are thinking of Mademoiselle +Bliss. You have seen her? She knew you were there? That you were in +Paris? You knew that we—" +</P> + +<P> +"She told me that you were to be married, Jean," Marie-Louise +interrupted quietly. "But it is not of her that I am thinking." +</P> + +<P> +"She does not love me, I do not love her—<I>voilà</I>! There is the end of +that!" Jean flung out his arms. "It is the work then? Well, listen, +Marie-Louise, to a wonderful secret that came to me to-night. It is +you—you—your eyes, your face, your lips, your beauty, that has made +the name of Jean Laparde! It is you that I have been modelling all +this time—it is you who have been my model—you, my Marie-Louise! And +I in my blind conceit did not realise it, and dreamed that I was +creating out of my own genius the true, perfect, glorious womanhood of +France—and it was you! You did not know that, my little one!" +</P> + +<P> +"I am not that, Jean," she said steadily. "But I knew that night. +Monsieur Valmain, when he saw me, when I stepped out into the studio +and you—you were lying there on the floor, Jean—Monsieur Valmain said +so. And afterwards, Mademoiselle Bliss said so too." +</P> + +<P> +"Monsieur Valmain! Myrna! The others too—they all saw you there! +They knew! Ah!"—he cried, a gathering fury in his voice. "Ah, I +begin to understand Myrna's sudden desire for a voyage to America! +There was to be no chance that we should meet, you and I, Marie-Louise! +<I>Nom de Dieu</I>, I begin to see—many things! And you, meanwhile—how +did she get rid of you? She made you leave Paris, eh? You were to go +away!" +</P> + +<P> +"It was what I must do. It was not mademoiselle who made me," she +answered. "I was sick for a little while, and then I went away. Oh, +Jean, can you not see what I have been trying to make you understand? +I had no right even to have <I>risked</I> your seeing me, and I had meant +that it should never be possible again—and so—and so that is why I am +here. And now you have come to-night, Jean! It is very, very strange, +and—and"—her voice was breaking again, despite the brave efforts at +self-control—"but it cannot change anything—and you must go back—to +France—and to your work. Go, Jean; go now, or I—I must go, +because—because—" +</P> + +<P> +"Marie-Louise!"—it was like some panic fear at his heart. +"Marie-Louise—you do not mean that?" +</P> + +<P> +"There is no other way," she said. +</P> + +<P> +"But it is you who do not understand!" he told her frantically. "My +work! Can I not still work anywhere—anywhere where you and I can live +our lives together, anywhere so that the world cannot come between us +again? Somewhere in America and we will begin a new life together. +And is it not you that I need for that work? Is it not you that I must +have if I am to work at all?" +</P> + +<P> +"I was not with you, Jean, in Paris," she said, and tried to smile, +"and yet all the world knows the name of Jean Laparde." She held out +her hands. "I am going now, Jean—and you must go back to that world. +It was so grand and big, Jean, for you to do what you have done +to-night—but there is <I>to-morrow</I>. Jean, dear Jean, in your great +loving impulse you have not counted that. You could not live without +the world you have come to know. You think you could to-night, because +to-night there is only love; but to-morrow all that you would so +splendidly have thrown away would begin to call to you again, and it +would grow stronger and stronger, and you could never forget, and +misery would come." +</P> + +<P> +"You do not believe me?"—it was like some cruel amazement upon him. +"You do not believe me? It is because once I thought those things +greater than your love! And you do not believe me now, Marie-Louise!" +</P> + +<P> +"It is because I will not let you spoil your life that I am going," she +said slowly; "it is because I must make you understand that I will not +let you do this thing; because you must, and I must make you—go back." +She stood an instant looking at him, the dark eyes wide and tearless +now, the lips parted bravely in a smile—and then she turned and walked +from him along the deck. +</P> + +<P> +"Marie-Louise! No!" he cried out hoarsely, and stepped after her. "I +will not go back, Marie-Louise! I will never go back! It is done! +Marie-Louise! Marie-Louise!" +</P> + +<P> +She did not answer him until she had reached the head of the steerage +companionway that led below—and then for a moment she paused. +</P> + +<P> +"All your life, Jean," she whispered, "you will be glad of what you +have done to-night, because it was so brave a thing to do; and it will +make you a better man, and I am no more afraid, as once I was, that you +will forget that it is the <I>bon Dieu</I>, and not yourself, who has made +you great. And after a little while you will be glad too that I—that +I have gone." +</P> + +<P> +She was gone! He stood there in a numbed way. She was gone! He could +not seem to realise that. Go back! Go back—and leave Marie-Louise! +Only that one thing was clear out of his dazed and staggered +consciousness. He would not go back! He would never go back! +To-morrow, ay and the to-morrows all through life, Marie-Louise would +find him there! +</P> + +<P> +He raised his head suddenly, and turned and looked behind him. High +above on that upper deck there seemed a strange confusion—and on the +moment, from the bridge shrilled out an officer's whistle. Then, from +deep down within the ship, the engine-room bell sounded in a muffled +clang; and an instant later dark forms were scurrying around one of the +lifeboats; and now there were shouts, the creak of tackle—and the +vibration of the ship was gone. +</P> + +<P> +He moved back along the deck to stand close below the rail of the main +deck where, oblivious to the damp and wet now, the passengers in +low-necked gowns, in evening dress, the dance forgotten, were crowding, +jostling and pushing each other in mad excitement. +</P> + +<P> +A dozen voices spoke at once. +</P> + +<P> +"Somebody has fallen overboard! ... Who is it? ... Who is it? ... How +did it happen? ... Who is it? ... Who is it?..." +</P> + +<P> +Jean's brows gathered in perplexed, strained furrows. Myrna and +Monsieur Bliss had made their discovery of course, that was evident; +but to stop the ship, to lower a boat when it was obviously absurd, +when they had every reason to assume that his body by then must be +miles astern! What was the meaning of that? +</P> + +<P> +The ship was silent, still, motionless now, save for the tumult of the +excited passengers; the lifeboat dropped into the water and rowed +away—and then a queer smile flickered on Jean's lips. Ah, yes! It +was Myrna—mistress of every situation! Her fiancé as a <I>suicide</I> was +impossible; an <I>accident</I> of course was quite another thing—that was +only deplorable! She and her father had influence enough with the +captain, in whom no doubt they had confided what they believed to be +the truth, to induce him to carry out, for the benefit of the +passengers and all else on board, the semblance of accident, and the +attempt at rescue; and, besides, as far as the captain was concerned, +was it not the great Laparde, the most famous of his passengers, who +was involved—whose name was to be preserved from infamy and dishonour? +He shrugged his shoulders. What story had that clever brain of Myrna's +devised to fit the case? Had she <I>seen</I> the accident itself? +</P> + +<P> +"Who is it? ... Who is it?" cried the passengers above him. "How did +it happen? ... Who is it? ... Who is it?..." +</P> + +<P> +And then a voice above the others, breathless with importance: +</P> + +<P> +"It was Jean Laparde! He was up on the deck above with Mr. and Miss +Bliss. He dropped his cigarette-holder, it rolled across the deck and +went outside the rail, where the boats are, you know, and the ship +lurched as he stooped to pick it up, and—" +</P> + +<P> +"And so, you see, Marie-Louise," completed Jean to himself, in +whimsical wistfulness, "and so, you see, Marie-Louise, that Jean +Laparde is dead." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap0212"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +— XII — +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +AT THE "GATEWAY" +</H4> + +<P> +What confusion, what noise, what bewilderment—tugs pulling and +snorting as they warped the great liner into her berth; orders shouted; +the cries of passengers leaning from the upper decks to the knot of +people gathered on the pier below; and, distant, like the muffled roll +of a drum, the roar from the city streets! +</P> + +<P> +Marie-Louise clasped at her little bundle of clothing timidly. For +hours she had stood there on the crowded steerage deck; for hours she +had strained her eyes toward the land, and then at the mighty city +unfolding itself as the liner steamed up the harbour. And she had +gazed long, too, at that majestic, towering figure on the little island +that had evoked such strange emotions from all these people around +her—a figure whose fame must be very great, for of these, who could +not read or write, who were ignorant and poor, who came from so many, +many lands, none, it seemed, even to the little children, but knew and +reached out their arms to it, some laughing in hysteria, and some with +tears, but all with the one word upon their lips that neither dialect +nor tongue confused—liberty! +</P> + +<P> +It was that they had come for, these Czechs of Moravia, these +Croatians, these Slovenes from the Austrian provinces of Carinthia and +Styria, these Lithuanians and Magyars; it was that, too, that had +brought these Jews from a score of lands where the blessed cross that +Father Anton had taught her to adore symbolised neither love nor rest +for them. How many stories of oppression, and cruelty, and +hopelessness had she listened to on the voyage from such as she could +understand? It was not the dream of money alone that brought them; it +was because, they had told her over and over again, that here they had +heard was the land of freedom, that here they could work with no +tyranny to rob them of their toil or of their souls, that here they +were to know happiness because here was liberty. +</P> + +<P> +How they laughed, and talked, and sobbed, and whispered around her now! +How they crowded, and pushed, and swayed in their excitement! How +eager some were, how dazed and frightened were others! What a riot of +colour and strange dress the women and the men wore! How they clung to +their bundles, as instinctively she clung to hers! +</P> + +<P> +What did it mean, that word—liberty? She too, had come for liberty. +She, too, had fled from her native country; she, too, had fled to seek +freedom from the scenes and memories that were there. That day when +she had gone so blindly to the <I>Gare St. Lazare</I> and a train had taken +her to Havre, that day when she had no thought of any definite place to +go save that she must first of all leave Paris and then go far away, it +had seemed like an answer to her perplexity when, in Havre, she had +seen the sign in the window of the steamship office about the ship +sailing for America from there. And she had bought a ticket; and +then—and then that night, here, here on the ship, Jean had come to her. +</P> + +<P> +Her lips quivered suddenly, and her eyes filled with tears. None, none +but the <I>bon Dieu</I> and herself knew how near she had come that night to +yielding to her love; none else knew how through that brave, splendid +act of Jean's her love had seemed suddenly a thousand-fold greater, +making it that much the harder to deny, as it pleaded with her to +answer the cry of her soul. Oh, it had been so hard, so hard before to +let Jean go, to send him from her—but that night when she had turned +from him here upon the deck it had been as though she were walking out +into some cold, dread place of eternal darkness, where there was no +life, no living thing, and all was utter desolation. Why—why had she +done it? She had asked herself that a thousand times in the days since +then, in the nights when she had lain sleepless in her bunk; and yet, +even while she asked, the answer was always present, always there, +repeating itself over and over again—Jean had not realised what he was +doing, Jean had not realised what he was doing. It was like Jean, so +like the big, brave Jean of the old days to give his all on the impulse +of the moment, and never a thought to what it might mean in the +afterwards. That was why she had sent him away that night—that was +why. She would not have been strong enough to have done it for any +other cause. She had only been strong because of the bitter regret, +the misery that would have come when he began to realise, even with a +few hours of the hardships of the steerage, what he had lost—he who +would have come from comfort, from refinement to where even soap and +water were luxuries; to food that he could not eat, dealt out of huge +kettles into dinner pails; to where there was little light and the air +was foul; to where like cattle in a pen they slept two hundred in a +compartment; to where, instead of servants at his beck and call, there +was cold, brutal contempt—and oftentimes a curse; to where, even to +her, who had not known the luxuries of Jean's life, it had brought +dismay! Yes; in a day of this, even in a few hours of it, with its +terrific contrast, he would have known, and—and his love, great as it +must have been to have prompted his impulse to the sacrifice that he +had tried to make, would not be strong enough to compensate for what he +had lost, to make him happy. And so—and so she had sent him back. +And the <I>bon Dieu</I> had been very good to her to give her the strength +to do it, for she had been right, and she had known Jean better than he +knew himself. She had been right; it had been only impulse, stronger +than himself for the moment, that had brought him to her, only +impulse—for he had gone back. She had not seen him since that night, +not even a glimpse of him amongst the passengers on what little of +those decks above that she could see, though she had looked whenever, +safe from observation herself amongst a crowd of the steerage +passengers, she had ventured out on deck. She would have liked to have +asked about him, but who was there to ask? To the steerage the life of +the great ship was as a thing apart; no news, nothing came to the +steerage—sufficient to the steerage was the babel of its own +hundred-tongues. +</P> + +<P> +She brushed the tears angrily from her eyes. She should be glad and +thankful that she had not been unfair to Jean, that she had not taken +advantage of that moment of impulse to so tremendous a sacrifice; she +should be glad, not sorrowful—and yet it was not easy to be glad when +the pain in the heart was always there, and there was loneliness that +would not let her spirits be gay or bright. Liberty! What did it +mean, that word—liberty? She had left her native land to seek it—and +what she had found so far could only make the memories keener, add to +them, and bring a greater sadness. +</P> + +<P> +About her every one was talking, some boisterously, some whose cheeks +were wet, some who swore valiantly, some as though they prayed; but all +eager, all expectant, all with that word "liberty" continuously upon +their lips. It meant that, throughout all the remote places of Europe, +in the mountains, in the valleys, in the plains, in the towns and +villages of countries she had never heard of before, this great new +land of America was known, and meant—liberty. +</P> + +<P> +She wondered if it could be true, if this could be a land of magic that +transformed all bitterness and misery into sunshine and song. She +wondered if the dreams of all these strange creatures who had come from +so many different worlds to this one because its name was liberty would +find their dreams realised—if there might not be for some a cruel +awakening that would be more than they could bear. This woman who +stood beside her, old before her prime, who was very dirty, who was so +queerly dressed, who crooned incessantly to the child in her arms—what +dreams was she dreaming, what hopes had she, what was it that this new +land was to bring to her? And then a great, tender wave of pity swept +Marie-Louise. They had been standing there so long! And how drawn and +weary the woman's face was, and how her arms must ache! +</P> + +<P> +"Give me the baby for a little while," she said—and placed her bundle +at her feet, and took the child in her arms. +</P> + +<P> +And now the confusion around her and about the ship increased. They +had come alongside an enormous shed; and, though she could not see, she +was sure from the noise and commotion that the rich passengers were +getting off. But it was well that she could not see. She was glad of +that. Jean would be amongst them, and she could not have helped +looking, and—and to have watched him go and know that it was for the +last time, would have been but to torture herself beyond her strength. +</P> + +<P> +She was very tired, for still they were kept standing there for so +long, long a time, until her arms too ached, and the child grew leaden +in its weight. Then the woman took the baby back again, and said +something that Marie-Louise could not understand—but the touch of the +brown hand as it patted gratefully on her arm brought a quick mist to +her eyes, because it was human, a human touch, and out of all the +strangeness around her, out of her loneliness it seemed so priceless a +thing to win. +</P> + +<P> +And then there came harsh, strident commands, and the press around her, +carrying her with it, began to surge forward; and presently she found +herself inside the shed on the pier—and then it was like the deck of +the ship again, for she stood and waited so long and so interminably. +Why did they still have to wait? It could not be here that one must be +examined before one could go out into those streets whose rumble and +noise was louder now! Some one on board, a man who knew a few words of +French, who had made the voyage before, had told her that every one +must be examined; only he had said it was in a vast hall where there +were two big American flags that hung out over it from the gallery, and +that men sat at high desks at the end of long rows of benches, and that +one was towed to it in droll-looking barges that had two decks and were +all closed in like arks. So it could not be here—that place! And +then, more attentive to the details about her, she remembered the +<I>octroi</I> when she had entered Paris from Bernay-sur-Mer. One's things +too must be examined—and she opened her bundle until one of the men +with uniforms should have come and looked at it. +</P> + +<P> +After that, she waited again; and then she was carried forward once +more with the movement of those about her; and, passing out of the +shed, was crowded onto a barge such as the one that the man on the ship +had described to her. +</P> + +<P> +And then here again they waited; for all these people could not get on +one barge, even though it held so many and was so closely packed—and +there were other barges to be filled. She could not see very much, for +she was in the centre of the crowd on the barge's upper deck, and could +only occasionally obtain a glimpse through the little windows that were +in rows on each side—but, at last, she could tell by the motion that +they had started. +</P> + +<P> +There did not seem to be quite so much talking, or chattering, or +confusion now. It was as though, hanging over all these people, had +come a subdued sense of disquiet and trepidation, the sense of some +ordeal to be faced, vaguely grasped, save that it loomed ominously, an +unknown, perhaps impassable barrier erected against the fulfilment of +their hopes; and men and women alike were nervously beginning to handle +the white cards with the big red figures on them, which every one had +attached to his or her clothing. +</P> + +<P> +Marie-Louise found herself involuntarily doing the same—staring at the +little punch-holes along the bottom edge of the card that the doctor on +the ship had put there, one for each day. And there was her name +written there at the top—"Marie-Louise Bernier." And underneath it, +"Paris"—for she had given that as her last residence, because in this +new country none was to know that she had come from Bernay-sur-Mer. +For who could tell what these people here might not do? They might +write to Bernay-sur-Mer, and then all her efforts would have been in +vain, for some one in Bernay-sur-Mer would write to Father Anton, +and—the card dropped from her fingers, and dangled by its string from +the button of her blouse. +</P> + +<P> +The hot, scalding tears were in her eyes again. Memories! Always +memories! +</P> + +<P> +On the faces of those around her, so many of them anxious now, was +written the question that lips in so many different languages were +whispering to each other. +</P> + +<P> +"Will they let me in? What will they do? Will they let me in? Will +they let me in?" +</P> + +<P> +Liberty—for them! Yes, they would go in, as she would go in—and some +of them, perhaps many of them, would find what they had sought. But +she—even here in this strange country, where she could understand no +single word that was spoken, where, surely, now that Jean was gone +again, there would be nothing, no familiar scenes to come to her to +revive those memories—could she find liberty in some day learning to +forget? +</P> + +<P> +It did not seem so now, for it seemed as though all her strength, her +resistance had gone out from her that night in her struggle to send +Jean away, and that it had not come back again. Why—oh, why had the +<I>bon Dieu</I> sent Jean upon that ship? It had been so cruelly hard +before! It did not change anything that he was in the same country, +for he would not stay long, and the country was so many times bigger +than France that they were utterly separated, but it was making it so +hard to be brave now—-so much harder—so much harder! And then +suddenly she lifted her head proudly, even though the lips would still +quiver, and though the lashes of her eyes were still wet. What was it, +that old and simple faith, that her Uncle Gaston in his rugged, honest +way had taught her? Yes, the words came back, and they came now like a +benediction to send her on her way with hope and comfort—"to love God +and be never afraid." +</P> + +<P> +She kept repeating that to herself all the rest of the way—until she +was leaving the barge again, and, with the hundreds of her +fellow-passengers, still so curious a sight to her in their many +costumes, began to file in through the doorway of a huge building that +was red-roofed and had towers. And here, once inside, they went very +slowly at first, for they must pass between railings one at a time, +while the doctors looked at each in turn. This frightened her a +little, but they did nothing more to her than to stamp her card; and +then, after that, there was a big, broad staircase—and then, as she +climbed to the top, the vast hall was before her, with its many rows of +benches, and its two great flags hanging out from the balcony, that the +man had told her about. +</P> + +<P> +What a buzz of noise—so many voices; the constant, shuffling tread of +feet; the cry of an infant; the stir and movement of such a crowd of +people! And the sounds, floating upward, seemed to form themselves +into a strange, humming echo that was forever swirling around and +around at the roof of the hall over the gallery. It bewildered her. A +man in uniform—there were so many men in uniform!—spoke to her. She +did not understand; but somehow, nevertheless, she found herself seated +on one of the long benches that ran nearly the whole length of the hall. +</P> + +<P> +For a little while she remained quiet, staring down at her bundle that +she had placed upon the floor. And then, as her confusion and +bewilderment gradually passed away, she began to look around her. She +had never imagined that any hall could be so big—it was bigger even +than that place with the marble staircase where she had seen the great +reception to Jean. How many hundreds would it hold? Still the people +who had been with her on the ship kept coming up the stairs, and still +the benches were not nearly filled! +</P> + +<P> +She turned and looked in the other direction, to where, quite close to +her, for she was almost at the head of the line, an officer sat at a +high desk, with one of the passengers standing before him. And there +were many of these desks, each with an officer seated at it, just as +many as there were rows of benches, for there was one at the head of +every line; and behind these there was an open space beneath the +gallery; and against the wall of the building there were some little +railed-off enclosures; and doors that were constantly opening and +shutting, one of which, at least, seemed to lead into a corridor; and, +too, there was another wide stairway, down which some of those who had +come with her were already passing. +</P> + +<P> +Her eyes came back to the inspector at the head of her own line, and +she watched him eagerly, as he kept writing all the time he talked to +the man who stood in front of him. It would be her turn in a moment. +What was he doing? What was he saying? And then, as she watched, the +man in front of the inspector swung a large, ungainly valise to his +shoulder, and passed behind the desk, and crossed the open space +beyond, and went down the stairs. +</P> + +<P> +There was only one more now before her—another man. Her heart began +to pound rapidly. She was not afraid of the inspector at the desk; she +was not afraid that he would refuse to let her through—why should she +be? It was not that—it was only that the moment had come now when she +was to go out into this new land, and face new conditions where even +the language was unknown to her, and—and begin her life over again. +It was only that this moment seemed so big with finality—the threshold +between the future and the past. +</P> + +<P> +It was her turn now. Mechanically she took up her bundle, and stepped +to the desk. "To love God and be never afraid"—she was saying that to +herself again. +</P> + +<P> +"Your name?" demanded the inspector. He spoke in French, in quick +appreciation of her nationality. +</P> + +<P> +"Marie-Louise Bernier," she answered in a low voice, her eyes on the +bundle in her arms. +</P> + +<P> +"Your age? And"—he added kindly—"do not be nervous." +</P> + +<P> +She raised her eyes to smile gratefully back at him—and then, with a +cry that rang and rang again through the immense hall and stilled all +else to silence, she flung herself madly past the desk, and ran across +the open space behind it. +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Jean! Jean! Jean!</I>" +</P> + +<P> +A figure, grimy, dirty, disreputable, whose hands were manacled, rose, +with an answering cry, from within one of the railed-off enclosures. +</P> + +<P> +"Jean! Jean!"—she had reached him now, and was sobbing, clinging to +him. "Jean—you—here! These things on your wrists! And your face is +so white, Jean! Jean, Jean, what does it mean? Jean—" +</P> + +<P> +And then she was conscious of a rush of men, and hands were upon her +trying to tear her away—and then, with a strength that was greater, +that seemed to mock at the strength of all these hands that snatched at +her, she was whirled off her feet, and Jean, towering there in all his +great might, snarling like some beast at bay, was between her and the +others. +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Let her alone</I>!"—Jean's steel-locked wrists and clenched hands were +raised above his head. "Let her alone!"—his voice was hoarse, low +with a murderous fury. "I'll kill, do you understand—with these"—he +shook the steel bracelets on his wrists—"I'll kill—the first +man—that tries to take her away!" +</P> + +<P> +Before the white, livid face, the passion in the mighty, quivering +form, they fell back instinctively; and for an instant that tense, +bated silence fell again upon the hall—and then a child cried +peevishly—and then a voice spoke authoritatively. +</P> + +<P> +She did not understand what was said; but she was clinging to Jean +again, and the crowd of men in uniform were going away, leaving only +one or two near them. +</P> + +<P> +"What was it? What did he say?" she asked wildly. +</P> + +<P> +"That there must be something in common between us—and to bring us +both together before the special inquiry board," he answered +mechanically—and because he could not spread his hands apart, he laid +them, still trembling with the fury that had been upon him, both +together on her shoulder, and drew her to him. +</P> + +<P> +It terrified her, the sight of those manacles on his wrists. Why—why +were they there? What were they going to do with him? What was this +inquiry—was it to send him to prison? +</P> + +<P> +"Jean, what is it?" she whispered piteously. "What does it mean? What +are they going to do with you?" +</P> + +<P> +"I do not know," he said, and smiled at her. "I only know that for a +little while at least you are here with me again." +</P> + +<P> +"Jean—answer me!" she cried out in her fear. +</P> + +<P> +"But I do not know what they will do," he said again. "I am a +stowaway. They caught me that night on the ship when I was trying to +find some place to sleep—and, <I>pardieu</I>, they were not too gentle +until one or two were hurt!—and then they made me work my passage in +the stokehole." +</P> + +<P> +It seemed so hard to think! Some wonder, that was a glorious wonder, +was in her heart. +</P> + +<P> +"You—you did not go back, Jean; I—I thought you had gone back, +Jean"—it was as though she were telling, in a low, whispering way, +some great, glad, joyous thing to herself. And then there came a +sudden whiteness to her face, but her head was lifted bravely until her +eyes met his. "Jean, tell them!" she said steadily. "You must tell +them now who you are. Tell them, Jean, and they will let you go." +</P> + +<P> +"Tell them now!" Jean cried—and shook his head, and drew his shoulders +back. "Tell them—<I>now</I>! Did I tell them that night, Marie-Louise? +Look!"—he thrust out his handcuffed wrists before him. "Is this not +proof, Marie-Louise, that I will never tell them, that I will never go +back—alone? If the world is ever to hear of Jean Laparde again, it +will be because he has won back the only thing he has to live +for—you—you, Marie-Louise, my little Marie-Louise. I told them my +name was Jacques Legault—and Jacques Legault I will always be until +you have made Jean Laparde live again, until—until—you are his +wife—as in God's sight you have been, Marie-Louise, since we were +little children, as in God's sight you were when I swore that oath to +Gaston as he died, as in God's sight you have been though I was a +traitor to that oath. Look, Marie-Louise! Look at these things again, +these irons on my wrists, are they not proof that there is nothing now, +that I will have nothing, that I will know nothing but your love? Ah, +Marie-Louise, once you said that I belonged to France, and you bade me +go alone and work; and I forgot France, and love, and there was only +Jean Laparde, and I forgot the God that gave the gift—but now, +Marie-Louise, look up into my face and answer, shall I work this time +for France and you and love, or shall I never work again? +Marie-Louise, see"—his voice broke in its passionate pleading—"they +are coming! Marie-Louise, do you not know now that there is only +you—only you, Marie-Louise—for always?" +</P> + +<P> +She did not answer. They were taking Jean, and taking her somewhere +now. She walked almost blindly. Jean had not gone back that night, +and—and those things on his wrists were proof that—that he would +never go back. Proof that, whatever might happen now, whatever he was +going now to face, whatever they might do with him, the choice he had +made that night was made for all his life; that she, even if she would, +could not alter it now—proof that his love was so great and wonderful +and strong and big that nothing could bend or break or shatter +it—proof it was a love so pure that it had risen in sacrifice so high +as to make a glory of the years when he had forgotten it! Yes; she +knew now! Her heart, and her soul, and the <I>bon Dieu</I> told her so! +What was it he had said that night on the ship—that even in those +years she had been his inspiration? Yes; she knew that, too, for she +had seen it, and others had seen it. It was true! And he had said +that he would never work again—never do that great, wondrous work of +his again—alone—without her—never return to it—without her. And he +had said that the <I>grand monde</I> that once had taken her place in his +life, the <I>grand monde</I> in which she could have no part, was of the +past now—the past to which he would never return—no matter what she +did or said now—to which he would never return. +</P> + +<P> +They were in a corridor; and from the corridor they entered a room, +where there were three men seated in a row at desks. These men began +to talk amongst themselves; but it was only when an interpreter, who +was also present, put questions to Jean that she could understand +anything. +</P> + +<P> +"To love God and be never afraid"—she tried to think of that again, +tried to say it over and over. But she <I>was</I> afraid. There was +terror; and, besides terror, there was that new wonder in her +soul—and, mingling, they brought confusion upon her, and at first even +the words in her own tongue conveyed no meaning, and possessed for her +only an unnatural sense of familiarity. And then, in snatches, she +began to catch the drift of what was going on around her—a stowaway in +any case was almost invariably deported ... undesirable for other +reasons ... murderous assault upon one of the crew when he was +discovered ... his outburst of fury and threat of attack upon the +officers only a few moments ago ... medical examination ... stab wound +in side barely healed ... a vicious character.... +</P> + +<P> +The wound! The wound in Jean's side! She had forgotten that! It +brought a sharp cry to her lips, that caused them all to turn and look +at her. But she did not care. What if they looked! She was looking +at Jean—looking at the gaunt, white, haggard-faced giant, who smiled +and shrugged his shoulders to every question that was put to him. His +wound—barely healed! What must those days and nights of torturing, +brutal work in the stokehole of that ship have meant to him—and she +had thought so pitiful a thing as an hour of the coarse food, the +paltry misery of the steerage, would have made him falter and regret! +</P> + +<P> +They kept on questioning him—but she was not listening now. Her soul +was whispering to her: "It is Jean; it is Jean; Jean that you love; +Jean that you have loved all your life, all your life, who has done +this for you. It is Jean who has lived through black hours where only +a courage and a heroic love, so splendid and so true that it will last +while life will last, has kept him from the single word, the single act +that could so easily have brought back to him again everything in the +world—save you." Her eyes were filling with tears. It was +Jean—Jean—Jean—who had done this for her. Jean who stood there with +irons upon his wrists—for her. Jean who had— +</P> + +<P> +"Who is this woman?" the interpreter demanded abruptly of Jean. "Is +she any relation to you?" +</P> + +<P> +There was no answer—save only in Jean's eyes, as he turned and looked +at her. +</P> + +<P> +"Tell him, Marie-Louise," Jean's eyes seemed to say. "Tell him, +Marie-Louise, for it is you who must answer now—for always." +</P> + +<P> +"You, then," the interpreter asked, addressing her. "Are you any +relation to this man?" +</P> + +<P> +She felt her face grow very white. +</P> + +<P> +"You must tell the truth," the interpreter cautioned sharply. "It is +evident on the face of it, from what happened out there in the hall, +that there is something between you. Tell the truth for your own sake. +This man is to be deported, and he will not be allowed to come back. +Do you understand that? If he is any relation to you, say so—unless +you want to be separated. Well?" +</P> + +<P> +Separated! Marie-Louise raised her head a little—and looked at +Jean—and at the interpreter—and at the officers. +</P> + +<P> +"I"—oh, it was true; true as life was true; true as love was true; +true in God's sight, as Jean had said it was true; true because all +through the years to come, through the sunshine and the storm and until +death it would be true!—"I—I am his wife," she said. +</P> + +<P> +"Marie-Louise!" +</P> + +<P> +She heard Jean breathe her name, she heard the half sob upon his lips, +she felt the cold steel of the handcuffs touch her wrist as his hand +found and closed on hers—but she was looking only at the officers, +hanging, her heart stilled in suspense, upon their every act, trying to +read their faces where she could not understand their words. And then, +involuntarily, because they told her nothing, because the seconds as +they passed were as eternities, she flung out her hands to the +interpreter. +</P> + +<P> +"What are they saying? What are they saying?" she cried imploringly. +</P> + +<P> +But it was Jean who answered—and his voice was lifted as though in +song, radiant, triumphant, deathless. +</P> + +<P> +"You are to be sent back to France, Marie-Louise, Marie-Louise—with +me." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap0213"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +— XIII — +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +DAWN +</H4> + +<P> +Strange noises! The myriad voices of the ship talking one to +another—the creak and grind of girders and stringers; the grunting, +faintly from far above, of the wooden superstructure; the whine and +complaint of the deck-beams as the vessel lurched to the sea; the +sibilant hiss and whir of the racing screws lifting from the water; the +swift infuriated response of the unfettered engines, chattering +angrily, as it were, in wrath for the scurvy trick played upon them; +the eternal dull, moaning throb, throb, throb from everywhere, that +seemed finally to absorb these voices unto itself and stand as +spokesman for them all. Strange noises—a medley of pain, of travail, +of strain, human almost in its outcry, seeking relief from unendurable +effort and distress. +</P> + +<P> +For days and days they had talked like that, and Jean had +listened—listened through the watches of the day and night, listened +through the hours of his own toil and pain, and the cursings of the +raw-boned, wizened apparition that came and went through the murky +gloom of the bunker, and croaked continually like some ill-omened thing +for coal, coal, coal, lifting a brutal fist at times to enforce the +words. But, too, as he had listened, through the plaint of this +strange medley had come the lilt, underlying all, of another refrain +that all these voices seemed to sing—a refrain that found a deeper +echo in his own soul, that seemed to make the kin between him and these +inanimate things the closer, a refrain of hope, a refrain in which lay +immortal happiness. +</P> + +<P> +"In five days ... in three days ... in one day more we shall reach +France, France, France—and the end of strife—France—and the end of +strife." +</P> + +<P> +And now that refrain was changed again, and it made his heart leap, and +he laughed out in pure joy, as he swept the great sweat beads from his +forehead. +</P> + +<P> +"To-day—to-day—<I>to-day</I> we shall reach France—reach France—reach +France!" +</P> + +<P> +Over yonder through the murk of the dimly lighted bunker, through the +swirling coal dust, another trimmer shovelled his barrow full of coal, +and then the wheel <I>clacked, clacked</I> over the steel deck plates, and +steel rang against steel as the barrow was whipped over on its side to +send its load tumbling down the chute to the boiler-room below—but +Jean's own barrow lay idly for a moment beside the black, mountainous +heap of coal, and his shovel hung idly in his hand. +</P> + +<P> +"To-day—to-day! France, and the end of strife!"—how joyously the +voices trilled in his ears! "France, and life to begin anew! +France—and Marie-Louise! France, and—" +</P> + +<P> +"You damned loafer!" snarled a voice beside him—and quick, with the +words, a stinging blow fell upon Jean's face. +</P> + +<P> +It was the raw-boned, wizened engineer—the man above all others who +was responsible for his, Jean's, presence there in the bunker again on +this return voyage to France—the man who had made of the voyage a +living hell. Marie-Louise's money, her attempt to pay his passage back +and save him from this had counted for nothing—against this man. Two +trimmers had deserted almost on the hour of sailing—he, Jean, was +lawful prey—a stowaway being deported—and there had been a vicious +smirk of satisfaction on the man's face, reminiscent of Jean's +unruliness that night on the outward voyage when he had been +discovered, as the engineer had claimed him for one of the vacancies. +</P> + +<P> +The shovel clanged on the steel plates of the deck as it dropped from +Jean's hands. He whirled like a flash, and, grasping the engineer by +the shoulders, lifted the other off his feet, and held him as powerless +as in the clutch of an iron vise; held the other off at arms' length in +his mighty strength to wriggle impotently; held the other there—and +laughed out with that wondrous surge of joy that was upon him. +</P> + +<P> +"I will not hurt you!" cried Jean—and laughed in a big, glad way. "I +am too happy! See, I will not hurt you! I am too happy! Do you know +what it is to be happy? To love everything—to have your heart +singing, singing all the time! Ah, if you could but know! But, go +now—for see, I will not hurt you! I am too happy!"—and laughing +again, he released the man. +</P> + +<P> +The engineer stood for an instant gazing at Jean. Happy! This great +giant of a man, in torn clothes, the sweat rolling furrows down the +grime-smeared face—this man, a stowaway on the voyage out—this man, +deported from America—this man, forced to work here on the voyage +back, who was to be treated, and had been treated like a dog—this +man—<I>happy</I>! Happy! Was the man mad? The engineer, muttering in his +amazement, wondering and dazed and awed at the strength that had made +of him a puny thing, edged away, and disappeared in the gloom. +</P> + +<P> +Two little incandescents burned yellow from the stanchions +overhead—there was no other light. There was nothing but the choking +swirl of the coal dust, the rasp of the shovels, the clack of the +barrow wheels, the clang as they were dumped—and the voices that told +of France, and life, and love, and joy again. +</P> + +<P> +"To-day—to-day!"—how the words rang in his heart and soul and mind +like some silver-throated clarion call! +</P> + +<P> +To-day, when the shores of France should loom in sight, the last of all +barriers between Marie-Louise and himself would be swept away forever. +There, on Ellis Island, they had kept him and Marie-Louise apart; and +here on the ship again, the same ship that had brought them +out—"guests" of the company that was forced by the government to +return them to France—they had seen each other little. For, though it +had not been as on the outward voyage when he was held a prisoner and +closely watched even when he was off duty, and though he was now at +least as free as any of the crew, it had only been at odd moments +snatched here and there, usually in the early morning hours while it +was still dark and he had gone off watch to the steerage deck, and she +had come up from below to meet him, that he had seen Marie-Louise—that +was all, the very little when their souls cried out for so much, that +they had been together. +</P> + +<P> +But what did it matter now? To-day—to-day all that was to be ended! +To-day—how his heart leaped, and his being thrilled at the +thought!—to-day they were to be together for always, to-day was to +know the fulfilment of their love. +</P> + +<P> +And then, too, there was another joy—the joy of a new and beautiful +thing that had come into his life. The joy, pure, without alloy, +unsmirched by sordid aims—the joy of work. How it brought a feverish +excitement, how his fingers tingled for the touch of clay, how he +yearned to give expression to that with which his soul was now aflame, +the statue of dreams, real before him now, that mighty picture, that +splendid allegory that should tell his beloved France that Jean Laparde +lived again—but lived a new Laparde, and, if the good God willed it +so, worthy in a humble way of the great gift that was his, worthy in a +glad, tender way of the love that, so steadfast and so true, so +unselfish and so pure, had saved him from himself. Yes, it had come to +him—come to him at last, the base of that statue that he had never +been able to see before. It had come to him here in the gloom, and +struggle, and sweat, and toil of this miserable coal bunker; come to +him, leaving him to stand a chastened man before the picture that was +held up, perfect in every detail, before his mind's eye for him to gaze +upon, leaving him to tremble with emotion at the thought that he should +give it to the world to see. +</P> + +<P> +It was a secret yet from Marie-Louise—a secret that was to be told +to-night. There were to be just they two—and—yes, Father Anton, who +would be there to bless them—to know. No one else, least of all +Monsieur and Mademoiselle Bliss, who would in that case come hurrying +back from America. No one else to know that he lived until the dream +statue was done. There was the dream statue to make, and then all +France, and all the world, if it would, should know that Jean Laparde +still lived; for then the world would understand why the Jean Laparde +it knew—had died. +</P> + +<P> +He filled his barrow, emptied it, and filled it again—and worked +on—and, strangest sound of all, strange indeed for that dark, joyless +place, as he worked, he sang. +</P> + +<P> +Came at last, faintly, the four double strokes of the ship's bell. +Eight bells—four o'clock in the morning—the watch was ended. Jean +handed his barrow and shovel to his relief, and, mounting the +succession of steep, iron-runged perpendicular ladders, climbed upward +from the ship's black depths, and made his way to the steerage deck. +</P> + +<P> +It was dark here—with the darkness before the dawn. A fresh wind was +blowing, and he put on his jacket; and, leaning over the side, watched +the racing waves, and laughed at the buoyant lift of the deck beneath +his feet, and threw back his head to drink into his lungs for the first +time in many hours the sweet, fresh, God-given air. +</P> + +<P> +"Marie-Louise! To-day—Marie-Louise! Marie-Louise!" his heart was +saying. +</P> + +<P> +And presently she came along the deck, and her hand stole into his. It +was too dark to see her face; but her hair, truant in the wind, swept +his cheek, and close to him he could feel her heart beat against his +own. And as he held her there, there came upon him, softly, like some +sacred presence, moving the soul of him with an holy joy, the wonder of +her, and the great, immeasurable, priceless worth of the love she had +given him. +</P> + +<P> +"Marie-Louise," he whispered tenderly. "Your lips, <I>ma bien-aimée</I>!" +</P> + +<P> +And in the darkness she raised her face to his, and he kissed her—and +suddenly he found his eyes were wet. Glad tears they were; and yet, +too, a pledge between himself and God that he would hold her always as +he held her now, her life and happiness his dearest trust—a pledge +that in itself asked grace and pardon in contrite penitence for that +pledge of other days that he had broken. +</P> + +<P> +His arms were around her. God, the sorrow and the misery he had +brought to her, who had so freely laid aside her own happiness that +he—that he— He drew her closer still. +</P> + +<P> +"Marie-Louise, are you happy?" he cried out, and it was his soul that +spoke, yearning, pleading fiercely for the assurance that meant all in +life to him now, the assurance that alone could stand, radiant and +thankful, where before, in keen, bitter pangs of remorse, had stood the +memories of the past—of her betrayal. "Marie-Louise, are you happy?" +he cried out again. +</P> + +<P> +"I did not know that one could be so happy, Jean," she said softly—and +her hand lifted to touch his face, and linger there, smoothing the hair +back from his forehead. +</P> + +<P> +They were silent for a little while in each other's arms—a deep peace, +a quiet thankfulness in their hearts. +</P> + +<P> +And then Jean spoke again. +</P> + +<P> +"Look, Marie-Louise!" he said, and pointed out far over the waters to +the horizon line ahead. "It is the dawn. <I>Our</I> dawn, Marie-Louise. +The dawn of the day when we shall be together always." +</P> + +<P> +Grey it was in the east; faint and timorous streaks of light that +seemed like skirmishers flung out in tentative attack upon the massed +blackness of the night. +</P> + +<P> +Her hands tightened about him. +</P> + +<P> +"To-day! Oh, Jean! It is like a dream—like a wonderful dream that +the <I>bon Dieu</I> has brought to us." +</P> + +<P> +He drew her head to his shoulder. Presently, when in the east that +greyness should have grown pink and golden with awakening day, he would +drink in the pure, glorious beauty of the sweet, chaste face, look into +the dark, brave, tender eyes and read in her soul the happiness that +God had restored to them; but now he could only hold her close and feel +the lithe young form against his own, and feel her heart throb against +his breast. +</P> + +<P> +"A dream, little one, that shall always last," he said. "Ah, +Marie-Louise, it is our dawn, our day, the beginning of a new life, +<I>chérie</I>, where there shall be only love—our love, yours and mine, the +love of old friends, of those we love, the love of work—ah, you shall +see what that will be!" His voice thrilled suddenly. "You shall see, +for now Bidelot shall have that 'touch' he asked for—for now I know! +I know! It was you I modelled, Marie-Louise—your face, your form—and +they were perfect, beautiful; but I was blind to what was most +beautiful of all! I modelled only features—and I forgot the soul, for +I had forgotten love, and I could not see the dearer things. I forgot +the soul that should soften so tenderly and refine the courage and the +resolution and the purity of that dear face of yours and make nobility +divine. I forgot—" +</P> + +<P> +"Jean!"—her fingers were laid tightly upon his lips. "Jean, you must +not say such things! Jean, Jean, I am so far from that—so far from +that!" +</P> + +<P> +He could just see her face now in the growing light—see the eyes shine +through a mist of happy tears, see those perfect lips quiver in their +smile, as she shook her head. +</P> + +<P> +"But you shall see!" he told her eagerly. "A little while in +Paris—ah, Marie-Louise, that is a secret that I have for you!—a +little while there, and then you shall see! And all France shall +see—and France shall tell you that it is so! Ah, Marie-Louise, +perhaps some day they will forget Jean Laparde; but France shall always +remember one who is worthier far, and in that one see its hope, its +inspiration and its glory, for France shall never forget—Marie-Louise!" +</P> + +<P> +She had slipped from his arms. Her face was full of wonder, and upon +it fell the soft glow of light that now was tinging the eastern sky. +How pure, how brave, how beautiful she was! How love shone in the eyes +that were like Heaven's stars; how the soft light seemed to caress her +face and rejoice in the radiant happiness that was there, a happiness +that even her wondering bewilderment for the moment seemed to enhance! +How the strong, young form swung free and lithesome to the lifting +deck, and found a wondrous joy in its own glorious virility! +</P> + +<P> +"Jean, what do you mean?" she said breathlessly. +</P> + +<P> +"You shall know!" he laughed, and laughed because there was only joy +and gladness in all the world—in the waves that tumbled and frolicked +and played, and tossed their white manes at each other and the ship; in +the breeze that sang merrily its way along on its busy errand into the +great everywhere; in the vibrant throb of the mighty ship, in that +spokesman's voice—for it was to be to-day—to-day! "You shall know, +Marie-Louise—to-night, when Father Anton is there to hear, and has +blessed us, and made Marie-Louise my little wife! And then that little +while in Paris that you will understand—and then—<I>home</I>! Ah, +Marie-Louise, can you not see it now—the blue water, blue with the +wonderful colour that only God can make, and the white beach where we +played when we were little children, and the boats, Marie-Louise, and +the brave, true, loyal friends! Home, Marie-Louise, home, home, +home—to Bernay-sur-Mer! Ah, is not God good? We shall go home, <I>ma +bien-aimée</I>—and there we shall live, and there I shall work for you, +and France, and love, and there old Bidelot and those who really love +the things we do shall come at times to make us proud and happy! Ah, +it will be a <I>grand monde</I>, Marie-Louise, a <I>grand monde</I> of wealth and +riches, and a very proud <I>grand monde</I>, careful of those who shall have +the entree there—for it shall be a <I>grand monde</I> where you, my little +Marie-Louise, are queen, a <I>grand monde</I> of love and happiness." +</P> + +<P> +Purple and golden and pink and crimson was the east—and over the +horizon rim rose the sun. And it mounted higher, and the dawn was +gone, and the day had come. +</P> + +<P> +"Look!" he said suddenly. +</P> + +<P> +And a cry rose to Marie-Louise's lips; and her eyes grew dim and misty +again until she could no longer see. +</P> + +<P> +"It is the land! It is France!" she whispered. +</P> + +<P> +It was light now, men and women were moving about the steerage deck, he +could no longer hold her in his arms; but, standing there at the ship's +side, her hand was tightly clasped in his. +</P> + +<P> +There were glad words on Jean's lips: +</P> + +<P> +"It is France, Marie-Louise—and home." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap0214"></A> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +— XIV — +</H3> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +THE STATUE OF DREAMS +</H4> + +<P> +Four months had passed. The spring had come. France mourned for Jean +Laparde. Old Bidelot shook his grizzled head, and pushed away, with a +curiously reproachful motion of his hand, the mass of sketches and +designs that lay upon the desk before him. If France grieved for the +loss of one of her most brilliant sons, the great critic of France +grieved besides for the loss of a personal friend that he had loved. +Of these competitive designs that he had been appointed to judge for +the statue with which France was to commemorate Jean Laparde—none +would do! Not one! Not one, but was so far from the genius of Jean's +own work that there seemed something mocking and incongruous in the +thought that it should aspire to perpetuate and typify the work of the +master-sculptor who was gone! Not one would do—and meanwhile they +besieged him, those who had submitted their designs, to cast Jean's +mantle upon them! They came at all hours; they waited interminably on +his door-step for him to return; they buttonholed him on the streets +and in the cafés to urge their claims and to explain the allegory of +their conceptions, lest some subtle beauty in their work might have +escaped his eye! One would not think they would do that—eh? That it +was not dignified? No? Well—there was the mantle of Jean Laparde! +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Mon Dieu</I>!" sighed Bidelot heavily—and suddenly raised his head at a +timid knocking upon the door. Here was another of them then, no doubt! +He had been wrong to let his servant take the afternoon, and leave his +apartment so unguarded that his very door was at their mercy! "Well, +come!" he called out, querulously—but the next instant he had risen, +and was smiling, as he extended his hand. It was Father Anton. "Ah, +Father Anton!" he cried. "This is a pleasure! This is a pleasure +indeed! I do not often see you these days! As a matter of fact—let +me see—not since Monsieur Bliss went away to America, and the evenings +at his house were at an end." +</P> + +<P> +"That is so," agreed Father Anton. "But then, I have been very busy; +and besides, for a little while, I was in Bernay-sur-Mer." +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Tiens</I>! So! But, tell me, what is the news from Monsieur Bliss? +When will he return?" +</P> + +<P> +"I do not know," Father Anton replied. "He has said nothing about it +in his letters; but I have a letter to write him to-day, that may +perhaps bring him back at once." +</P> + +<P> +"Then write it, my dear Father Anton—write it, by all means!" Bidelot +burst out with a vehemence that, if exaggerated, was at least sincere, +as he waved his hand helplessly toward the desk. "I am in despair! I +have been on the point of writing Monsieur Bliss myself." +</P> + +<P> +Father Anton's eyes followed the direction of the gesture, and fixed +interrogatively on the desk. +</P> + +<P> +"The competitive designs," explained Bidelot. "None are worthy! It is +tragic!" +</P> + +<P> +But now Father Anton smiled, and shook his head, and laid his hand on +Bidelot's arm. +</P> + +<P> +"But Jean still lives," he said, in his gentle way. "Jean is not dead." +</P> + +<P> +"It is the Church that speaks," old Bidelot answered. "I know what you +mean. That is all very well, and it is also true in a material sense +that men like Jean Laparde do not die; but what of the work that he had +yet to do? What of that, Monsieur le Curé? Will you say that his work +was finished? Then I, who went there every day, who knew so well, who +looked for that final master-touch that was yet to come—I tell you, +no! He had still his masterpiece before him! And then, with that +achieved"—the caustic old critic's hand swept a dozen sketches from +the desk to the floor—"bah, he would have no need of these in any +case!—but with that achieved, then, I tell you then, that"—his hands +dropped to his sides, and he shrugged his shoulders. "Ah, well, I had +thought to see it before I died; and yet I, who am an old man, whose +work is over, am still alive, and Jean Laparde is dead. Will you +explain that, Monsieur le Curé?" +</P> + +<P> +Father Anton's smile now was one of kindly amusement. +</P> + +<P> +"But Jean is not dead," he said again. "It is to tell you that, that I +have come." +</P> + +<P> +"Hey!" cried Bidelot. He stared at Father Anton in startled and amazed +incredulity. "Hey!" he cried hoarsely, and grasped with both hands at +Father Anton's shoulders. "What is this you say? Are you mad, +Monsieur le Curé? Not dead! You say that Jean Laparde is not dead! +It is impossible! It is inconceivable!" +</P> + +<P> +"And yet," said Father Anton, still smiling, "since I married him at +the studio—eh? And since I am here now from him with a message for +you!" +</P> + +<P> +"Married! At the studio!" Old Bidelot gazed wildly around him. "My +hat!" he ejaculated excitedly. "Where is my hat? I will go at once! +At once! Jean—at the studio! It is not possible—but I will go!" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," Father Anton nodded, "we will go to the studio, for that is what +Jean wanted you to do. But Jean himself is no longer there." +</P> + +<P> +Old Bidelot, already halfway to the door, stopped abruptly and whirled +around. +</P> + +<P> +"Not there! Then—then what? He is not dead! He is married! He is +at the studio! He is not at the studio! I do not understand! I +understand nothing!" +</P> + +<P> +"I will explain it all to you," Father Anton told him soothingly. "But +let us go. It will take time to tell it, for it is a long story, and +we can talk on the way." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes—well, then! Well, then! But make haste!" Bidelot dragged at +the skirt of Father Anton's <I>soutane</I>, and led the way from the +apartment, exclaiming as he went. Then, as they reached the street, he +caught Father Anton's arm and shook it almost as he would a refractory +child's. "Now, then! Now, then—tell me!" +</P> + +<P> +"But be calm, Monsieur Bidelot; I pray you to be calm!" expostulated +Father Anton gently. "See"—stepping out—"I will tell you as we walk +along. Well, then—listen! One night, a little over four months ago, +Hector came to my rooms in such excitement that I thought he was ill. +He told me that Jean had come back. Like you, I could not believe it. +I hurried there—I ran. It was true! It was Jean—not like the Jean +that went away; but like the Jean when you first saw him, the Jean of +Bernay-sur-Mer. And with him was—ah, but what amazement!—was my +little Marie-Louise—no, Jean's Marie-Louise, for I married them there +that night, and—" +</P> + +<P> +"But," interrupted Bidelot, gesticulating with his hat, for he had +forgotten to put it on, "but, still I do not understand! Over four +months ago! And since then? Where has he been since then?" +</P> + +<P> +"He has been working there at the studio in secret," Father Anton +answered. +</P> + +<P> +"Working! Ah! Let us hurry—faster then!" urged Bidelot eagerly. +"But why has he gone away? Why did he not wait? But +to-morrow—eh—to-morrow, he will be back to-morrow?" +</P> + +<P> +"No," said Father Anton slowly. "I do not think Jean will come back +any more to Paris." +</P> + +<P> +"Monsieur le Curé," spluttered Bidelot, halting suddenly in the middle +of the street, "what is the matter with you? Enough of these riddles! +Jean not come any more to Paris! I can understand nothing!" +</P> + +<P> +"But you would understand," said Father Anton patiently, "if only you +would let me tell you. See now, listen—it is the story as Jean told +it to me that night"—and, as he took old Bidelot's arm, and they +walked on again, Father Anton, smiling sometimes radiantly, fumbling +sometimes with his spectacles, told of the old days in Bernay-sur-Mer, +of Marie-Louise, of how she came to Paris, of how Jean "died" that +night at sea, and of how they came to France again. And they were at +the studio and mounting the steps, as Father Anton ended. +</P> + +<P> +"And so," he said, "and so, that night I married Jean and Marie-Louise. +And what days after that! If you could but have seen Jean in the joy +of his work, and Marie-Louise there beside him! And I must needs go to +Bernay-sur-Mer to buy back Marie-Louise's house without her knowing it, +and see to the building of an <I>atelier</I> to be added to it. And—it is +there they went this morning—to live." +</P> + +<P> +And Bidelot was very quiet now, and his eyes were wet. +</P> + +<P> +"I understand," he said, as Father Anton opened the door with a key. +"But"—shaking his head a little—"even in Bernay-sur-Mer Jean will be +famous, and the world will follow to Bernay-sur-Mer." +</P> + +<P> +"That is perhaps true, and it would be a sad thing if it were +otherwise," said Father Anton, with his rare, grave smile, "for there +is a pride that is pure, and a joy like no other joy in the tribute +that is paid to one for work well done. And if the world follows to +Bernay-sur-Mer, it can be only to the life that it will find there, the +life in which Marie-Louise has her glad place, a life that the world, +as you speak of it, will never mould or change." +</P> + +<P> +They passed in across the hall, and entered the salon, and walked down +its length to the portières that hid the <I>atelier</I> from view—but here +Bidelot paused. +</P> + +<P> +"Wait!" he said. "Tell me one thing more. Why has Jean stayed here in +Paris to work in secret like this for all these months since he came +back?" +</P> + +<P> +"I think you will find the answer here," said Father Anton—and, +reaching out his hand, drew the portières quietly apart. +</P> + +<P> +And Bidelot, with a low, sudden cry, stepped forward into the +<I>atelier</I>—and after that stood still, and neither spoke nor moved. +</P> + +<P> +Two life-sized figures were before him—a woman, and a man. And the +woman, a fishergirl, stood as on a perilous, wave-swept ledge, and +leaning forward was stretching out her hands; and at her feet, from +storm-lashed waters that swirled around him, rose the head and +shoulders of the man, one hand clasped in both of hers, the fingers of +the other clawing into the crevice of the rock, the muscles of the bare +arm, where the shirt had been torn away, standing out like whip-cords +as he drew himself to safety. And as Bidelot gazed, the studio, the +surroundings, all were gone. Alone those figures—as in some mighty +power that was supreme, that knew naught but itself, but in itself knew +all of triumph, of defeat, of struggle, of glory, of undying love, of +victory, that knew the sadness and the joys of life, its empty things +and its immortal truth! And in the wind-wrapt, wave-wet clothes that +clung about the fishergirl, disclosing in pure, chaste beauty the +strong young limbs and form, in the torn and bleeding shoulders of the +man, buffeted, near spent, there seemed to fall upon the studio the +darkness of blackened skies, to come the roar of waters in turbulent +unrest, the play of lightning, the roll of thunder, now ominous, now +dying muttering away—and all was storm and battle and dismay and +death. And then, as sunshine breaking through the clouds—a glad and +perfect triumph—victory! It was in the woman's face that was rigidly +set with high, unfaltering courage, yet softened as by some divine +touch with a wondrous tenderness until the beautiful lips, as they +panted in the struggle, smiled, and the brave, fearless eyes held trust +and love; it was in the man's face, shining like some radiant glory +from out the drawn and haggard features, as though the physical +evidence of the torture and pain of one who had been near to death were +lost in the joy and wonder of life regained—is though his soul were in +his face. +</P> + +<P> +It was long before Bidelot spoke. +</P> + +<P> +"There are no words," he said. "It is what I dreamed and hoped that I +might see." +</P> + +<P> +"It is Marie-Louise—his wife," said Father Anton softly. "It is his +statue of dreams, with the base at last that he could never see before." +</P> + +<P> +There were tears upon old Bidelot's cheeks. +</P> + +<P> +"I understand," he said. "It is Jean himself." He moved closer to the +figures, and stood silent again. "It is a priceless thing," he said +presently. "It is not himself alone; it is the womanhood of France, +pure in her courage and her love, immortal in her sacrifice, that is +the inspiration, the life, the anchorage, the guiding star, the hope of +France itself! Ah, my friend"—the grizzled head was high, the eyes +were shining with pride and a glad excitement—"I speak for this for +France. All must see it—the France as yet unborn, the children when +we are dead and gone who shall serve their country better for the +masterpiece of Jean Laparde and the story that it tells. I go +to-night! I go to-night to Bernay-sur-Mer to Jean—to speak for this +for France!" +</P> + +<P> +Father Anton made no answer; but he stooped and from the pedestal of +the group removed the cloths that, as though they had fallen in a +careless heap when the figures had been uncovered, were bedded around +it. He was smiling through misty eyes, as he stood up again. +</P> + +<P> +"It was the message that I had for you," he said. "Read!" +</P> + +<P> +And Bidelot, bending forward, read the words that were carved there in +the clay: +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent" ALIGN="center"> +TO FRANCE—FROM JEAN LAPARDE<BR> +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<P CLASS="finis"> +THE END +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR><BR> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Belovéd Traitor, by Frank L. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Beloved Traitor + +Author: Frank L. Packard + +Release Date: October 4, 2010 [EBook #34034] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BELOVED TRAITOR *** + + + + +Produced by Al Haines + + + + + + + + + +_The Beloved Traitor_ + + +BY + +FRANK L. PACKARD + + +AUTHOR OF "THE MIRACLE MAN," "GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN," ETC. + + + +THE COPP, CLARK CO., LIMITED + +TORONTO + + + + +COPYRIGHT, 1915 + +BY FRANK L. PACKARD + + + + +There is a Valley called the Valley of Illusion, but beyond it, +sun-crowned, is the Peak of Eternal Truth--and the Way from the Valley +to the Peak is sore beset, for the Way is the Understanding of Things +Real, and its Achievement is the Fullness of Life. + + + + +CONTENTS + + +BOOK I: BERNAY-SUR-MER + +CHAPTER + + I THE HOUSE ON THE BLUFF + II THE KEEPERS OF THE LIGHT + III THE BEACON + IV STRANGERS WITHIN THE GATES + V "WHO IS JEAN LAPARDE?" + VI THE GIFT + VII WHERE GLORY AWAITS + VIII SHADOWS BEFORE + IX FORKED ROADS + X A DAUGHTER OF FRANCE + XI THE PENDULUM + + +BOOK II: TWO YEARS LATER + + I THE DUPLICITY OF FATHER ANTON + II 26 RUE VANITAIRE + III IN THE DEAD OF THE NIGHT + IV THE ACCUSATION + V THE SECRET MODEL + VI "JEAN MUST NOT KNOW" + VII MEA CULPA + VIII FLIGHT + IX MYRNA'S STRATEGY + X THROUGH THE FOG + XI THE "DEATH" OF JEAN LAPARDE + XII AT THE "GATEWAY" + XIII DAWN + XIV THE STATUE OF DREAMS + + + + +The Beloved Traitor + + +BOOK I: BERNAY-SUR-MER + + +-- I -- + +THE HOUSE ON THE BLUFF + +It was a wilder gust than any that had gone before. It tore along the +beach with maniacal fury; and, shrieking in a high, devilishly-gleeful +falsetto, while the joints of the little inn, rheumatic with age, +squeaked in its embrace, shook the Taverne du Bas Rhone much after the +fashion of a terrier shaking a rat. And with that gust, loosening the +dilapidated fastening on the casement, a window crashed inward, +shattering the pane against the wall. + +"_Sacre bleu!_" shouted a man, springing smartly to his feet from his +seat at a small table as the rain lashed him. "What a dog of a night!" + +Against the opposite wall, tilted back in a chair, Papa Fregeau, the +patron, a rotund, aproned little individual, stopped the humming of his +song. + +"_Tiens!_" said he fatuously. "But it is worse than that, Alcide, +since it is bad for business--hah! Not a franc profit to-night--the +Bas Rhone is desolated." And he resumed his song: + + "In Languedoc, where the wine flows free, + We drink to----" + + +"Hold your bibulous tongue, Jacques Fregeau, and get something with +which to fix that window before we are as wet inside as you!"--it was +Madame Fregeau, stout, middle-aged and rosy, already hurrying to the +aid of the first speaker, who was wrestling with the dismantled +fastening. + +Usually the nightly resort of the little fishing village of +Bernay-sur-Mer, the Bas Rhone, inn, cabaret, tavern or cafe, as it was +variously styled, now held but two others in the room that was +habitually crowded to suffocation. One was a young man, sturdily +built, with a tanned, clean-cut face, smooth-shaven save for a small +black moustache, whose rumpled black hair straggled in pleasing +disarray over his forehead; the other was older, a man of forty, whose +skin was bronzed almost to blackness from the Mediterranean sun. Both +were in rough fishermen's dress, sitting at dominoes under the hanging +lamp in the centre of the room. On the table, pushed to one side, were +the remains of a simple meal of bread and cheese; and from the inside +of the loaf, the younger man, somewhat to the detriment of his own game +and to the advantage of his opponent, had plucked out a piece of the +soft bread, which he had kneaded between his fingers into a plastic +lump, and thereafter, with amazing skill and deftness, had been engaged +in moulding into little faces, and heads, and figures of various sorts, +as he played. + +The older man spoke slowly now: + +"It is twenty years since we have had the like--you do not remember +that, Jean? You were too young." + +Jean Laparde, an amused smile lurking in his dark eyes as he watched +Jacques Fregeau waddle obediently to his wife's side, shook his head. + +"I was on the _Etoile_ that night," said the other, pulling at his +beard. "The good God dealt hardly with us--we lost two when we +beached; but not so hardly as with the _Antoinette_--none came to shore +from her. It was a night just such as this." + +"Ay, that is so," corroborated Papa Fregeau, removing his apron and +stuffing it into the broken window pane. "It is, after all, small +blame to any one that they stay indoors to-night and forget my profits." + +"Profits!" ejaculated Madame Fregeau tartly. "You drink them all up!" +She shook her short skirts, damp from her skirmish with the storm, and +turned to Jean's companion at the table. "Pray the blessed Virgin," +she said softly, crossing herself reverently, "that there be no boats +out to-night, Pierre Lachance." + +"And God for pity on them if there are!" returned the fisherman. "But +there are none from Bernay-sur-Mer, that is sure." He played the last +domino before him with a little triumphant flourish. "Ah, Jean, +count--you are caught, my boy! It will teach you to pay more attention +to the game, and less to the waste of Madame Fregeau's good bread!" + +"She is used to that!" smiled Jean Laparde good-naturedly, as he faced +his dominoes, disclosing the measure of his defeat, and, pushing back +his chair, stood up. + +"But," protested the other, "you are not going! We will play again. +See, it is early, the clock has but just struck eight." + +"Not to-night, Pierre," said Jean, laughing now, as he began to button +his jacket around his throat. "Play with Alcide there." + +"Chut!" cried Madame Fregeau, bustling forward, her eyes twinkling. +"The little minx will not expect you a night like this--Marie-Louise is +too sensible a girl to be piqued for that. You are not going out +to-night, Jean, _ma foi_!" + +"And why not?" asked Jean innocently. "Why not, Mother Fregeau? What +is a little wind, and a little rain, and a little walk along the beach?" + +"But a night like this!" sighed Papa Fregeau dolorously, as he joined +the group, his forefinger laid facetiously against the side of his +stubby little nose. "_Nom d'un nom_! What constancy--what sublime +constancy!" + +"Ah, you laugh at that, _mon petit bete_!" exclaimed Madame Fregeau +sharply, instantly changing front. "You are an old fool, Jacques +Fregeau!" + +"But I was a young one once, _ma belle_--eh?" insinuated Jacques, +pinching his wife's plump cheek, and winking prodigiously at Jean +Laparde. "It is of that you are thinking, eh?" + +"You are ridiculous!" declared Madame Fregeau, blushing and pushing him +away. + +"You see, Jean?" said Jacques Fregeau plaintively, shrugging his +shoulders. "You see, eh, _mon gaillard_? You see what you are coming +to! Oh, _la, la_, once I was young like you, and Lucille, _ma cherie_, +here, was like--eh?--like Marie-Louise. You see, eh? You see what you +are coming to!" + +There was a roar of laughter from the man at the table in the rear, +that was echoed in a guffaw by Pierre Lachance, as Jean, leaning +suddenly forward, caught Madame Fregeau's comely, motherly face between +his hands and kissed her on both cheeks. + +"I'd ask for no better luck, Jacques!" he cried--and ran for the door. + +Laughing, and with a wave of his hand back at the little group, he +opened the door, closed it behind him with a powerful wrench against +the wind; and then, outside, stood still for a moment, as though taken +utterly by surprise at the abandon of the night. He had not been out +before that day. Like all, or nearly all of Bernay-sur-Mer he had +remained snugly indoors--for what was a fisherman to do in weather like +that! Mend nets? Well, yes, he had mended nets. One must do that. +He shrugged his shoulders, making a wry grimace. Nets! But the night +was bad--much worse than he had imagined. And yet--yes--the storm was +at its height now, but the wind had changed--by morning, thank the +saints, it would be better. + +It was black about him, inky black--all save a long, straggling, +twinkling line of lights from the cottage windows that bordered the +beach, and the dull yellow glow from the windows of the Bas Rhone at +his side. Around him a veritable bedlam seemed loosed--the wind, like +a horde of demons, shrieking, whistling and howling in unholy jubilee; +while heavier, more ominous, in a deeper roar came the booming of the +surf from where it broke upon the beach but little more than a hundred +yards in front of him. + +Jean Laparde stood hesitant. It was quite true; Mother Fregeau had +been right! Marie-Louise would not expect him to-night, and it was a +good mile from the village to the house on the bluff, and yet--he +smiled a little, and suddenly, head down, struck out into the storm. + +A flash of lightning, jagged, threw the night into a strange, tremulous +luminance--the headlands of the little bay; the mighty combers, shaking +their topped crests like manes, hurling themselves in impotent fury at +the shore, then spreading in thin creamy layers to lick up wide, +irregular patches of the beach; the sweep of the Mediterranean, so slow +to anger, but a tumbling rage of waters now as far as the eye could +reach; the whitewashed cottages; boats, dark objects without form or +shape, drawn far up on the sand; the pale, yellowish-green of the sward +stretching away behind the village; the road beneath his feet a pool of +mud--and then blackness again, utter, impenetrable, absolute. + +Jean passed the last of the cottages--there were but four on that side +of the Bas Rhone--and kept on, following the curve of the beach toward +the eastern headland. But now, the lightness of spirit that had been +with him but a few moments before was gone, and a restlessness, +bordering on depression, took its place. What was it? The storm? No; +it could not very well be that, for it had come often to him before, +unbidden, unwelcomed, that same mood--even in the glorious sunlight, +even in the midst of song as he fished the blue, sparkling waters that, +more than anything else, had been his home ever since he could +remember. It seemed, and it was a very strange and absurd fancy, but +it was always the same, that a voice, wordless, without sound, talked +speciously to him, talked him into a state of discontent that robbed +him of all delight in his work, his environment and his surroundings, +and, arrived at that stage, would suddenly bid him peremptorily to +follow--and that was all. Follow! Where? He did not know. It made +him angry, but it did not in any way lighten the mood that was forced +upon him in spite of himself. + +And now, as it always came, unsought and unexpected, this mood was upon +him again; and, as he plunged through the storm, drawing the collar of +his jacket more closely around his throat against the sheets of rain, +he fought with himself to shake it off. It was absurd. And why should +he be unhappy for something that was absurd? That was still more +absurd! He was not sick, there was nothing the matter with him. He +was strong--none was stronger than he, and he had matched himself +against them all in Bernay-sur-Mer. True, it was a hard life, and +there were not riches to be found in the nets--but there were +friends--he was rich in friends--all Bernay-sur-Mer was his friend. +There were the Fregeaus, with whom he had lived at the Bas Rhone for +over ten years now since his father had died. Madame Fregeau was a +mother to him, and Jacques was the biggest-hearted man in the whole +south of France. And, _mon Dieu_!--he began to smile now--there +were--should he name every family in the village?--even to the children +for whom he made the clay _poupees_, the dolls that in their play lives +were, in turn, veritable children to them? Ah, to be in ugly mind--it +was no less than a sin! There were candles to burn for that, and the +good Father Anton would have a word to say if he knew! And best of +all--there was Marie-Louise. There was none, none _pardieu_, in the +whole wide sweep of France like Marie-Louise, with her eyes like stars, +and her face fresh as the morning breeze across the sparkling waters, +and a figure so beautiful, so lithe, so strong! What charm to see +those young arms on the oars, the bosom heave, to feel the boat bound +forward under the stroke, and hear her laugh ring out with the pure joy +of life! + +"Marie-Louise!" cried Jean Laparde aloud--and the wind seemed to catch +up the words and echo them in a triumphant shout: "Marie-Louise!" + +It was gone--that mood. And now, with the village well behind him, the +lights blotted out and seeming to have left him isolated even from +human proximity, another came--and he stood still--and this time it was +the storm. And something within him, without will or volition of his, +spontaneous, leapt out in consonance with the wild grandeur of the +night to revel in it, atune with the Titanic magnificence of the +spectacle, as one who gazes upon a splendid canvas and, innate in +appreciation, is lost in the conception to which the master brush has +given life. And so he stood there for a long time immovable, his +shoulders thrust a little forward, the rain streaming from his face, +his eyes afire, wrapt, lost in the clashing elements before him--and +fancy came. The play of the lightning was more vivid now, and the +coast line took on changing shapes, as though seeking by new and +swiftly conceived formations to foil and combat and thrust back and +parry the furious attack of the breakers that hurled themselves onward +in their mad, never-ending charge; while behind again, in sudden +apparitions, like spectre battalions massed in reserve, the white +cottages appeared for an instant, and then, as though seeking a more +strategic position, vanished utterly, until a flame-tongue crackling +across the heavens searched them out again, laying their position bare +once more; and the headlands, vanguards where the fight was hottest, +were lost in a smother of spume and spray, like the smoke of battle +swirling over them--and it was battle, and the thunder of the surf was +the thunder of belching cannon, and the shriek of the wind was the +shriek of hurtling shells. It was battle--and some consciousness +inborn in Jean Laparde awakened and filled him with understanding, and +in the terror; and dismay and awe and strife and fierce elation was the +great allegory of life, and suddenly he knew a lowly reverence for Him +who had depicted this, and a joy, full of a strange indefinable +yearning, in the divine genius of its execution. + +"It is the great art of the _bon Dieu_," said Jean simply. + +And after a little while he went forward on his way again. + +The road led upward now in a gentle slope toward higher land, though +still following the line of the beach. Near the extremity of the +headland was the cottage that the village always called the "house on +the bluff," and in a moment now he should be able to see the light. +There was always a light there every night, in good weather and in +stormy--and never in fourteen years had it been otherwise, not since +the night that Marie-Louise's father, the brother of old Gaston +Bernier, steering for the headland in a gale had miscalculated his +position and been drowned on the Perigeau Reef. From that day it had +become a religion with Gaston, a sacred rite, that light; and, in time, +it had become an institution in Bernay-sur-Mer--not a fisherman in the +village now but steered by it, not one but that, failing to sight it, +would have taken it for granted that he was off his course and would +have put about, braving even the wildest weather, until he had picked +it up. + +The light! Jean smiled to himself. He was very wet, but he had found +a most wonderful joy in the storm--and, besides, what did a little +wetting matter? In a few minutes now Marie-Louise would cry out in +delight at seeing him, and he would fling off his drenched jacket and +pull up a chair to the stove beside old Gaston, and they would light +their pipes, and Marie-Louise would prepare the spiced wine, and--he +halted as though stunned. + +He had reached the big rock where the road made its second turn and ran +directly to the house--and there was no light. It was the exact spot +from which he should first be able to see it--a hundred times, on a +hundred nights, he had looked for it, and found it there--by the +turning at the big rock. He dashed the rain from his face with a sweep +of his hand, and strained his eyes into the blackness. There was +nothing there--only the blackness. He reached out mechanically and +touched the rock, as though to assure himself that it was there--and +then he laughed a little unnaturally. There must be some mistake--for +fourteen years that light had burned in the window, and it could be +seen from this point on the road--there must be some mistake. Perhaps +just another step would bring it into view! + +And then, as he moved forward, something cold gripped at Jean's heart. +There was no mistake--the light was out for the first time in fourteen +years! The light that old Gaston had never failed to burn since the +night his brother died, the light that had become a part of the man +himself--was out! Was he ill--sick? Why, then, had Marie-Louise not +lighted it? She had done it before, often and often before. But now +neither one nor the other had lighted it, and they, just the two of +them, were the only occupants of the house--Marie-Louise and her old +uncle. Just the two of them--and the light was out! + +Jean was running now, smashing his way along the road through the +clayey mud and water, splashing it to his knees, buffeting against the +wind; and, with every step, the sense of dread that had settled upon +him grew heavier. It was no ordinary thing this! Old Gaston would +have lighted the lamp while there remained strength in his body to do +it; it was a sacred trust that he had imposed upon himself which had +grown more inviolable as the years had crept upon him and he had grown +older. It brought fear to Jean, and the greater stab at the thought of +Marie-Louise. Things were wrong--and what was wrong with one was wrong +with both. Was it not Marie-Louise who polished the great lamp chimney +so zealously every morning and filled the big, dinted brass bowl of the +lamp with oil; and was it not Marie-Louise who watched with +affectionate understanding each evening as her uncle lighted it? + +A shadowy mass, the house, loomed suddenly out of the darkness before +him. It seemed to give him added speed, and in another moment he was +at the door--and the door was open, wide open, blown inward with the +wind. + +"Marie-Louise!" he shouted, as he rushed inside. "Gaston! Gaston!" +And again: "Marie-Louise!" + +There was no answer--no sound but the shriek of wind, the groaning of +the house timbers in travail with the storm. He pushed the door shut +behind him, and something like a sob came from Jean's lips--and then he +shouted once more. + +Still there was no answer. + +He felt his way to the kitchen, and across the kitchen to the shelf by +the rear wall, found a candle, and lighted it. He held the flame above +his head, sweeping the light about him, and, discovering nothing, ran +back into the front room--and, with a low cry, stood still. On the +floor the great lamp lay broken, the chimney shattered into splinters. +He stared at it in a frightened, almost superstitious way. The great +lamp broken! Did it mean that--no, no, it could not mean that! It was +the wind that had blown it there in bursting in the door. See, there +was no disorder anywhere! He ran into Gaston's room. Nothing! +Nothing anywhere to indicate that anything had happened--and yet, +apparently, the house was empty--and that was enough! Out? They had +gone out somewhere, even in the storm, on some homely errand, to pay a +visit perhaps? Impossible! With the lamp for the first time in +fourteen years unlighted, and broken now upon the floor? It was +impossible! While Gaston Bernier lived the light would burn! + +He climbed the stairs and stood on the threshold of the little attic +room, the flickering candle playing timorously with the darker shadows +where the roof in its sharp angle spread into an inverted V. It was +the first time he had ever looked into that room. It was +Marie-Louise's room. It was all white, scrupulously white, from the +bare floor to the patched quilt on the little bed. There was a +freshness, a sweetness about it that seemed to personify Marie-Louise, +to fill the room with her--and it swept him now with a sudden numbing +agony, and his face, wet with the rain that dripped from the hair +straggling over his forehead, showed grey and set as it glistened +curiously in the yellow, sputtering candle light. + +And then, half mad with anxiety, the sure, intuitive knowledge of +disaster upon him, he rushed downstairs again; and, hurriedly +exchanging his candle for a lantern, went out into the night. + +A search around the house revealed no more than within. He ran then +down the path to the beach, to where, well up under the protection of +the low bluff and away from the reach of the highest tide, old Gaston +stored his boats and fishing gear. And there, as Jean flashed his +lantern around him, a low, strained cry, for the second time, came from +his lips. Three boats old Gaston owned--who should know better than +he, Jean Laparde, who fished with the other season after season!--but +of the three boats only two were there upon the beach. + +As a man wounded then and dazed with his hurt, Jean stood there. They +had gone--out into that--Marie-Louise and old Gaston--and they had not +come back. It was not true--it was beyond belief! No; it was not +true--something only had happened to the boat--no man in Bernay-sur-Mer +would have been so mad as to have ventured out! + +Far to the south the heavens opened in a burst of flame, and, +travelling far and fast, a zigzag tongue of lightning, like the +venomous thrust of a serpent's fang, leaped across the skies. It +lighted up the beach, and, further out over the waters, a quarter of a +mile away, played upon the smother of spray that like a shroud flung +itself over the Perigeau Reef--and the cry that came from Jean Laparde +was wild, hoarse-throated now. What was that he had seen! + +It was dark again out there. He swung his lantern, signalling +frantically--then, holding it high and rigid, waited for the next flash. + +It came. + +"Marie-Louise," he whispered through white lips. + +Far out on the extremity of the reef, a figure stood silhouetted +against the spray for an instant--and blackness fell again. + + + + +-- II -- + +THE KEEPERS OF THE LIGHT + +For a moment's space Jean stood there measuring, as it were, the sweep +of waters, as one might measure the strength of some antagonist thrust +suddenly upon him--and then, turning, he ran back to the boats, and +began to drag one down the beach. + +No man in all Bernay-sur-Mer would dare to venture out. He had said +that himself--but there was no thought of that now. Marie-Louise was +on the Perigeau Reef. He was strong, strong as a young bull, and he +tugged now at the heavy boat with the added nervous strength of a man +near mad with desperation, heaving it swiftly across the sand. At high +tide even in calm weather the Perigeau was awash--in storm, far better +to plunge into the water than to be pounded to death upon those +_diable_ rocks, lifted up and pounded upon the rocks, and lifted up and +pounded again, when the water should be high. At ten o'clock it would +be full tide. Thanks to the _bon Dieu_ it was not eight o'clock when +the water would be at its height, or else-- + +"_Sacre nom d'un nom, d'un nom_"--Jean was grinding words from between +his teeth. They came utterly without volition, utterly meaningless, +utterly spontaneous from the brain afire. + +It was the lee of the headland, and it was the mercy of the _Sainte +Vierge_ that it was so; otherwise, _bapteme de bapteme_! no boat could +live where a fish would drown. But it was the smoother water of a +mill-race--in with the tide, out with the tide--between the headland +and the Perigeau it was like that. + +With a wrench, Jean swung the boat around--he had been dragging it by +the stern--and, at the water's edge now, the dying efforts of a spent +and broken wave wrapped and curled around the bow in creamy foam. +Then, racing up the beach once more to the shelter of the bluff, he +knelt there to plant his lantern in the sand, ballasting it securely +with rocks, flung his jacket down beside it, and ran back to the +water's edge again. + +He shoved the boat further out until it was half afloat, shipped the +oars--and waited, steadying the craft with an iron grip on the +gunwales. A wave lifted her, the water swirled around his knees, +seethed behind him, rushed back hissing sharply in its retreat--and +Jean, bending, shoved with all his strength, as he sprang aboard. + +The boat shot out on the receding wave, and, as he flung himself upon +the seat, smashed into the next oncoming breaker, wavered, half turned, +righted under a mighty tug at the oars, engulfed herself in a sheet of +spray--and slid onward down into the bubbling hollow. + +None in Bernay-sur-Mer was a better boatman than Jean Laparde, and +Bernay-sur-Mer in that respect held its head above all Languedoc; for +at the water fetes now for three years had not Jean Laparde secured to +it the coveted _prix_! But to-night it was a different race that lay +before him. + +For a little way, while the lee of the headland held, a child almost, +once the boat was free of the broken surf on the beach, might have held +the craft to her course--but only for that little way. For fifty yards +perhaps the boat leapt forward, straight as an arrow, heading well +above the Perigeau Reef--and then suddenly the lighted lantern on the +beach seemed to travel seaward at an incredible speed, as the onrush of +tide, wind and sea through the narrows caught the boat, twisted it like +a cork, and, high-borne on a wave-crest, hurled it along past the +shoreline toward the lower end of the bay--and the twinkling lantern +was blotted out from sight. Tight-lipped, his muscles cracking with +the strain, Jean forced the boat around again, and the tough oars bent +under his strokes. + +There were two ways to the Perigeau Reef--he had thought of both of +them. One, to go down in the shelter of the headland to the lower end +of the bay, circuit the shore-line there until he was free of the +mill-race through the narrows, then pull straight out for the +Perigeau--only, the _bon Dieu_ knew well, no man was strong enough for +that; it was too far, for the bay on this side, deeper than on the +other side of the headland by Bernay-sur-Mer, extended inward for +nearly two miles, and to pull back that distance against the full force +of the storm--only a madman would try it, and no boat would live! The +other way was the only chance--the quarter mile across the narrows. + +A quarter mile! He pulled on and on, minute after minute that were as +endless periods of time; and whether he was making progress or losing +it he did not know, only that with each minute his strength was being +taxed to the utmost, until it seemed to be ebbing from him, until his +arms in their sockets caused him brutal pain. And it was all like a +black veil that wrapped itself about him now, blacker than it had ever +been before that night--the loss of that tiny guiding light he had left +upon the beach seemed to make it so, and seemed to try to rob him of +his courage because it was gone. The never-ending roar of buffeting +sea and surf was in his ears until his head rang with the sound--the +waves pounded his boat and tossed it like a chip upon their crests, and +slopped aboard and sloshed at his feet--and they thundered upon the +shore, and upon the headland, and they were mocking at him. The +lightning came again--it lighted up the house upon the bluff and with +bitter dismay he saw that, too, was sweeping seaward--it flickered a +ghostly radiance upon dancing shore shapes--it played upon a tumbling +wall of water, onrushing, towering above his head from where the boat +quivered in the trough far down below. And at sight of this, like a +madman, Jean Laparde pulled then--up--up--up--the crest was curling, +snarling its vengeance before it broke--and then it seethed away in a +great trail of murmuring foam that lapped at the boat's sides and crept +in over the gunwales. And there were many more like that, so many that +they were countless--and they never stopped--and they were stronger +than he--and there was always another--and each was greater than the +one before--and he sobbed at last in utter weakness over the oars. + +Marie-Louise, Gaston, the Perigeau, all were living before him in a +daze now--the brain became subordinate to the bodily exhaustion. There +was only a jumbled medley of hell and death and eternal struggle around +him, and a subconsciousness that for him too the end had come--the good +Father Anton would say a requiem mass for him--and Bernay-sur-Mer would +tell its children that Jean would never make any more of the clay +_poupees_ for them--and the children would cry--and it was all very +droll. + +He pulled on, mechanically, doggedly. His face was wrinkled where the +muscles twisted in pain, drops that were not rain nor spray stood out +in great beads upon his forehead, his back seemed breaking, his arms +useless things that writhed with the strain upon them. + +Wild thoughts came to him. Why should he struggle there against the +pitiless strength that was greater than his, until he could no longer +even meet the waves with the bow of his boat, until they would turn him +over and over and afterwards roll him upon the shore, where Papa +Fregeau, perhaps, would find him! See, it would be a very easy matter +to stop while he had yet a little strength left to guide the boat--and +run with the waves--and it would rest him--and by the time he got to +the shore he would be quite strong enough again to fight his way +through the breakers. His lips moved, teeth working over them, biting +into them, tinging them with blood. It came out of this hell and these +storm devils around him, that thought! Marie-Louise was waiting, was +she not, upon the Perigeau--and when the tide was high and the sea was +calm one could row over the Perigeau, and sometimes see a _dragonet_, +with the beautiful blue and yellow marking on its white scaleless body, +looking for food in the rock crevices out of its curious eyes that were +in the top of its head! + +A flicker of light! Yes--yes--the lantern! He was abreast of it +again. The good God had not deserted him! He was still strong--there +was iron in his arms again--the torture of pulling was gone. He could +feel the boat lift now to the stroke. + +He pulled, taking his breath in catchy sobs. The boat swept downward +into a great trough, rose again, trembling, balancing on the next +crest--and the light had disappeared. A cry gurgled from Jean's +throat, impotent, full of anguish. It was an hallucination, a torture +of the devil! No! There it was once more--he caught it on the next +rise, and each succeeding one now. And he, not it now, was making +headway seaward. He was across the tide-race, it was the Madonna who +had prayed for him! and in another little while, soon now, just as soon +as the lantern showed a little further astern, he would get the lee of +the Perigeau itself--it would be broken water, but it would be like a +child's effort then. And that!--what was that! + +"Jean!"--it came ringing down with the wind, a brave, strong voice. +"_Jean!_" + +It was Marie-Louise! His strength was the strength of a god again. He +shot a hurried glance over his shoulder--it was done--but one had need +for care that the boat should not thrash itself to pieces on the rocks. +Yes; he saw her now--like a dark, wind-swept wraith. + +"To the right, Jean--there is landing to the right!" she called. + +"Ay!" he shouted back; and, standing, swung in the boat. + +The bow touched the edge of the rocks, grated, pounded, receded, and +came on again--there was no beach here--only the vicious swirl and chop +of the back-eddy. But as the keel touched again, Jean sprang over into +the water; and as he sprang, a figure from the rocks rushed in waist +deep to grasp the boat's gunwale on the other side--and across the bow, +very close to him, Marie-Louise's white face was framed in the night. +It was very dark, he could not see her features distinctly, but he had +never seen Marie-Louise look like that before--it was not that her face +was aged, nothing, _bon Dieu_! could take the springtime from that +face, but it was very tired, and frightened, and glad, and full of +grief. + +"Jean, ah, Jean, you--" the wind carried away her words. Then she +shouted louder, a curious break, like a half sob, in her voice. "Uncle +Gaston is hurt--very, very badly hurt. He is up there a little way on +the reef. You must carry him. And if you hurry, Jean, I can hold the +boat." + +"Gaston--hurt!" he cried in dismay. "You are sure then you can hold +the boat, and--" + +"Yes, yes, if you hurry, Jean--he is there, a few yards back, a little +to the left." + +"Guard yourself then that it does not pull you off your feet!" he +cautioned anxiously, and began to scramble from the water and up the +slippery, weeded rocks. + +And then, a few yards back on the ledge, as she had said, just out of +the reach of the spray that lashed the windward side of the Perigeau, +he came upon an outstretched form--and, kneeling, called the other's +name: + +"Gaston! It is I--Jean Laparde!" He bent closer--one could not hear +for the _diable_ wind! "Gaston!" There was only a low moaning--the +man was unconscious. "_'Cre nom d'une forte peine!_" muttered Jean, +with a sinking heart, and picked up the other tenderly in his arms. + +But it was not easy, that little way back to the boat. Burdened now, +the wind behind his back sent him staggering forward before he could +find footing, and ten times in the dozen steps he lurched, slipped and +all but fell before, close to the boat again, he laid Gaston down upon +the rocks. + +"We must bale out the boat, Marie-Louise," he shouted, wading quickly +into the water; "or with what we take in on the way back she will not +ride. See, I will hold it while you bale--it will be easier for you." + +She answered something as she set instantly to work, but her words were +lost in the storm. And Jean, through the darkness, as he gripped at +the boat, watched her, his mind a sea of turmoil like the turmoil of +the sea about him. Gaston was hurt--yes, very badly hurt, it would +seem--how had it happened?--how had they come, Marie-Louise and Gaston, +to be upon the Perigeau?--and he, who had given up hope, who had +thought to perish out there in that crossing, he, too, was on the +Perigeau--the way to get back was to run straight in with the bay--it +would not be so hard if they could out-race the waves--if the waves +came in over the stern it would be to swamp and--God had been very good +to let them live and-- + +Marie-Louise's hand closed over his on the gunwale. + +"It is done, Jean--what I could do," she said. "I will hold the boat +again while you lift Uncle Gaston in." + +And suddenly Jean's heart was very full. + +"Marie-Louise, Marie-Louise!" he said hoarsely--and while her hands +grasped the rocking boat, his crept around the wet shoulders for an +instant, and to her face, and turned the face upward to his, and, in +that wild revelry of storm, kissed her; and with a choked sob he went +from her then and picked up the unconscious form upon the rocks. + +And so they started back. + +There was no sweep of tide to battle with now--the waves bore them high +and shot them onward, shoreward; and the storm was wings to them. But +there was danger yet; on the top of the crests it was like a pivot, +each one threatening to whirl them broadside and capsize them on the +breathless rush down the steep slope that yawned below--that, and the +fear that the downward rush, breathless as it was, would not be fast +enough to escape the crest itself, which, following them always, +hanging over them like hesitant doom far up above, trembling, twisting, +writhing, might break in a seething torrent and, sweeping over them, +engulf them. It was not so hard now, the way back, there was not the +pitiless current that numbed the soul because the body was so frail; +but all the craft Jean knew, all the strength that was his was in play +again. + +The boat swept onward. Marie-Louise was crouched in the stern +supporting Gaston's head upon her lap. Jean could not see her face. +When he dared take his eyes for an instant from the racing waves behind +her, he looked at her, but he could not see her face--it was bent +always over Gaston's head. And a fear grew heavy in Jean's heart--the +old fisherman had not moved since he, Jean, had found the other on the +reef. Once he shouted at Marie-Louise, shouted out the fear that was +upon him--but she only shook her head. + +The rain had stopped--he noticed the fact with a strange shock of +surprise--surprise that he had not noticed it before, as though it were +something extraneous to his surroundings. And then he remembered that +as he had stood outside the Bas Rhone he had seen that the wind had +changed, and had told himself that by morning it would be better +weather. He glanced above him. The storm wrack was still there; but +it was broken now, and the low, flying clouds seemed thinner--yes, by +morning it would be bright sunshine, and of the storm only the heavy +sea would be left. + +He gave his eyes to the tumbling waters again--and, suddenly, with a +great cry, began to pull until it seemed his arms must break. Roaring +behind them, a giant wave was on the point of breaking--closer it +came--closer--he yelled to Marie-Louise: + +"Hold fast, Marie-Louise! Hold fast!" + +And then it was upon them. + +For a moment it was a vortex--a white, swirling flood of water churned +to lather. It hid the stern of the boat, hid Marie-Louise and Gaston +at her feet, as it poured upon them--and the boat, lifted high up, hung +dizzily for an instant, poised as on the edge of an abyss, then the +wave rolled under them, and the boat swept on in its wake, the shipped +water rushing now this way now that in the bottom. + +It was an escape! The blessed saints still had them in their keeping! +Jean sucked in his breath. A foot nearer when the wave had broken, +and, instead of the few bucketsful they had taken, the boat would have +filled! And now Marie-Louise, already baling at the water, cried out +to him. + +"See! It was a mercy!"--her voice rang with a glad uplift. "It was +sent by the _bon Dieu_, that wave! It has brought life to Uncle +Gaston!" + +It was true. The deluge of water had, temporarily at least, restored +the old fisherman to consciousness, for he raised himself up now, and +Jean heard him speak. + +After that, time marked no definite passing for Jean. Occasionally he +heard Marie-Louise's voice as she spoke to her uncle; and occasionally +he heard the old fisherman reply--but that was all. In nearer the +shore, where the current rushing through the narrows had lost its +potency, he edged the boat across the heavy sea, gained the comparative +calm under the lee of the headland, and began to work back to the upper +end--it was easier that way, difficult and slow as the progress was, +than to land and carry old Gaston along the beach. An hour? It might +have been that--or two--or half an hour--when he and Marie-Louise, in +the water beside him again, and close by where the lantern under the +bluff still burned as he had left it, were dragging the boat free from +the breakers and up upon the sand. + +And then, while Marie-Louise ran for the lantern, Jean leaned over into +the boat. + +"Gaston!" he called. "See, we are back! Can you hear me?" + +"Yes," Gaston answered feebly. + +"Then put your arms around my neck, _mon brave_, and I will lift you +up." + +The arms rose slowly, clasped; and Jean, straightening up, was holding +the other as a woman holds a child. Gaston's head fell on his +shoulder, and the old fisherman whispered weakly in his ear. + +"My side, Jean--hold me--lower--down." + +"But, yes," Jean answered cheerily. "There--is that better. We shall +get easily to the house like this, and Marie-Louise"--she was back +again now--"will lead the way with the lantern." + +Gaston's only answer was a slight pressure of his arm around Jean's +neck--but now, as the lantern's rays for an instant fell upon the +other's features, Jean's own face set like stone. The old fisherman's +eyes were closed, and the skin, where it showed through the grizzled +beard, wet and tangled now, was a deathly white--and Jean, motioning to +Marie-Louise, started hurriedly forward. + +Only once on the way to the house, as Jean followed Marie-Louise up the +path from the beach, did Gaston speak again; and then it was as though +he were talking to himself, his tones low and broken, almost like the +sobbing of a child. Jean caught the words. + +"Rene--Rene, my brother--the light is out, Rene--the light is out." + +And with the words, something dimmed suddenly before Jean's eyes, and +the path, for a moment, and Marie-Louise were as a mist in front of +him. The light! For fourteen years the man he held in his arms had +burned that light--and the light was out now forever. + +He hurried on, and, reaching the house, laid Gaston on the bed in the +little room off the kitchen that belonged to the other; then turned +swiftly to Marie-Louise, for the old fisherman had lost consciousness +again. + +"Cognac, Marie-Louise!" he said quickly. + +She ran for the brandy--and while Jean forced a few drops through +Gaston's lips, holding up the lantern to watch the other, she went from +the room again and brought back a lamp. + +"Jean," she cried pitifully, as she set it upon the table, "he is not--" + +Jean shook his head. + +"No; he will be better in a minute now. It is but a little fainting +spell." + +She did not answer--barefooted, the short skirt just reaching to the +ankles, her black hair, loosened, tumbling about her shoulders in a +sodden mass, she came a little closer to the bed, her hands clasped, +the dark eyes wide with troubled tenderness, the red lips parted, the +white cheeks still glistening with spray; and, unconscious of her pose, +the wet clothes, untrammelled in their simplicity, clinging closely to +her limbs and her young rounded bosom, revealed in chaste freedom the +perfect contour and beauty of her form. + +Something stirred Jean's spirit within him, and for a moment he was +oblivious to his surroundings; for, as he looked, she seemed to stand +before him the living counterpart of a wondrous piece of sculpture, in +bronze it was, marvellously conceived, that he had dreamed of again and +again in vague, restless dreams--the statue, for it was always the same +statue in his dreams, that was set in the midst of a great city, in a +great square, and-- + +"Marie-Louise!" he said aloud unconsciously. + +But she shook her head, pointing to the bed. + +Gaston had stirred, and, opening his eyes now, fixing them on the glass +still held in Jean's hand, he motioned for more brandy. And Jean, his +moment of abstraction gone as quickly as it had come, bent hastily +forward and gave it to him. + +The raw spirit brought a flush to the old fisherman's cheeks. + +"Father Anton," he said. "Go for Father Anton." + +"_Bien sur!_" responded Jean soothingly. "I will go at once. It was +what I thought of when I was carrying you up the beach. I said: 'Since +there is no doctor in Bernay-sur-Mer, I will get Father Anton, who is +as good a doctor as he is a priest, and he will have Gaston here on his +feet again by morning.'" He moved away from the bed--but Gaston put +out his hand and stopped him. + +"Not you, Jean; I want to talk to you--Marie-Louise will go." + +"Marie-Louise!" exclaimed Jean, shaking his head. "But no! You have +forgotten the storm, Gaston--and, see, she is all wet and tired, and +she has been, I do not know how many hours, exposed out there on that +cursed Perigeau." + +A smile, half stubborn, half of pride, struggled through a twist of +pain on the old fisherman's lips. + +"And what of that! She has been brought up to it. A dozen times and +more she has been longer in a storm than this. She is not of the +milk-and-water breed is Marie-Louise, she is a Bernier, and, the _bon +Dieu_ be praised, the Berniers do not stop for that! Is it not so, +Marie-Louise?" + +"Yes, uncle," she answered softly. "I will go; and I will not be long." + +"Go then, Marie-Louise," he said. "I wish it." + +She bent and kissed him, and picked up the lantern, and shook her head +in a pretty gesture at Jean, as though half to tease him for the +perturbed look upon his face, and half in grave wistfulness to charge +him with the sick man's care--and then she went from the room, and +presently the front door closed behind her. + +The lamp flickered with the inrush of wind from the opening of the +door--flickered over a spotless bare floor, an incongruous high-poster +bed that had been a wedding gift to Marie-Louise's father and mother +from the man who lay upon it now, flickered over the raftered ceiling, +the scant furnishings which were a single chair and a table, flickered +over a crucifix upon the wall--and then burned on once more in a steady +flame. It was like the shrug of Jean's shoulders, the flicker of that +lamp; for, with the shrug, he resumed again his former position over +Gaston--it was true after all, Marie-Louise would come to no harm, they +were used to that, they fisherfolk of Bernay-sur-Mer. + +"_Tiens_, Gaston!" he said. "See, we will get off your wet clothes, +and you will tell me how it happened this _misere_, and about the hurt. +But first this--_mon Dieu!_--but I did not guess it was like that--a +clean bandage, eh?--that is first--I will find something"--he had +unbuttoned the other's jacket, disclosing a rent shirt, and, on the +left side, a wad of cloth, blood-soaked now, where Marie-Louise +evidently had made a pad for the wound with her underskirt, and had +tied it in place with long strips torn from the garment. He began to +loosen one of the strips; but Gaston, who until then had lain passive +with eyes closed, caught his hand. + +"Let it alone, Jean--you will only make it bleed the more." + +"Ay," agreed Jean thoughtfully; "perhaps that is so. It would be +better maybe to leave it for Father Anton." + +A wan smile came to Gaston's lips. + +"Father Anton will not touch it either, Jean." + +And then Jean, with a sudden start, stared into the other's eyes. + +"It is destiny!" said Gaston slowly. "Did you, too, like Marie-Louise, +think it was for that I sent for the good father? It is the priest and +Mother Church I need, there is no doctor that could help." + +"But, no!" Jean protested anxiously. "You must not talk like that, +Gaston! It is not so! Wait! You will see! Father Anton will tell +you that in a few days you will be strong again. It is the weakness +now." + +Gaston shook his head. + +"You are a brave man, Jean, but I, too, am brave--and I am not +afraid--not afraid for myself--it is for Marie-Louise--it is for that I +kept you here and sent her for Father Anton. I know--something is hurt +inside--I am bleeding there." + +And now Jean made no answer--no words would come. The utter weakness +in the voice, the feeble movements of the hands, the greyer pallor in +the other's face seemed to dawn upon him with its full significance for +the first time--and for a moment it seemed to stun and bewilder him. + +"It is destiny!" said Gaston again. "Listen! It is fourteen years +since Rene, my brother, Marie-Louise's father, was drowned on the +Perigeau. I swore that night that through neither God nor devil should +another lose his life as Rene had--and for fourteen years I burned the +light, and laughed at the Perigeau as it gnawed its teeth in the +storms." He stopped, and touched his lips with the tip of his tongue. +"It is the hand of God," he whispered hoarsely, "The light is out--and +it is the Perigeau again." + +Jean pulled the chair closer to the bed, and took one of Gaston's hands. + +"It means nothing that, Gaston," he said, trying to control his voice. +"It is bad to think such thoughts--and of what good are they? You must +not think of that. Tell me what happened, how you and Marie-Louise +came to be out there to-night." + +Gaston lay quiet for a little while--so long that Jean thought the +other had not heard the question. Then the old fisherman spoke again. + +"Marie-Louise will tell you. I have other things to say, and I have +not strength enough for all. It is hard to talk. Give me the cognac +again, Jean." + +He drank almost greedily this time, and, as Jean held up his head that +he might do so the more readily, the grim old lips and unflinching eyes +smiled back their thanks. + +"Listen to me well, Jean," he went on earnestly. "Marie-Louise is very +dear to me. I love the little girl. All her life she has lived with +me--for two years after she was born in this house here, her mother and +Rene and I--and two years more with Rene and I--and then, after that, +it was just Marie-Louise and I alone. She had no one else--and I had +no one else. I have taught her as the _bon Dieu_ has shown me the way +to teach her to be a true daughter of France--to love God and be never +afraid. Jean"--he reached out his other hand suddenly and clasped it +over Jean's--"do you love Marie-Louise?" + +"Yes," said Jean simply. + +"She will be alone now," said Gaston, and his eyes filled. "She is a +good girl, Jean. She is pure and innocent, and her heart is so full of +love, there was never such love as hers, and she is so gay and bright +like the flowers and like the birds--and happy--and sorrow has not come +to her." He stopped once more, and the grey eyes searched Jean's face +as though they would read to the other's soul. "Jean," he asked again, +"do you love Marie-Louise?" + +Jean's lips were quivering now. + +"Yes," he answered. "You know I love her." + +The old fisherman lay back, silent, still for a moment, but he kept +pressing Jean's hand. When he spoke again, it seemed that it was with +more of an effort. + +"This house, the land, the boats, the nets, they are hers--it is her +_dot_. But it is not of that, I fear--it is not of that--" his voice +died away. Again he was silent; and then, suddenly, raising himself on +his elbow: "Jean," he asked for the third time, almost fiercely now, +"do you love Marie-Louise?" + +"But yes, Gaston," said Jean gently. "I have loved her all my life." + +"Yes; it is so," Gaston muttered slowly. "I give her to you then, +Jean--she is a gift to you from the sea--from the sea to-night. She +loves you, Jean--she has told me so. You will be good to her, Jean?" + +The tears were in Jean's eyes. + +"Gaston, can you ask it?" he cried out brokenly. + +"Ay!" said Gaston, and his voice rang out in a strange, stern note, and +his form, as he lifted himself up once more, seemed to possess again +its old rugged strength. "Ay--I do more than ask it. Swear it, Jean! +To a dying man and in God's presence, see, there is a crucifix there, +swear that you will guard her and that you will let no harm come to +her." + +"I swear it, Gaston," said Jean, in a choking voice. + +"It is well, then," Gaston murmured--and lay back upon the bed. + +For a little while, Jean, dim-eyed, watched the other, a hundred +reminiscences of their work together stabbing at his heart, and then he +rose and began to remove what he could of the old fisherman's clothing. + +"I will not touch the wound, Gaston," he said; "but the boots, _mon +brave_, and--" + +Gaston did not answer. He appeared to have sunk into a semi-stupor, +from which even the removal of his clothes did not arouse him. Jean +pulled a blanket up around the other's form, and sat down again in the +chair. + +Once, as Gaston muttered, Jean leaned forward toward the other. + +"It is destiny--the Perigeau--the light is out--Rene, it is--" The +words trailed off into incoherency. + +The minutes passed. Occasionally, with a spoon now, Jean poured a few +drops of brandy between Gaston's lips; otherwise, he sat there, his +head in his hands, tight-lipped, staring at the floor. Outside, that +vicious howl of wind seemed to have died away--perhaps it was hushed +because old Gaston was like this--Marie-Louise had been gone a long +time--presently she and Father Anton would be back, and-- + +He looked up to find Gaston's eyes open and fixed upon him feverishly, +the lips struggling to say something. + +"What is it, Gaston?" he asked. + +"The light, Jean," Gaston whispered. "It is--for--the last time. Go +and--light--the--great lamp." + +"Yes, Gaston," Jean answered, and went from the room--but at the door +he covered his face with his hands, and his shoulders shook like a +child whose heart is broken, as his feet in that outer room crunched on +the shattered glass of the lamp that would never burn again. He dashed +the tears from his eyes, and for a moment stared unseeingly before him, +then turned and went back to Gaston's side again in the inner room. + +Gaston's eyes searched his face eagerly. + +"It burns?" he cried out. + +"It burns," said Jean steadily. + +And Gaston smiled, and the stupor fell upon him again. + +And then after a long time Jean heard footsteps without, then the +opening of the front door--and then it seemed to Jean that a +benediction had fallen upon the room. + +Framed in the doorway, a little worn black bag in his hand, his +_soutane_ splashed high with mud though it was caught up now around his +waist with a cord, stood Father Anton, the beloved of all +Bernay-sur-Mer. And, as he stood there and the kindly blue eyes +searched the figure on the bed, the fine old face, under its crown of +silver hair, grew very grave--and without moving from his position he +beckoned to Jean. + +"Jean, my son," he said softly, "make our little Marie-Louise here put +on dry clothing. I will be a little while with Gaston alone." + +Marie-Louise was standing behind the priest. Father Anton stepped +aside for Jean to pass--and then the door dosed quietly. + +"Jean!"--she caught his arm. "Jean tell me!" + +Jean did not answer--there were no words with which to answer her. + +"Oh, Jean!" she said--and a little sob broke her voice. + +"Go and put on dry things, Marie-Louise," he said. + +"No--not now," she answered. "Give me your hand." + +They stood there in the darkness. He felt her hand tremble. Neither +spoke. Father Anton's voice, in a low, constant murmur, came to them +now. + +Her hand tightened. + +"I know," she said. "It is the Sacrament." + +"He said he had taught you to be never afraid," said Jean. + +Her hand tightened again. + +It was a long while. And then the door behind them opened, and Father +Anton came between them, and drew Marie-Louise's head to his bosom and +stroked her hair, and placed his other arm around Jean's shoulders--and +for a moment he stood like that--and then he drew them to the window. + +"See, my children," he said gently, "there are the stars, and there is +peace after the storm. It is so with sorrow, for out of the blackness +of grief God brings us comfort in His own good pleasure. He has called +Gaston home." + + + + +-- II -- + +THE BEACON + +It was half clay, half mud; but out of it one could fashion the little +_poupees_, the dolls for the children. They would not last very long, +it was true; but then one fashioned them quickly, and there was delight +in making them. + +Jean dug a piece of the clay with his sheaf knife, leaned over from the +bank of the little creek, and moistened it in the water. He dug +another, moistened that, moulded the two together--and Marie-Louise +smiled at him a little tremulously, as their eyes met. + +The tears were very near to those brave dark eyes since three days ago. +Jean mechanically added a third piece of clay to the other two. Much +had happened in those three days--all Bernay-sur-Mer seemed changed +since that afternoon when Gaston, so Marie-Louise had told him, seeing +a boat adrift and fearing there might be some one in it, had tried +during a lull in the storm to reach it with her assistance, and an oar +had broken, and the tide on the ebb had driven them close to the +Perigeau where they had swamped, and somehow Gaston had been flung upon +the outer edges of the reef, and the boat, sodden, weighted, following, +had crushed him against the rocks. + +Jean looked at Marie-Louise again. She was all in black now--she and +good Mother Fregeau had made the dress between them for the church that +morning, when Father Anton had said the mass for Gaston. But +Marie-Louise was not looking at him--her elbows were on the ground, her +chin was cupped in her hands, and the long black lashes veiled her +eyes. She had not told him any more of the story--Jean could picture +that for himself. How many times must she have risked her life to have +pulled Gaston to the rocks higher up upon the reef! A daughter of +France, Gaston had called her. _Bon Dieu_, but she was that, with her +courage and her strength! One would not think the strength was there, +but then the black dress did not cling like the wet clothes that other +night to show the litheness of the rounded limbs. + +His fingers began to work into the clay, unnaturally diffident and +hesitant at first, not with the deft certainty of their custom, but as +though groping tentatively for something that was curiously intangible, +that eluded them. Marie-Louise, as she had been that night, was living +before him again--the lines of her form so full of grace and so +beautiful, so full of the virility of her young womanhood, the shapely +head, the hair streaming in abandon about her shoulders--and it was +like and yet not like that great bronze statue so often in his dreams, +imaginary and yet so real, that was set in the midst of that great city +in a great square. And then suddenly, strangely, of their own +volition, it seemed, his fingers, where they had been hesitant before, +began now to work with a sure swiftness. + +His eyes were drinking in the contour of Marie-Louise's face in a rapt, +eager, subconscious way. There was something deeper there than the +mere prettiness of feature, something that was impressing itself in an +absorbing, insistent way upon him. Her face made him think of the face +of that statue--there was a hint of masculinity that brought with it no +coarseness, nor robbed it of its sweetness or its charm, but like that +massive face of bronze that towered high, that people with uplifted +heads stood and gazed upon, that none passed by without a pause, +stamped it with calm fearlessness; and courage and resolve outshone all +else and alone was dominant there. + +Marie-Louise sat up suddenly from the ground and turned toward him, her +brows gathered in a pretty, puzzled way. + +"Why do you look at me like that, Jean?" she demanded abruptly. "And +what are you doing there? It is not the doll you promised to make for +little Ninon Lachance--it is much too big." She leaned forward. "What +are you making?" + +"_Ma foi_!" Jean muttered, with a little start--and stared at the lump +of clay. "I--I do not know." + +"Well, then," said Marie-Louise gravely, "don't do any more. I want to +talk to you, Jean." + +"How, not do any more!" protested Jean whimsically. "Was it not you +who said, 'We will go to the creek this afternoon and make _poupees_'? +And look"--he jerked his hand toward a large basket on the ground +beside him--"to do that I shall perhaps not keep my promise to meet the +_Lucille_ when she comes in and bring a panier of fish to Jacques +Fregeau at the Bas Rhone. And now you say, 'Don't do any more'!" + +"Yes; I know," admitted Marie-Louise. "But I want to talk to you. +Listen, Jean. To-morrow Mother Fregeau must go back to the Bas Rhone. +She has been too long away in her kindness now. You know how she came +to me the next morning after Uncle Gaston died, and put her arms around +me and has stayed ever since." + +Jean shifted the lump of clay a little away from Marie-Louise, but his +fingers still worked on. + +"She has a heart of gold," asserted Jean. "Who should know any better +than I, who have lived with her all these years?" + +Marie-Louise's eyes travelled slowly in a half tender, half pensive way +over Jean. His coat was off; the loose shirt was open at the neck +displaying the muscular shoulders, and the sleeves were rolled up over +the brown, tanned arms; the powerful hands, powerful for all their +long, slim, tapering fingers, worked on and on; the black hair +clustered truantly, as it always did, over the broad, high forehead. +She had known Jean all her life, as many years as she could remember, +and her love for him was very deep. It had come to seem her life, that +love; and each night in her prayers she had asked the _bon Dieu_ to +bless and take care of Jean, and to make her a good wife to him when +that time should come. It was so great, that love, that sometimes it +frightened her--somehow it was frightening her now, for there was a +side to Jean that, well as she knew him, she felt intuitively she had +never been able to understand. + +She spoke abruptly again, a little absently. + +"I do not know yet what I am to do. There is the house, and Father +Anton says I must not live there alone." + +"But, no!" agreed Jean. "Of course not! That is what I say, too. It +is all the more reason why we should not wait any longer, you and I, +Marie-Louise." + +A tinge of colour crept shyly into Marie-Louise's face, as she shook +her head. + +"No; we must wait, Jean. It is too soon after--after poor Uncle +Gaston." + +"But it was Gaston's wish, that," persisted Jean gently. "Have I not +told you what he said, _petite_?" + +Again Marie-Louise shook her head. + +"But one is sad for all that," she answered. "And to go to the church, +Jean, when one is sad, when one should go so happy! Oh, I want to be +happy then, Jean. I do not want to think of anything that day but only +you, Jean--and sing, and there must be sunshine and fete. But now, for +a little while, it is Uncle Gaston. You do not think that wrong?" + +"No," said Jean slowly, "it is not wrong, and I understand; but then, +too, Gaston would understand, for it was his wish." + +Marie-Louise bent forward with a strange little impulsive movement. + +"That is twice you have said that, Jean," she said. "I--I almost wish +Uncle Gaston had not said what he did to you that night. Jean, it--it +is not what he said, nor what you said to him. That must not make any +difference. Never, never, Jean! One does not marry for that--it is +only if there is love." + +"_Mais, 'cre nom_!" exclaimed Jean, suddenly setting aside his clay and +catching Marie-Louise's face between his hands. "Why do you talk like +that? What queer fancies are in that little head? Now, tell me"--he +kissed her lips, while the blood rushed crimson to her cheeks--"tell +me, is that not answer enough? And have we not loved each other long +before that night, and does not all Bernay-sur-Mer know that it will +dance at the _noces_?" + +"Yes," whispered Marie-Louise, a little breathlessly. + +"Ah, then," said Jean tenderly, "you must not talk like that. What, +Marie-Louise, if I should say to myself, 'now perhaps Marie-Louise has +not loved me all these years, and--'" + +She drew hurriedly away. + +"Don't, Jean!" she said quickly. "It hurts, that! I love you so much +that sometimes I am afraid. And to-day I am afraid. I do not know +why. And sometimes it is so different. That night on the reef when I +thought that soon the rocks would be covered and that there was no help +for Uncle Gaston and myself, and that no one could come to us even if +we were seen, I saw your lantern and the _bon Dieu_ told me it was you +and I had no more fear. I was so sure then--so sure then. Oh, Jean, +you must be very good to me to-day. It--it was so hard"--the dark eyes +were swimming now with tears--"to say good-bye to Uncle Gaston. +Perhaps it is that that is making me feel so strangely. But sometimes +it seems as though it could never be, the great happiness for you and +me, it is so great to think about that--that it frightens me. And I +have wanted to talk to you about it, Jean, often and often. Does it +make you very glad and happy, too, to think of just you and me together +here, and our home, and the fishing, and--and years and years of it?" + +"But, yes; of course!" smiled Jean; and, picking up the clay again, +began to scrape at it with his knife. + +"But are you sure, Jean?"--there was a little tremor in her voice. "I +do not mean so much that you are sure you love me, but that you are +sure you would always be happy to stay here in Bernay-sur-Mer. You are +not like the other men." + +"How not like them?" Jean demanded, surveying in an absorbed sort of +way the little clay figure that was taking on rough outline now. "How +not like them?" + +"Well--that!"--Marie-Louise pointed at the clay in his hands. "That, +for one thing--that you are always playing with, that it seems you +cannot put aside for an instant, even though I asked you to a moment +ago. You are always making the _poupees_, and if not the _poupees_ +with mud and dirt, then you must waste the inside of Mother Fregeau's +loaves that she bakes herself, or steal the dough before it reaches the +oven to keep your fingers busy making little faces and droll things out +of it." + +Jean looked up to stare at Marie-Louise a little perplexedly. + +"_Mais, zut_!" he exclaimed. "And what of that! And if I amuse myself +that way, what of that? It is nothing!" + +"Nevertheless," Marie-Louise insisted, nodding her head earnestly, "it +is true what I have said--that you are not like the other men in +Bernay-sur-Mer. Do you think that I have not watched you, Jean? And +have you not said little things to show that you grow tired of the +fishing?" + +"But that is true of everybody," Jean protested. "Does not Father +Anton say that all the world is poor because there is none in it who is +contented? And if I grumble sometimes, do not all the others do the +same? Pierre Lachance will swear to you twice every hour that the +fishing is a dog's life." + +She shook her head. + +"It is different," she said. "You are not Pierre Lachance, Jean, and I +want you to be happy all your life--that is what I ask the _bon Dieu_ +for always in my prayers. And I do not know why these thoughts come, +and I do not understand them, only I know that they are there." + +"Then--_voila_! We will drive them away, and they must never come +back!" Jean burst out, half gaily, half gravely. "See, now, +Marie-Louise"--he caught her hand in both of his, putting aside the +lump of clay again--"it is true that sometimes I am like that, and I do +not understand either; but one must take things as they are, is that +not so?" + +She nodded--a little doubtfully. + +"Well, then," cried Jean, "why should I not be happy here? Have I not +you, and is that not most of all? And as for the rest, do I not do +well with the fishing? Is there any who does better? Do they not +speak of the luck of Jean Laparde? _'Cre nom_! Different from the +others! Who is a fisherman if it is not I, who have been a fisherman +all my life? And of what good is it to wish for anything else? What +else, even if I wanted to, could I do? I do not know anything else but +the boats and the nets. Is it not so, Marie-Louise?" + +"Y-yes," she said, and her eyes lifted to meet his. + +"And happy!" he went on. "Ah, Marie-Louise, with those bright eyes of +yours that belong all to me, who could be anything but happy? _Tiens_! +You are to be my little wife, and Bernay-sur-Mer and the blue water is +to be our home, and we will fish together, and you shall sing all day +in the boat, and--well, what more is there to ask for?" + +"Oh, Jean!"--she was smiling now. + +"There, you see!" said Jean, and burst out laughing. "Marie-Louise is +herself again, and--_pouf_!--the blue devils are blown away. And now +wait until I have finished this, and I will show you something"--he +picked up the clay once more. "Only you must not look until it is +done." + +"Mustn't I? Oh!"--with a little _moue_ of resignation. "Well, then, +hurry, Jean," she commanded, and cupped her chin in her hands again, +her elbows propped upon the ground. + +It was playfully that Jean turned his back upon her, hiding his work, +but as his fingers began again to draw and model the clay and his knife +to chisel it, the smile went slowly from his face and his lips grew +firmly closed. It was strange that Marie-Louise should have known! It +was true, the fishing grew irksome too often now; for those moods, like +the mood in the storm, came very often, much more often than they had +been wont to do. He had laughed at her, but that was only to pretend, +to chase the sadness away and make her eyes shine again. It was true, +too, as he had told her, that one must take things as they were. +Whether he wanted to fish or not, he must fish--_voila_! How else +could one make the _sous_ with which to live? + +Oh, yes, he had laughed to make her laugh; but now, _pardieu_! it was +bringing that mood upon himself. Where was that great city and that +great square, and what was that great statue before which the people +stood rapt and spellbound, and why should it come so often to his +thoughts and be so real as though it were a very truth and not some +queer imagination of his brain? There were wonderful things in the +face of that bronze figure. He leaned a little forward toward the clay +before him, his lips half parted now, his fingers seeming to tingle +with a life, throbbing, palpitant, that was all their own, that was +apart from him entirely, for they possessed a power of movement and a +purpose that he had nothing to do with. He became absorbed in his +work, lost in it. Time passed. + +"Jean," Marie-Louise called out, "let me see it now." + +"Wait!" he said almost harshly. "Wait! Wait! Wait!" + +"_Jean_!"--it was a hurt little cry. + +He did not hear her. There was something at the base of that statue of +his dreams that always troubled him, that the people always pointed at +as they gazed; but he had never been able to make out what it was there +at the base of the statue. It was very strange that he was never able +to see that, when he could see the figure of the woman with the +wonderful face so plainly! + +He worked on and on. There were neither hours nor minutes--the +afternoon deepened. There was no creek, no Marie-Louise, no +Bernay-sur-Mer, nothing--only those dreams and the little clay figure +in his hands. + +And then Marie-Louise, her face a little white, timidly touched his arm. + +"Jean!" she said hesitantly. + +Her voice roused him. It seemed as though he was awakened from a +sleep. He brushed the hair back from his eyes, and looked around. + +"_Mon Dieu_," he said, "but that was, strange!" And then he smiled, +still a little dazed, and lifted around the clay figure for her to see. +"I do not know if it is finished," he said, staring at it; "but perhaps +I could do no better with it even if I worked longer." + +Marie-Louise's eyes, puzzled, anxious, on Jean's face, shifted to the +little clay figure--and their expression changed instantly. + +"But, Jean!" she cried, clasping her hands. "But, Jean, that is not a +_poupee_ you have made there. It--it will never do at all! Ninon +Lachance would break the arms off at the first minute, and it is too +_charmante_ for that. Oh, but, Jean, it--it is _adorable_!" + +Jean was inspecting the figure in a curiously abstracted way, as though +he had never seen it before, turning his head now to this side, now to +that, and turning the clay around and around in his hands to examine it +from all angles, while a heightened colour crept into his face and dyed +his cheeks. It was a small figure, hardly a foot and a half in +height--the figure of a fisherwoman, barefooted, in short skirts, the +clothes as though windswept clinging close around her limbs, her arms +stretched out as to the sea. He laughed a little unnaturally. + +"Well, then, since it will not do for Ninon Lachance, and you like it, +Marie-Louise," he said a little self-consciously; "it is for you." + +"For me--Jean? Really for me?" she asked happily. + +"And why not?" said Jean. "Since it _is_ you." + +"Me!"--she looked at him in a prettily bewildered way. + +"But, yes," said Jean, holding the figure off at arm's length. "See, +it is a beacon--the welcome of the fisherman home from the sea. And +are you not that, Marie-Louise, and will you not stand on the shore at +evening and hold out your arms for me as I pull home in the boat? Are +you not the beacon, Marie-Louise--for me?" + +Her hand stole over one of his and pressed it, but it was a moment +before she spoke. + +"I will pray to the _bon Dieu_ to make me that, Jean--always," she said +softly. + +He drew her close to him. + +"It is the luck of Jean Laparde!" he whispered tenderly. + +They sat for a little time in silence--then Jean sprang sharply to his +feet. + +"_Ma foi_, Marie-Louise!" he called out in sudden consternation, +glancing at the sun. "I did not know we had been here so long." He +picked up the little clay figure hastily, placed it in the basket, +threw his coat, that was on the ground, over it, and, swinging the +basket to the crook of his arm, held out his hand to Marie-Louise. +"Come, _petite_, we will hurry back." + +It was not far across the fields and down the little rise to the road +that paralleled the beach; and in some five minutes, walking quickly, +they came out upon the road itself by the turn near the rough wooden +bridge that crossed the creek halfway between the eastern headland and +the white, clustering cottages of Bernay-sur-Mer. But here, for all +their hurry, they paused suddenly of one accord, looking at each other +questioningly, as voices reached them from the direction of the bridge +which, still hidden from their view, was just around the bend of the +road ahead. + + * * * * * + +"But, my dear"--it was a man speaking, his tone a sort of tolerant +protest--"I am sure it is just the place we have been looking for. It +is quiet here." + +"Quiet!"--it was a woman's voice this time, in a wealth of irony. "It +is stagnation! There isn't a single thing alive here--even the sea is +dead! It is enough to give one the blues for the rest of one's life! +And the accommodations at that unspeakable tavern are absolutely +appalling. I can't imagine what you are dreaming of to want to stay +another minute! I'm quite sure there are lots of other places that +will furnish all the rest and quiet required, and where, at the same +time, we can at least be comfortable. Anyway, I'm not going to stay +here!" + +"But, Myrna, you--" + +"There is some one coming," said the girl. + + * * * * * + +Jean and Marie-Louise were walking forward again. + +"What are they saying, Jean?" asked Marie-Louise. + +Jean shook his head. + +"I do not know," he answered. "It is English. See! There they are!" + +An elderly, well-dressed man, grey-haired, clean-shaven, a little +stout, with a wholesomely good-natured, ruddy face, was leaning against +the railing of the bridge; and beside him, digging at the planks with +the tip of her parasol, stood a girl in dainty white, her head bent +forward, her face hidden under the wide brim of a picture hat. + +Jean's eyes, attracted as by a magnet, passed over the man and fixed +upon the girl. At Nice, at Monte Carlo, so they said, one saw many +such as she; but Bernay-sur-Mer was neither Nice nor Monte Carlo, and +he had never seen a woman gowned like that before. _'Cre nom_, what +exquisite harmony of line and poise! If she would but look up! _Bon +Dieu_, but it would be a desecration of the picture if she were not +gloriously pretty! + +The gentleman, nodding pleasantly, greeted them as they approached. + +"Good afternoon!" he said smilingly, in French. + +The girl had raised her head, grey eyes sweeping Marie-Louise with well +bred indifference--and Jean was staring at her. + +"_Bon jour, m'sieu_!"--he spoke mechanically, lifted his cap +mechanically. + +His eyes had not left the girl's face. He could not take his eyes from +her face. It was a wonderful face, a beautiful face, and something in +it thrilled him and bade him feast his eyes upon it to drink in its +beauty. And, his head thrown back exposing the bare rugged neck, the +broad, sturdy shoulders unconsciously squared a little, the fine, dark +eyes wide with admiration and a strange, keen appraisement, the +splendid physique, the strength, the power and vigour of young manhood +outstanding in face and form, he gazed at her. And her eyes, from +Marie-Louise, met his, and from them faded their expression of +indifference, and into them came something Jean could not define, only +that as the blood rushed suddenly unbidden to his face and he felt it +hot upon his cheeks, he saw the colour ebb from hers to a queer +whiteness--and then her hat hid her face again--and he had passed by. + +It was as though his veins were running fire. He glanced at +Marie-Louise. Shyly diffident in the presence of strangers, her head +was lowered. She had seen nothing. Seen nothing! Seen what? He did +not know. His blood was tingling, his brain was confusion. + +He walked on, hurrying unconsciously. + +It was Marie-Louise who spoke. + +"They are of the _grand monde_," she said in a sort of wondering +excitement, when they were out of ear-shot. + +"Yes," said Jean absently. + +"And English or American." + +"Yes," said Jean. + +"But the rich people do not come to Bernay-sur-Mer where there is no +amusement for them," she submitted with a puzzled air. "I wonder what +they are going to do here?" + +Jean's eyes were on the road. He did not raise them. + +"Who knows!" said Jean Laparde. + + + + +-- IV -- + +STRANGERS WITHIN THE GATES + +"Until to-morrow"--the words kept echoing in Jean's ears, as he hurried +now on his way back to the Bas Rhone. "Until to-morrow"--Marie-Louise +had called to him, as he had left the house on the bluff after taking +her home. Well, what was there unusual in that! Though he went often, +he did not go to see Marie-Louise every evening, and it was not the +first time she had ever said it. Why should he be vaguely conscious of +a sort of relief that she had said "until to-morrow" on this particular +occasion? It was a very strange way to feel--but then his mind was in +the most curiously jumbled state! That meeting at the bridge of less +than half an hour ago obsessed him. Where had they come from, these +strangers? How long were they going to stay? Or, perhaps--an +unaccountable dismay suddenly seized him--perhaps they had already +gone! But Papa Fregeau, of course, would know all that--therefore, +naturally, he was impatient to reach the Bas Rhone and Papa Fregeau. + +The empty basket on his arm, for Marie-Louise had taken the beacon and +he had forgotten all about Papa Fregeau's fish, Jean paused as he +reached the bridge. It was here that look had passed between them. He +would never forget that. It meant nothing--he was not a fool--it could +mean nothing. It was only a look, only an instant in which those grey +eyes had met his--but he would never forget it! + +He hurried on again. + +Perhaps he had imagined that expression, that flash, that spark, that +something that was impellingly magnetic in those grey eyes. No, he had +not imagined it; he had felt it, known it, sensed it. In that one +instant something had passed between them that in all his life he would +never forget--it had left him like a man adrift on a shoreless sea with +the startling wonder of it. She was of the _grand monde_--Marie-Louise +had said it. And he was a fisherman. She could have no interest in a +fisherman; and what interest could a fisherman--bah, it was pitifully +laughable! But it was not laughable! If he could only define that +look! It was as if--_bon Dieu_, what was it!--as if she were a woman +and he were a man. Yes; it was that! It was only for a moment, by now +she would have forgotten it; but for that moment it had been that. +Only, whereas she would have forgotten, with him it remained. It was +curious--her form was even more like that dream statue than was +Marie-Louise's. If by any chance she should already have gone! The +thought, recurring, brought once more that twinge of dismay. Was it +strange that he should want to see her again! True, she would never +look at him like that a second time, she had been off her guard for +that little instant when there had been no _grand monde_ and no +fisherman, but she was still the same beautiful woman, glorious in form +and face--and the allurement of her presence was like some rare, +exquisite fragrance stealing upon the senses, enslaving them. + +And now, as he approached the little village, and passed the first +cottage, with the Bas Rhone in sight beyond, he found himself eagerly +searching the beach, the single street for sign of her. But there was +no sign. Everything about the village was as it always was every early +evening in Bernay-sur-Mer, when it was summer and the light held late. +Strewn out along the beach, the men were at work upon their boats and +nets; the children played about the doorways; through the open doors +one could see the women busy over the evening meal--nothing else! And +surely there would have been some stir of excitement if the strangers +were still there, at least amongst the children--it was an event, that, +to Bernay-sur-Mer. They had gone then, evidently! + +Jean's eyes lifted from a fruitless sweep of the beach to fix on the +figure of Papa Fregeau emerging on the run from the Bas Rhone. + +"The fish, Jean! The fish!" the fat little man called out breathlessly. + +"The fish?" repeated Jean--and then, a little sheepishly, stared into +the empty basket. + +Papa Fregeau, who had reached Jean's side, was staring into it too. + +"Yes--the fish! The fish!" he shouted. "Where are the fish you +promised to bring back?" + +And then Jean laughed. + +"Why," said Jean, "I--I think I must have forgotten them." + +Papa Fregeau was excited. He began to dance up and down, his fat +paunch shaking like jelly. + +"Idiot! Imbecile!" he stormed. "Have I not had trouble enough without +this! _Sacre bleu de misericorde_! What an afternoon! And you +laugh--_bete_, that you are! And now what shall I do?" + +"Do?" said Jean---and stopped laughing. "What is the matter?" + +"Matter!" spluttered the patron of the Bas Rhone. "Matter! Have I not +told you what is the matter? The fish!" + +"Yes, but a few fish," said Jean, eyeing the other in a half puzzled +way. "What are a few fish that you--" + +"You do not understand!"--Papa Fregeau was still dancing up and down as +he kept step with Jean, who had now started on again toward the Bas +Rhone. "Listen! They are Americans of Paris, they say! They arrive +in an automobile this afternoon--mademoiselle and her father, the maid +and the chauffeur. It is fine, they stop at the Bas Rhone and engage +rooms. Excellent! Nothing could be better. There is profit in that. +I carry the trunks, the valises, a multitude of effects that are +strapped all over the automobile to the rooms, and am on the point of +sending for Mother Fregeau at Marie-Louise's. _Sapristi_--I do not +pretend to be a cook! They start out for a walk, the mademoiselle and +her father--and the mademoiselle, before they are out of sight from the +window, returns to say that they will not stay, that I shall repack +everything on that accursed car in readiness for their departure on the +return from their walk. _Tourment de Satan_!--very good, I repack it. +And now you bring no fish!" + +Jean shrugged his shoulders. + +"Well, since they are gone, what does it matter?" + +"Gone! _Tonnerre_!"--Papa Fregeau's face was apoplectic, and his fat +cheeks puffed in and out like toy balloons. "Gone! Have I not told +you that they are not gone!" + +"You have told me nothing"--there was a sudden, quick interest in +Jean's voice. "They are gone--and they are not gone! What are you +talking about?" + +"I do not know what I am talking about!" snapped Papa Fregeau fiercely. +"How should I know! It is first this, then that, then this, then +that--it is a _badauderie_! She is crazy, the girl; the father is no +better; the maid, Nanette, is a hussy. She slapped my face when I but +paid her a pretty compliment; and Jules, the chauffeur, is a pig who +lies on his back under the infernal machine and will not lift a finger +with the baggage. Wait! Listen! Come here!" He pulled Jean in +through the door and across the cafe to the bar at the far end of the +room, where he hastily decanted a glass of cognac and tossed it off. +"See! Listen!" he went on excitedly, replenishing his glass. "I +repack everything on the machine again, which is out there behind the +tavern. I climb the stairs and I descend the stairs three dozen times, +there is always one more package. And then fifteen minutes ago +mademoiselle returns from her walk alone, and waves her +hands--_pouf_!--just like that--and she says: 'Monsieur Fregeau, we +will stay; take the baggage back to the rooms!' _C'est insupportable, +ca_!" Papa Fregeau flung out his arms in abandoned despair. "And now +there is no supper for them. _Sapristi_, I am no cook; but I could +cook fish if you, _miserable_ that you are, had brought them--heh! And +it is too late now to send for Mother Fregeau." + +Jean was paying but slender attention. They had not gone! They were +going to stay! + +"Get Madame Lachance, next door, to help you," he said absently. Then +abruptly: "Mademoiselle returned alone, you say--and what of monsieur, +her father?" + +Papa Fregeau made a gulp at his second glass. + +"He is impossible!" he choked. "With him it is the sunset! Who ever +heard of such a thing! He is on the beach to gaze at the sunset! _Nom +d'un nom_, is it extraordinary that the sun should set! But it is not +him, it is mademoiselle. I am sure he knows nothing of all this, and +concerns himself less. It is mademoiselle's doing. And I have had +enough! I will not any longer be made a fool of!" He banged his pudgy +fist on the _comptoir_. "Is it to stand on my head that I am patron of +the Bas Rhone! _Sacre bleu_! I will not support it! I tell you that +I will not--" Papa Fregeau's mouth remained wide open. + +"Monsieur Fregeau!" a voice called softly in excellent French from the +rear door. "Nanette is struggling with a valise on the back stairs +that is much too heavy for her, and perhaps if you--" + +Papa Fregeau's mouth closed, opened again--and, in his haste to make a +bow, the cognac glass became a shower of tinkling splinters on the +floor. + +"But _immediatement_! Instantly, Mademoiselle!" cried Papa Fregeau +effusively. "On the moment! A valise that is too heavy for her! It +is a sacrilege! It is unpardonable! Instantly, Mademoiselle, on the +instant! On the moment!"--and he rushed from the room. + +She stood in the doorway; and, from under bewitchingly half closed +lids, the grey eyes met Jean's. And under her gaze that was quite +calm, unruffled, self-possessed now, the blood rushed tingling again +through his veins, and again he felt it mounting to his cheeks. She +wore no hat now; and, with the sun's last rays through the doorway +falling softly upon her wealth of hair, it was as though it were a +wondrously woven mass of glinting bronze that crowned her head. + +Jean's cap was in his hand. + +"Oh!" she said. "You are the"--there was just a trace of hesitation +over the choice of the word--"the man who passed us on the bridge a +little while ago, aren't you?" + +There was something, a sort of indefinable challenge, in the voice and +eyes, a carelessness that, well as it was simulated, was not wholly +genuine. Jean's eyes met the grey ones, held them--and suddenly he +smiled, accepting the challenge. + +"It is good of mademoiselle to recognise me," he answered. + +She stared at him for an instant, her eyes opening wide; and then, with +a contagious, impulsive laugh, she came forward into the room. + +"Of course!" she cried. "You would answer like that! I knew it! You +are less like a fisherman, for all your clothes, than any man I ever +saw." + +"I?" said Jean, in quick surprise. It was strange she had said that! +It was only that afternoon that Marie-Louise had said almost the same +thing. Not like a fisherman! Why not? What was this imagined +difference between himself and the other men in Bernay-sur-Mer? + +"Yes; you," she returned briskly. "And now I suppose you will tell me +that you were born here, and have lived here all your life?" + +"But yes, mademoiselle," he smiled again, and shrugged his shoulders; +"since it is so. I have never been anywhere else." + +"And since it is so, it must be so," she nodded. "What is your name?" + +"Jean Laparde," he replied. + +"Jean"--she repeated the word deliberately. "I like Jean," she +decided, nodding her head again. "I like Laparde, too, but I will call +you Jean." + +Jean's eyes met hers a little quizzically. She carried things by +assault, this beautiful American girl! There was a certain element of +intimacy, an air of proprietorship adopted toward him that somehow, at +one and the same time, quickened his pulse at the vague promise that +they would not be strangers if only she should stay in Bernay-sur-Mer, +and piqued his man-mind at the hint of mastery being snatched from him. + +"All call me Jean," he said quietly. + +"Then that is settled!" she announced brightly. "Now tell me--Jean. +Is there any other place in the village besides this impossible Taverne +du Bas Rhone where we could stay for a week--a month--as long as we +liked?" + +"A week--a month!"--Jean leaned suddenly toward her, an incredulous +delight unconsciously spontaneous in his voice. "You are going to stay +that long? But Papa Fregeau said you had no sooner arrived than you +decided to go again, and--" + +"Your Papa Fregeau has a tongue that runs away with him," she +interrupted quickly. "One may change one's mind, I suppose? This +place will do for to-night; but afterwards--surely there is some other +place where we could stay?" + +Jean shook his head. + +"There is only the Bas Rhone," he said slowly. "I--I am afraid--" + +"And now, after all, you are going to be stupid!" she exclaimed +reproachfully. + +What was it? What did she mean? It was not the words--they were +nothing. It was the tone, her eyes, an appeal in the exquisite grace +of the lithe form bending toward him, the touch of the fingers laid +lightly on his sleeve, that look again that levelled all barriers +between them--until she was a woman and he was a man. His mind was in +riot. He was a fool! And yet, fool or no, the thought would come. +Why did she want to stay now? Papa Fregeau had said that almost on +their arrival they had decided to go on. It was during her walk that +she had changed her mind. What had happened on that walk to make her +change her mind? A walk in Bernay-sur-Mer was not full of incident! +It was ridiculous, absurd, fantastical, but it was there, the thought, +sweeping him with a surge of wild emotion--was it that meeting on the +bridge? But why? How? He was a rough-garbed fisherman, and she-- + +She laughed delightedly. + +"What a frown! How fierce you are! Is it then such a terrible affair +to help me a little--Jean?" + +"_Mon Dieu_!" cried Jean--and the words were on his lips with a rush. +"But--_no_!" + +"Oh!" she murmured, and drew back a little; and the colour, rising, +glowed pink through her cheeks. "You _are_ impulsive, aren't you? +Well, then, since you are to help me, what are we to do?" + +Jean's eyes were revelling in that pink flush. It was satisfying to +the man-mind, that--even though she were of the _grand monde_ then, a +woman was a woman after all. It was a sort of turning of the tables, +that added to the magnetism of her presence because it put him suddenly +more at his ease. But to help her--that was another matter. +Bernay-sur-Mer was--Bernay-sur-Mer! _Voila tout_! Apart from the Bas +Rhone there was no accommodation for strangers, for there was nothing +stranger than strangers in Bernay-sur-Mer. Since then there was no +other place for them to go, he could think of no other place. And yet, +a week, a month--to think that she would spend that time in +Bernay-sur-Mer! _Ciel_! Where were his brains? + +"Well?" she prompted, with alluring imperiousness. + +It was the force of habit. In trouble, in perplexity, in joy, in +sorrow, for counsel, for advice there was but one court of appeal in +Bernay-sur-Mer--the good Father Anton. The role of Father Anton was +not only spiritual--it was secular. Bernay-sur-Mer was a child and +Father Anton was its parent--it had always been so. + +"I will ask Father Anton," said Jean. + +"Father Anton? Who is Father Anton?" she demanded. + +"He is the cure," Jean answered. "I do not know of any place, but +Father Anton will know if there is any, and--" + +"Splendid!" she broke in excitedly. "Let us go and ask Father Anton at +once. Come along"--she crossed the cafe to the front door. "Come +along, Jean, and show me the way." + +Yes, certainly, she carried things by assault this American girl. She +bubbled with life and vivacity. And he was to walk with her now to +Father Anton's--half an hour ago he would as soon have dreamed of +possessing a fortune! It was incredible! It must be a marvellous +world that, where she came from--but no, even the women of her world +could not be like her! The suppleness of her form, it was divine; the +carriage, the poise, the smile--it was intoxication, it went to the +senses! + +"I am mad! It is as though--as though I were drunk with wine!" Jean +muttered--and followed her across the room. + +"Now where is this Father Anton of yours?"--as Jean joined her outside +the tavern. + +"There," said Jean, and pointed along the street. "Do you see the +church--behind the second cottage? Well, it is there--just on the +other side." + +She nodded--and Jean, glancing at her, found that she was not looking +in that direction at all. Instead, she seemed wholly engaged in +watching a boat start shoreward, as it pulled away from the side of a +smack anchored out in the bay. Father Anton might have been the last +thing that concerned her. Jean's eyes, a little puzzled, followed +hers. When he looked up again, the grey eyes were laughing at him. + +"Is it quite safe out there?" she asked, waving her hand. + +"Safe?" repeated Jean, in a bewildered way. + +"Stupid!" she cried merrily. "Yes, of course--safe! If I am to stay +here, I cannot lie all day upon the beach and do nothing. You have a +boat, haven't you, Jean?" + +"But, yes," said Jean. + +"Then I am quite sure it will be safe," she decided. "I must have a +boat, and, of course, a boatman. You will be the boatman, Jean. Oh, I +really believe that, after all, Bernay-sur-Mer will be possible. There +will be places where we can go, little excursions, and heaps of things +like that. There, that is settled! And now I am more eager than ever +to see Father Anton." + +Yes; it was settled! It was phrase of hers, that! To have demurred +would have been as impossible as to have said no. And, besides, he had +no wish to either demur or refuse. It seemed as though he were hurried +forward captive into some strange, unknown land of enchantment. It +staggered him, bewildered him, lured him, fired his imagination--and +there was no desire to rouse himself from what seemed like a wonderful +dream. No woman that he had ever seen, or imagined was like her. To +spend a day where he could feast his eyes upon her!--and did she not +now talk of many days! Even a fisherman might lift his eyes as high as +that--since she gave him leave. Afterwards, she would go away again; +but, _bon Dieu_, one could at least live in the present! It would be +something to remember! Her eyes were on him again. He felt them +studying him. Her hand brushed his arm. There was a faint, enticing +fragrance of violets in the air about her. + +"You are not very gallant, Jean!" she laughed out. "Aren't you pleased +with the suggestion; or would you rather--fish?" + +They had reached the church, and turned. + +"I was thinking," said Jean, with unconscious naivete, "that I was +afraid Father Anton would not know of any place." + +She looked at him quickly, a flash in the grey eyes--then the lids +lowered. The next instant she was pointing ahead of her. + +"But there!" she cried out. "There is Monsieur le Cure's house, is it +not?" She clapped her hands in sudden delight. "Why, it is a +play-house, only a make-believe one! And how pretty!" + +Behind the church was a little garden, full-flowered; a little white +fence; a little white gate; and, at the end of the garden, a little +cottage, smaller than any, where none were large, in Bernay-sur-Mer, +and which was white in colour, too, if one might hazard a guess for the +vines that grew over it, covering it, submerging it, clothing it in a +clinging mass of green, until only the little stubby chimney peeked +shyly out from the centre of the slanting roof. + +"Yes," said Jean; "and there is Father Anton himself." + +A bare-headed, silver-haired form in rusty black _soutane_, a watering +pot in hand, was bending over a bed of dahlias; but at the sound of +their approach the priest put down the watering pot, and came hurriedly +toward them to the gate. + +"Ah, Jean, my son!" he cried out heartily--and bowed with old-fashioned +courtliness to Jean's companion. "I heard there were strangers in +Bernay-sur-Mer, mademoiselle; but that they had gone on again. You are +very welcome. Won't you come in?" + +She leaned upon the gate, smiling--and shook her head. + +"No, thank you, Monsieur le Cure. I must not stay long, or my father +will be wondering what could have become of me. The truth is, that +I--we are in trouble, and Jean here has brought me to you." + +"Trouble!" exclaimed Father Anton anxiously, and his face grew suddenly +grave. + +She shook her head again, and laughed. + +"Oh, it is not serious! You see--but I must introduce myself. I am +Myrna Bliss. My father is Henry Bliss--I wonder if you have ever heard +of him? We have lived for years and years in Paris." + +Father Anton was genuinely embarrassed. + +"I--I am afraid I never have," he admitted. + +"Oh, well," she cried gaily, "you mustn't feel badly about it. His is +entirely a reflected glory--that is what I tell him. Art! Everything +is art with him, painting, sculpture, literature; and, as he can do +neither one nor the other himself, he endows a school for this, or a +_societe_ for that, and money exists for only one reason--the +advancement of art. And since he calls Paris the home of art, we live +in Paris. But now I am prattling like a school girl"--she laughed +infectiously. + +The cure's old face wrinkled into smiles. + +"It is very interesting, mademoiselle," he said. "And here in +Bernay-sur-Mer I fear we know too little of such things." He reached +across the fence and laid his hand affectionately on Jean's shoulder. +"But it is not quite all our fault, is it, Jean? The _sous_ come hard +with the fishing, and we do not have much time for anything outside our +own little world. I should greatly like to talk with monsieur, your +father. Is it possible that you are to stay a little while here?" + +"If we do"--the girl's face was a picture of roguish merriment--"you +will not be able to escape him, I promise you, Monsieur le Cure--so +beware! But that is our trouble. My father is on what he calls a +little holiday--it is really that he needs rest and quiet. For a man +of his age, what with his own affairs and his 'art,' he is far too +active. Very well. Bernay-sur-Mer is ideal, only--except--Monsieur le +Cure, I am sure, will understand--except the Bas Rhone." + +"Ah, the Bas Rhone!" said Father Anton. "It is that, then--the Bas +Rhone?" + +"Exactly!" she smiled. "And so Jean has brought me to you to suggest +something else for us." + +Father Anton joined his finger tips thoughtfully. + +"Yes; I see," he said. "My good friends, the Fregeaus, would do all in +their power for you, they are most excellent people; but, yes--h'm--I +see. It is a cafe much more than an inn, and for a cafe it answers +very well; and, after all, it is not their fault that there are not +proper accommodations for guests. Yes; I am afraid the accommodations +must be very inadequate. But you see, mademoiselle"--Father Anton's +voice had a quaint, gentle note of pleading--"we are quite off the main +road, and it is rare that a stranger stops in Bernay-sur-Mer, and since +they are poor they could not afford, even if they had the money, to +make an investment that would bring no return. But something +else--h'm! Truly, mademoiselle, I do not know--there is certainly no +other place to board." + +"Well, a little furnished cottage then," she suggested. "I have my own +maid, and, if there were some one else to help a little, nothing would +suit us better. Now, Monsieur le Cure, you are not going to be so +heartless as to tell me there are no cottages either!" + +For a moment Father Anton did not answer--then his face broke suddenly +into smiles. + +"But, no, mademoiselle," he declared quickly, nodding his head +delightedly at Jean, "I shall tell you nothing of the sort. One might +say it was almost providential. Nothing could be better! And the +finest cottage in Bernay-sur-Mer, too! Mademoiselle and her father +will be charmed with it--and all day I have been worrying about what to +do with Marie-Louise. Would it not be just the thing, Jean?" + +"_Ma foi_!" gasped Jean in surprise, staring from one to the other. +"The house on the bluff?" + +"And what else?" said Father Anton enthusiastically. "Listen, +mademoiselle; I will explain to you. It is the house out there on the +headland, where Gaston Bernier lived with his niece, Marie-Louise. +Three days ago in the great storm _le pauvre_ Gaston was hurt, and that +night he died. Marie-Louise can no longer live there alone--it is not +right for a young girl. I thought to bring her here to live with me +and my old housekeeper; but now she can rent the house to you, and can +help with the work for she is a very good cook." + +"Father Anton, you are a treasure!" cried Myrna Bliss vivaciously. "We +will take the house. And the rent? Would, say, two hundred francs a +month be right?" + +"Two hundred francs?" repeated Father Anton incredulously, his eyes +widening. + +"Yes; and another hundred for Marie-Louise." + +Three hundred francs! It was not a large sum of money--it was a +fortune! Father Anton, in his years of ministry at Bernay-sur-Mer, +could not remember ever having seen a sum like that all at one time; +also, it was out of all proportion to what he would have thought +Marie-Louise should demand. The good cure's face was a picture with +its mingled emotions--he was torn between a desire that this good +fortune should come to Marie-Louise, and a fear in his honest heart +that he should be privy to the crime of extortion! + +Myrna Bliss laughed at him merrily. + +"Then that is settled!" she announced. "Three hundred francs. There +is nothing more to be said. The only question is, will Marie-Louise +let us have the house?" + +"Mademoiselle," said the old priest, his eyes twinkling, "may I say +it?--you are charming! As for the arrangements, have no fear. I would +go this evening, only I have some sick to visit. But very early in the +morning I will see Marie-Louise, and by the time mademoiselle and her +father have had breakfast the house will be at their disposal." + +She reached her hand across the gate to thank Father Anton and bid the +cure good evening--but Jean no longer heard a word. His mind seemed to +be clashing discordantly; his thoughts in dissension, in open hostility +one to another. She was to live in the house on the bluff. +Marie-Louise was to stay there, too. One moment he saw no objection to +the plan; the next moment, for a thousand vague, fragmentary reasons, +that in their entire thousand would not form a single concrete whole +that he could grasp, he did not like it at all. + +He answered Father Anton's "_au revoir_" mechanically, as they started +back for the Bas Rhone. She was in a hurry now, all life, all +excitement--half running. + +"Did I not tell you, Jean, that I would find just what I wanted?" she +called out in gay spirits. + +She had told him nothing of the sort. + +"Yes," said Jean. + +They reached the Bas Rhone, and there, in the doorway, she turned. + +"I must find my father, and tell him," she said. There was a smile, a +flash of the grey eyes, a glint from the bronze-crowned head, a quick +little impetuous pressure on his arm, a laugh soft and musical as the +rippling of a brook; and then: "Until to-morrow, Jean." + +And she was gone. + +Until to-morrow! The words were strangely familiar. Papa Fregeau was +hurrying through the cafe. Jean turned away. He had no wish to talk +to Papa Fregeau--or any one else. He walked down to the beach--and his +eyes, across the bay, fixed on the headland. Yes, that was it! Until +to-morrow--that was what Marie-Louise had said--until to-morrow. + +He went on along the beach, his brain feverishly chaotic. She had been +like a vision, a glorious vision, suddenly gone, as she had stood there +in the doorway. Her name was Myrna Bliss. Why not, since Father Anton +could not go that night, why not go to Marie-Louise himself and tell +her about the house? Yes; he would do that. + +He crossed the beach to the road again, and started on--walking +rapidly. As he neared the little bridge, his pace slowed. At the +bridge he halted. Perhaps it would be better not to go--it would be +better left to Father Anton, that! + +"_Sacre bleu_!" cried Jean suddenly aloud. "What is the matter with +me? What has happened?" + +But he went no further along the road; for, after a moment, he turned, +retracing his steps slowly toward Bernay-sur-Mer. + +And so that night Jean did not go to Marie-Louise. But there, at the +house on the bluff, later on, Marie-Louise, after Mother Fregeau had +gone to bed, took the beacon that Jean had made and placed it upon the +table in the front room where, before, that other beacon, the great +lamp, had stood. And for a long time she sat before it, her elbows on +the table, now looking at the little clay figure, now staring through +the window to the headland's point where sometimes she could see the +surf splash silver white in the moonlight. It had been a happy +afternoon in many ways; but there was something that would not let it +be all happiness, for there was confusion in her thoughts. The house +was lonely now, and Uncle Gaston had gone; it did not seem true, it did +not seem that it could be he would not open that door again and come +thumping in with the nets over his shoulders and the wooden floats +bumping on the floor--and the tears unbidden filled her eyes. And her +talk with Jean somehow had not satisfied her, had not dispelled that +intuition that troubled her, for all that he had laughed at her for it; +and they had not, after all, settled what she was to do now that Uncle +Gaston was gone, for, instead of talking more about it, Jean had +forgotten all about her for ever so long while he had worked at the +little clay figure. + +Her eyes, from the window, fastened on the beacon with its open, +outstretched arms--and, suddenly, confusion went and great tenderness +came. He had made it for her, and he had said that--that it _was_ her. + +"Jean's beacon," she said softly. + +And presently she went upstairs to the little attic room, and +undressed, and blew out the candle; and, in her white night-robe, the +black hair streaming over her shoulders, the moonlight upon her, she +knelt beside the bed. + +"Make me that, _mon Pere_," she whispered; "make me that--Jean's beacon +all through my life." + + + + +-- V -- + +"WHO IS JEAN LAPARDE?" + +The mattress was of straw--and the straw had probably been garnered in +a previous generation, if not in a prehistoric age! It was so old that +it was a shifting, lumpy mass of brittle chaff, whose individual units +at unexpected moments punctured the ticking and, nettle-wise, stuck +through the coarse sheet. It was not comfortable. It had not been +comfortable all night. Truly, the best that could be said for the Bas +Rhone was that, as Father Anton in his gentle way had taken pains to +make it clear, its proprietors were well-intentioned--and that was a +source of comfort only as far as it went! + +Myrna Bliss wriggled drowsily into another position--and a moment later +wriggled back into the old one. Then she opened her eyes, and stared +about her. The morning sun was streaming in through the window. She +observed this with sleepy amazement. After all then, she must have +slept more than she had imagined, in spite of the awful bed. + +The _lap-lap-lap_ of the sea came to her. In through the open window +floated the voices of children at play in the street; from down on the +beach the sound of men's voices, shouting and calling cheerily to each +other, reached her; from below stairs some sort of a family reunion +appeared to be in progress. She could hear that absurd Papa Fregeau +talking as though he were a soda-water bottle with the cork suddenly +exploded! + +"Ah, _mignonne--cherie_! You are back! You will go away no more--not +for a day! I have been in despair! It is the Americans! I have been +miserable! _Tiens, embrasse-moi_, my little Lucille!" + +There was the commotion of a playful struggle, then the resounding +smack of a kiss--and then a woman's voice. + +"Such a simpleton as you are, _mon_ Jacques!"--it was as though one +were talking to a child. "So they have put you in despair, these +Americans! Well, then, I am back. And listen!"--importantly. "What +do you think?" + +"Think?" cried Papa Fregeau excitedly. "But I do not think!" + +"That is true," was the response; "so I will tell you. They are going +away this morning." + +"_Merci_!" exclaimed Papa Fregeau fervently. "I am very glad!" + +"They are going to Marie-Louise's." + +"To Marie-Louise's!"--incredulously. "You tell me that they are going +to Marie-Louise's?" + +"Yes; to Marie-Louise's, stupid! Father Anton came an hour ago to make +the arrangements. They are to rent the house, and Marie-Louise is to +remain there _en domestique_. Now what have you to say to that?" + +"_Mon Dieu_!" ejaculated Papa Fregeau, with intense earnestness. "That +I am sorry for Marie-Louise!" + +Myrna Bliss laughed softly, delightedly to herself--and then, with a +sudden little gasp, sat bolt upright in bed. The whole thing, +everything since yesterday afternoon had been inconceivably +preposterous--and she herself preposterous most of all! If her father +ever heard the truth of it, what a scene there would be! + +She got out of bed impulsively, walked to the window, and leaned her +elbows on the sill, her brows gathered in a perplexed little frown. +Just what had happened anyway? She had decided ten minutes after they +had arrived in Bernay-sur-Mer that she would die of ennui if she stayed +there. They had started for a walk, she and her father, and, without +saying anything to him, she had turned back and taken it upon herself +to inform this fat, effervescent little hotel proprietor that they +would go on that afternoon. She had intended, during the walk, to tell +her father what she had done, and, in fact, had told him; and then on +her return after that--yes, that meeting on the bridge--she had +countermanded her orders, and not only countermanded them but had even +rented a cottage! Her father had seen nothing extraordinary in it, +which was natural enough--since he left all travelling arrangements to +her. Indeed, on the contrary, as Bernay-sur-Mer had seemed to appeal +to him, he had been rather taken with the idea--if perhaps a trifle +sceptical as to the success of the housekeeping plan. In a word, if +the discovery of what she believed to be suitable accommodations had +induced her to change her mind and stay in Bernay-sur-Mer, it was +perfectly satisfactory to him. The brows smoothed out. As far as her +father was concerned, that was all there was to it. She had been the +practical manager ever since her mother had died five years before. + +The brows puckered up again. Her father would never give it a second +thought, he would never for an instant imagine there was any ulterior +motive for what she had done. How could he--when the real reason was +so utterly absurd, ridiculous and unheard of! Fancy! What would that +select and ultra-exclusive set in Paris say? What if it ever came to +the ears of New York! Myrna Bliss to bury herself alive in a little +Mediterranean village that was probably not even on the map, and all at +a glance from the eyes of a--fisherman! They wouldn't believe it. Who +would believe it! It was unimaginable! + +Dainty little fingers reached up and drummed with their pink tips on +the window pane; the pucker became more pronounced. Well, she _had_ +done it, nevertheless. And why was it so absurd, so ridiculous, so +impossible after all? She would do exactly the same thing over again +without an instant's hesitation. It was quite true the man was a +fisherman--but he did not _look_ like a fisherman. He was magnificent! +It was not ridiculous at all--it was piquantly delightful. Neither was +it so absurdly impossible--if she did not stay in Bernay-sur-Mer, it +would only be to choose some other place equally as tiresome--and +without even a "fisherman" to compensate for it. What a face the man +had! It was not merely handsome, it was--well, it was the prototype of +what the artist coterie that buzzed around her father day and night was +forever attempting to give expression to, but which, until now, she had +never believed could exist in real life. He would be a refreshing +change this astounding man-creature, this Jean Laparde, after the vapid +attentions of the vapid men who made up her life in the social whirl of +Paris--Count von Heirlich and Lord Barnvegh, for examples, out of a +host of satellites who were constantly at her heels, because, of +course, she was an heiress; and whose attentions she endured because, +of course, some day she must marry, and because, of course again, to +marry anything less than a title, a name, fame, was quite out of the +question. As for that, no one expected anything but a brilliant match +for her--and certainly she expected nothing less for herself. What a +pity that they were not like Jean Laparde, those men of her world! + +The fingers, from the window pane, tossed back a truant coil of hair; +the white shoulders lifted in a little shrug. Paris--New York! That +was all the world she knew. New York once a year--Paris the rest of +the time. Expatriates--for art! That's what they were! Art--her +father was obsessed with it. It was a mania with him; it was the last +thing in the world that interested her. As a matter of fact, she +couldn't seem to think of anything that particularly interested her. +One tired quickly enough of the social merry-go-round--after a season +it became inane. One surely had the right to amuse one's self with a +new sensation--if one could find it! The man had the physique of a +young god. A fisherman--well, what of it? He was splendid. He was +more than splendid. Even the crude dress seemed to enhance him. It +was a face that had made her catch her breath in that long second when +their eyes had met. Yes, of course--why not admit it?--he interested +her. He was rugged, he was strong, and above all he was supremely a +man. Of course, it was only a matter of a week, a month, the time they +chose to stay there; but it would be a decided novelty while it lasted. + +She laughed suddenly aloud--a low, rippling little laugh. Actually the +man was already her slave! Imagine a man like that her slave! +Certainly it would be a new sensation. What a strange thrill it had +given her when she had first caught sight of him on the bridge the +afternoon before. Well, why shouldn't it have done so--a fisherman +with a face like that? It was amazing! Think of finding such a man in +such a situation! Was it any wonder that she had thrilled--even if he +were only a fisherman? In Paris, of course, she could not have done +what she had done, it would have been quite out of the question, there +were the conventions--but then in Paris one didn't see men like that! + +"And since," confided Myrna Bliss to a little urchin running in the +street below, who neither saw nor heard her, "we are not in Paris, but +in Bernay-sur-Mer, which is quite another story, you see it is not +absurd or ridiculous at all, and I and my fisherman--" + +She turned abruptly from the window at the sound of a knock and the +opening of her door. It was Nanette, her maid, with a tray. + +"I have mademoiselle's _dejeuner_," announced Nanette. "Monsieur Bliss +has already finished his, and asks if mademoiselle will soon be ready. +He is waiting with Monsieur le Cure for you." + +"Waiting--with Monsieur le Cure?"--Myrna's eyebrows went up in +well-simulated surprise. + +"To visit the cottage mademoiselle has taken," amplified Nanette, and +her retrousse nose was delicately elevated a trifle higher. Nanette, +very evidently, was one at all events who was not in favour of the plan. + +"Oh, the cottage--of course!" exclaimed Myrna, as though suddenly +inspired. "I had forgotten all about it. Dress me quickly then, +Nanette." + +Nanette tossed a shapely dark head. + +"Is mademoiselle going to stay here long?"--Nanette at times felt +privileged to take liberties. + +"Gracious, Nanette!" complained Myrna sweetly. "What a question! How +can you possibly expect me to know?" + +Nanette arranged the tray perfunctorily. + +"There was a man who left a message with that imbecile proprietor for +mademoiselle early this morning," she observed. "Mademoiselle has +engaged a boatman?" + +"A boatman? Certainly not!" declared Myrna Bliss. "Not without seeing +the boat--and I have seen no boat!" + +"But mademoiselle engages a cottage without seeing the cottage," +murmured Nanette slyly. + +"That will do, Nanette!" said Myrna severely. "There was but one +cottage; there are dozens of boats. It is quite a different matter. +What did the man say?" + +"That he was obliged to go out for the four o'clock fishing this +morning," said Nanette, pouting a little at the rebuke; "but that he +would go to mademoiselle at the cottage early in the forenoon." + +A row of little white teeth crunched into a piece of crisp toast. + +"Very well, Nanette." Myrna's brows pursed up thoughtfully. "You may +get out that new marquisette from Fallard's; and, I think"--she glanced +out of the window--"my sunbonnet. And, Nanette"--suddenly +impatient--"hurry, please--since father is waiting." + +Myrna's impatience bore fruit. In ten minutes she was ready, and, +running down the stairs, went out to the street, where her father and +the cure, deep in conversation--on art undoubtedly, since her father +was doing most of the talking!--were pacing slowly up and down, as they +waited for her. + +Her sunbonnet was swinging in her hand, the big grey eyes were shining, +the glow of superb health was in her cheeks. + +"Good morning, Father Anton!" she called out gaily. "What a shame to +have kept you waiting!" + +The old priest turned toward her with unaffected pleasure, as he held +out his hand. + +"Good morning to you, mademoiselle"--he was smiling with eyes as well +as lips. "What a radiant little girl! It makes one full of life and +young again; you are, let me see, you are--a tonic!" + +She laughed as she turned to her father. + +"'Morning, Dad! Sleep well?" + +Henry Bliss removed his cigar to survey his daughter with whimsical +reproach; then he patted her cheek affectionately. + +"Fierce, wasn't it?" he chuckled. "Those beds are the worst ever! I +was telling the cure here about them." + +"It is too bad," said Father Anton solicitously. "It is regrettable. +I am so very sorry. But"--earnestly--"you must not think too hardly of +the Fregeaus. Since no guests sleep here, I am sure they can have no +idea that--" + +"No; of course not!" agreed Henry Bliss heartily, and laughed. "The +hard feelings are all in the beds--and we'll let them stay there. Now, +then, Myrna, are you ready to inspect this new domain of yours? And +shall we walk, or take the car? Father Anton says it is not far." + +"We will walk then," decided Myrna. + +It was the walk she had taken yesterday, at least it was the same as +far as the little bridge; and for that distance she walked beside her +father and the cure, chatting merrily, but there she loitered a little +behind them. Half impishly, half with a genuine impulse that she +rather welcomed than avoided, she told herself that it was quite unfair +to pass the little spot so indifferently. Was it not here that this +most bizarre of adventures had begun? She had stood here by the +railing, and he had stood there across on the other side, and--the red +leaped suddenly flaming into her cheeks. She had never looked at a man +like that before--no man had ever looked at her like that before! And +it had been spontaneous, instant, like a flash of fire that had lighted +up a dark and unknown pathway, which, in the momentary blaze of light, +was full of strange wonder; and which, because it was an unknown way, +and because the glimpse had shown so much in so brief an instant that +the brain fused all into confusion and nothing was concrete, resulted, +not in illuminating the way, but, the flash of light gone again, in +transforming the pathway only into a bewildering maze. + +She laughed a little after a while, shaking her head. Such an absurd +fancy! But what an entrancing, alluring little fancy! Decidedly, it +would be a new sensation to be lost in a maze like that--for a time. +She would tire of it soon enough--the thrill probably would not even +last as long as she would want it to. No thrill ever did! She bit her +lip suddenly in pretty vexation. It was stupid of the man to go off +fishing! Had he done it to pique her? The idea! He certainly could +not have the temerity to imagine that it lay within his power to pique +her. The sunbonnet swung to and fro abstractedly from its ribbon +strings. Wasn't it strange that he had--piqued her! + +She went on after her father and the cure. They were quite a way ahead +now, and she hastened to catch up with them. As she drew near, she +caught her father's words. + +"... Peyre on the _Histoire Generale des Beaux-Arts_, Monsieur le Cure, +I recommend it to you heartily. It is a most comprehensive little +volume, embracing in a condensed form the story of the arts from the +time of the Egyptians down to the present day, and--" + +Myrna, in spite of herself, laughed outright, at which both men turned +their heads. Her father, incorrigible, was at it again; and, once +started, there was no stopping him. Poor Father Anton! For the rest +of the way he would listen to art! + +"Did I not tell you to beware, Father Anton?" she cried out in comical +despair--and waved them to go on again. + +She had no desire to listen to art, its relation to nature, its +relation to science, its relation to civilisation, nor, above all, to a +dissertation on the modern school. She had heard it all before; and, +if it had not passed as quickly through one ear as it had come into the +other, her head, she was quite sure, would have driven her to +distraction. Besides, it was much more important to think about +something else--no, not what she had been thinking about a moment ago; +but, for instance, to be practical, about this menage whose wheels, +without knowing whether they were oiled or not, she had impulsively set +in motion. Would the cottage be at all habitable? Would this +Marie-Louise be at all suitable? Would Marie-Louise and Nanette get +along together? Nanette was insanely jealous of Jules--nothing but the +fact that Jules was with them would have induced Nanette, to whom Paris +was the beginning and the end of all things, to have come on such a +trip. Yes, there was a very great deal to think about--now that it +occurred to her! Myrna fell into a brown study, quite oblivious to her +surroundings. + +When she joined her father and the cure again, they had stopped at the +edge of the little wood on the headland, and a cottage, almost as +prettily vine-covered as Father Anton's, lay before them. + +"Well, Myrna," her father called, with a smile, "I must say your plunge +in the dark looks propitious so far." + +"No, no! Not a plunge in the dark!" protested Father Anton quickly, +his eyes full of expectant pleasure on Myrna. "That is not fair, +Monsieur Bliss! It was on my recommendation, was it not, mademoiselle? +And now--eh?--what does mademoiselle think of it?" + +It was like the imaginative conception of some painter. The cottage, +green with climbing vines, spotlessly white where the vines were +sparse, nestled in the trees--in front, as far as the eye could reach, +the glorious, deep, unfathomable blue of the Mediterranean; nearer, the +splash of surf, like myriad fountains, on the headland's rugged point; +while a tiny fringe of beach, just peeping from under the edge of the +cliff at the far side of the cottage, glistened as though full of +diamonds in the sunlight. + +"Father Anton--you are a dear!" Myrna cried impetuously. + +Her eyes roved delightedly here and there. There was a little trellis +with flowers over the back door--that little outhouse would do +splendidly as a garage. And then the front door opened, and her eyes +fixed on a girl's figure on the threshold--and somehow the figure was +familiar. + +"Who is that, Father Anton?" she demanded. + +"But it is Marie-Louise--who else?" smiled the priest. "I will call +her." + +"No," said Myrna; "we will go in." + +Of course! How absurd! She recognised the girl now. It was the girl +who had passed them on the bridge--Myrna's sunbonnet swung a little +abstractedly again--with Jean Laparde. + +Father Anton bustled forward. + +"Marie-Louise," he said, as they reached the door, "this is the lady +and gentleman who are to take the house, and--" + +"Oh, but I think we have seen each other before," interposed Myrna +graciously. "Was it not you, Marie-Louise, who passed us on the bridge +yesterday afternoon?" + +Marie-Louise's dark eyes, deep, fearless, met the grey ones--and +dropped modestly. + +"Yes, mademoiselle," she said. + +"Certainly!" said Henry Bliss pleasantly. "I remember you too, +and--ah!" With a sudden step, quite forgetting the amenities due his +daughter, he brushed by her into the room, and stooped over the clay +figure of the beacon. He picked it up, looked at it in a sort of +startled incredulity, as though he could not believe his eyes; then, +setting it down, went to the window, threw up the shade for better +light, and returned to the clay figure. And then, after a moment, he +began to mutter excitedly. "Yes--undoubtedly--of the flower of the +French school--Demaurais, Lestrange, Pitot--eh?--which? +And--yes--here--within a day or so--it is quite fresh!" He rushed back +to the doorway to Father Anton. "Who has been in the village +recently?"--his words were coming with a rush, he had the priest by the +shoulders and was unconsciously shaking him. "Was it a man with long +black hair over his coat collar and a beak nose? Was it a little short +man who always jerks his head as he talks? Or was it a big fellow, +very fat, and, yes, if it were Pitot he would probably be drunk? +Quick! Which one was it?" + +Father Anton, jaw dropped, dumb with amazement, could only shake his +head. This American! Had he gone suddenly mad? + +"Good heavens, dad, what is the matter?" Myrna cried out. + +He paid no attention to her. + +"You, then!"--he whirled on Marie-Louise, grasping her arm fiercely. +"Who has been here?" + +"But--but, m'sieu," stammered Marie-Louise, shrinking back in affright, +"no one has been here." + +Myrna pressed forward into the room. + +"Dad, what _is_ the--" She got no further. + +"It is true--I am a fool. I was wrong. Look, Myrna!"--his face +flushed, his eyes lighted with the fire of an enthusiast, he was at the +table, lifting up the little clay figure of the fisherwoman with the +outstretched arms, the beacon, in his hands again. "Look, Myrna! No, +I am not mad--I am only a fool. I, who pride myself as a critic, was +fool enough for a moment to think this the work of perhaps Demaurais, +or Lestrange, or Pitot--when no one of the three even in his greatest +moment of inspiration could approach it! There is life in it. You +feel the very soul. It is sublime! But it is more than that--it is a +stupendous thing, for, since it has been freshly done, and no stranger +to these people has been here, the man who did it must be one of +themselves. Don't you understand, Myrna, don't you understand? The +world will ring with it. It is the discovery of a genius. I make the +statement without reservation. _This is the work of the greatest +sculptor France will have ever known_!" + +Father Anton had come forward a little timorously, lacing and unlacing +his fingers. Upon Myrna's face was a sort of bewildered stupefaction. +Marie-Louise, her breath coming in little gasps, was gazing wide-eyed +at the man who held in his hands her beacon, the clay figure she had +seen Jean make. + +"Is--is it true--what you say?" she whispered. + +Henry Bliss looked at her for a moment, startled--as though he was for +the first time aware of her presence. + +"You--yes, of course, you must know about this, as it is in the house +here," he burst out abruptly. "You know who made it?" + +"But, yes," said Marie-Louise, and now there was a sudden new note, a +trembling note of pride that struggled for expression in her voice. +"But, yes--it was Jean Laparde." + +"Laparde--Jean Laparde?"--his voice was hoarse in its eagerness. +"Quick!" he cried. "Laparde--Jean Laparde? Who is Jean Laparde?" + +A flush crept pink into Marie-Louise's face. + +"He is my fiance," she said. + + + + +-- VI -- + +THE GIFT + +Father Anton, with a smile, his eyes twinkling, looked from one to the +other of the group as much as to say: "There! Is that not an +altogether charming denouement?" Myrna had yet to discover herself in +a situation to whose command she did not rise--inwardly a sudden +confusion upon her, her face expressed a polite interest. As for Henry +Bliss, the words were without any significance whatever--it was not +what he wanted to know. + +It was Marie-Louise, embarrassed, who broke the silence. + +"Will mademoiselle and monsieur look through the house now, and tell me +what rooms they will occupy?" + +Henry Bliss, for answer, caught Father Anton again by the shoulder. + +"This Jean Laparde," he flung out excitedly, "you ought to know all +about him! He must have done other things besides this"--he swept his +hand toward the beacon, which he had now very carefully replaced on the +table. + +"But, of course!" declared Father Anton, still smiling. "Mother +Fregeau will assure you--forever little faces and figures out of her +dough and the inside of her loaves." + +"No, no--good Lord!" exclaimed Henry Bliss. "I mean--" + +"I am telling you," interrupted Father Anton mildly. "He has been +forever at that since he was a boy, and then there are the clay dolls +for the children, of which there would be very many, at least a +hundred." + +"A hundred! A hundred clay _dolls_ by the man who did this!" shouted +Henry Bliss eagerly. "And do you mean to say you never realised--oh, +good Lord! Where are they?" + +Father Anton's eyebrows went up in almost pitying astonishment. + +"But, monsieur," he said patiently, "where would they be? They do not +last long; and, even if the children did not break them almost +immediately, they would soon crumble to pieces like their own mud pies." + +"Mud!" Henry Bliss bent quickly over the beacon again. "Yes, so it +is! It is mostly mud. It is unbelievable! The man did not even have +modelling clay to work with!" He swung again on the cure. "Well, where +is this Jean Laparde? I want to see him at once!" + +Myrna's laugh rippled suddenly through the room. + +"Dad--don't get so excited. Your Jean Laparde won't run away. He's +out fishing now, but he said he would come out here this morning." + +"Out fishing--come out here this morning?" repeated her father, staring +at her. "How do you know?" + +Myrna shook her finger at him in playful severity. + +"If you had paid any more than the merest pretence of attention to me +last night, you would have remembered the name--no"--she laughed +again--"no, perhaps after all I didn't mention it, I'm not sure I +hadn't forgotten it myself; but he is the fisherman who took me to +Father Anton here, you know--the one I told you might possibly do as a +boatman for us while we were here." + +"Great grief! Do as a--_boatman_!" ejaculated Henry Bliss weakly. +"You, Monsieur le Cure, what time do these fishermen return?" + +"But anytime, now," Father Anton answered. "The boats go out very +early in the morning." + +"Good!" Henry Bliss pushed the cure impetuously toward the door. +"Then, you and I, Father Anton, will go right back to the village and +be there when he comes in." + +"But"--Father Anton was quite bewildered--one was literally carried off +one's feet--were they all alike, these Americans! "But," he protested +helplessly, as he was being pulled through the door, "but if the boats +are already in, and since mademoiselle said he was coming here, then--" + +"Then we will meet him on the road"--they were already out of the +house. "Now, then, Monsieur le Cure, if you are a loyal Frenchman, +step out quickly, for this is the greatest day in the history of +France, the greatest day, I tell you, in the"--the voice died away in +the distance. + +Marie-Louise had not moved. She was still standing in the centre of +the room, a strangely spellbound, dumfounded little figure. + +"Mademoiselle," she ventured timidly, "what--what is--" + +"I am sure I do not know," said Myrna languidly. "Have you no shoes or +stockings?" + +Marie-Louise glanced perplexedly at her small, bare feet. + +"But, yes, mademoiselle--for the village sometimes, and when one walks +in the fields." + +"Go and put them on, then," directed Myrna. "And remember always to +wear them while we are here. When you come back, I will go through the +house with you and tell you what to do." + +"Yes, mademoiselle," said Marie-Louise nervously--there was a sense of +guilt upon her, but wherein lay the enormity of her offence she did not +understand. Nevertheless, was not mademoiselle of the great world, and +since mademoiselle was displeased, surely mademoiselle must know. She +turned hastily from the room. + +"No--wait!" Myrna's brain, for all her outward composure, was far from +calm. It seemed as though the little stone she had started rolling +down the hill in a--well, was it a whim?--was gathering many other +stones in its course and developing into an avalanche. She had no +desire to go into the details of the house with this Marie-Louise at +that moment; on the contrary, it was absolutely impossible. The one +thing she wanted was to be alone--to clear all this muddle out of her +head. "No--wait!" she repeated. "There will be quite time enough to +attend to that when Nanette and Jules arrive; and in the meantime you +had better go down to the Bas Rhone and help Nanette if you can. When +they are ready, come back with them." + +"Nanette, mademoiselle? But I do not know who Nanette is." + +"My maid," said Myrna tersely. + +"Yes, mademoiselle"--Marie-Louise, with a quick nod, was running from +the room. "At once, mademoiselle--as soon as I have put on my shoes +and stockings." + +Myrna tossed her sunbonnet on a chair, and walked over to the table to +inspect the little clay figure. For ten minutes she stood in front of +it, now frowning, now with unconscious admiration the dominant +expression upon her face, now with puzzled bewilderment in her eyes. +Of the technique of any art she not only knew nothing, but secretly +held it in contempt; but she could not have been her father's daughter +to have lacked a sense of appreciation for the beautiful. At the end +of the ten minutes she picked up her sunbonnet again, and walked slowly +out of the house. + +At the headland's point, two hundred yards away, she sat down upon the +rocks. She could not seem to get that little clay figure out of her +head now. It was amazing how it took form before her eyes as +realistically as though it were still in front of her! What a +wonderful charm and appeal there was in it! She could see that for +herself, even if her father had not grown so excited over it. "The +greatest sculptor in France"--well, perhaps that was a little +exaggerated! But her father was nevertheless acknowledged to be a +critic second to none in the world of art, and he was far too chary of +his reputation to sacrifice it on a myth. Certainly then, there was at +least a promise in the man's work. What did her father mean to do? He +had not rushed off that way for nothing. It was really charming, that +little figure. She would get Jean to let her have it, buy it from him. +Imagine possessing the first piece of his work, if the man ever +amounted to anything! + +She threw a stone out into the water, watched it splash, watched the +spray of the breaking waves on what seemed like a reef away out to one +side of the headland, and watched a boat coming shoreward from out +beyond the reef again. There was a disturbed little gathering of her +brows. But suppose she did buy it, the thing would crumble to pieces +in a few days, and--stupid! Of course! Had she not been often in +those dirty _ateliers_ that were always in a mess with their clay and +their plaster? One could send it to Marseilles to have a cast made; +and, afterwards, the cast could be sent home to Paris. + +What was her father going to do with this "discovery" of his, as he +called it? Discovery--_his_! A little thrill ran through her. It was +not his discovery--it was _hers_! It was she who had discovered Jean +Laparde--in that one look. The man's soul, a great smouldering volcano +of emotion, was in his face, his eyes. It was amazing that this had +happened; amazing almost beyond credence that, hidden in the little +village, a fisherman, untaught, unconscious even of his own power, had +produced a piece of work that had aroused her father, one of the great +art critics in France, to such a pitch of elated excitement--but +somehow it was not in the least bit amazing that it was _Jean Laparde_ +who had done it! + +Her eyes fixed again on the boat, that was well in now between the reef +and the headland; and, with a sudden little gasp, she rose quickly to +her feet--it was Jean Laparde himself. What splendid width of +shoulder, what strength, and ease, and assurance in the sweep of the +oars that bent the blades backward from swirling little eddies, that +lifted the heavy boat to send it bounding forward as though it were a +feather-weight. It was Jean Laparde--the fiance of Marie-Louise! + +It was to the front at last, that thought! It had been dominant from +the moment Marie-Louise had uttered the words, only she had attempted +to ignore it, lose it in the other phases of this bewildering morning. +But it was out now! Well, what of it? It was an impossible situation +this that she had created, was it not? There was no use in denying +even to herself that the man had aroused in her--what should she call +it?--a desire to cultivate him a little, since he would be so new, so +fresh, so quite different. And Marie-Louise was at the moment now +actually in her employ as--one could not call her a servant, it was +Marie-Louise's own house, and she was only there to help for a little +while at the cure's request--but still--the colour burned red in +Myrna's cheeks. + +The next instant, she smiled a little. What a simpleton she was! What +on earth did it matter! What could it possibly matter! Good heavens, +she wasn't going to take this Jean Laparde away from Marie-Louise! +_She_ wasn't going to marry him! There wasn't the slightest reason in +the world why, just when the man turned out to be an embryonic genius +and promised to prove really interesting, she should change her +attitude toward him--and, anyway, it was almost a foregone conclusion +that her father now would monopolise Jean Laparde morning, noon and +night. + +She glanced at the boat--and started abruptly for the house. To remain +there would have been almost too obviously--a meeting. Jean had +evidently not gone to the village at all with the other boats--she +supposed there were other boats since the cure had spoken of them--but +had come directly in from wherever he had been fishing. + +She reached the house and through the window watched Jean send the boat +sweeping up to the beach, leap from it, and, seemingly without +exertion, pull it higher over the sand. He turned then, searching the +house with his eyes; and suddenly placed his hands trumpet-fashion to +his lips. + +"Marie-Louise! Ho, Marie-Louise!" she heard him shout, as he came +running up the cliff path from the beach. + +Virile in movement, a striking figure, there seemed all of command, +something heroic even in the rugged strength, something absolutely +undauntable about the man. And then she laughed merrily to herself, as +she stepped to the door. What a change! Who would have believed it! +Jean, at sight of her, had stopped as though he had been struck, +self-consciousness mocked at the air of command, and through the brown +tan of his face crept the red. + +"Oh, it is you, Jean!" she exclaimed. + +Mechanically he reached up for his cap. + +"I--I did not think that mademoiselle had got here yet," he said, the +dark eyes in their steady gaze disconcertingly at variance with his +stammering speech. + +"We've been here ages," she told him quickly. "But the others have +gone back again. Marie-Louise has gone to help Nanette with the +things. And my father rushed off with that delightful old cure of +yours to look for you." + +"Rushed off to look for me?" echoed Jean in astonishment. "But I told +Jacques Fregeau to tell you that I would come here as soon--" + +"Yes, of course, to look for you--but not for the purpose you imagine!" +she broke in smiling, and shook her head reproachfully at him. "Jean, +do you know that I am quite angry with you! Come here!" She led the +way into the house. "Now!"--pointing to the clay figure on the table. +"Is not that your work?" + +"But, yes, mademoiselle"--there was only a cursory glance at the +beacon; his eyes were on this fresh, glorious, wonderful woman, whose +white dress of some marvellous texture draped about her with such +exquisite, dainty grace ... and the throat was bare, and full, and +white as ivory is white ... that glint of bronze that was always +playing over the massive coils of hair ... the playful severity in the +pursed lips ... it was intoxication, it was fire ... he had been drunk +with it all the night, all that morning in the boat while he had fished. + +"Then why did you not tell me about it last night?" she demanded. + +With a start, he shrugged his shoulders--and perplexity came. + +"But it is nothing--that," he said slowly. "What was there to tell, +mademoiselle?" + +"Nothing!" She stared at him in amazement. "Do you really mean to say +that you think it is--nothing?" + +"But, of course!" he said simply. + +And then suddenly she smiled, and shook her head at him again. + +"Did I not tell you last night, Jean, that you were less like a +fisherman than any man I had ever seen?" + +"Yes; mademoiselle said that." Was there a word of hers that he had +forgotten! + +"Very well, then," she began magisterially, "since you think nothing of +that little statue, I will tell you what I think. It is so much more +than 'nothing' that I am going to buy it from you. It is"--her voice +changed suddenly, soft in abandon, full in admiration--"oh, Jean, it is +superb, magnificent; it is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen; +and--and I think I want it more than I have ever wanted anything +before." + +She had come closer to him, touched him, her hand was on his sleeve, +her cheeks were flushed. That look--God, was he mad?--that _same_ look +was in her eyes again. Yes, he was mad--with a madness that bade him +sweep her into his arms and crush her there in all her alluring beauty. +He was white--he felt the blood leave his face. She wanted +that--wanted that bit of clay that _he_ had made! + +"It is not for sale, mademoiselle," he said hoarsely; "it is yours." + +"No, no, Jean!" she cried. "You do not understand. It is worth--oh, I +do not know how much--ever so much money. Father will be able to tell +us. It is on account of this that he rushed off to try and find you. +He is terribly excited about it." + +His hand at his side was clenched; his arm was rigid--he dared not move +it for fear she might draw her hand away--it would not come often, a +touch of intimacy like that. What did it matter about her father! +What did anything matter--but that fiery tide that was whipping through +his veins. + +"It is good of monsieur, it is good of mademoiselle to praise it," he +muttered. + +"But it is not good of us!" she asserted earnestly. "Really, I must +try to make you understand, Jean. I can't take it under false +pretences, you know--you might hate me for it afterwards. I am sure +you would. My father says it is a wonderful piece of work--that you +are a great artist." + +"I?" said Jean--and suddenly in a sweep of passion laughed a little +fiercely. "Impossible! But it is enough that mademoiselle, for some +reason that I cannot understand, thinks so much of it. It is hers." + +"And I tell you that it is not impossible!" she insisted seriously. +"Listen, Jean"--her hand closed a little tighter on his arm. "Suppose +that I took it, accepted it, and some day you should find that it had +become a tremendously famous thing--what then?" + +"It would still be unworthy of mademoiselle," he answered, in a low +tone. + +With a little gasp, she drew back a step and looked at him--but it was +the grey eyes that dropped, and for a moment to Jean, unconscious of +his own tense poise, the rapt burning in his eyes, she seemed all +glorious with that play of colour now that was even in the pulsing +throat. But the next instant she was smiling radiantly. + +"Thank you, Jean," she said naively. "I will take it very gladly, and +I will always keep it. Father will have a cast of it made at once, +and--" she stopped suddenly, turning quickly toward the door. +"Listen!" she said. "That's the motor, isn't it? Marie-Louise must +have met it on the road." + +An automobile had come to a stop by the side of the house; and, a +moment later, a girl's voice, high-pitched in sarcasm, reached them. + +"_Ma foi_! Fancy! She owns the house! What an aristocrat! No doubt +she will expect mademoiselle and monsieur to invite her to table with +them next! Oh, _la, la_, but you have lots to learn, _ma petite +paysanne_!" + +"Oh, let her alone, Nanette!" exclaimed a man's voice sharply. "She +has done nothing but answer your own questions, except"--with a +laugh--"that she has ridden on the front seat!" + +It seemed to come with a shock to Jean that snatch of conversation, as +something cold, chilling the fire that but an instant gone had been +raging within him. It was an arraignment of himself, a slap in the +face, sharply, curtly given, a reminder that for all his temerity he +was--a fisherman. Myrna had gone to the front door. He swept his hand +in a dazed way across his eyes, then straightened suddenly--it was a +spell that he had been under. Nor was the spell gone; but now, at +least, he was in control of himself. He walked across the room to +where Myrna stood. + +"Mademoiselle," he offered quietly, "can I help with the baggage?" + +She turned to him, smiling. + +"Oh, if you will, Jean!" she cried gratefully. "Please help Jules with +the trunks. And afterwards"--her hand was on his sleeve again--"though +I must see about arranging things, you mustn't go away. Father will be +back shortly, and you must wait." + +"I will wait," said Jean. + + + + +-- VII -- + +WHERE GLORY AWAITS + +His back to the cliff, and leaning against the gunwale of his boat, +which on landing a little while ago he had drawn up on the beach, Jean +dug abstractedly at the sand with the toe of his boot. He had helped +Jules, the chauffeur, to carry the baggage into the house, where Myrna +Bliss, her maid and Marie-Louise were now busily engaged +within--occasionally he could hear one or other of their voices--and he +was waiting. What for? He did not know. He had promised her that he +would wait. Her father wanted to see him because he made _poupees_ out +of clay, and because he had made that little statue which, somehow, had +so delighted her. It was very curious--very curious that a little +thing like that should have taken their fancy! + +His hand passed nervously across his forehead. But that was of no +account, the statue! There were other things. He was living in a +dream--no, not a dream--something much more vital than a dream. From a +dream one awoke, and the dream was dispelled. He was awake now and the +spell was still upon him. In her presence he lost his reason, his +being seemed to become a seething furnace of passion that consumed him; +away from her, some strange, magnetic power kept bidding him return, +kept his mind picturing her, kept his thoughts upon her. It was but +half an hour ago that, alone with her in the cottage, he had almost +utterly lost control of himself. + +A hot flush was on his cheeks. It was bad, that! Some day he would +lose control of himself completely; some day the impulse to crush that +ravishing form in his arms, to look deep into those laughing, +self-possessed grey eyes until the laughter and the self-possession +were gone and he was master, would prove too strong for him. And +then--what? + +His hands clenched at his sides, the broad shoulders sloped a little +forward. Well--what then? His brain would not answer him, save only +with that persistent "she was a woman and he was a man." He laughed +shortly aloud. Was that true? How true was it? He glanced mockingly +at his clothes; his hands unclenched, and, feeling in a sort of +tentative way, slid along the gunwale of the boat. Yes; it was quite +evident that he was what he had always been, what he always would be--a +fisherman. It was quite evident too that he was mad. It was only last +night that he had seen her for the first time, only since last night +that this enchantment had fallen upon him--and now it possessed him, +mind, soul and body. One could not credit that! He laughed out +again--and suddenly the laugh died on his lips. + +He had heard no step upon the sand, but a hand now touched his arm. He +turned quickly. It was Marie-Louise. He had forgotten all about +Marie-Louise--since yesterday evening. He had seen her of course since +then, had walked home with her after that meeting on the bridge, had +called out for her when he had landed here on the beach a little while +ago, but for all that Marie-Louise had been forgotten. + +"Jean"--she was speaking in a low, anxious voice--"it's--it's not true, +is it, Jean?" + +The dark eyes were trying to smile through a troubled mist; the lips, +that he remembered he had likened yesterday to the divinely modelled +lips of that dream statue, were quivering now. + +Jean stared at her. What would she be like if she were dressed in +clothes, marvellous, dainty things, such as Myrna Bliss wore, with +little shoes and silken ankles? She was pretty of course, Marie-Louise +had always been pretty; but there was not the physical thrill, the +witchery in the eyes that turned his head. She was more sober--yes, +that was it--more sober. Marie-Louise took things more seriously, and-- + +"Jean!" She seemed almost frightened now in her appeal. "Did you not +hear me? Jean--it isn't true, is it?" + +"True?" Jean roused himself with a little start. "What is not true? I +do not know what you are talking about." + +"The beacon, Jean"--she spoke hurriedly, breathlessly now. "A few +minutes ago mademoiselle told me to put it in the room she has chosen +for herself, and to be very careful of it because--because"--her voice +broke suddenly--"because she said that you had given it to her. +Jean--it's not true, is it?" + +For a moment Jean did not speak. There were tears in her eyes! A +twinge of guilty confusion seized him. Yes, it was so--Marie-Louise +had been forgotten. Yesterday he had given it to Marie-Louise. But +who would have thought it would make any difference to her--a thing +like that! She was perhaps angry for the moment, but it would be only +for the moment. + +"_Mais, sacre nom_!" he exclaimed, and forced a laugh. "And what of +it? It is nothing! I will make you another." + +She did not answer; but into the brown eyes came a miserable hurt, and +into the face a sudden whiteness. It was only the day before that he +had given it to her, and had said it was a beacon, and that the beacon +was herself with arms outstretched to welcome him always. It had meant +so much to her--and now it seemed to have meant so little to Jean. + +Jean shifted uneasily, as she did not speak. + +"I will make you another, Marie-Louise," he blurted out appeasingly. +"To-day--to-morrow--whenever you like, I will make you another. Then +it will be all right, eh, _petite_?" + +She shook her head--and the words came very slowly. + +"You can never make another beacon, Jean." + +"How--not another?" he cried impetuously. "I can make a thousand! Did +I not tell you that it was you--has it not those lips that I could +fashion even in the dark, even if you were far away from me! _Tiens_, +do you not see--I could make a thousand! And to-morrow you shall have +another." + +The dark eyes were full. + +"Was it yours to give, Jean?" she asked. + +It was true! He had nothing to say to that. She was crying. He was +angry now because he could say nothing, because there was no excuse for +what he had done--and yet he would do it again. But he could not tell +Marie-Louise that though, _pardieu_! She would only cry the harder. +And because she was right and he had nothing to say, he groped, angry +with himself, for some defence. + +"Ah!" he burst out sharply. "So that is it! Yesterday you would have +thought nothing of it, but now you have been listening to what they +say, and you believe it all--that it is worth a great deal of money, +maybe a hundred francs, eh? Well, it is not--it is worth nothing! You +have nothing to cry over." + +Wide-eyed, as though a whip-lash had curled across her face, she drew +back, her small hands shut tightly at her sides, as she looked at him. +And then somehow that little prayer that she had prayed to the _bon +Dieu_ last night came back to her--"make me that, _mon Pere_; make me +that--Jean's beacon all through my life"--and the bitter words that +were on her lips were crowded back, and she turned slowly away. + +But now Jean caught her arm. + +"No, no, Marie-Louise, I did not mean that!" he cried penitently. +"See, I did not mean that!" + +She made no answer. Her head was averted; her eyes fixed far out over +the water. + +Jean bit his lips. Certainly he had had no right to give it away, but +it was a small matter to make such a fuss over, and he had already +promised her another. Was it possible that she had sensed anything of +the wild passion that had come upon him for this beautiful American! +Was she already jealous? Well, it was easily knocked out of her head, +that--if one took the bull by the horns! And if he were mad it was no +reason that hurt should come to Marie-Louise because of it. Some day +it would be all over this madness, and was it not Marie-Louise and he +who were to make their little home together? He forced a laugh again, +and caught her shoulders and drew her closer. + +"Confess, Marie-Louise," he said teasingly, "that it is because I gave +it to another woman. Is it not so, eh? That you are--oh, _la, +la_!--that little Marie-Louise is jealous of mademoiselle." + +Her head lifted, a new light suddenly in her eyes--one of incredulous +amazement. + +"Jealous of mademoiselle!" she repeated wonderingly. "Of mademoiselle +who is of the _grand monde_ and so far above us and not of our world at +all--and you who are a fisherman! How could I be jealous? How could +such a thing be possible? Oh, Jean, don't you understand, it is not +that you gave it to her--it is that you gave it at all." + +"But what does it matter, then," demanded Jean, inwardly relieved, +"since I will make you as many more as you please? To-morrow you shall +have another much better than this one." + +Footsteps sounded from the gravel walk on the cliff above; and +Marie-Louise, glancing around, lifted Jean's hands from her shoulders. + +"I have told you, Jean, that you can never make another," she said, +with a little catch in her voice; then hurriedly: "It is mademoiselle +and her father coming to see you. I must go." + +"And I have told you," declared Jean, with sudden, fierce assertion, +"that I can make a thousand, and all better than this one!" + +She bent her head to hide the blinding tears that were filling her eyes +again. It meant nothing to him, that which had been so great a pledge +to her. It was only a _poupee_, a clay doll, one of dozens that he had +given to the children to amuse them. And the things he had said about +it meant nothing--they had only been words--only words, but she could +not forget them. A little sob rose in her throat, and was choked +bravely back. They were coming down the path now, mademoiselle and her +father, and she must go. + +"You do not understand," she said brokenly--and, turning, ran quickly +along the beach. + +For a space Jean watched her as she sped over the sand, until, ignoring +the path, she climbed lithely up the rocks at the far end of the beach, +and disappeared in the direction of the house. His hand, a knotted +lump, drawn back for a smashing blow on the gunwale of the boat, a blow +that should relieve his feelings, opened hesitantly instead and passed +a little dazedly across his eyes. + +"_Sacre maudit_!" he muttered in slow earnestness under his breath. + +Since last night the world was upside-down! Since last night he did +not know himself! He knew nothing! Only that all Bernay-sur-Mer was +changed. That everything was changed. That he had made Marie-Louise +cry. That they had talked about that accursed piece of clay that had +made Marie-Louise cry, as though it were worth talking about! + +"_Sacre maudit_!" muttered Jean again. "What does it all mean?" + +And then he was watching her, this glorious American, coming now along +the beach toward him with the man who Marie-Louise had said was +mademoiselle's father. + +"Jean!"--she was calling out to him. "Here is father at last! Did you +think we were never coming?" + +Two hands fell upon his shoulders, holding him off at arms' length; and +the man, with frank eagerness, was staring into his face. Over her +father's shoulder, Myrna was laughing roguishly. + +"So you are Jean Laparde?" Henry Bliss exclaimed heartily. "Well, +well! My daughter told me I would lose half my surprise when I had a +good look at you, and I am free to admit she was right." One hand fell +from Jean's shoulder, caught Jean's hand and wrung it in a genial grip. +"Well, Jean, my boy, I want to say to you that if you will listen to +me, this will be a day that you will remember as long as you live." + +From one to the other Jean stared bewilderedly. + +"It is to the clay figure that monsieur refers, I know," he said +slowly; "but I do not understand. Mademoiselle was kind enough to +praise it, but--" He shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly. + +"But--nothing!" laughed Henry Bliss impulsively. "Here--sit down!" He +sat down himself on the boat's gunwale, and turned to his daughter. +"Myrna, we're going to talk business--are you going to stay?" + +"Of course, I'm going to stay!" she declared merrily, perching herself +beside her father and smiling up at Jean, who still remained standing. +"It will take both of us to convince him. Jean, father wants to take +you to Paris." + +"To Paris!"--the words came from Jean with a sort of startled jerk. +His eyes searched the two faces for an instant uncertainly, and then he +smiled incredulously. "Mademoiselle is pleased to have a little joke +with me--yes?" he said quietly. + +It was Henry Bliss who answered. + +"Indeed, she is not!" he asserted, with brisk emphasis. "That is +exactly what I have to propose, my boy. My daughter tells me she +cannot make you believe that the superb little statue you have made +amounts to anything more than a gouged-out piece of mud. I'm not so +much surprised that you have not sensed its actual worth, for I think +that almost invariably the really big men in art, the men of real +genius, are the last to appreciate themselves; but the astounding thing +is that you have seen nothing in it at all. As a matter of fact, I +can't believe it. It is impossible! It is simply that you have given +it no thought. Think a little about it, Jean. How did you come to +make it? How did you conceive it? Where did you get your model?" + +"But I do not know," said Jean a little absently--something, the fire, +the enthusiasm, the earnestness in the other's voice was kindling a +strange response within him. "I do not know. I think it was the +bronze statue in the great square of the city." + +"The--what?" demanded Henry Bliss quickly. "What city? I know them +all--and I do not recall anything that could have served as a model for +you." + +"And you told me, Jean," Myrna added, wagging her finger at him in +pretty reproach, "that you had never been away from Bernay-sur-Mer." + +Jean laughed uncomfortably, self-consciously. + +"It is nothing!" he said. "You do not understand. It is foolish! The +statue and the square and the city are only in the dream that comes +sometimes." + +"Ah--a dream!" ejaculated Henry Bliss, with a quick nod of his head. + +"Oh, Jean!" Myrna clapped her hands delightedly. "Tell us about it." + +"There is nothing to tell, mademoiselle," he replied, colouring. "It +is just a dream that comes sometimes when I am fishing, when I lie +awake at night, when I am not thinking of it. That is all, +mademoiselle. It means nothing." + +"It means a great deal!" said Henry Bliss, jumping excitedly to his +feet. "And at least it should help you to understand that it is not so +impossible after all when I tell you that, barring little crudities of +technique that are a paltry consideration, there is no sculptor in +France to-day could produce a piece of work comparable to that which +you have done." + +Jean's lips were slightly parted. Excitement was upon him too. A +strange stirring was in his soul. + +"But I cannot believe that," he said in a low voice. + +Henry Bliss's hands were on Jean's shoulders once more, pressing them +in a hard, earnest grip. + +"Nevertheless, it is true!" he asserted forcibly, "You do not know me; +but those who do could tell you that I am qualified to speak. And I +tell you that it is true. I tell you that in Paris fame, wealth, the +greatest name in France awaits you! You are through to-day with this +life forever, my boy, if you will come with me to Paris." + +Fame, wealth, the greatest name in France! Jean felt the blood leave +his face. His brain seemed to whirl and to be afire. Yes, those were +the words, and the man was not playing with him; but it was some wild +hallucination, some bizarre mistake. To-day, to be through with the +hard, penniless life of a fisherman forever--and to work hereafter only +with what before had been his play! No, that was not true--it could +not be true. He meant well, this man, the father of the girl whose +eyes seemed to burn into his now and insist too that it was true, but +the little statue had been too easily done to be anything more than +perhaps a pretty little thing. Fame, a great name--that strange +stirring of his soul again! God, why had this man aroused that thought +within him, when it was not, could not be true? + +"Monsieur," he said, and his voice in its hoarseness sounded strangely +in his own ears; "monsieur, has made a mistake. It cannot be so." + +"Think so!" returned Henry Bliss bluntly. "I do not make mistakes of +that kind, my boy. But I will convince you. In a few days you will +see. I have telegraphed for some of the famous critics of France, men +of the Academy, men whose names are known all over Europe, and they +will tell you what I have told you--and their despair that it is I, not +they, who have discovered you will be so pitifully genuine that even +you will understand. And to-morrow we will motor to Marseilles and get +some modelling clay for you, and you will see for yourself what you can +do with that. And then, Jean, you will go to Paris with me--and work." + +"If it were true, if it should be true," said Jean numbly, "still I +could not go. One does not make _sous_ enough at the fishing to go to +Paris." + +"But, great heavens!" ejaculated Henry Bliss. "That is precisely what +I am offering you, young man--money. I am rich. I will pay every +expense. I will establish you." + +Jean shook his head. + +"I could not do that--take your money," he said simply. + +"Couldn't take it!" exploded the American earnestly--and then he +laughed--and then grew serious once more. "Listen, my boy! I do not +want you to think for a moment that this is a purely charitable little +scheme on my part--far from it! It is most of it, I am afraid, utter +selfishness. I love art--for many years I have devoted myself to it. +I cannot create myself--God knows the miserable attempts and the +miserable failures that have been mine!--and so I have tried to help +others to do what I could not do myself"--Henry Bliss was smiling now +in a kindly, wistful way. "And now to discover the greatest sculptor +of the age, to bring him out of obscurity into fame and power--can you +not see, Jean, how selfish I am? And so why do you stand there +hesitating?" + +Into Myrna's face, for the girl had risen and was now standing beside +them, into the man's face so close to his, Jean stared--and then his +eyes swept about him, over his surroundings. It was magnificent, but +it was not reality--for here was the beach, and here was the boat, and +in the boat were his nets, and there was the nick in the handle of the +oar where he had fended off that night from the Perigeau Reef, and out +there, surf-splashed, was the reef itself, and his clothes were the +same rough, coarse clothes that he always wore just like every other +fisherman in Bernay-sur-Mer. It was magnificent, but it was not +reality--and yet his heart was pounding with mighty hammer beats, and +the blood was surging fiercely through his veins. + +"And as for the money," Henry Bliss went on quietly. "You need have no +qualms on that score, my boy. Pay it back by all means, if you'll feel +the better for it. In a year, two years, you'll be a wealthy man. +Why, Jean, don't you understand--there isn't one of the men who will be +here shortly but would pay you any price you chose to ask for that +little statue you gave to my daughter here? So, even on a basis of +dollars and cents alone, as it stands now, you couldn't owe me +anything, don't you see?" + +What were they saying to him! Fame, a great sculptor, wealth, a name, +his name, the name of Jean Laparde to be known throughout all France! +Why did it come back to him now, that night of the great storm when he +had stood and watched the scene, rapt and awed, on his way to +Marie-Louise? What strange blasphemy was that, that had been his, that +had envied the _bon Dieu_ the creation of that mighty picture? + +"Jean"--Myrna had caught his arm, her head was between her father's now +and his, the soft, bronzed hair for an instant brushed his forehead, +her breath was on his cheek, the grey eyes were smiling into +his--"Jean, wouldn't you like to go to Paris?" + +To Paris! She lived in Paris--she was always in Paris--always there. +A day, a week, two weeks, a month he would have seen her here--in Paris +there would be neither days nor weeks nor months to count. The grey +eyes were veiled suddenly, demurely, under the long lashes--but the +little hand on his arm, with a quick, added pressure, remained. His +head swam dizzily--there was an untamed, pulsing elation upon him, a +greed for her that racked and tormented him, a greed to clasp her head +between his hands and lift up her face and press kiss after kiss upon +those eyelids, that mouth, until in the very insatiability of his +passion she should fling her arms around his neck and return his +embrace! + +"Yes--_yes_!" he said tensely, fiercely. "_Mon Dieu_, yes--I would +like to go to Paris!" + +Her hand fell from his arm. + +"Oh, Jean--I'm so glad!"--it seemed as though she were whispering +softly to him. + +"Good!" cried Henry Bliss enthusiastically, with a double slap on +Jean's shoulder. + +Jean did not speak. It was not easy in an instant to quench that fire +that was devouring him, it was not easy to understand that to-day all +his life was to be changed. He looked at Myrna--the grey eyes were +gaily mocking him, as she nodded her head. He looked at her +father--Henry Bliss was laughing ingenuously like a pleased school-boy. + +"I know just how you feel!" said Henry Bliss genially. "All up in the +air--eh? Well, I feel that way myself. It is the most amazing thing +that ever happened! It seems as though there were a dozen questions I +wanted to ask you all at once. And to begin with, those _poupees_ now, +how did you--no, hold on! Myrna, we'll motor over to Marseilles for +the clay to-day, instead of waiting until to-morrow. We'll have +something else to show old Bidelot by the time he gets here! You go up +to the house and order an early luncheon. Jean will join us, and we'll +have from now to Marseilles and back again to talk." + +"Splendid!" agreed Myrna. "You will, won't you, Jean?" + +"I?" said Jean, in sudden dismay. He, to eat with the _grand monde_! +But perhaps he had not understood--they would give him lunch with Jules +and Nanette and Marie-Louise. He had heard Nanette make that very +plain to Marie-Louise a little while ago. "I--I have my dinner with +me," he stammered, and pointed to a paper parcel in the stern of the +boat. "I will be ready when mademoiselle and monsieur are ready." + +"Oh, will you?" laughed Henry Bliss. "Well, I guess not! You'll come +up and lunch with Myrna and me." + +"No," said Jean, embarrassed, "I--" + +"Yes, you will," insisted Henry Bliss. + +"Why, Jean," expostulated Myrna, "of course you will, we--" she stopped +abruptly. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "I think I know! It's what that +stupid Nanette said to Marie-Louise about sitting at table with us, +isn't it?" + +"What's that?" demanded Henry Bliss quickly. "What has Marie-Louise to +do with--h'm--yes--I remember"--his face screwed up perplexedly. "Her +fiance, she said--h'm--yes--it _is_ a bit awkward, isn't it?" + +"It's nothing of the kind!" declared Myrna, and, with a laugh, +possessed herself of the paper parcel from the boat. "It's quite a +different matter. If only half of what father has said is true, Jean, +it would be an honour for any one to have Jean Laparde as a guest. And +anyway I've got your lunch now!" She waved it in the air, threatening +him merrily with it; then turned, and ran toward the house. "You come +when you're called, sir!" she flung back over her shoulder, laughing +again. + + + + +-- VIII -- + +SHADOWS BEFORE + +Who, in all France, a week ago, had heard of Bernay-sur-Mer? Upon +whose lips to-day was not the name of that little Mediterranean +village? Men, the great men of France, came at the bidding of their +confrere, the American millionaire art-critic; came sceptically--and +stayed to wonder. And because there were no accommodations in +Bernay-sur-Mer, they made their headquarters at Marseilles, and their +daily pilgrimages from there; an arrangement that, if in a measure +inconvenient, was not without its compensation, for at Marseilles was +being made the plaster cast of that exquisite little figure, fashioned +so amazingly from scarcely more than mud, that marked a new epoch to +them in the world of sculpture, the birth of a supreme genius, a +surpassing glory for the art of France! + +They came and watched Jean at his work; for there was clay now such as +Jean had never imagined, clay that seemed to give form itself, of its +own initiative, to wonderful conceptions. They watched and marvelled; +and at night they carried him back with them to Marseilles to fete him, +until indeed to Jean the world of yesterday was as some vast haze, +befogged, that had shut down behind him. + +"In a year, with the study of technique in Paris!" murmured Henry Bliss +ecstatically. + +And old Bidelot, seventy years of age, grizzle-haired, the most +caustic, bitter critic of them all, stormed in his wrath. + +"Technique! You talk of technique--for _him_! He is a school in +himself--a school that will revolutionise the art. You talk of +technique for a genius awakened out of the sleep of ignorance, who in a +day accomplishes undying work that no other man in Paris, in Rome--bah! +where you will--could accomplish in twice a lifetime! You are senile, +my poor friend Bliss--you are in your dotage!" + +Jean Laparde! Was it possible that this was Jean Laparde? The simple +fisherfolk stared awe-struck at each other, at the metamorphosis that +had come to Bernay-sur-Mer, at the great people who came and went, to +whom one instinctively lifted one's hat--the great people who now +lifted their hats to Jean. It was true! Could they not see with their +own eyes? One, too, then, should lift one's hat to Jean. And did not +the good Father Anton read to them from the newspapers that all France +was ringing with the name of Jean Laparde? + +"_Sacre nom d'un miracle_!" swore Pierre Lachance heavily. "And once +he made clay _poupees_ for little Ninon! _Bon Dieu_, think of that!" + +Bernay-sur-Mer had set Jean apart, above itself. + +But the old cure was troubled in his heart. And one night, after a +week had gone since the American strangers had come to Bernay-sur-Mer, +Father Anton shook his head over his newspaper as he read of Jean +Laparde--and found difficulty with his spectacles, for his thoughts +were of Marie-Louise. + +It was only a week ago that she had come to him so happily, so gladly, +the proud light in her eyes, to talk of the great thing Jean had +done--and she had changed a great deal in the week. The proud light +would come back quickly enough at mention of Jean, but she had grown +strangely quiet and silent. And Jean, too, had changed. It seemed, as +indeed it was true, that Jean was no longer one of the village. + +The old priest took off his offending spectacles, rubbed them with his +handkerchief, and replaced them only to find that the mistiness was in +his own wet eyes. + +Jean did not seem the same in his new clothes. Of course, it was quite +natural that Jean should have discarded his fisherman's dress. +Mademoiselle Bliss had said very truly that though it might be +picturesque in Bernay-sur-Mer, in Paris it would be only eccentric; and +besides, to go to Marseilles with his new friends of his new world, one +needed to be dressed as they were not to be ridiculous. Monsieur Bliss +had been very generous. The American was very whole-heartedly +interested in his protege. Jean would lack for nothing that either +money or influence could procure. + +But it was not only the clothes--Jean himself had changed. Father +Anton shook his head again slowly. It had come gradually during the +week, and he, who loved Jean as a son, had not failed to see it. At +first it had been amazement, bewilderment, incredulity, then a dawning +belief in the genius of his power that they preached to him, and then a +fierce assurance that it was so; it had begun with wonder at the +camaraderie with which the famous men who had come there treated him, +at the respect that Bernay-sur-Mer paid to him--and it had ended with +the acceptance of it as his due, and had come to be looked for with a +tinge of arrogance as though he had drunk of heady wine. Yes, it was a +change! Jean was afire now, a different man, consumed, possessed with +the lure of fame, the golden vista that was before his eyes, steeping +his soul in it, reaching out to it, straining toward it like a young +eagle that suddenly liberated from captivity takes wings to the great +void. + +And so the paper slid unheeded to the floor from the old priest's knees +that night, a week after the American strangers had come to +Bernay-sur-Mer, and the spectacles were removed again--but this time +the eyes were wiped. He was glad for Jean, proud in his love for the +greatness that was to come--but somehow in his heart there was sadness, +too. It seemed that between Marie-Louise and Jean a shadow crept, and +lengthened, and there was a parting of the ways. + +"I love you both, my children, Marie-Louise and Jean," the old cure +whispered. "I am an old man. Perhaps I am foolish in my fears. I +pray the good God for you both." + + + + +-- IX -- + +FORKED ROADS + +It was the room Myrna Bliss had occupied. Mother Fregeau had insisted; +Jacques Fregeau had implored. It was fitting that the best at the Bas +Rhone should be Jean's. The little back room that had been his for ten +years was quite impossible. It was different now. It would be but to +make him ridiculous--what with all these grand strangers that were +around him! And besides, _merveille du bon Dieu_, was he not now +himself the greatest of the great ones! + +In through the window the late afternoon sun played over the faded +wallpaper of the _chambre de luxe_; from without there was the hum of +voices, exclamations of amazement, cries of delight and admiration, the +curious composite sound of a gathered, eager crowd. And Jean, well +back from the sill that he might not be seen, glanced outside, it was +his--his! The work that he had done during the past week in the +_atelier_ they had made for him in the barn behind the Bas Rhone! It +was finished! Monsieur Bidelot was exhibiting it now to +Bernay-sur-Mer. The great Academician was standing in the tonneau of +the automobile and holding it up for every one to look at--the +fisherman with his boat and net in clay. Ah, they understood that, the +people of Bernay-sur-Mer! But they understood only that it was +magnificent because Bidelot and Monsieur Bliss and the great men who +had come amongst them told them that it was magnificent. + +For years he had made the _poupees_, and they had seen nothing--and he +had seen nothing. But now they knew because they were told; and now he +knew because his soul, his brain was ablaze with the knowledge of +creative power, because what had gone before was nothing, because what +was to come would sweep the past, that little thing that Bidelot in his +emotion cried over, into insignificance. + +He drew back, his head high; his outflung arms, hands clenched, +stretched heavenward. These strangers, these great critics had said +it, and it was so! The name of Jean Laparde would never die! + +He stripped off the long sculptor's apron that covered him from neck to +knees, and held it out at arm's length, gazing first at it and then at +the rough fisherman's clothes that hung, where Mother Fregeau had +placed them, on the end peg on the wall--a little apart, significantly +it seemed, whether by accident or design, from the new clothes that had +come from Marseilles. And then he laughed out suddenly in a quick, +exalted way, and tossed the apron on the bed. It was all changed, +that! He was through with the fisherman's dress, he was through with +Bernay-sur-Mer! To-night he was to dine with Bidelot and a score of +others in Marseilles, and after that in a few days it would be--Paris. + +He undressed hurriedly, and began to dress again in a clean suit--but a +little slowly now, none too deftly. They were still strange to him +these clothes; but then everything was strange. The people around him +were strange. At times he felt awkward, constrained in their +presence--and at times he could laugh down at them as from a superior +height. Ay, he could laugh--they were at his feet! Only--he frowned +heavily--he could not laugh at Myrna Bliss. He was not master there! +And yet she, somehow, did not erect the barrier. It was himself that +did that--because he could not forget that behind the roguish smile in +the grey eyes might lurk the thought that, after all, he was only a +fisherman. + +A fisherman! They were cheering now outside. His hands shut tightly. +A fisherman! He was no longer a fisherman! He was Jean Laparde, a +sculptor of France, a man before whom lay a path of glory, a man whom +the nation would acclaim, a man of whose future all stood in envy! +They had told him that, these men whom France had already honoured, +these men who had accepted him as more than their equal. But there was +no need for them to tell him--he knew it in his soul. None, no man, +the world itself, could hold back now the genius of Jean Laparde! + +Paris! He was pacing the room now, his eyes afire. To-morrow or the +next day, when the Blisses had made their plans, Paris and fame was +his. What a life it was that now opened out before him! A place +amongst the highest, the world to resound with the name of Jean +Laparde--and those grey eyes, that bronze hair, that glorious beauty of +the American--God! he would immortalise her in clay, in bronze, in +marble. + +Ay, they might well cheer while the chance was theirs, these people of +Bernay-sur-Mer! To-morrow or the next day he would be saying good-bye +to them, and--he stood suddenly still--and good-bye, too, to +Marie-Louise. The thought put a damper upon his spirits; his brows +gathered in deep furrows of impatient perplexity. + +He had not seen much of Marie-Louise in the last week--he had seen her +scarcely at all. Only twice--when she with many others had stood in +the doorway to watch his work. She had smiled at him then, as though +it were her work, too, as though it were a joint proprietorship--but +she had gone before he could speak to her. And at the cottage, when he +had been there at the invitation of Myrna or her father, Marie-Louise, +strangely enough, now that he thought of it, was never to be seen. + +He would have to speak to her, of course, about going away; but what +chance, with the whirl he had been in, had he had to do it? She would +know that he was going to Paris, for everybody knew it--but he would +have to speak to her himself about it before he went. And what was he +to say? Certainly, he loved Marie-Louise--but the great chance of his +life was before him. What was he to say to her? He would go to Paris +for a time, make this great name for himself, and then +afterwards--_what_? + +He refused to tolerate the question. He had refused to tolerate it all +week. It was enough for the present that he was going for a time to +Paris. Marie-Louise was sensible enough not to make a scene. She +could see readily enough that he must go and that she must stay. How, +for instance, could she associate with women of fashion and society +like Myrna Bliss, who would be the women of the new world that must +necessarily form part of his life hereafter. What was he thinking of? +Was it the "afterwards" again? Was he not coming back to Marie-Louise? +Was he choosing now between his art and Marie-Louise? No; he was +not--he would not! That was an issue for the future. It would work +itself out. Why should he plague himself about it! + +He loved Marie-Louise, of course; but it would have been easier now if +there had been nothing between them. He could not go to Marie-Louise +and say: Marie-Louise, I love you; but it is finished--you can see that +the _grand monde_ would make a very great difference between Jean +Laparde, the great sculptor, and Marie-Louise the fisherwoman of +Bernay-sur-Mer. No; he could not say that, but--_sacre nom_!--was he +back to the everlasting "afterwards" again, when he refused so +resolutely to go beyond the present? Was it not enough that he was +simply going to Paris for a time--a matter that would seem natural +enough to her, and of which she would be glad because great things had +come to him? He would talk to her like that--that would be +enough--Marie-Louise was a sensible girl. One could not say to her +that it would be better to finish everything, he would never say that +to Marie-Louise--but if, _par example_, he and Marie-Louise had never +talked of the marriage there would be nothing now to trouble him. +And--he swung around sharply as a knock sounded on the door. + +"Come!" he called. + +Papa Fregeau stuck in his head. + +"_Pardon_, Monsieur Jean"--it was "monsieur" now--"it is Mademoiselle +Bliss who is alone in the cafe below. Will Monsieur Jean see her for a +moment before he goes out?" + +"In an instant," Jean answered quickly. "Tell mademoiselle that I will +be there in an instant." + +Papa Fregeau hesitated, stared about the room, and stared at Jean, his +fat cheeks grotesquely expanded--and his arms rose suddenly in a +gesture of profound helplessness. + +"_Mon Dieu_!" he muttered heavily. "Is it possible that it is our +little Jean there--ah, _pardon_"--he stammered--"_Monsieur_ Jean"--and +made a hasty exit from the room, as though utterly confounded at his +own temerity. + +But Jean, following his reply, had paid no further attention to Papa +Fregeau. He had learned to knot the long, flowing tie that Myrna had +chosen as part of his dress, for she had said, had she not, that it was +the tie the artists wore in Paris? He knotted it now with extra care, +put on his coat, snatched up his hat, and ran downstairs to the cafe +below. + +She was waiting for him back by the little _comptoir_ where he had +stood that evening when she had first spoken to him. She had been like +a glorious vision that had burst suddenly upon him that evening--she +was a thousand times more glorious now, for her smile was eager with an +intimacy that promised--what did it promise? He did not know. It was +there--and her eyes were shining, and the white throat was divinely +beautiful--and the thrill of her presence quickened the beat of his +heart. + +Her laugh rang through the room, silver-toned. + +"Jean," she cried merrily, "you are harder to see these days than a +prime minister! What do you mean, sir? Have you deserted us?" + +"_Ma foi_!" protested Jean, a little anxiously. "Mademoiselle does not +mean that! Was I not at lunch with her to-day, and yesterday, and the +day before that?" + +"Yes, and all day at the work, and every evening in Marseilles"--she +manufactured a dainty pout through her smile. "And even now that I +have snatched a little moment, I must not keep you for they are waiting +for you outside." + +"Let them wait!" said Jean tensely. + +"Oh, no; we mustn't do that," she said laughingly, shaking her head. +"So listen, Jean. I have come to tell you that--can you guess what? +That you are not going to Paris with us after all." + +"Not going to Paris!"--Jean gazed at her bewilderedly, as he repeated +the words. + +"With _us_--silly boy!" she smiled teasingly. "Are you disappointed?" + +She teased, and mocked, and delighted him, and fired his blood by +amazing and elusive turns. He could not cope with her yet. + +"But mademoiselle knows," he blundered. "I--I do not understand. It +is a great disappointment." + +"Then it mustn't be!" she declared brightly. "For it is my idea, and +if you are not pleased with it, it is I who will be terribly +disappointed. It is just a little while ago that father and I arranged +the plans. We are to go to-morrow direct to Paris, and as soon as we +get there--now listen very attentively, Jean!--we are going to pick out +an _atelier_ for you and fit it up. And you are not to come until we +send you word that everything is ready. And the day you arrive I shall +be hostess at the studio at a reception to which all Paris will be +invited. Everybody that is worth while will come, and your entree will +be a triumph. Now, Jean, will that not be splendid?" + +She was smiling at him, vivacious, flushed with excitement. +Splendid--yes, it would be splendid! An entree to Paris like that! It +was the first tangible glimpse of reality out of the chaotic blaze of +luring, golden dreams. + +"It--it is too good of mademoiselle!" he stammered excitedly. + +Low, musical, her laugh rippled through the room again, as she looked +at him. The man was magnificent--the head, the shoulders, the splendid +strength, the mobile, changing lights and shadows in his face like a +child who had not yet learned to mask its emotions, and all this +coupled with the deliciously picturesque background of the discovery of +his art, would make him the rage in Paris. Paris would literally go +wild over him! And she? Well, he would be still more a new sensation +than ever--and perhaps, who knew?--but the man was too easily +aroused--and then there was the possibility that her father, that +Bidelot and the others had overrated him, that he would be but the +phenomenon of the moment, only to sink after a while into uninteresting +mediocrity--she would see. But for the present at least Paris would +echo and re-echo with the name of Jean Laparde. Her eyebrows arched +demurely, innocently. There was something else she had to say to Jean. +She had never spoken to him of Marie-Louise--naturally. But she must +speak now. Marie-Louise, a peasant girl, a bare-footed fisherwoman, in +Paris as Jean's fiancee was perfectly impossible! + +"Jean," she said ingenuously, "you know we took the cottage without +much formality as far as any definite length of time was concerned. Of +course we expected to stay longer, and if all this had not happened we +certainly should have done so. So, do you think, when we speak to +Marie-Louise about going, that she would be perfectly satisfied with a +month's rent? I told father I would ask you." + +Jean's face clouded. + +"You have not told Marie-Louise then that you are going to-morrow?" he +asked slowly. + +"How could we--when we did not know ourselves until a little while +ago?" she answered. + +"No; that is so," he said. Then, with a short, conscious laugh: "I +have not spoken to Marie-Louise myself." + +"Of course you haven't!" she returned quickly, "And you have been wise." + +"Wise?"--Jean looked at her, puzzled. + +"Marie-Louise is not blind," said Myrna quietly. "It is far better +that she should have seen things for herself--and she could not help +seeing them during the last week." + +"You mean?" Jean began--and stopped. + +"You know what I mean, Jean," she said gravely. "That she must have +seen what everybody else sees--what you see yourself. That if she ever +had any idea of going to Paris with you, it is quite out of the +question. It is different now--everything is changed. You are not a +fisherman any longer; you have a great place to take in the world that +she cannot take beside you. A week in Paris and, even if neither of +you see it now, you would both see it only too bitterly and clearly +then. For both your sakes it is better settled now." + +Jean was staring across the room to where, outside, the crowd was +packed densely in the road. Had he not thought of just those things +that she had been saying? Had he not thought of them all week? They +were true; but still there was Marie-Louise who--what was that? They +were cheering him there outside--it made his blood tingle, he felt the +mad elation of it, his soul seemed to leap out to meet the acclaim! + +"But that is not all, Jean"--she was speaking again. "There is another +thing, something you owe to--oh, how shall I say it?--to your country, +and--" She stopped suddenly and caught his arm. "Listen!" she +breathed. "Listen!" + +It was Bidelot, the great Academician, his voice raised in impassioned +words. Through the window they could see him standing, bare-headed, in +the automobile. + +"... Bernay-sur-Mer will evermore live in the hearts of Frenchmen--you +have given to France the immortal name of Jean Laparde." + +Her hands, both of them now, were clasped tightly on his arm. + +"Jean!" she whispered. "Jean!" + +"_Mon Dieu_!"--the words came hoarsely from Jean's throat. They were +cheering again. He moved, like iron impelled to the magnet, across the +room. He looked at Myrna. He had never seen her eyes so bright. + +"It is only the beginning, Jean"--she seemed half hysterical herself. +"But in Paris, Jean--in Paris you shall see!" + +They were at the door, and suddenly she flung it wide open. There was +a roar of voices. She was smiling at him from the doorway. They were +shouting his name. They rushed at him, and, lifting him shoulder high, +carried him to the automobile. Fame--was this only a taste of it? No +more than that? In Paris--what was it he should see in Paris? They +were shouting again. It was like some fiery draught that his soul was +drinking in. He craved it with a lust that was passionate, +all-possessing. He cried out to those around him. He did not know +what he said. And then Bidelot was speaking to him, and the automobile +was whirling down the road, followed by the shouts of all +Bernay-sur-Mer. + +All Bernay-sur-Mer? No; not all. For as the car flashed by, halfway +between the little bridge and the eastern headland, the fringe of +bushes by the roadside parted, a dark head lifted, and Marie-Louise +gazed after it. It was all so strange, and she could not quite +understand. Once, twice before, on other evenings, she had watched the +car pass. They were all of the great world those men with Jean in the +car; of the great world of which she knew nothing, only that the +village spoke of the strangers with awe. And now Jean was one of +them--and they seemed so proud of him, so proud to make him one of +themselves, these great men. And she was proud of him, too, oh, so +proud and glad and happy--only back of it all was a little chill of +dread and fear, and she could not quite understand. She had smiled at +Jean from the edge of the crowd that was clustered around the door of +the barn those days when he had been working at the clay--and then she +had stolen away and cried so bitterly. She did not know why she had +done that. If only some one would tell her what it all meant! Was it +because Jean was going away for a little time? The dark eyes widened +slowly. Was it only for a little time? She had not talked to Jean +since that morning on the beach, and that was so long, long ago. It +wasn't Jean's fault, though, nearly so much as hers. She had really +tried to evade him. No, not to evade Jean; but to evade the others out +of the shyness and diffidence for the great strangers who were now +constantly around him. Would there be always these strangers around +him? + +She drew herself up suddenly, her small hands fiercely clenched. She +hated these strangers! That was it! They were always coming between +Jean and herself! They were always there! They made of Jean a +different man; they made him one of themselves, and in doing that they +were snatching him away from her, taking him across what seemed like +some vast gulf that she could not traverse herself. She hated this +Monsieur American, and this mademoiselle; and she hated the day they +had come, for it had all begun that day. The red burned angrily in her +cheeks, the lithe form quivered in a quick rush of passion--and then, +instantly penitent, with a little sob, she flung herself down upon the +grass. + +No; she did not hate them! What had she said! The _bon Dieu_ would be +very angry with her for that. And they had been very kind and good to +her, this monsieur and this mademoiselle. And to hate all the others +was to commit a sin, for were they not there because Jean--she raised +her head quickly, parting the bushes again, as she caught the sound of +steps and voices from the road. + +It was Monsieur Bliss speaking in French to Father Anton, who walked +between Monsieur Bliss and mademoiselle. + +"Why should he not work here? Why should he go to Paris? What a +question, my dear Monsieur le Cure! It is because here is nothing; +because in Paris there is everything. It is there that he will study +the great works of famous sculptors; it is there that he will have +models and facilities for his work; it is there that he will have +inspiration from the art around him; it is there that, with his genius, +he will sift and choose, profiting from the different schools even as +he creates a new one for himself; and it is there that the leading men +of France will unite with the social world to make the name of Jean +Laparde known and honoured wherever art is known." + +"But," said Father Anton anxiously, "but he will come back--to +Marie-Louise." + +Henry Bliss's hand fell sympathetically upon the old priest's shoulder, +as he shook his head. + +"I do not know," he said soberly. "Who can tell? It depends upon +Jean--and Marie-Louise. Frankly, I do not think he will come back, for +there is always the danger that the greater he becomes the greater will +become the distance between them--and Jean will unquestionably become a +national figure. But it is a vastly different thing with him than it +is with her. It is innate in him to take that place gracefully, even +as his genius is innate in him. To her, I am afraid, it would be an +impossible and an impracticable life. It is likely she would be +miserable to begin with and feel herself a drag upon him, for, we must +admit, she could not, as we say in America, hold up her end in his new +life. It is one of those tragedies of life, isn't it, that we cannot +shape one way or the other? It is something they alone must work out. +It is not a little matter, this future of Jean's. France has claimed +Jean, Monsieur le Cure, and it may well be, as Myrna here said a moment +ago, there is no place in his new life for Marie-Louise. I--" + +They had passed on. + +It seemed to Marie-Louise that she was very cold, that somehow she +could not move. There were three figures out there on the road walking +along. It was very strange that so ordinary a thing as that should be +taking place. She seemed to be numbed, to be waiting somehow for a +return to consciousness. Was that consciousness that was returning +now, was that it--this dull, monotonous pain? And that great choking +in her heart--what was that? She was standing erect, and words were +quivering on her lips. + +"There is no place in his new life for Marie-Louise." + +She was staring out before her; but the road, and, beyond it, the white +beach, and, beyond that again, the blue of the sea with the great +golden shaft of light from the setting sun upon it was gone--and there +was only nothingness. Only her lips moved. + +"There is no place--in his new life--for Marie-Louise." + + + + +-- X -- + +A DAUGHTER OF FRANCE + +How still the house was! Only once during the night had Marie-Louise +heard a sound as she had sat, dressed, by the window in the little +attic room. And that sound had been the whir of an automobile rushing +by on the road--it had been Jean returning from Marseilles. That was +while it was very dark, very long ago--now it was daylight again, and +the sun was streaming into the room. + +The chaste, sweet face was tired and weary and aged a little; but on +the lips, sensitive, delicate, making even more beautiful their +contour, was a brave, resolute little smile, as her eyes rested on the +small white bed, neatly made, unslept in. It was over now, the fight +that had been so hard and so cruel to fight; and she needed only the +courage to go on to the end. + +Over and over again, all through the night, she had thought it out. +She loved Jean. She loved Jean so much! She had trembled once when +she had tried to think how much, and the thought had come so quickly, +before she could arrest it, that she loved Jean as much as she loved +God--and then she had prayed the _bon Dieu_ not to be angry with her +for the sin, for she had not meant to think such thoughts as that. + +It was true what they had said when they had passed by on the road +yesterday evening. There was no place in his new life for her. A +hundred little things all through the week had shown her that, only, +until yesterday evening when Monsieur Bliss had spoken, she had not +understood what they meant--Nanette, that first day, when Jean had come +to lunch with mademoiselle and monsieur; the curious, side-long glances +that the villagers gave her now; a strange, embarrassed reserve in +Father Anton, when the good cure had spoken to her lately; that wide, +vast gulf that lay between the world mademoiselle lived in, the world +that Jean was going to, and her own world. They had all seen +it--except herself. And she had not understood because she had not +allowed herself to think what it might mean, what she knew now it +meant--that she must lose Jean. + +To let Jean go out of her life because France had claimed him--that was +what her soul had whispered to her all through the night. A Daughter +of France, her Uncle Gaston had called her proudly--it was Jean who had +told her what her uncle had said--that he had taught her to love God +and be never afraid. But she was afraid now, she had been afraid all +through the night, for it seemed as if there were no more happiness, as +though a great pain that would never go away again had come to her. + +France had claimed Jean. He was to be a famous man. Did they not all +talk of his glorious future? It was different with Jean--years ago +even she had known that. She herself had told him he was different +from the fishermen of Bernay-sur-Mer. Jean was born to the life that +he was going to. Was he not even now taking his place amongst these +great strangers as though he had been accustomed to do so always? And +she, if she should try to do it, they would laugh at her, and she would +bring ridicule upon Jean, and she could not do what Jean could do. She +was a peasant girl whom mademoiselle scolded about going without shoes +and stockings. + +And Jean must surely have seen these things, too. But Jean, though he +had heedlessly hurt her so when he had given away again the little +beacon, would never speak to her of this, because this was a much +greater thing which was to change all their lives. It was she who must +speak to Jean, it was she who must tell him that she understood that +the great future which lay before him must not be harmed; that she must +not hold him back; that she must not stand in his way; that she would +only hurt him in that dazzling, bewildering world that would disdain a +fishergirl; that it was France, not she, who came first. + +The night had brought her that. It was only the courage she needed now +to act upon it. + +She stood up, looking through the window--and the great dark eyes +filled with a blinding mist. + +"Jean! Jean!" she said brokenly aloud. + +A little while she stood there, and then walked slowly across the room +to the bed. And as once she had knelt there before, she dropped again +upon her knees beside it. And now the smile came bravely again. They +were wrong. It was not true. There was a place in his life for +her--something that she could do now. There was one way in which her +love could still help Jean in the wonderful life that had come to him. + +The dark head bent to the coverlet. + +"_Mon Pere_," she whispered, "make me that--Jean's beacon now." + +And after a time she rose, and bathed her face, and fastened the black +coils of hair that had become unloosed, and, as she heard Nanette +stirring below, went quietly downstairs. + +She must see Jean. They were going away to-day, mademoiselle and +monsieur, and Nanette and Jules; and Jean was to follow them in a few +days. She had heard mademoiselle and her father discussing it at their +supper last evening. She must see Jean now before the others went, +so--so that everybody would understand. + +She stole out of the house, gained the road and started to run along it +toward the village. Jean would be up long ago, all his life he had +risen hours before this, and she would be back by the time mademoiselle +and monsieur were up and needed her. She stopped suddenly, and in +quick dismay glanced down at her bare feet. She had forgotten to put +on her shoes and stockings. Suppose mademoiselle should see her +returning like that! + +And then Marie-Louise shook her head slowly, and went on again. It was +not right to disobey, but it could not matter very much now, for +mademoiselle was going away in the afternoon. And besides she could +run much faster without them, and--the tears came with a rush to her +eyes--they seemed all at once to mean so much, those shoes and +stockings. It--it was the shoes and stockings and all they meant that +was taking her out of Jean's life. She understood it all so well now. + +She brushed the tears a little angrily from her eyes. She must not do +that. To go to Jean and cry! Far better not to go at all! +Afterwards, when they were gone, these Americans, and when Jean was +gone, and she was alone and only the _bon Dieu_ to see, then perhaps +the tears would be too strong for her. But now she must talk very +bravely to Jean, and not make it harder for him; for, no matter what +happened or what was to come, Jean, too, in his love, would feel the +parting. + +She understood Jean better now, too. The night had made so many things +much clearer. Had he not confessed that he was not always happy as a +fisherman in Bernay-sur-Mer? And must it not have been just this, this +greatness within him, that had made him discontented? And now that it +had come true, a far greater thing than he could have dreamed of, +changing his whole life, must it not for the time have made him forget +everything else? It had not killed his love for her, it had not done +that--but this thing must be first before either of their loves. +Afterwards, perhaps, it might kill his love--afterwards, yes, +afterwards it might do that. She tried to smile a little. It was what +she was going now to bring about--afterwards it _must_ kill his love. +It was the only way. And that would come surely, very surely--his +giving away of the beacon, so lightly forgetting what he told her it +had meant, taught her that. If he went now, if she bade him go now, it +was not for a little time--it was for always. + +She was running, very fast, breathlessly--as though she were trying to +outrun her thoughts. It was coming again, the same bitter fight that +she had fought out through the darkness, through all those long hours +alone--but she must not let it come, that sadness, that yearning that +tried to make her falter and hold back. The way was very plain. If +she loved Jean, if she really loved him, she must not let that love do +anything but what would help him in his new, great life--she must cling +to that. It would not be love if she did anything else; it would only +mean that she loved herself more than she loved Jean. + +"To be never afraid"--Uncle Gaston had taught her that, and the words +were on her lips now--"To be never afraid." + +She was walking again now, for she had reached the village. Some one +called to her from a cottage door, and she called back cheerfully as +she passed on to the Bas Rhone, where Papa Fregeau was standing in the +doorway. + +"_Tiens, petite_!" the fat little proprietor cried heartily. "But it +is good to see our little Marie-Louise! You do not come often these +days. They make you work too hard, those Americans, perhaps? But +to-day they are going--eh? Wait, I will call Lucille." + +"Good morning, Jacques," she answered. "Yes; it is to-day that they +are going, so do not call Mother Fregeau, for there is a great deal to +do at the house and I must hurry back." + +"Ah!" observed Papa Fregeau. "You have come then with a message?" + +"Yes," she said hurriedly; "for Jean. Do you know where he is?" + +"But, _la, la_!" chuckled Papa Fregeau. "But, yes; he is upstairs in +his room. But wait--I must tell you. I have just helped him carry it +up. It is a very grand American affair, and he is like a child with +it. It arrived from Marseilles last night after he had gone." + +"What did?" inquired Marie-Louise patiently. + +"What did!" ejaculated Papa Fregeau. "But did I not tell you? The +American trunk, _pardieu_! that he is to go away with, and--" The fat +little man grew suddenly confused. "_Tiens_!" he stammered. "He is +upstairs in his room, Marie-Louise. I am an old fool--eh--an old +fool!"--and he waddled away. + +Why should it have hurt a little more because Jacques Fregeau had said +Jean was going away? And why should Jacques Fregeau have been able to +read it in her eyes? She was not so brave perhaps as she had thought. +And her heart was pounding now very quickly and so hard that it brought +pain, as she went up the stairs. + +"_Mon Pere_"--her lips were whispering the same prayer over +again--"make me that--Jean's beacon now." + +And then she was knocking at the door. + +For an instant she hesitated, as his voice called to her to enter; then +she opened the door and stepped inside. It was Jean, this great fine +figure of a man, who turned so quickly toward her; but it was already +the Jean of the world where they wore shoes and stockings, and his +clothes were like the clothes of Monsieur Bliss. They made him very +handsome, very grand; only somehow they made it seem that her errand +was useless now, that she had come too late, that Jean was already gone. + +Her eyes met his, smiled--and, from his face, strayed about the room. +It was very fine that American trunk, but not very large. It was like +one that mademoiselle had, that she called a steamer trunk, and carried +on the automobile--and the trunk was empty, and the tray was on the +floor beside it. + +"Marie-Louise!" he cried--and then, a little awkwardly, he caught her +hands. "But--but what has brought you here, Marie-Louise?" + +"To see you, Jean," she told him simply. + +For a moment he stared at her uneasily. Was this then to be the scene +that he had dreaded, that he had been putting off? And then he laughed +a little unnaturally. + +"Ah, did you think, then, Marie-Louise, that I had forgotten you? You +must not think that! Only, _mon Dieu_, what with Bidelot, and the +critics, and Marseilles, and the work all day at the new design, what +could I do? But Bidelot and the rest have returned to Paris, and +mademoiselle and monsieur go to-day; and this afternoon I was going to +find you and tell you about the great plans they have all made for me." + +"Yes; I know, Jean," she answered. "And that is what I have come +for--to have a little talk about you and me." + +"About my going away, you mean?" he said, infusing a lightness into his +voice. "But you must not feel sad about that, Marie-Louise. You would +not have me lose a chance like that! And it is only for a little +while, until I have learned what, they say, Paris will teach me. I +shall do great things in Paris, Marie-Louise--and then I shall come +back." + +She shook her head slowly. + +"Jean," she said very quietly, "it is about your coming back that I +want to speak to you. I have thought it all out last night. It is not +for a little while. When you go it is for always. You can never come +back." + +"Never come back! Ah, is it that then that is troubling you?" he said +eagerly. "You mean that you would not mind my going for a little +while, only you think it is for more than that?" + +"You do not understand, Jean"--it seemed as though she must cry out in +wild abandon, as though the tears must come and fill her eyes, as +though she were not brave at all. Would not the _bon Dieu_ help her +now! She drew her hands away from him, and turned from him for an +instant. "You can never come back, Jean; you can never come back to +the old life. You will go on and on, further and further away from it, +making a great name for yourself, and your friends will be all like the +_grand monde_ who have been here, and I know that I cannot go into that +life, too--I understand that all so well. And--and so, Jean, I have +come to tell you that you are free." + +"Free!" he cried--and gazed at her in stupefaction. The colour came +and went from his face. He had not thought of this from her! And yet +it was what he had said in his soul--if only there were nothing between +Marie-Louise and himself! It was as if a weight had been lifted from +him--only replacing the weight was a miserable pricking of conscience. +"Free! What are you saying?" + +And now the dark eyes were bright and deep and unfaltering--and +suddenly she drew her form erect, and her head was thrown proudly back. + +"Free, Jean, because you must not think any more of me; because you are +to be a great man in your country and it is your duty to go, for France +has called you, and France is first; because"--her voice, quivering, +yet triumphant, was ringing through the room--"because I give you to +France, Jean! You do not belong to me now--you belong to France!" + +For a moment he did not speak. There seemed a thousand emotions, +soul-born, surging upon him. Her words thrilled him; it was over; +there was relief; it was done. She had gone where he had not dared to +go in his thoughts--to the end. He would never come back, she said. +He was free. But he could not have her think that he could let her go +like that! + +"No, no, Marie-Louise!" he burst out. "Do you think that even if I +belonged to France, even if all my life were changed, that I could ever +forget you, that I could forget Bernay-sur-Mer, and all the people and +my life here?" + +"Yes," she said, "you will forget." + +"Never!" he asserted fiercely. + +"Jean"--her voice was low again--"it is the _bon Dieu_ last night who +has made me understand. I do not know what is in the new world that +you are going to, only that you will be one of the greatest and perhaps +one of the richest men in France. And I understand you better, Jean, I +think, than you understand yourself. This fame and power will mean +more to you than anything else, and it will grow and grow and grow, +Jean. And, oh, Jean, I am afraid you will forget that it is not you at +all who does these great things but that it is the _bon Dieu_ who lets +you do them, and that you will grow proud, Jean, and lose all the best +out of your life because you will even forget that once those clothes +hanging there"--she pointed toward the rough fisherman's suit--"were +yours." + +It was strange to hear Marie-Louise talking so! He did not entirely +understand. Something was bewildering him. She was telling him that +he must think no more of her, that it was finished. And there was no +scene. And she did not reproach him. And there were no tears. And it +did not seem as though it were quite real. He had pictured quite +another kind of scene, where there would be passion and angry words. +And there was nothing of that--only Marie-Louise, like a grown-up +Marie-Louise, like a mother almost, speaking so gravely and anxiously +to him of things one would not expect Marie-Louise to know anything +about. + +She turned from him impulsively; and from the peg took down the cap and +the rough suit, and from the floor gathered up the heavy boots with the +coarse socks tucked into their tops--and, as he watched her in +amazement, she thrust them suddenly into his arms. + +"Promise me, Jean," she said in the same low way, "that you will keep +these with you always, and that sometimes in your great world you will +look at them and remember--that they, too, belong to France"--and then +suddenly her voice broke, and she had run from the room. + +She was gone. Jean's eyes, from the doorway, shifted to the clothes +that cluttered up his arms--and for a long time he did not move. Then +one hand lifted slowly, and in a dazed sort of way brushed the hair +back from his eyes. It was a strange thing, that--to take these things +with him to remember--what was it she had said?--to remember that they, +too, belonged to France. + +"_Mon Dieu_!" he whispered--and, with a queer lift of his shoulders, +turned mechanically to the trunk beside him. "_Mon Dieu_!" he +whispered again--and now there was a twisted little smile of pain upon +his lips as understanding came, and almost reverently he laid the +things in the bottom of the trunk. + + + + +-- XI -- + +THE PENDULUM + +How many miles had they come? Jean did not know. It had been far--but +far along a road of golden dreams, where time and distance mattered +only because they were so quickly passed. + +It was Myrna Bliss who had suggested it because, had she not said? she +wanted to have a little talk with him alone before she left for Paris +that afternoon--and they would walk out along the road before her +father started, and the automobile would pick her up on the way. + +And so they had come, and so she had talked and he had +listened--feasting his eyes upon the superb, alluring figure that +swung, so splendidly supreme, along beside him. She had told him of +Paris--Paris, the City Beautiful--of the great city that was the glory +of France, of its magnificent boulevards, its statues, its arches, its +wonderful architecture, its wealth of art garnered from the ages, its +happy mirth, its gaiety, its richness and its life, the life that would +now be his. And he had listened, rapt, absorbed, fascinated, as though +to some entrancing melody, now martial, now in softer strain, that +stirred his pulse as it carried him beyond himself, and unfettered his +imagination until it swept, free as a bird in air, into the land of +dreams, that knew a fierce, ecstatic echo in his soul--the melody of +her voice. + +But now there had come a jarring note into that melody; and a sudden, +swift emotion, that mingled dismay, a passionate longing, a panic sense +of impotency, was upon him. The quick throb of the motor was sounding +from down the road behind them. Monsieur Bliss was coming now. In a +moment she would be gone. + +She had heard it, too, for she ceased speaking abruptly, and, halting, +turned to face him. + +"Isn't it too bad, Jean?" she cried disappointedly. "And I had hardly +begun to tell you about it! But then, never mind, the rest of it all +you will see for yourself in a few more days, when you get to Paris." + +In a moment she would be gone! What was it that held him back--that +had always held him back before? He was strong enough--strong enough +to crush her to him, to cover that gloriously beautiful face with his +kisses, to bathe his face in the fragrance of her hair, to feel her +heart, the throb, the pulse, the life of her body against his own! +What was it that, strong as he was, was stronger than he? + +"It--it is good-bye," he said, in a low, tense way. + +She felt the passion that was possessing him--he read it in the +startled glance of the grey eyes before they were veiled; in the ivory +of the perfect throat grown colourful with the mounting red; in the +parted lips before the teasing, merry smile was forced there, as she +stepped back a little away from him. She knew! She knew, as he knew, +that his soul was aflame--and it was she, not he, who dammed back the +tide of his passion with that "something" that was so powerful an ally +of hers, so readily, so always at her instant command. She knew, as he +knew, that his soul was aflame--and yet she had not repulsed him. What +did it mean? That she _cared_! But why did she laugh so lightly now, +why was she so perfectly self-possessed? What did it mean? That she +was playing with him! + +"How absurd, Jean!" she laughed gaily. "Of course, it isn't +'good-bye'; that is"--she glanced at him demurely--"that is, unless +you've changed your mind about coming to Paris." Then, impulsively +eager: "But you haven't done that, have you? And you want to come more +than ever now after what I have told you, don't you? And, Jean"--she +came suddenly close to him again, and her face, its demureness gone, +was puckered up in very earnest little wrinkles--"there isn't anything, +you won't let anything keep you from coming--will you?" + +Keep him from Paris--from her! Why had she asked that? He laughed out +boisterously, harshly. It was very near now, that accursed automobile! +Monsieur Bliss was calling out to them. Keep him from--Paris! He +could only laugh out again wildly, as he looked at her. + +"Jean!"--it was a quick, hurried exclamation, not all composure now, +and her eyes were hidden, and her face was turned away. "Jean, good +gracious, don't you hear father calling to you? Look, here he is!" + +Jean swept his hand across his eyes. It was the madness upon him. +Yes, here was Monsieur Bliss beside him, and she and her father were +both talking at once. It was Paris! Always Paris that they talked of! +In a week, in ten days, he would be there. And then they had both +shaken hands with him, the grey eyes had smiled into his for an +instant, and she had sprung from him into the automobile. It was a +daze. They had gone. He was standing in the road watching them. She +was fluttering a scarf at him, as she leaned far over the back of the +car--her voice, full-throated, was throbbing in his ears. + +"_An revoir_, Jean! _Au revoir_--till Paris!" + +The car disappeared over the brow of a little hill, came into sight +again as it topped the opposite rise, became a blur and then a tiny +dot, scarcely discernible, far on along the road. And still he stood +there. + +It was gone at last. He turned then, and started back along the road +toward Bernay-sur-Mer; now walking slowly, now suddenly changing his +pace to a quick, impulsive stride. His eyes were on the road before +him, but he saw nothing. Her voice was ringing in his ears again, and +again he was living in that golden land of dreams--with her. + +Paris! The City Beautiful! Paris--where he should know fame and +power, where his genius should kindle a flame of enthusiasm that would +spread throughout all France! Paris--where men should do him honour! +Paris--where riches were! Paris--where she was! + +His brain reeled with it. It was not wild imagining. A power, a +mighty power, the power that made him master of his art lived and +breathed in every fibre of his being. He needed no tongue of others +now to tell him that this power was his; the knowledge of it was in his +soul until he knew, knew as he knew that he had being and existence, +that the work of Jean Laparde would stand magnificent and supreme +before the eyes of the world. He saw himself the centre, the leader of +a glittering entourage. Fame! Men of the highest ranks should envy +him--the gamins of Paris should know his name. He threw back his head +on his great shoulders. Conceit, all this? No; it was stupendous--but +it was not conceit. He knew--his soul knew it. He was more sure of +himself now than even those great critics of France had been sure. +They had seen nothing--he had not begun. A year, two years in Paris, +the tools to work with, the models of flesh and blood at his +command--and, ah, God, what would he not do! They should see, they +should see then! And they should stand and wonder, as they had not +wondered before--at Jean Laparde! + +He laughed suddenly aloud. Father Anton had preached a sermon once in +the little church, he remembered it now--that fame was an empty thing. +An empty thing! He laughed again. It was the simplicity of the good +cure, who believed such things because, _pardieu_! the cure was a +gentle soul and knew no better. What should Father Anton, who never +went anywhere, into whose life came nothing but the little daily +affairs of the fisherfolk in Bernay-sur-Mer, who could never have had +any experience in the things outside the life of the village that +turned everlastingly like a wheel in its grooves, know of fame? It was +not the fault of Father Anton that he talked so, for he got those +things out of his books, and, having no reason out of his own knowledge +of life to know any better, believed them! + +Jean shrugged his shoulders. One felt sorry for Father Anton! Perhaps +once in two years the cure journeyed as far as Marseilles--and the few +miles was a great event! What could one expect Father Anton to +discover for himself out of life? + +Fame--an empty thing! Poor Father Anton, who, because he believed it, +so earnestly preached it to Papa Fregeau and Pierre Lachance who never +went even as far as Marseilles, and who therefore in turn were very +content to believe it, too! An empty thing? It was _everything_! + +He drew in his breath sharply; his hand was feverishly tossing back the +hair from his forehead. It was everything! It was wealth, it was +power, it was might, it was greatness. It was real; it brought things +to the very senses one possessed, things that one could see and hear +and touch and taste and smell. They were real--real, those things! It +brought money that bought all things; it brought position, honour and +command, a name amongst the great names of France; it thrilled the soul +and fired the blood; it was limitless, boundless, without horizon. It +brought all things beyond the dreams that one could dream, the plaudits +of his fellow-men, the wild-flung shouts of acclamation from +hoarse-throated multitudes; it brought riches; it brought affluence; +and it brought--love. + +Love! Ay, it would bring love! It would bring him that more than it +would bring him any other thing. He knew now what had held him back +from crushing that maddeningly alluring form in his arms, from giving +free rein to the passion that was his, from giving him the mastery of +her. It was that same thing that Marie-Louise sensed between herself +and what she called the _grand monde_. He, too, had not yet bridged +the gulf. He had not yet been able to look into those grey eyes of the +beautiful American and forget, deep in his soul, that she was +different, that he had been Jean Laparde the poor fisherman and not +always Jean Laparde the great sculptor. Was she playing with him? +What did it matter? The day would come when she would not _play_! She +would be his--and this fame, that was so empty a thing, would give her +to him. If for no other thing than that he would go to Paris. She +would be his--as all the world would be his! His! That is what fame +would bring him! Would she play with him then in his greatness! + +Paris! Paris! It lay before him, a glittering, entrancing vista; it +held out its arms to him, and beckoned him; it heaped honour and glory +and riches upon him; it gave him---her! + +His hands were clenched at his sides, and the skin over the knuckles, +tight-drawn, showed white; his stride was rapid, fierce; he was +breathing quickly; his face was flushed; his eyes were burning. Paris, +his art that would bring him fame, the fame that would bring him +her--nor heaven nor hell would hold him back! + +And then suddenly in the middle of the road he stopped, and his hand +tore at his collar as though it choked him. Subconsciously he had seen +stretching out before him the sparkling blue of the quiet sea, the +headland, the little strip of beach where he and Gaston used to keep +the boats, a blur of white where the house on the bluff showed through +the trees--he had come that far on his way back. Subconsciously, in a +meaningless way, he had seen this; but now it was blotted from him in a +flash, and in its place came a scene that, though imaginary, was vivid, +real, actual, where before reality itself had meant nothing. + +It was black, intensely black, and the wild howling of the wind was in +his ears. The rain was lashing at his face, and all along the beach +echoed the terrific boom and roar of the surf. And now there came the +crash of thunder, and quick upon its heels the heavens opening in +darting, zigzag tongue-flames, lurid, magnificent, awesome, as the +lightning flashes leapt across the sky. And he was standing on that +little strip of beach, and far out across the waters, shrouded in a +white smother of spume and spray, the figure of Marie-Louise stood +outlined on the edge of the Perigeau Reef. And now he was crossing +that stretch between them, and living again the physical agony that had +been his; and now he was in the water, clinging to the gunwale of the +boat, and in all the wild abandon of the storm her lips and his were +pressed together in that long kiss that seemed to span all life and all +eternity. + +As though spellbound, a whiteness creeping into his face, Jean stood +tense and motionless there in the road. Why had this come now--he had +never let it come in the week that was past. Why should it have come +now, like floodgates opened against his will, to overwhelm him? Ah, +was it that? That little figure, that was just discernible, far off on +that beach, the little figure, bare-footed, that was sitting now on the +stem of his boat where it was drawn up on the sand, and whose face was +cupped in her hands, and who seemed to be staring so intently out +toward the Perigeau Reef! That was Marie-Louise there--Marie-Louise. +Was it the sight of her that had brought this thing upon him? And now +the scene was changed again. And it was against the window panes that +the rain lashed, and against the sashes that the wind tore, and the +lamp threw its light on the grey-grim face of old Gaston Bernier on the +bed. + +Jean shivered a little. What was coming now? What was that? Gaston's +hand was upon his. He could hear Gaston's voice: "Jean, do you love +Marie-Louise?" And then Gaston was repeating the question, and +repeating it again: "Jean, do you love Marie-Louise?" And the old +rugged strength seemed back again in Gaston Bernier, as he, rose up in +bed, and his voice in a strange, stern note rang through the room: +"Swear it, Jean ... to a dying man and in God's presence ... swear that +you will..." + +"God! My God!" Jean cried out aloud--and like a blind man feeling +before him, turned from the road, stumbled a little way through the +fields, and flung himself face down upon the grass. + +There was torment and dismay upon him. His mind was in riot; his soul +bare and naked now before him. Paris! No; he must go instead to +Marie-Louise and tell her that he would stay in Bernay-sur-Mer, that +they would live their lives together, because they loved each other. +Yes; he loved Marie-Louise, not with the mad passion he had for this +American who bewitched him, but as he had loved her all the years since +they were children. He had told Gaston that, and it was true. It was +the act of a _miserable_ to go away! No; he would not go now. It was +true, all that he had told Marie-Louise, that she should stand on the +beach and hold out her arms to him in welcome when he pulled ashore +from the fishing, and that they would be always happy together. And +yet--and yet had not Marie-Louise herself said that he belonged to +France, and said herself that he must go for the great career that lay +before him, for the great work that he was to do? + +He cried out aloud sharply, as though in hurt--and prone upon his face, +his hands outstretched before him, lay still for a little time. + +It seemed to come insidiously, calling to him, luring him, wrestling, +fighting, battling with the soul of him--Paris! Here there was love, +but there, too, was love. One was calm; the other like the wild tumult +of the storm that in its might, primal, elemental, swept him blindly +forward. Paris--she would be there, she who held him in a spell, who +made him forget Marie-Louise. And there was fame and glory there, +honour and wealth--all, all, everything that the world could give. And +it was his, all his--he had only to reach out and take it. There, all +France would be at his feet. It made his brain swim with the mad +intoxication of it. It was as a man dying with thirst who sees afar +the water that is life to him. Here, he could never be contented now, +he could never be happy, and in a year, two years, Marie-Louise, +therefore, would be unhappy, too. But--but he could not go ... that +night that he had held Gaston Bernier's hand ... and there was +Marie-Louise that he loved ... Marie-Louise with the pure, fearless +face, the great eyes that were full of a world of things, of calm, of +trust, of tenderness and love, the lips, the wonderful lips that were +so divinely carved, the lips like which there were no others. And he +must choose now forever between Marie-Louise and--Paris. If he went, +he would never come back. He was honest with himself now. He knew +that. Marie-Louise knew that. He must choose now. Choose! Had he +not already decided that he would--that he would--_what_? + +It began all over again, and after that again for a hundred times, +until the brain of the man was sick and weary, and the torment of it +had brought the moisture to his forehead and into his eyes a fevered, +hunted look--and still he lay there, and the hours went by. And after +a time, beneath the rim of the sea in the west, the sun sank down, and +the golden afterglow, soft and rich and warm, was as a gentle, parting +benediction upon the earth--and Jean's head was buried in his outflung +arms. And twilight came--and after that the evening--then darkness, +and the myriad, twinkling stars of a night, calm and serene, were +overhead--and it grew late. + +And there came a soul-wrung cry from Jean, as he lifted a worn and +haggard face to the moonlight. + +"What shall I do? What shall I do?" + + + + +BOOK II: TWO YEARS LATER + + + +-- I -- + +THE DUPLICITY OF FATHER ANTON + +It was early evening in Paris; an evening in winter--and cold. Father +Anton drew his chair quite close to the little stove that, not without +some prickings of conscience at his prodigality, he had fed lavishly +with coals from the half empty scuttle beside it; and, leaning forward, +alternately extended his palms to the heat and rubbed them vigorously +together. The room, or rather the two small rooms, that comprised his +lodgings in one of the poorest neighbourhoods of the city, were, since +the windows were tightly closed and the sides of the stove a dull red, +stifling hot; but Father Anton was not a young man, and the winter of +Paris was not the balmy winter of his beloved South. + +He took off his spectacles, polished them abstractedly on the sleeve of +his _soutane_, replaced them, and picked up a book. He opened the +book, turned a few pages without looking at them, and with a little +sigh laid the book upon his knees. It was only in strict privacy that +he permitted himself an indulgence in regrets and the somewhat doubtful +solace of retrospection. And now he opened the stove door. It always +seemed that in the glowing coals and the little spurts of flames one +could picture so much more clearly the blue of the Mediterranean, the +sunny skies, the clean white cottages of Bernay-sur-Mer, the boats +dotting the sea and beach, and Papa Fregeau standing in the doorway of +the Bas Rhone, and Pierre Lachance trudging along the street with a +great pile of nets slung over his shoulders. + +Father Anton shook his head slowly. It was very strange, the workings +of Providence. He had always thought to die in Bernay-sur-Mer. And +now already he had been in Paris a year! But the sacrifice was very +little, it mattered nothing at all, and if he had longings and dreams +of the days that were gone, he was still very happy here and should be +thankful to God for the wonderful work that had been given him to do; +only he remembered his dismay that morning, when, unannounced, the +bishop had come to Bernay-sur-Mer and had told him word had been +received from Paris that Monsieur Bliss, the millionaire American, +would give the enormous sum of five hundred thousand francs a year to +be distributed amongst the poor of Paris on the condition that he, +Father Anton, would undertake its distribution. And he remembered how +the bishop had explained that it had been suggested to Monsieur Bliss +that perhaps he, Father Anton, would not care to leave Bernay-sur-Mer +and his people there, and that there were others, younger men, nearer +at hand, who, under the guidance and direction of the ecclesiastical +authorities, would willingly and gladly undertake the work. And, above +all else, he remembered what monsignor had told him had been the reply +of Monsieur Bliss: "No; it isn't because Father Anton is a clergyman +that I want him, it's because he's the man I've been looking for," that +most astounding American had said. "There isn't any creed, or +religion, or sect, or anything like that in this--or any supervision. +What I'm after is practical results, and nothing else. I just want a +piece of bread to go where it is needed, and no questions asked. I've +always had the idea, but I didn't have the man. I've got him now. +Father Anton might not care to leave Bernay-sur-Mer--eh? H'm! There's +five hundred thousand francs a year at his disposal for the poor of +Paris--ask him if he thinks he can do any good with it?" + +And so he had come to Paris. It was magnificent that--the generosity +of Monsieur Bliss! And Monsieur Bliss was amazing! He had found a +most beautiful little apartment, most beautifully furnished, in a very +fashionable part of the city, and with two servants already installed, +awaiting him. Imagine! It was impossible! How could one reach the +poor unless one lived amongst them? And to maintain an establishment +when--Father Anton sighed again--when even the enormous sum of five +hundred thousand francs was all too little! + +He glanced around the room. Even as it was, his quarters must seem +ostentatious compared with the poverty about him--the Widow Migneault, +for example, in the rear room of the _troisieme etage_ above him. But +what could one do? There was no arguing with those Americans! They +had insisted on furnishing the place to their own satisfaction. + +Father Anton's eyes returned to the glowing coals in the stove. He was +very happy because his work was the work that he, too, had dreamed of; +but one could not help thinking sometimes of Bernay-sur-Mer, and all +the lifelong friends, and the people who were so close to his heart. +And if he loved to picture them in his mind, and if there was perhaps a +little ache at the thought that he had left them, he was none the less +thankful to the _bon Dieu_ that he could do so much now with what was +left of his life. + +What were they all doing in Bernay-sur-Mer to-night? What was +Marie-Louise doing? It was two months now since she had written him. +She did not write as often as she used to write. He shook his head +sadly. She had had her sorrow, poor Marie-Louise! What a boundless +store of love there was in that brave little heart! If only it would +be given to some worthy young fellow now--Father Anton wrinkled his +brows in deep thought, as though he would decide the matter on the +spot--say, Amide Dubois, who was a fine, honest lad; they would both be +very happy, and Marie-Louise would forget the sooner. Yes, certainly, +Amide Dubois would do admirably. + +A clatter of hoofs, the rattle of wheels over the cobble stones on the +street, and the sudden cessation of both in front of the house, broke +in on the cure's musings. He rose slowly from his chair, and, going to +the window, peered out. His curiosity was rewarded only to the extent +of seeing a fiacre driving away again. It was rather strange, that! +Fiacres were not in the habit of stopping before any house in that +section of Paris. It would be some one for him then undoubtedly. +Monsieur Bliss, perhaps. No; not Monsieur Bliss, for was there not the +grand reception to-night that the Societe des Beaux-Arts was tendering +to Jean Laparde, and for which Monsieur Bliss had sent him a card, but +to which he was not going. It was to be a great affair at which the +President of the Republic was to be present, and a rusty _soutane_ +would be not a little out of place there--and besides, the Jean of +Bernay-sur-Mer and the Jean of Paris were not the same. Perhaps one +should not let such thoughts come--but it was true. + +Father Anton listened. Yes; he had been right. Some one was knocking +at the door now. + +"Yes--come!" he called, and hurried hospitably across the room, as the +door opened--and stopped in stunned amazement--and ran forward again, +holding out his arms. "Marie-Louise!" he cried. + +Half laughing, half crying, she was in his arms; her own around his +neck. + +"Oh, Father Anton! Dear, dear Father Anton!" she was repeating over +and over again. + +"Well, well--but, but--well, well," was all he could say--and kissed +her, and pressed her face against his shoulder, and patted her head. + +And then he held her off to look at her. It was the same Marie-Louise, +with the same bright eyes, even if they were glistening now with tears; +the same Marie-Louise, just as though this was Bernay-sur-Mer and not +Paris at all, for there was no hat to hide the great black tresses of +hair, and there was just the same simple style of loose blouse and +ankle skirt that she always wore in the little village, and it might +well have been that he and she were there again, there in +Bernay-sur-Mer--only on the floor, where she had dropped it as she ran +to meet him, was a neatly tied-up little bundle that spoke of the long +journey. + +"Well, well!" he ejaculated helplessly again, and closed the door, and +drew her to a chair and sat down, while she knelt affectionately on the +floor at his knees. + +"Oh!" she said excitedly. "I did not think Paris could be so big a +place. And there was such a crowd in the station, and such a crowd +outside, and so many streets, and all the people I spoke to only shook +their heads when I asked for Father Anton, and--and then I began to be +a little frightened. And then--what do you think? Imagine! Was I not +grand? For a franc-fifty a _coccer_ said he would drive me to the +address, and--_me voici_! Did I not do well?" + +"Splendidly!" he agreed approvingly. "But, Marie-Louise, I do not +understand. It is a great surprise. You did not write; you said +nothing about coming to Paris. Why did you not tell me you were +coming?" + +She looked up at him merrily. + +"Must I answer that--quite truthfully?" + +"Of course!" he said, smiling indulgently. + +"Well, then," she said demurely, "I was afraid you would say I should +not come--and now that I am here you cannot say it." + +"Ah," he exclaimed, with mock severity, "that is a serious confession +you are making, Marie-Louise! So! And you thought I would not +approve, eh? What then has happened in Bernay-sur-Mer?" + +"Nothing has happened," she answered--but now she looked away from him +as she spoke. "I have sold my house there." + +"Nothing! Sold your house?" Father Anton began to take alarm. He +took Marie-Louise's face between his hands and forced her to look at +him. Yes, yes, the gaiety, the lightness of spirit was only +make-believe; the tears were more genuine than the smile that came +tremulously to her lips. "Marie-Louise," he said anxiously, "what is +it?" + +"Nothing!" she said again. "Only--only I could not stay there any +longer"--and suddenly, in a flood of tears, she buried her face on the +old priest's knees. + +"But, Marie-Louise--Marie-Louise!" he protested in helpless dismay--and +laid his hand soothingly on the bowed head. + +She looked up in an instant, dashing the tears away angrily. + +"I am a baby!" she cried, trying to laugh. "It was the journey, and +the new things, and seeing you again--but it is over now." Then, a +little hesitantly: "Tell me of Jean." + +"Jean?" repeated Father Anton, startled. "Jean?" He looked at her +closely. Could it be that? And then, with a little gasp, as he seemed +to read the truth in her eyes: "It--it is Jean then, Marie-Louise, who +has brought you to Paris?" + +"Yes," she answered, in a low voice. + +The cure's face grew very grave. + +"You have heard from him?" + +She shook her head. + +"I have never heard from Jean since the day he left +Bernay-sur-Mer"--she was plucking with her fingers at the skirt of the +priest's _soutane_. + +There was a long silence, broken at last by the old priest's deep sigh. + +"You still love Jean, my child?" he asked gently. + +"I have always loved him," she said simply. + +Father Anton fumbled with his spectacles. His heart had grown very +heavy. It seemed that the cruelest, saddest thing in the world had +happened. + +"Tell me about him!" she demanded eagerly. "You see him every day, +father." + +"I have not seen Jean in many months," he replied sadly. + +"Not seen him!" she echoed in consternation. "But he is here--in +Paris--isn't he?" + +"Yes; he is here," the cure said slowly. "But Paris is a big place, +and--and even old friends sometimes do not meet often." + +"But tell me about him!" she persisted. "He has become a great man--a +very great, great man?" + +"Yes," said Father Anton gravely, "he has become a great man--the +greatest perhaps in all of France." Then suddenly, laying his hands on +Marie-Louise's shoulders: "Marie-Louise, what is in your heart? Why +have you come here?" + +"But I have told you, and you know," she said. "To see Jean." + +The cure's hands tightened upon her shoulders. What was he to say to +her? How was he to tell her of the danger she in her innocence would +never guess, that lay so cold and ominous a thing upon his own heart? +How was he to put into words his fear of Jean for this pure soul that +was at his knees? As wide as the world was the distance that lay now +between Marie-Louise and Jean--but it was not that, not even that Jean +was openly attentive to Myrna Bliss--that was only a little thing. +Jean was not the Jean of Bernay-sur-Mer. The man was glutted now with +power and wealth. And swaying him was not the love of art that might +have lifted him to a loftier plane, it was the prostitution of that +divine, God-given genius for the lust of fame. And for fame he had +exchanged his soul. What was there sacred to Jean now? It was a life +closely approximating that of a roue that Jean lived. And for +Marie-Louise, with her love a weapon that might so easily be turned +against her, to come in touch with--no, no; it was not to be thought of! + +"Marie-Louise," he said hoarsely, "you must go back. You do not +understand. Jean is very different now--he is not the Jean--" + +"I know," she interposed, with a catch in her voice. "I know--better +than you think I know. It is you who do not understand. He is of the +_grand monde_, I understand that; and I--I am what I am, and it must be +always so. But I love him, father. Is it wrong that I should love +him? I will never speak to him, and he shall never know that I am +here; but I must see him, and see his work, and--and--oh, don't you +understand?" + +"And after that?" asked the old priest sorrowfully. + +"What does it matter--after that?" she said tensely. "I do not know." + +"No, Marie-Louise," he said earnestly, "no, my child, no good can come +of it. You must go back to Bernay-sur-Mer." + +She drew away from him, staring at him a little wildly. + +"But do you not understand?" she cried out with a sudden rush of +passion. "But do you not understand that it is stronger than I--that I +could not stay in Bernay-sur-Mer because I was always thinking, +thinking--that I could not go back there now any more than I could stay +there before? I must do this! I will do it! Nothing shall stop me! +And if you will not help me, then--" + +Father Anton drew her gently back against his knees. Yes; he was +beginning to understand--that the problem was not to be settled so +easily as by the mere expedient of telling Marie-Louise she must go +back to Bernay-sur-Mer. Those small clenched hands, those tight lips +were eloquent of finality. It became simply a matter of accepting a +fact. He might insist a dozen times that she should go. It would be +useless. She would not go! The old priest's brows furrowed in +anxiety. This love for Jean was still first in the girl's heart. +Words, arguments, were of no avail against the longing that was supreme +with her, that had brought her on the long journey across all France. +But her love was the love that pictured the frank, strong, simple +fisherman of Bernay-sur-Mer. If she should see Jean as he really was! +If she should see for herself the change in him, the abandon of his +life; and, too, see the glittering circles in which he moved! The +first would dispel her love for him; the second would show her in any +case the utter futility of it. As long as she held this love, that he +had hoped and prayed she had forgotten, it spoiled her life. It could +only bring her misery, unhappiness and sorrow. It would hurt cruelly, +this disenchantment; but it would save her, this poor child, whom he +loved as he would have loved a daughter of his own. Yes; if she should +see Jean as he really was, see him intimately enough to realise the +truth of the life he was leading! But how could that be brought +about--and at the same time protect her and keep her _safe_? + +She rose slowly to her feet, and stood before him, her hands still +tightly shut at her sides. + +"I was so sure, so sure that you would help me!" she said miserably. +And then, in pleading abandon, she flung out her arms to him. "Oh, +won't you, Father Anton, won't you? Won't you try to understand? It +can do no harm, only--only it is all my life--just to see him, to be +near him for a little while, to know that it has all been a wonderful +thing for him--and he will never know, I will not let him know." + +The cure's hands clasped and unclasped nervously. + +"Would you promise that, Marie-Louise? That you would not speak to +him, that you would not let him know you were here in Paris?" + +She answered him almost passionately, in hurt pride. + +"Oh, how little you understand!" she cried. "Do you think that my love +is like that? Do you think that for anything in the world I would +force myself into his life? Do you think that is why I came? Yes; I +will promise that!" + +"Well, well," said Father Anton soothingly, "we will see. But +first--eh?--a little supper? You are tired, my little Marie-Louise, +and hungry after the long journey. Come now, you will help me! We +will make a little omelette, and boil the coffee, and pretend that we +are in Bernay-sur-Mer--eh?" + +He began to bustle around the room, setting out bread and cheese from +the cupboard, and putting the coffee-pot upon the stove--and presently +they sat down to the simple meal. + +Marie-Louise ate very little; and finally, when she pushed her plate +away, the tears were in her eyes again. + +"I cannot eat any more," she said. "I--oh, Father Anton, you said that +you would see. You meant that--that you _would_ help me, didn't you?" + +It was plain, it was very plain that nothing would distract her for a +moment! Father Anton sighed again, and got up from his chair, and +began to pace the room. He had been turning a plan over and over in +his mind while he had watched her so anxiously during the meal. It was +strange how readily it had come to him, that plan! A monitor within +whispered the suggestion that perhaps it had come readily because it +was deception! The cure passed his hand in a troubled way back and +forth through his white hair. He had seen little of Jean--it was +perhaps because he reminded Jean of Bernay-sur-Mer and the past that +Jean was anxious to forget, that Jean had gradually come, in manner +more than words, to intimate that the old friendship was distasteful. +But if latterly he had seen little of Jean, at least when he had first +come to Paris his visits to the studio had been frequent enough to +enable him to form an intimate acquaintance with Hector, the red-haired +concierge of Jean's studio and apartment, and with madame, Hector's +wife. Nor had he permitted this intimacy to wane. He could not forget +that he had loved Jean, and through these good people he still kept his +interest alive. It was but a few days ago that Hector had complained +that the work was too much for his wife alone, that after some nights +at the studio with a gay company the morning presented a debacle to +clear up that was a day's work in itself. It was too much for her; and +they came often, those nights. + +Father Anton glanced at Marie-Louise. She was still watching him, a +sort of pitiful, eager expectancy in her face. His eyes fell to the +floor, as he continued to pace up and down. It could be arranged. +Jean rose very late. Marie-Louise could go early in the mornings to +tidy up the studio and the _atelier_. He could tell Hector she was a +charge of his, an honest girl to be trusted, who would do the work for +a few francs; and Hector in turn could obtain Jean's consent. +Marie-Louise would see for herself the life Jean led--and, besides, +Hector and his wife were not tongue-tied! But it was a terribly cruel +thing to do! The old priest's hands clasped and unclasped again in +genuine distress. It was terribly cruel! But it was little +Marie-Louise, whom he loved so tenderly, whose future was at stake. It +must not always be as it was to-day--sadness and hopelessness for the +brave young heart that should be so full of joy and life. + +He halted before Marie-Louise. Yes, it was the right thing to do; +there was no other way; she must be disillusioned; she should see +Jean's life at the studio; and to-night at the great reception she +should see Jean himself. Only his heart was very heavy--it was so hard +a thing to do. + +"Listen, Marie-Louise," he said abruptly. "I will help you, but it is +on the condition to which you have agreed--that Jean is in no way to +know that you are here. I will arrange with his concierge that very +early in the mornings, before Jean is up and when nobody is there, you +shall have the care of his studio and _atelier_, so you will be able to +see all you want to of his work; and to the concierge you are simply a +charge of mine who is in need of the few francs you will earn." + +"Oh, Father Anton, how good you are!"--she had jumped up joyfully from +her chair, and was in his arms again. "But I do not want the money. I +have plenty--from my house, you know." + +"But if you took no money, they would not understand why you would +work," explained Father Anton hurriedly. The depth of his duplicity +was very great! The gentle soul of Father Anton was conscience +stricken at her gratitude, her innocence. If he had not gone so far he +would retreat. She was crying in his arms. Never before had he known +what it was not to be able to look another in the eyes. He was glad +that Marie-Louise's head was hidden on his shoulder for he could not +have looked at her. Father Anton felt himself a criminal. It was not +a role that lay lightly upon him. + +"And Jean himself," she whispered. "When shall I see Jean?" + +Father Anton coughed nervously. + +"There--there is a reception to-night," he said hesitantly. He coughed +again. "For Jean. You might see him there perhaps--from the gallery. +I--I have a card." + +She sprang away from him, with a quick exclamation of excitement. + +"Oh, come then!" she cried impulsively, and caught his hand to pull him +toward the door. + +Father Anton turned away his head. Tears had sprung to his eyes. He +was indeed a criminal--the criminal of the ages! But if it would save +Marie-Louise! Ah, yes, he must keep that thought always before him. +He looked at her again, as he fumbled once more with his spectacles. + +"Yes, yes; at once!" he said mechanically. "But"--he was staring at +her now in sudden consternation--"but you cannot go like that! Have +you no other clothes?" + +She pointed at the little bundle on the floor. + +He shook his head. + +"No hat? No coat?" + +"No-o," she said tremulously, as though she sensed an impending tragedy. + +"But this is not Bernay-sur-Mer, Marie-Louise!" he said, in concern. +"You cannot go about dressed like that in Paris; and, besides, you +would freeze, my child." + +She looked at him in silence--a sort of pitiful despair, mingling +bitter disappointment and helpless dependence, in her eyes, in the +expression of her face. + +"Tut, tut!" murmured Father Anton, pulling at his under lip. And then +quickly: "But wait--wait! We shall see!" And he ran into the other +room. + +There were always clothes there--for his poor. The rich people, the +friends of Monsieur and Mademoiselle Bliss were always sending him +their old things for distribution amongst his poor. Mademoiselle Bliss +had sent him a package that afternoon. He remembered that there was a +long cloak and a hat amongst the other things. Ah, yes; here they +were! He held them up to look at them in the light from the doorway of +the connecting rooms. They had strange notions about "old things," the +rich! These, for example--he turned them about in the light--were as +good as new. They bought clothes one day, the rich, wore them the +afternoon, and gave them to him the next morning--because overnight +there had been created a new style! Father Anton smiled at his little +conceit. But it was almost literally true. He had seen Myrna Bliss +wearing these very things only a few days ago--the same black velvet +cloak, and the same black velvet turban with the little white cockade. +At least, he supposed it was a cockade! Ah, well--he shrugged his +shoulders--his poor were the gainers! + +"Here, Marie-Louise!" he called out, returning into the front room. +"You may have these, child." + +"Oh!" she exclaimed, as she took them. Her eyes widened. "Oh--they +are pretty! But--but, Father Anton, where did you get them? They are +new." + +"No, not quite," he smiled; "but new enough, I think, to last you all +the winter. They were"--he stopped suddenly, in gentle tactfulness. +Marie-Louise knew Myrna Bliss--it might cause her diffidence if she +were aware that the cloak and hat had been mademoiselle's. "They were +sent to me by the rich people amongst many other things," he amended, +"to be distributed where"--he smiled again--"where I think they will do +most good. So now they are yours. Put them on, and we will go." + +"Oh, Father Anton!" she cried again, in wonder at the sudden luxury +that was hers--and slipped on the cloak; and ran to the cure's shaving +glass, which was the only semblance of a mirror in evidence, to set the +turban daintily upon her head. "Dear, dear Father Anton--how good you +are!" + +But Father Anton did not answer. He was brushing his threadbare black +overcoat--and making a very poor business of it. There was a great +lump in his throat that refused to go either up or down--and he brushed +continuously at one sleeve, because that was all he could see through +the sudden mist that had come before his eyes. And then, as he caught +her gazing at him, he put on the coat hurriedly. + +"Yes, yes," he said hastily. "But we are all ready, are we not--eh? +Come then, Marie-Louise, we will go." + +And presently they were on the street--and somehow to Father Anton the +crisp cold of the night was very grateful, preferable for once to the +soft warmth of his far-away South, since the hot flushes now kept +coming and burning in his cheeks, as he walked abstractedly along. And +they were silent for a little while, until a pressure of her fingers on +his arm aroused him, and he turned his head to look at her. Her +cheeks, too, he could see even in the murky light from the street +lamps, were flushed, and the dark eyes were very bright. + +"Couldn't--couldn't we hurry a little, Monsieur le Cure?" she suggested +timidly. + +"Hurry? Ah--you are cold!" he said contritely, and quickened his step. + +"No," she answered. "I--it is only that it might be over--that we +might be too late." + +The words brought an added twinge to the already sore and overburdened +soul of Father Anton. It was the heart of Marie-Louise that spoke, the +heart that had no room but only for Jean. Ah, yes; but did he not +understand that already! Had she not come across all France for Jean? +But that was not all! How ignorant of this great world-city, its life, +its customs, its fineness, its sordidness her words proclaimed her to +be--how dependent they proclaimed her to be! But did he not know that +too? How great indeed had been his own bewilderment, and confusion, +and dismay when he had first come to Paris a year ago--even he who was +accustomed to journeying, for had he not gone almost once a year from +Bernay-sur-Mer to Marseilles? How well he remembered it--but, tut, +tut--of what avail was that? This was a vastly different matter, a +very serious matter. Marie-Louise was a woman, so young, so beautiful, +and in her ignorance, in her ingenuousness which was so marked a trait +because she was so purely innocent, she--ah!--he found himself asking +the _bon Dieu_ to watch very carefully over Marie-Louise; and, very +earnestly, with sad misgivings, as a corollary to that prayer, to +forgive him if he were doing wrong in betraying the very innocence, the +trust and simple confidence for which he asked protection for her from +others. + +"Father Anton, will--will we be late?" she ventured, evidently alarmed +into the belief, since he had not replied, that so dire a misfortune +was even more than a possibility. + +And then he answered her very gravely. + +"No, Marie-Louise. You need have no fear. It will only have begun; +and even if it were midnight we should still be in time. Affairs like +this are for all the evening, you see. Indeed, before going there, now +that I come to think of it, perhaps we had better see about finding +lodgings for you first. I know several very estimable families in this +neighbourhood who would be glad to give you a room for a small sum, and +you would be quite close to me, and--" + +"But could we not do that afterwards?" she interposed quickly. + +"Why, yes, of course, afterwards--if we do not stay too long at the +reception," Father Anton acquiesced. "You would rather do that, +Marie-Louise?" + +"Yes!" she said--and the word came tensely--and she pulled impulsively +upon his arm. + +And so then they hurried along, and after a little time the streets +grew brighter, better lighted, and from streets became great +boulevards, and from an occasional passer-by they were in the midst of +many people where one must needs elbow one's way to get along; but +Marie-Louise, save in a subconscious way that brought no concrete sense +of meaning, saw none of this--she saw only Jean again, the sturdy, +rugged figure that seemed to stand so clearly outlined now before her, +so real, so actual, so living, as he had been that night when he had +borne Gaston up the path in his strong arms; and the roar of the +traffic upon the streets was as the roar of that mighty storm and the +thunder of the sea breaking so pitilessly, so unceasingly upon the +rocks. And Father Anton spoke to her, pointing to this and that as +they went along--but she did not hear the cure. She was listening only +to another voice. "In just a little minute I shall see Jean ... I +shall see Jean ... I shall see Jean," her soul said. "I shall see +Jean." + +And then she was standing before a great building, and the building was +ablaze with lights, and carriage after carriage, automobile after +automobile was drawing up before a strange sort of canopy where even +the street itself was laid with crimson carpet, and out of the +carriages and the cars poured a constant stream of wonderfully dressed, +fur-clad women and their escorts. And suddenly she drew back with a +start. What had she done? She had stepped upon the soft carpet and in +under the canopy--and a man bewilderingly covered with gold lace, who +could be no less than a Marshal of France, though he seemed so effusive +and polite as he opened the carriage doors to welcome each new arrival, +was fixing her sternly with his eyes. + +"Come, Marie-Louise," prompted Father Anton. + +She felt the blood leave her face, and she drew very close to Father +Anton, clinging tightly to his arm. How fast her breath came! There +was laughter, merriment around her; they pressed against her, they +touched her, these wonderfully dressed people. How soft the carpet +was! How one's feet sank into it! It was a sacrilege that she should +walk upon it! How that constant murmur of voices rose and fell, rose +and fell! What were they saying? It seemed that she should know! +What was it? Yes, yes! "Jean Laparde ... Jean Laparde ... Jean +Laparde." From in front, from behind her, on either side, on every +tongue was the name of Jean Laparde. And it thrilled her, and her soul +in a clarion echo caught up the refrain. "Jean Laparde ... Jean +Laparde ... Jean Laparde!" And it seemed as though a thousand emotions +surging upon her were welded together and massed and made into one, and +that one was comparable to none she had ever known before because it +was too great, and overpowering, and bewildering to understand. Only +now she could lift up her head, and the blood was rushing proudly to +her cheeks again. + +And now they were in a great marble vestibule, and Father Anton was +handing a card to an attendant, and speaking to the man. + +"But Monsieur le Cure has full _entree_--to the floor," the man replied. + +She did not catch Father Anton's answer--but the attendant was bowing +and speaking again. + +"But certainly, monsieur--as Monsieur le Cure desires. To the right, +monsieur." + +And then there were stairs, beautiful wide marble stairs, and the press +of people was left behind, for there seemed to be but few who climbed +the stairs; and then--and then--she was in a balcony, and below +her--ah, she could not see--it was all blurred before her--and there +seemed a great fear upon her, for her heart pounded so hard and so +fiercely. And then, strangely, as a mist rises from the sea, it began +to clear away, that blur from before her eyes, and myriad lights from a +massive chandelier, that was suspended from a great dome overhead, +played on the bare, flashing shoulders of women on the floor below her, +played on the jewels that adorned coiffures and necks, played on +glittering uniforms, on a scene magnificent and splendid--and focused, +as her eyes fixed and held, on that one outstanding figure, the figure +that was like to the figure of a demi-god, the only figure, the only +one that she saw now in all that vast assemblage, who stood erect, +strong and massive-shouldered, the black hair, a little longer now, +flung in careless abandon back from the broad, white forehead. It was +Jean! It was Jean! + +"Jean!" she whispered--and her hand stole into Father Anton's. "Jean!" + +And he was not changed--only that short, pointed beard, that seemed to +add a something, that made him more imposing. It was Jean, the same +Jean--only there was a grace, an ease, a command, a kingship in his +poise as he stood there, and--yes--yes--they came--one after the +other--the men, the women--and bowed before him. + +"Do you remember Monsieur and Mademoiselle Bliss?" Father Anton said +gently. "See--they are there beside Jean. And that tall man to whom +they are talking is a very famous statesman for one so young. His name +is Paul Valmain." + +They did not interest her. There was only Jean. And she could not +look long enough at him. There was music playing somewhere, softly, +very softly, scarcely audible above the sound of so many voices all +talking at once, voices that ascended in a subdued roar like the sound +of a shell that one held to one's ear. She tried to think, and she +could not. Afterwards she would think. Now she could only look. + +Father Anton touched her arm. Was it already time to go? No, no--not +yet! Not yet--for a little while! She had come so far, so long a way +just for this--to see Jean. + +"It is the President of the Republic coming, Marie-Louise--see! +Listen!" + +There was tumult about her. Those in the gallery around her were +clapping their hands, waving their handkerchiefs; and the music she had +heard playing so softly crashed suddenly into the strains of that song +of glory, immortal, undying, that was cradled in the very soul of +France itself--the Marseillaise. And as it fired the blood, that +melody, martial, stirring, that men had died for, ay, and women, too, +the outburst around her rose to hysterical heat, and thunders of +applause rolled and reverberated through the room that was bigger than +any room she had ever seen or dreamed of. And they were calling Jean's +name again--and the President, the great President was there with Jean. + +"Jean Laparde! Jean Laparde! _Vive_ Jean Laparde!" + +She could not see any more. Her eyes were blinded with tears now, and +they were proud tears, and they were glad tears, and they were +wondering tears that she could not comprehend herself. Jean's beacon! +Had the _bon Dieu_ permitted her to be that in a little way, given it +to her to have helped just a little, to have had just a little share in +bringing Jean to this great moment, this wonderful triumph? Jean's +beacon! How vividly that scene of the years ago came back, when she +had told Jean he did not belong to her--and reliving that scene, here +in the presence of its great fulfilment, she spoke aloud unconsciously. + +"It is true! He does not belong to me. He belongs to France!" + +And Father Anton, because he did not understand, because it seemed that +the disillusionment must have been so much more complete and so much +more cruel and hard to bear than he had feared it would be, and because +her renunciation was accepted so bravely, turned away his head and did +not answer. + +And Marie-Louise's fingers closed in a tense, involuntary pressure over +Father Anton's hand--and she spoke again. + +"He belongs to France!" + +And then, after another moment: + +"Take me--back now--Father Anton, please." + + + + +-- II -- + +26 RUE VANITAIRE + +Myrna Bliss tapped petulantly with the toe of her small shoe on the +floor of the limousine, glanced at the diamond-encircled bracelet watch +on her wrist, remarked more or less abstractedly that it was a minute +or so after five o'clock, and stared through the plate glass windows at +the backs of her liveried chauffeur and footman. The reception of the +night before had, so far as she was concerned, been marked by two +incidents, which, at the present moment, were very fully occupying her +thoughts. + +It had required all her tact and ingenuity to avert a declaration from +Paul Valmain, which would have been a disaster, because any declaration +was a disaster until that moment arrived when one reached the point +where one began to fear that horrible word "passee" and it became +necessary to accept the inevitable--and marry. A declaration, as any +one could see, whether it was accepted or refused, had its +consequences--one's proprietorship in a man became either restricted to +that one man alone, which in turn was very like locking one's self in a +cage and handing over the key; or it was lost altogether. And Paul +Valmain was almost as much run after by her set as Jean Laparde! +Fancy! Only thirty, a bachelor--and already the leader of his +political party! Yes, decidedly, besides being amazingly handsome and +amazingly brilliant, Paul was a figure in France! + +The man was passionately, madly in love with her; and so was +Jean--which went without saying! Imagine! The two lions of social +Paris! Nothing, not an affair, was complete without them--and she had +only to lift a finger as to two slaves! Therefore social Paris was +utterly and completely under her domination. She, literally, was +Paris. It was very plain! So long as she exercised a proprietorship +over both of them, Paris was at her feet. It was not a question of +choice between them--not at all. Jean was the lion, so much so that +she could even hold court with Jean alone; but with both, her position +was impregnable. The trouble was--her brows puckered into anxious +little furrows--that at the first opportunity Paul would renew the +attack. It was very nice to have Paris at one's feet, but it was quite +another matter to keep it there. Paul, of course, was the more +difficult of the two to keep in hand. Jean, because he had never +seemed to shake off entirely that diffidence toward her born of +Bernay-sur-Mer, she had so far been able to manage quite simply, +only--her eyes shifted from the chauffeur's back to the toe of her +shoe, and her foot ceased its petulant tapping on the floor--that was +the other incident of last night. + +It had happened just after the arrival of the President. Jean had +sought her out. She remembered the heightened colour in his cheeks, +the sort of nervous brilliance in his eyes. He had been drunk--drunk +with the wealth, the glamour, the power that was his; intoxicated with +the fame, the adulation, the triumph of the moment. He was a glutton +for that--for fame. There was very little else that mattered to Jean. +He was the supreme type of egoist. She could dissect Jean very coolly +and with precision, she thought. + +"The studio, to-morrow afternoon at five, Myrna--don't fail," he had +said--and had passed on. + +There had been a certain air of authority in his tones--to which she +had promptly taken exception, and to which, in an annoying and +persistent way, she still took exception. Furthermore, it conveyed a +possible, and alarming hint that his docility perhaps was wearing thin. +Well, that would never do at all! She was going, of course, to the +studio now---but she would take care of Jean! Five o'clock, he had +said. She would be a little late--as she intended to be. At half past +five she had asked Paul Valmain and a choice circle of the younger set +to drop in at 26 Rue Vanitaire, as a graceful little courtesy, so to +speak, to congratulate Jean on his triumph of the night before! The +grey eyes held a smile in which mockery and merriment were mingled. +One's defences should always be in order! + +The small shoe began to tap on the floor of the car again. What a +short time--what a long time those two years had been since sleepy, +anaesthetised Bernay-sur-Mer! Jean had attracted her then because he +had been a "new" sensation--and he had attracted her ever since because +he continued to be "the" sensation. But attraction and love were quite +different, were they not? Success after success, triumph after triumph +had been his. It had been astounding, stupefying, magnificent! At +first it had been the inner circle of devotees of art, such as those +who had gone to Bernay-sur-Mer, who had hailed him; then, in furious +and bewildering sequence, Paris, then France, then Europe--and, +equally, so her letters told her, he was the rage in America. None +made comparisons--there were no comparisons to make. The man towered, +stood alone, without rival, as the greatest sculptor of the age. And, +in a sense, he had not begun. Men like old Bidelot and her father said +that, stupendous as it already was, his genius had not yet attained its +full development; that, marvellous as was the power, force and realism +of his conceptions, the exquisite beauty of his execution, there still +remained an intangible something yet to be achieved. + +Myrna shrugged her pretty shoulders. + +"Ah, just that _tout petit chose_!" old Bidelot called it. "So +fleeting, so evanescent, so--so--" and he would wave his arms like a +grand opera conductor. "Soul," her father called it, in his turn. +"The boy hasn't lived enough yet. He'll get it, and then--well, +there's only one word to describe it--immortal!" + +Myrna made a wry grimace. What was the use of all that? What did they +want? And what rubbish! A man whose work was incomparable, that all +the world was going crazy over! And what, after all, did old Bidelot +and her father know about it, anyway? Old Bidelot, for example, +couldn't make a piece of clay resemble a doughnut, except for the hole, +if he tried for a thousand years. And as for her father--Myrna choked +a laugh. + +She glanced at her watch again--and then, quickly, out of the window. +It was ten minutes past five, and the car was slowing up in front of +the studio. In twenty minutes the others would be here--she had told +_them_ to be prompt. Some day, it was very possible, she might marry +Jean--but not yet. She was far too well contented with her life as it +was! She had managed Jean and his tentative outbursts--for his +docility, as she dubbed it, had not been mere tameness--with perfect +success for two years; and now, if, as she was somewhat inclined to +surmise, his actions of last evening presaged another, she was quite +capable of managing that--for twenty minutes. + +She alighted from the car, and, instructing her chauffeur that he need +not wait, ran up the steps of the sort of stoop that was over the +concierge's door and apartment beneath. Hector's red head and +doll's-blue eyes, for once, a little to her surprise, were not in +evidence on the arrival of a car. The front door, however, was not +locked. She pushed it open, entered the hallway, crossed to the door +of the salon, and knocked. There was no answer. There was, however, +nothing strange about that--Jean, probably, was in the studio proper, +the _atelier_ beyond. Well, she would surprise him! + +She opened the salon door softly, closed it softly, stepped into the +centre of the large, magnificently appointed room, whose decorations +and remodelling she and her father had planned; and, calmly unbuttoning +her long glove, stood looking around her. And then her fingers held +quite rigidly on a glove button. She had not seen him as she had +entered! Jean was rising from a divan behind her, near the door. Her +arm, still extended, the other hand still on the glove button, she +turned her head and shoulders like a statue on a pivot, to watch him in +amazement. Without a word, he had stepped swiftly to the door, locked +it--and now he was putting the key in his pocket. + +"Jean, what are you doing?" she exclaimed sharply. + +He laughed a little--in a low way. It was the first sound he had made. +She stared at him, a thrill upon her that she could not quite +define--it was not fear; it was more an uncomfortable disquiet, in +which surprise and bewilderment were dominant. But now, as he faced +her, she noticed that the same high colour was in his cheeks, the same +nervous brilliancy was in his eyes as had been there the night +before--and he was not even dressed, he who was so punctilious in the +late afternoons in that regard. It was as though he might have but +thrown aside his big sculptor's over-dress, for he was in loose white +shirt with flowing tie, and belted trousers. Usually she liked him +like that; it seemed to accentuate, bring out, unfetter the splendid +physique of the man; but now--she shrugged her shoulders with +well-affected composure. Myrna Bliss was too self-poised to be swept +from her feet by any situation. Jean was acting very strangely! What +was the matter with him? She stripped off her gloves coolly, and +tossed her outer wraps on a chair. + +"You have been working long hours to-day perhaps, Jean"--her voice +expressed cold disapproval--"you are not dressed yet." + +Jean's hand swept the great shocks of hair back from his forehead, and +again he laughed in the same low way. + +"I have not been working to-day. I have been waiting--for five +o'clock." + +What did he mean? She was genuinely disturbed now. Had he been +drinking--after the reception--through the night--and since? He was +certainly not himself! It was outrageous, if it were not in fun, that +he had locked the door! She walked across the room to the bell-cord +and pulled it. The bell rang clamorously in the concierge's apartment +below. + +"I will have Hector prepare some coffee, while you are upstairs +dressing, Jean," she said imperiously. "Now, go and dress. You are +behaving in a most peculiar manner." + +He made no answer--only stood there looking at her, his head thrown +back on his powerful shoulders, his eyes still abnormally bright, +though the flush was receding now from the strong, handsome face, that, +as it grew white, grew very set. Where was Hector? She pulled the +cord again. Again the bell jangled in the concierge's below. + +"Hector and Madame Mi-mi, his wife, are on a holiday--with five francs +apiece in their pockets--at the Bois, I think--to celebrate last +night"--he jerked out the words in a colourless, even way. + +She noticed that his lips twitched, that the knuckles of his hands were +white because his hands at his sides were so tightly clenched. He had +sent Hector and madame away--she was quite alone in the place with him. +What did it mean? Jean had never been like this before. But she was +at least quite mistress of herself! She drew herself up, walked back +across the room, picked up her gloves and wraps, and returned to the +door. + +"Open that door!" she commanded levelly. "What do you mean by acting +like this? How dare you act like this? Are you mad--have you lost +your senses? Do you realise what you are doing?" + +He laughed outright now--with sudden harshness, bitterly. + +"Mad?" he repeated in a choked voice. "Yes; I am mad! I have been mad +for two years--and I have been a fool. I am mad now--but I am no +longer a fool. I am going to know now--I am going to have an answer +now--this afternoon--before you leave this room. When are you going to +marry me?" + +"Marry you?"--she started back. + +"Don't do that!" he flung out passionately. "Don't _act_! It is no +surprise, that--eh? You know! Your soul knows! I love you--I have +loved you since that first time on the bridge, you remember, don't +you--that bridge--when your eyes turned my blood to fire? You knew it +then--you know it now!" + +Once she had told herself, once in those early days before familiarity, +intimacy perhaps, had blunted the eager edge of curiosity and interest +with which she had studied her new sensation much as one might study a +specimen under a microscope, that the man was a smouldering volcano, +the soul of him elemental and turbulent. It had grown dim and hazy, +that little mental note of classification--but she remembered it now. +It was true! Why had she ever lost sight of it? What would he do? +She was not afraid, only--only--he must not have the mastery, even for +a single instant. There had been eruptions before--little ones. She +had always controlled him--he was just like some great, big animal--one +must never let go the leash! And, besides, some day, probably, she +_would_ marry him! + +She laughed now in her turn--shortly. + +"And do you think, do you imagine, Monsieur Jean"--her voice rang +sharply through the room--"that you will attain your object any the +more readily by acting like this?" + +"Yes; I think so!"--Jean was stepping toward her, reaching out his arms +to grasp her. + +"_Jean_!"--she retreated backward, with a startled cry. The man's face +was positively livid, the eyes were burning into hers. + +"I love you!"--his voice was hoarse, shrill, out of control. "I love +you! My God, I love you! Do you think that you can own a man's soul +and not pay the price? You made me love you! In a thousand ways you +asked for my love--in a thousand ways you--" + +"Jean!" she cried at him again--half running now back across the room. + +"Yes, you did!" he shouted passionately, following her. "Yes, you +did--or you have been playing with me! But if you have been playing +with me, the playing is ended now, do you understand? It is ended! +And whether you have been playing or not, you have made me love you, +and you are mine--you belong to me--you shall be mine! That is how +much I love you! You are mine--_mine_! You shall tell that cursed +Paul Valmain to go about his business! Do you understand that, too? I +saw you last night!" + +She caught at the straw--as, flinging aside the portieres in her +retreat, she backed through the archway into the _atelier_. + +"Ah, it is that, then? It is Paul Valmain then, that is the cause of +this! Well, at least, Paul Valmain is incapable of such actions!" + +"There is much that Paul Valmain is incapable of!" he answered +furiously. "And one thing is that he, or any other man, shall ever +have you!" + +She glanced hurriedly over her shoulder. It was a large room, the +_atelier_, larger even than the salon, but she was almost across it +now, and the huge statue of Jean's "_Fille du Regiment_," his "Daughter +of the Regiment," his newest work, that was nearing completion, blocked +the way. + +"Jean," she burst out desperately, "what is it? What do you mean? +There is no need for this! There--there was no need to lock that door, +to send Hector away! Do you know what you are doing? Have you lost +your reason to treat me like this? Have you forgotten what--what you +owe to my father--that--that I am his daughter?" + +"Ah, you will twist and wriggle, and you will not answer, eh?"--the +words seemed to scorch and burn on his lips. "It is always like this! +You evade, you elude, you ask other questions. You know why I have +done this! I have told you. I owe your father nothing--nothing! Do +you hear--nothing! It is he who owes! Ask him! They are his own +words come true. Ask him what the name of Jean Laparde has done for +him! He is not merely a paltry millionaire to-day--he is a famous man! +The debt is paid a thousandfold--even to the money, franc for franc, +that he has spent. You know well enough why I have done this! It is +not like the days of Bernay-sur-Mer when the poor fisherman dared only +dream and smother the passion in him like some mean, crawling thing, +and thank the God who made him, and hold himself blessed for the crumbs +that were flung to him--a smile from those lips of yours--a finger +touch upon the sleeve, when it seemed all heaven and hell could not +keep my arms back from you! I have waited! I let you put me off +until--until the hour should come when no man or woman in the world +should put off Jean Laparde! Until--yes, _sacre nom de +misericorde_!--until I should be able to forget, forget, forget, do you +understand, _forget_ that I was once a poor fisherman when I looked at +you. Well, it has come, that hour! What tribute in all the history of +France was ever paid to man as was paid to me last night? _Sacre nom_, +it is no fisherman that speaks to you now! It is I--Jean Laparde, the +sculptor of France! I am rich! Kings, princes, the nobles, the world +comes to my door and begs--do you hear, _begs_ the entree! What more +do you ask? My God"--he was clutching at his cravat, loosening it from +his throat, as though it were choking him--"you shall no longer put off +my love!" + +She had halted--because she could retreat no further. The face of the +statue, a life-size figure of a girl in tattered uniform, the corsage +torn, the hair dishevelled, the form crouched a little as though +pressing forward in the face of mighty stress, the hands beating at a +drum that was slung from the shoulders, looked down upon her. And it +seemed to bring quick, instant, another weapon to her hand. That +_something_ in the face, those lips! It was in every piece of work he +had ever done. All talked of it, all saw it--and wondered. A strange +exhilaration was upon her. She was not afraid. In his passion, +passion like this, Jean was superb. To have aroused passion such as +this in a man was as to have drunk of wine! But to yield? +Never--until the day when she was quite ready to yield. To master him, +hold him, curb him--yes, a thousand times! His face was close to hers, +his breath was hot upon her cheeks, his hands were stretching out for +her again. She pushed him away violently. + +"You talk of love!" she flashed out. "What do you know of love? What +_kind_ of love could you have for me?" She swept her hand around, +pointing to the statue. "Who is this secret model that all Paris talks +about--that everybody has been talking about for months--that lives in +the face and always in the lips of everything you do? That though the +face of one statue is like the face of no other one, yet she is there! +You talk to me of love! At what strange hours does she come here, that +no one sees her? How does she come? Where do you keep her?" + +For an instant, Jean drew back, staring at her wildly--but only for an +instant. The next, he had caught her arm in an iron grip. + +"You are clever!" he whispered hoarsely. "You are too _damned_ clever! +You are at it again, eh--to sidetrack me? It has been like that for +two years now--always in some way, by some trick, you put me off! But +you will put me off no more. You can play no trick here. We are +alone, and I will not be tricked. It is not true what you say! There +is no model like that! It is a lie!" His voice swelled until it rang +out in a strong, vibrant note. "The model is here--here in my +heart--in my brain! That face and form is the face and form of France! +It is the womanhood of France, the glory of my country! No man before +has ever conceived it. It was for me--for me--Jean Laparde--to do! Do +you hear--it is the face and the womanhood of France! You do not +understand--you are not a Frenchwoman. And you do not understand +me--who am a Frenchman!" His voice dropped low again, hoarse in its +passion. "You have gone too far!" His grip on her arm tightened. +"You love me, or you have played with me--it is all the same! The two +years have made you mine! You _are_ mine--now--now! You would starve +my love, would you, you wonderful, beautiful, glorious woman!" + +He was drawing her closer and closer to him. Passion, loosened, freed, +rocking the man to the soul, was in eyes and face, in the half parted +lips, in the short, quick, panting breath. And for a moment, +fascinated, she was lifeless; then with all her strength she wrenched +and strove to free herself. + +"You would not _dare_!" she gasped. "You would not--" + +"Dare!"--the word was a wild, hollow laugh. "Dare! Does a man dare to +save his soul from torment? See--your lips! Your lips! Ah, God--your +lips!" + +She was his--_his_! She was in his arms, crushed to him! His--as his +mad desire had bade him crush her in his arms long since in that other +life in Bernay-sur-Mer; his--as he had dreamed of crushing her in his +arms, of crushing her ravishing form close to him in the dreams of the +days and nights, every day and night since then. It was all blind +madness, a delirium of ecstasy. How warm and hot those lips of hers +from which his soul was drinking! God, how she struggled! But her +lips--her lips were his--his to rain his kisses of passionate thirst +upon--and upon her face, and upon her eyes, and upon her hair. If only +she would not struggle so, that he might smother his face, bury it in +the intoxicating fragrance of that hair! + +She beat at him with her fists. He could not hold her still. She was +strong, strong as some young lioness. They were swaying around the +room, now this way, new that--and now through the portieres into the +salon. She made no cry--how could she cry?--he strangled the cries +unborn upon her lips with his kisses! Ah, he had her now--she was +passive at last--her head was bent far back in his arms. Yes, +now--now! To feel the life, the heart throb, the pulse of that lithe +form against his own--to hold his lips to hers in a kiss long as all +eternity--to-- + +And then in a numbed, blank way he was standing back and staring at +her. Footsteps, laughter, voices were coming from the street outside, +coming up the steps--and, where it had seemed that her strength was +gone, in a paroxysm of terror, of desperation, she had torn herself +away from him. And now--yes--her face was as white as death itself. +What made it like that? What had happened? He passed his hand dazedly +across his eyes. + +"Quick! That door!" she breathed frantically. "They must not find it +_locked_!" She snatched up her outer wraps, slipped them on, and, with +a most marvellous display of composure, assumed a languid attitude in a +chair. Outwardly, Myrna Bliss was quite calm and undisturbed again. +"Quick! The door--_quick_!" she whispered. + +The door! Some one was coming! Yes, of course! His brain was +reeling, stupefied. The door! He fumbled in his pocket for the key, +and in a mechanical way turned it in the lock. And then they were +trooping into the salon, a dozen of them, men and women. + +"Wasn't it a charming idea!" some one exclaimed in effusive greeting. +"But the credit is all Myrna's, of course. We've come, you know, to--" + +Jean did not hear any more. With a start, he raised his head and +glanced down the room. Myrna's idea--this! A little twisted smile of +understanding came to Jean's lips. Self-possessed, animated, she was +already the centre of a group where everybody was talking at once. + +And then Paul Valmain's pale, aristocratic, esthetic face came before +him. The man was bowing, murmuring polite conventionalities; only +somehow the man's eyes, instead of meeting his, seemed to be set with +peculiar fixedness upon some object. Automatically, Jean followed +their direction with his own--to his own hand hanging at his side. + +The door key was still clasped in his fingers! + + + + +-- III -- + +IN THE DEAD OF THE NIGHT + +The temptation was very great. But what would Father Anton say? What +would Madame Garneau, with whom she lodged, _think_? To go out at this +time of night! It was very late. It was long after midnight, because +it was very long ago when she had heard some distant church clock +strike twelve--and since then it had struck many times, the quarters, +the half hours, only she had lost count. + +Marie-Louise drew her cloak a little more closely around her, as she +leaned on the casement of her open window--and then remained quite +still and motionless again. + +Irrelevantly it seemed, her thoughts turned on Hector, the concierge. +How very blue Hector's eyes were, and how very red his hair, and +altogether how very droll a figure he made with his absurd +self-importance; and how fat his wife was, whom he so ridiculously +called Mi-mi! And then that conversation between the concierge and his +wife in Jean's salon early that morning, at which she had been present, +began to run through her mind. + +"_Tiens_!" Hector had said to his wife. "But will she not make the +thrifty wife for some lucky fellow, our little Louise Bern, here--eh? +She is already waiting an hour in the mornings to be let in. An hour, +mind you, _ma belle_ Mi-mi--and we who think we rise so early! It is a +lesson that! Would you have her standing out in the cold? Why not a +key that she may come in and do her work?" + +"But Monsieur Jean," madame had objected mildly, "might be angry if he +knew." + +"Monsieur Jean," Hector had replied fatuously, and folding his arms +with an air, "is very well content to leave such matters to me. I do +not pester Monsieur Jean with details. On the night after the +reception, even in the exceedingly bad humour in which I found him, +when I told him that I had thought the matter over, and that the work +was too hard, and that you were wasting away--you see, _ma_ Mi-mi, how +I lie for you--and that I had decided--'decided' was the word I +used--that I must have some one in the mornings to help with the work, +did he not say: 'But assuredly, Hector, assuredly; whatever you think +is right. I depend upon you, _mon ami_.' And does that not show that +we understand each other, Monsieur Jean and I--eh?" + +"It was Father Anton, not you, whose idea it was," madame had corrected +with conscientious earnestness. "It was Father Anton, that evening +after we had returned from the Bois and before you had seen Monsieur +Jean, who suggested it, and spoke of Louise here. And that was not +what Monsieur Jean said, for I was listening outside the door. He said +you were a red-headed buffoon, and to go to the devil and not bother +him." + +"And what then?" Hector, though slightly disconcerted, had rejoined +with acerbity. "Your tongue is forever clacking! Do I ever recount an +event but that you must put in your word? But that is not the point. +It is Father Anton who says Louise is an honest girl and to be +trusted--and that is enough!" + +It was not so irrelevant after all. She was twisting the key in her +fingers now. The key to Jean's house in the Rue Vanitaire. How still +the night was! It seemed so strange that in so great a city where +there were such multitudes of people it could be so still. It was +almost as still as that other night when she had sat at her window in +Bernay-sur-Mer, that night when the _bon Dieu_ had made her see that +for Jean's sake their ways lay so very wide apart. She was glad, very +glad that the _bon Dieu_ had helped her then to put nothing in Jean's +way, because Jean had done so very much more even than any one had +dreamed of. + +But it was so strange, so strange! To hear everybody talking about +Jean--on the streets--little snatches of conversation--even here +amongst the very poor--even Madame Garneau, who that afternoon had +stopped in the scrubbing of the floor, and, waving the scrubbing brush +excitedly to point the words, must needs tell her, Marie-Louise, all +about the great Laparde! How proud they all were of Jean, because Jean +had brought such honour upon their beloved France! But it was so +strange, so strange--that they did not know--that they did not know +that, oh, for so many, many years it had been just Jean and +Marie-Louise, and glad, glad days, with the blue sky above, and the +strong arms upon the oars--and--and that she loved Jean, that all her +life she had loved him, that all her life until she should come to die +she would love Jean. It was strange that all these people did not +know, because it seemed that she knew nothing else, because it seemed +to be the only thing in all the world. But it was good that they did +not know, because otherwise she could not even be here as she was, she +could not even be Louise Bern for a little while, and be near Jean, and +see the work that she loved because it was Jean's work, and +because--and because those marvellous figures that he fashioned seemed +somehow now to mean everything that there was in life for her, as +though her own life were wrapped up In them, given in exchange for +them, as though indeed she were a very part of them, and they were of +her blood and flesh. + +She pressed her hands very tightly together over the key, and then +opened them and let the key lay in her palm to look at it in the +moonlight. She had seen so little in the studio, so very little! In +the three mornings she had been there, there had always been Madame +Mi-mi to fuss around her, to instruct her in her work, or, failing that +as an excuse--to gossip. And if it were not madame, then it was +Hector--and often it was both. And she had so wanted to be alone +there--it was not very much to ask, that--just to be alone there for a +little time with Jean's things around her, to be very quiet, to be +alone. + +Why should she not go now? It was not a sin that she would commit. It +was only that if Father Anton knew, or Madame Garneau knew they would +not understand--but they would never know. No one would ever know. +Jean would be upstairs asleep; and Hector and his wife would be +downstairs in bed. That statue, that wonderful statue of the girl with +the drum, would be more wonderful than ever with the bright moonlight +pouring in upon it through that great glass roof of the _atelier_. She +had seen so little of it, because when she was there it was always +wrapped up in damp cloths; she had seen it only when that absurd Hector +had exhibited it to her with a patronising air as though he had +modelled it himself, making use of a flood of technical expressions of +which she did not understand a word, and of whose meaning she was quite +sure he was equally ignorant, but having heard the words around the +studio repeated them like a parrot. She had seen so little of it, when +her soul cried out to see so much. It haunted her, that statue--why, +she did not know. It was before her always--in her dreams, which were +always dreams of the salon and the _atelier_, the figure with the drum +always stood out above everything else, even though everything else, +even though the very smallest things and details there were so dear and +intimate too. Was it a sin to go and stand and look, when her heart +was so full of the longing that it would not be denied? Who was there +to say, "you went to Jean's studio at two o'clock in the morning," +when, in the quiet and the stillness there, there would be only +herself, and that great figure with the drum, and the _bon Dieu_, who +made Jean do such wondrous things, to know? + +She turned from the window and tiptoed across the little room, and took +the little black velvet turban with its white cockade, that Father +Anton had given her, down from where it hung upon a nail on the wall, +and fastened her cloak tightly about her for fear that it might brush +against something and make a noise, and stole then to the door, and out +into the hallway, and to the front door of the tenement. Yes, she +would go--but no one must know--only herself, and that great figure +with the drum, and--and the _bon Dieu_, who would understand. + +And so she went out into the night, and across the city, and to the Rue +Vanitaire, and to Jean's studio; and all the way her heart was beating +quickly, and she was a little frightened, and avoided the people that +she met, for no one must know--and even at the last, when the goal was +reached, and she stood before the house and saw that it was dark in all +the windows, and she had only to enter, there came even then a little +added thrill of fear. The street, she had thought, was deserted, and +suddenly, as she stood there, it--it seemed as though some one hiding +across the street had stepped out of concealment, and as suddenly had +disappeared again. She caught her breath, and stood for a long tense +moment gazing in that direction. And then at last she smiled a little +tremulously. It--it was only a shadow. Yes, she was quite sure now +that it was only a shadow--she could see the flickering of the street +lamp on the wall of the building, where she had thought she had seen +something else. It was very foolish of her to be like this. She had +never been afraid in Bernay-sur-Mer--only everything here was so +strange--and it was very late--and--and she was going into Jean's +studio--and no one must know. And then she mounted the steps very +cautiously, and unlocked the door and closed it softly--and in another +moment, slipping across the hall, past the foot of the stairs that led +to Jean's sleeping apartments above, she had entered the salon and shut +the door behind her. + +It was quite dark here, too dark almost to distinguish anything--the +only light was a tiny, truant moonbeam that strayed in from the +_atelier_ between the portieres of the archway. It was in there--the +great figure with the drum! But she would not go there for a moment +yet. It was here, too, that Jean was present in everything about her. +It was here that his friends, those that he cared for now, the people +of the _grand monde_ came to see Jean. She could not see the things +around her, but they were very clearly pictured in her mind--the +beautiful rugs, so soft and silky to the touch, that hung from the +walls; the queer, spindly furniture, that did not seem made for use at +all, that she had been afraid to touch at first for fear it would +break, it looked so fragile; the dark, glossy floor, like a mirror, +that she had polished only that morning; the--her thoughts were +suddenly, disturbingly, flying off at a tangent. + +That morning! It brought a quick twinge of pain to Marie-Louise's +heart. The salon had been--had been--oh, she did not know how to +describe it--only Madame Mi-mi had said it was often like that, that +Jean led the gay life, and why not, since he had the _sous_ to pay and +was rich? There had been broken glasses, and confusion, and callous +ruin of things that were priceless, and cards strewn over the +floor--and--and somehow she had not been able to keep her eyes from +being wet all the time she had been cleaning up the room. It--it made +her heart very heavy, and very sorrowful. And yet, too, in a way, she +could understand--because she understood Jean. Long, long ago she had +been afraid--afraid of his success for him, even while she had prayed +for it. If Jean had only a mother, only some one whose love would hold +him back. If he were married--if he had a wife--it would change all +this sort of life that he led now. Yes; if he were married! She could +think of that quite calmly, in a perfectly impersonal way. Why should +she not? Some day Jean would marry--marry some one out of this new +world in which she had no part, which to her was so very strange and +foreign and hard to understand; but which to Jean was so natural, and +which, henceforth, could be the only life he would know. Yes; she +could think of his marrying quite calmly. And why not? She had no +longer part in that--she had passed out of Jean's life long ago, that +day in Bernay-sur-Mer. Perhaps it would be Mademoiselle Bliss--Hector +had hinted at it and winked prodigiously. She found her hand clenching +very hard at her side. It seemed very, very strange, and it was very, +very curious that, while she could think quite calmly of Jean marrying +some one because it would be very good for Jean to marry, a pang came +and her heart rebelled when the "some one," instead of being vague and +general and indefinite, became a particular "some one" that was very +definite and was not vague at all! + +Marie-Louise sighed a little. She did not understand. Everything was +so hard to understand. She sighed again--and then, walking slowly +across the room, she parted the portieres and stepped into the +_atelier_. + +Here, for an instant, she stood hesitant, just inside the archway, +looking about her. How bright the moonlight was, and how it poured in +and bathed everything in its soft luminous glow, except that, +strangely, there seemed to be a shadow on the white-wrapt statue of the +girl that puzzled her for a moment--ah, yes, it was the door of the +dressing-room, the room where Hector said the models prepared for their +poses, that was wide open and kept the moonlight from the statue. She +moved forward, closed the door quietly, and went then and uncovered the +clay figure and stood before it. She could look her fill now--yet it +seemed that she could never do that, for her craving and her longing +were insatiable. All other things in this life of Jean's, in this life +of hers that she was living for a little while, filled her with dismay +and confusion; but this, this work of Jean's, this figure before her +was real, it seemed somehow to bring her closer to her own world, to +those things she could understand. She did not know why--only that it +was so, and that it was perhaps because of that the girl with the drum +had been haunting her so constantly. + +She sat down at last on the little platform that served Jean to stand +upon for his work. It thrilled her, made her pulse leap, this strong, +magnificent figure of womanhood, this torn and tattered soldier-girl; +and one sensed and felt and lived, it seemed, the battle-wrack around +the figure; one saw, it seemed, the stern, set-faced, shot-thinned +ranks that followed to the beating of the drum; one listened to catch +the tramp of feet, the hoarse cheers, the roar of guns. It seemed to +be the call of France, the call to victory and glory, or to death +perhaps, but to dishonour never; it seemed to breathe the love of +country that was beyond all thought of self, fearful of no odds; it +seemed to mean that in the heart of France itself lived the courage +that had never measured sacrifice; it seemed as though those clay lips +parted, and above the din of conflict, of battle and of strife she +could hear the voice ring out in deathless words: "Forward--for France!" + +But it was not only that alone that held her enthralled. It was the +face, with the moonlight full upon it now. It was beautiful, it was +glorious--but there was something more. There was something in the +face that seemed to stir a memory, a world of memories within her. +There was something familiar in the face--there seemed to be something +there that she recognised and yet could not define. She had seen that +face all her life--all her life. It belonged to every one that she had +ever known in Bernay-sur-Mer--and yet it belonged to no one at all that +she could name. But then--it was not finished yet. Perhaps when it +was finished she would know. It would be finished now in a few days +more, Hector had said; and he had said, too, that it would be the +greatest work Jean had ever done. + +If she could only watch it until it was finished! If she could only do +that--afterwards she would go away. It was only for a little while +that she had come to Paris--only for a little while. If she could do +that! If she could come to-morrow night, and the nights after that +until it was all finished, just as she had come to-night! Yes, +yes--_yes_! Yes, she would come! She would watch it grow, and watch +so eagerly and so tensely the face that was so well-known yet so +elusive now! + +"_La Fille du Regiment_!" Her hands cupping her chin, she sat there as +motionless, as silent as the statue itself; sat there absorbed, +unconscious of the passing time. It was strange the face should be +familiar! It was strange that there, too, had been something familiar +in the face of that figure in the park that Father Anton had taken her +to see, in the face of every other figure that the cure had pointed out +to her as Jean's work! She had gone back to look at them alone; but +they, although they were finished, had not answered her question, had +not told her who they were. But this one, this one was _almost_ +telling her now--there was only to come a touch, just a touch from +Jean's hand--that would perhaps be there when she came to-morrow +night--and then she would know. + +And so she sat there, and the hours passed, and the moonlight faded, +and the grey of dawn crept into the room--and Marie-Louise roused +herself with a start. And at first dismay was upon her. It was +morning--too late to go home! And then she shook her head, and smiled +happily--happily, because she had spent glad and happy hours, and there +was no need to be dismayed. Presently, she would go about her work--to +which she had come early, that was all. And at her lodging, Madame +Garneau would find the bed made because it was always made before she +left there in the morning, before Madame Garneau was up. + + + + +-- IV -- + +THE ACCUSATION + +There was a sullen, angry set to Jean's lips, a scowl on his face that +gathered his forehead into heavy furrows, as, at his accustomed morning +hour, a little after nine, he entered the _atelier_. He had not slept +well the night before--nor for the nights before that--not since that +afternoon here with Myrna. How could one sleep with things in the mess +they were--to say nothing of the night before last when he had not +tried to sleep, and had held high revel with a few choice spirits in a +sort of dare-devil challenge to the premonition that promised him a +reckoning for those few moments in which he had sought to quench the +passion that raged in his soul, that set his brain afire! + +He crossed the room, mechanically donned his sculptor's blouse, or +over-dress, threw off the wrappings from the "Fille du Regiment," +picked up a modelling tool, stepped upon the platform--and stared into +the face that looked back at him from the high-flung, splendid head of +clay. He snarled suddenly, clenching his fist. They prated to him of +secret models! Bah! It was too much for them! They could not +understand--it was beyond them--that was all! It was there, all of it, +the courage, the resolution, the purity, the strength, the virility of +the womanhood of France--all--all--it was all there--and they thought +it wonderful, incomparable--only they prated of a secret model--_nom de +Dieu_--when it was themselves, when it was France that was the +model--and they had not grasped the apotheosis of their separate +individualities in the sublime glory of the composite whole! Ha, +ha--perhaps it was because they were modest! + +He smiled with intolerant contempt. They prated of a secret model, +they applauded, they cheered, they showered him with wealth, with fame, +the world knew the name of Jean Laparde--and, because they were unable +to comprehend, they asked for something more, something that, no doubt, +should label his work like raised letters for the blind--and then +perhaps it would be only to find that they had still to acquire the +alphabet! Bah--it was sickening, that! But it was also maddening! +There was old Bidelot, who came each day to the studio. Bidelot was a +fool--a senile old fool, who sat and wept weak tears because the statue +was so beautiful; and wept weaker tears because, like a spoilt child, +he cried for something that he wanted without knowing what it was! + +"You talk--you rant--you whimper--you bemoan!" he had flared out +angrily at Bidelot yesterday afternoon. "Well, what is it? Do you +find it a pitiful affair, then, my '_Fille du Regiment_'?" + +"Ah, Jean! Ah, no! Ah, no!" old Bidelot had cried. "It is not that! +It is exquisite, it is magnificent, it is superb, it transcends +anything the world has ever seen. It is so great that if only there +were a little something, ah, _mon_ Jean, a little something, it would +be the work of a god and not a man!" + +"And that something? What is it?" he had demanded. + +And old Bidelot had wrung his hands, and the tears had coursed down his +cheeks. + +"I do not know! I do not know!" the famous critic had answered almost +hysterically. "If I knew I would tell you. It is but a touch--but a +touch." + +Old Bidelot was emotional--an ass! Old Bidelot was fast approaching +his dotage! Jean shrugged his shoulders wrathfully. It was not true, +of course! It lacked nothing, that face--and yet--and yet that sort of +thing disquieted him, irritated him. It was a masterpiece--and its +only fault was that it had not been made by a god! _Ciel_! Was there +ever anything more absurd than that! Well, in any event, it was to +bring him one hundred and twenty-five thousand francs; and his next +commission, which was for the Government of France, would be for double +that amount. Old Bidelot and his "touch"! For France, when this was +finished, he would do that dream statue, if--_damn_ that dream statue! + +Jean snarled again. What was the matter with him! The cursed thing +was always in his mind; but never would it come and appear before him, +lifelike and actual, that bronze figure of the woman, as once it had +done. Instead, it seemed to have faded more and more completely away, +until it was as invisible as the base of the statue which he had never +been able to see at all, and yet at which the passers-by in his dreams +had gazed with the same rapt attention as at the woman's figure--it had +faded until the whole existed simply as an indistinct blur upon the +memory. If he could visualise that figure again, get the detail, he +could supply a base of some sort that would go with it; that would come +simply enough once he got to work. _Would_ it! He had thought until +his brain was sick, for hours on end, trying to imagine a fitting +subject, big enough, splendid enough to harmonise with what he +remembered was the majestic beauty of the woman's figure--and the hours +had only made the task seem the more beyond him, his each succeeding +imaginary design the more inadequate and pitiful. + +It made him angry now, increased and inflamed his already irritable and +savage mood. Why had he started in to think of that! Why, in heaven's +name, should he think of everything that morning that he did not want +to think of! Why, when nothing else would come, should the cold, +enigmatical face of Paul Valmain staring at that confounded key, come +so readily before him, and--he hurled his modelling tool suddenly, +savagely, into the far corner of the room; and, stepping down from the +platform, pulled viciously at the bell. He was yanking his blouse off +over his head, as Hector appeared. + +"Get my car, Hector!" he snapped tersely. "I am going out." + +Hector's blue eyes widened in amazement. The car in the morning--the +morning that was sacred to work! + +"The car, m'sieu?" he repeated, as though he had not heard aright. + +"Yes, imbecile--the car!" Jean snapped again. + +"But, m'sieu!" It was unheard of! It had never occurred before! "But +is m'sieu not going to work this morning, and--" + +"The _car_!" + +"But, yes, m'sieu--instantly--instantly, m'sieu!" Hector stammered--and +retreated hastily from the room. + +Jean followed him--spent a few impatient moments kicking at the +sidewalk while he waited; and then, at the wheel of his big, powerful +machine, went tearing up the street. Work! It was worse than useless +in the vile humour he was in. The car had been an inspiration; he +would go nowhere in particular, but he would drive--fast. That was +what he wanted, some excitement, some exhilaration. He would go out +into the country, anywhere, with the whole day before him, and--no! He +would go first to Myrna's house! Why not! He scowled heavily again. +It was getting beyond endurance, that sort of thing! There had been +three, no, four days of it now! The decision quite fitted in with his +mood--whatever might be the result. Yes, _nom d'un nom_, he would go +there--and at once! + +It was but a short way; and, at the expiration of a few minutes, Jean +stopped his car in front of the magnificent residence that Henry Bliss +maintained in a style that was almost regal, jumped out, and ran up the +steps. + +"Mademoiselle Bliss," he said to the liveried automaton that answered +his summons. + +"Mademoiselle Bliss is out, Monsieur Laparde," replied the man. + +"Very well, then--Monsieur Bliss," returned Jean, a little grimly. + +"Monsieur Bliss is not at home, Monsieur Laparde," replied the man. + +Jean bit his lip. That Henry Bliss might still be away, since he had +gone to London some days before, was probably true; but that Myrna was +out at ten o'clock in the morning--the man, under instructions, was +lying, of course! He stood hesitant, his rage increasing, half +inclined to reach out and twist the neck of this bedecked +functionary--and then, with a short laugh, he swung on his heel, went +down the steps again, and climbed back into the car. + +The car shot forward in a savage bound. She was probably watching him +from behind the curtain of a window! His hands clenched fiercely on +the steering wheel--and he flung the throttle wide. It was enough! +This had lasted long enough! It was her idea of punishment, perhaps! +"Mademoiselle Bliss is out, Monsieur Laparde"--he mimicked the +colourless-voiced flunky viciously. To telephones, personal calls--the +same answer; to notes--no answer at all. Well, she would answer--and +soon! He would take care of that, and--he jammed the brakes +frantically on the machine, as a figure, barely escaping disaster as +the result of his reckless driving, jumped wildly away from in front of +the car; while a voice shouted in sharp protest: + +"Hey, there--where are you going!" + +"To the devil!" snarled Jean--and chuckled the next instant with sudden +malicious delight, as he recognised the other. It was Father Anton--on +his way to the Bliss residence, probably. + +"You are travelling fast, my son!"--grave and quiet, the note of +protest gone, Father Anton's voice came back from the curb--and then +the old priest was blotted from sight, and the car was speeding down +the boulevard again. + +Hah! Father Anton! Father Anton--the grandmother! Father Anton, who +had thought on arriving in Paris to lecture him, Jean Laparde, on how +he should live, and sermonise on the pleasures of the flesh, and the +dangers of power and wealth and position, and to haunt the studio with +a sanctimoniously grieved expression everlastingly on his face! Ha, +ha! Father Anton! Father Anton was the man who once had preached so +fatuously on the nothingness of fame! Well, Father Anton, if he were +not blind, could--again Jean checked the car violently, this time in +response to a harsh, strident, authoritative command. + +And then a gendarme was running alongside, gesticulating furiously--but +the next moment the man was touching his cap. + +"Ah, it is Monsieur Laparde! _Pardon, mille pardons_, Monsieur +Laparde!" The man's voice dropped to a low tone, as he leaned in over +the side of the car. "But if monsieur will be good enough to have a +care. It will get us into trouble if we do not do our duty, and +monsieur would not like that to happen. Ah, monsieur"--at Jean's +five-franc piece. "Ah--" + +The car was off again. But now Jean laughed aloud. Fame! Who was +there that did not know Jean Laparde--from the President of France to +the gamin of the gutters! It began to salve a little his irritation, +his ugly mood. To the devil with Father Anton--as he had just now had +the pleasure of intimating to him. There was little that was empty in +the fame that was his. Wealth had been poured upon him; there was +nothing, nothing that was beyond his reach, nothing that he could +desire and be obliged to refuse himself; and, yes--_'cre nom_, one +could say it for it was true--throughout all France he was worshipped +as though he were a demigod. He had only to enter a cafe anywhere, and +in a moment from the tables around he would catch the whispers: "Look! +There is Jean Laparde, the great sculptor!" And position--what man in +all of France, or in Europe, occupied a position comparable to his! +None! There was none! He would change places with no one! He owed +allegiance to none; he received it from all. He received the cheers, +the acclaim of the populace; the decorations of governments and +royalty! And none could take this from him. It was his! And there +were to be years of it--all the years he lived. He was young yet. +Years of it! He was Jean Laparde, Jean Laparde, Jean Laparde--the man +whose name sent a magic thrill even to his own soul. God, how he loved +it all with a passion and a desire and an insatiability that was rooted +in his very breath of life! + +The car was speeding now out through the suburbs of the great +city--on--on--on! His thoughts were bringing him exhilaration in +abundant measure; something in the sense of freedom, in the swift +motion, brought him elated excitement. His blood was whipping +buoyantly through his veins. There would be a day of this--to go +somewhere, anywhere--without plan, or predetermination, this road or +that, it mattered not at all--a day of it--prompted no longer by the +sullen, disgruntled mood that had caused him to set out, but by a more +potent and saner spirit of almost boyish vagabondage that bade him keep +on. + +Myrna! He smiled now. He was a fool to have spoilt the last few days +for himself just because he had not seen her! Let her have her way for +a while, if it pleased her! No doubt she was trying to discipline him! +It was delightful, that! Discipline Jean Laparde! It was he who would +play the role of disciplinarian before he was through--not she! He +loved her, wanted her--and, by Heaven, he was Jean Laparde! And what +Jean Laparde wanted was his! She belonged to him, and his she would +be, and no other man's! Paul Valmain, eh? Next time he would deal +with Paul Valmain, and not with Myrna. The poor fool--who ranted and +raved and screamed like a cockatoo on the floor of the Chamber of +Deputies, and dreamed that it was impassioned eloquence! It would be +well for Paul Valmain to take another road than that of Jean Laparde! +The poor fool--that did not know the power of Jean Laparde! He held +Paul Valmain, as he held every other man in France, between his thumb +and forefinger--to pinch, if he saw fit. A whisper in the ear of this +one and that, and Paul Valmain was as dead politically as though he had +never been born. + +And now Jean threw back his head and laughed boisterously. All that +was no exaggeration; it was literally true. He even held Myrna in +exactly the same position. He could break her socially--as readily as +he could break a twig from a tree! It was even ludicrous, it was so +simple. Imagine Myrna in such a state! Imagine what would happen if +he let it be known that Jean Laparde would attend no function at which +Mademoiselle Bliss was a guest! It was too funny, too droll! And she +had dreams perhaps of disciplining Jean Laparde! + +His face flushed a little. She was his! He had felt those warm, rich +lips against his own! He would feel them there again a thousand +times--ay, and soon again! He would not wait this time--as he had +waited, fool that he had been, before! But for a day or so, if it +pleased her to ride upon a high horse, let her go fast and +furious--afterwards, that was quite another matter. Afterwards, those +lips would be his again, that glorious, pulsing body would be in his +arms again--and in the meantime--here was a great level stretch of road +before him--and the day was before him--and the to-morrow could take +care of itself! + +And so Jean rode far that day; and lunched at a quaint little village +near the Belgian frontier; and quite lost himself; and dined in a +farmhouse; and finally, set upon the road again, reached Paris after +midnight, where he alighted in front of his club. He was in a "humour" +now, as he put it himself. A little supper and a hand at cards would +complete, round out a day of rare delight. He was even humming an air +to himself, as he entered the club. + +"_Pardon_, Monsieur Laparde!"--the doorman was bowing respectfully. +"Monsieur Valmain is in one of the private writing rooms--the one at +the head of the stairs, monsieur." + +Jean stopped his humming, and stared at the man. + +"Well--and what of that?" he demanded. + +"But, monsieur!" murmured the man, a little abashed. "Monsieur expects +to meet Monsieur Valmain, does he not? Monsieur Valmain left word." + +Jean scowled, and passed on. Paul Valmain! Paul Valmain! Paul +Valmain! What devil of perversity had seen fit to drag Paul Valmain +upon the scene? Was his day to be ruined by a bad taste in his mouth? +What did the man want? + +He went upstairs, knocked upon the door indicated, and, without waiting +for an answer, opened it rather brusquely, stepped inside--and, with an +exclamation of angry surprise, gazed at the man who seemed literally to +have rushed across the room to confront him. Paul Valmain's face was +positively livid, the eyes burned as though consumed with fever, the +hands shook, and the tall form quivered in the most astonishing +fashion. Was the man mad? + +"Ah, Monsieur Jean Laparde!" the other cried out. "You have come at +last! You saw fit to absent yourself to-day! I have been five times +to the studio! But you thought it better to answer my message finally, +eh? You did well! I should have gone again in an hour to dig you out!" + +Jean eyed the other for a moment, contempt struggling with bewilderment +for the mastery at the man's actions and incoherent outburst. + +"You have perhaps been drinking," he said coldly. "I received no +message until I entered the club here an instant ago. And I am not to +be 'dug out,' Monsieur Valmain! You are using strange language. If +you are drunk, apologise; otherwise--" + +"Otherwise!"--the word came like a devil's laugh from Paul Valmain; and +before Jean could move, or, taken by surprise, guard himself, the flat +of Paul Valmain's hand had swung in a stinging blow across Jean's +mouth. "You--_hound_!" + +The blood came surging into Jean's face, and with a bound he had the +other by the shoulders--and then, somehow, he found himself +laughing--not merrily--laughing in a sort of contemptuous rage. He +could take Paul Valmain with his own great strength and do with him +what he pleased. But that was not the way a blow such as he had +received was to be answered! And, anyway, what was the matter with the +man? He must have lost his senses! + +"You--hound!"--Paul Valmain was repeating hoarsely, his lips twitching +in his passion. "I watched last night outside your studio. I watched, +and oh, God!--I saw her enter." + +Jean's hands dropped from the man's shoulders in blank amazement. Yes, +certainly, the man was either drunk or mad! Certainly, he was not +responsible for what he was saying. + +"There was no one who entered my studio last night," he said almost +pityingly. + +"You liar!"--Paul Valmain was like a man beside himself, demented. +"You liar--you liar--you liar! I saw her! I know now who this secret +model is whose divine form you desecrate, you black-souled libertine! +I saw her go in at two o'clock in the morning--_and at daylight she had +not come out again_." + +Jean shrugged his shoulders intolerantly. The man was quite out of his +head from some cause or other, but that was no reason why he should be +called upon to endure the other's irresponsible ranting. + +"You poor fool!" he exclaimed irritably. "So you know who it is, do +you? And what then? If it brings you such poignant, personal grief, +why did you let her go in? Why did you not tell her that--" + +"It was too late"--white to the lips, Paul Valmain raised his clenched +fists--"it was too late--after months of it! I could save her only one +thing--the knowledge that I knew her shame. I was across the street--I +saw her--God pity me--I loved her--the black cloak and hat she wore +only a few days before when we were together! I have lived in hell and +torment and fear that it might be so since that afternoon--that +afternoon--did you think I did not see the key in your hand, and--" + +"What do you mean?"--there was a sudden blackness curiously streaked +with red before Jean's eyes; the blood was sweeping in a mad tide +upward in his face to pound like trip-hammers at his temples--the man's +words could bear only one interpretation, a hideous one, that outraged +his soul, and roused a seething fury within him. "What do you mean?" +he said again between his teeth. + +"I mean," Paul Valmain answered, "I mean--damn you, you know what I +mean! I mean that from two o'clock in the morning until daylight Myrna +Bliss was in your rooms, and--" + +"You devil from hell!" Jean shouted--and leaped at the other's throat. +If the man struggled he did not realise it. The man was only an +impotent, powerless thing in his grasp--and he flung him away, flung +him crashing to the floor. "I will kill you for that!" he whispered. +"To-night--you can find a friend downstairs to act for you--I another." + +Paul Valmain staggered to his feet. + +"I have waited all day for the same purpose!" The devil's laugh was on +the grey lips again. + +"It is _a l'outrance_, Monsieur Valmain--you understand!"--Jean choked +in his fury. "_A l'outrance_!" + +"As you shall see!" + +"And the studio--if it suits you! We shall not be disturbed. There is +room there, and you will find it as pleasant a place as any in which to +die!" + +"Where you will!" retorted Paul Valmain. "Where you will--so there is +no delay!" + + + + +-- V -- + +THE SECRET MODEL + +Marie-Louise glanced quickly up at the house. Yes; it was all dark! +There was no light in Hector's apartments below; nor in the salon; nor +in Jean's rooms above. She had scarcely dared to look, for fear that +she had come too soon, that Hector perhaps was still up, that Jean +perhaps might be with some of his friends in the salon. But it was all +dark. She was quite breathless, for she had run nearly all the way +from Madame Garneau's in her eagerness; but that did not matter at all +now, for she was not to be disappointed, since, after all, she had not +come too soon. It was much earlier than it had been last night, when +she had come for the first time to be all alone there in the studio in +the moonlight, where the hours had passed so swiftly and been all too +short; but it had seemed that the day would never end, that night would +never come again, and the evening had dragged so cruelly as she had sat +by her window--and so when that church clock from somewhere in the +distance had struck midnight she could wait no longer, for perhaps +to-night Jean would have finished the face, and perhaps to-night it +would not all be so vague and trouble her so because it seemed that in +some strange way it was so familiar, though she could not tell why. + +She took the key from the pocket of her dress, and stole softly up the +steps. How glad she was now that she had not waited any longer! She +would have so much more time there in the _atelier_ with the wonderful +figures that Jean made, that were not clay at all, but that breathed +and lived, and to whom she could talk about Jean, and about his great +triumph, and tell them all that was in her heart, and they would listen +to her and understand as no one else could, and never tell any one that +she had been there. And she would not be afraid of them at all any +more, not even at first, as she had been last night because they looked +so ghostlike in the white cloths that were wrapped around them. + +She looked hurriedly about her, then opened the door, stepped inside, +and crossed noiselessly into the salon. She could not quite still the +pounding of her heart, because it was night, and because it was dark, +and because she was doing something that no one must know; but she was +not at all afraid now. Since last night she had been so sure that +there was nothing to fear. Hector and Madame Mi-mi had thought it the +most natural thing to find her working there that morning when they had +got up. Was it not for that she had been given the key? And to-morrow +morning again when daylight came it would be the same; and now--she was +hurrying through the salon to the _atelier_--and now she was to see +that splendid, glorious figure, the "_Fille du Regiment_," again, and +see the face that perhaps, oh, perhaps to-night, after Jean's work of +the day upon it, would be finished, and that she would recognise. + +She slipped between the portieres into the moonlit room, and--she could +not wait even to take off her cloak and turban--tiptoed eagerly, +excitedly across the _atelier_, mounted upon the modelling platform, +and threw back the white damp cloth, revealing the figure's head. And +then, for a moment, she could only gaze at it, puzzled and bewildered; +and then, very slowly and regretfully, she sat down upon the platform. +The face had not been touched. It--it was exactly as it had been last +night. Somehow, Jean had not done any work that day--or else, perhaps, +he had worked on some of the other figures. + +She sat staring at the face of the clay figure in a disappointment that +was almost dismay--and then suddenly she smiled. After all, it was she +herself who was the cause of her disappointment; she had wanted to see +that face with its finished touch so much that, in her eagerness, she +had quite made herself believe that she would find it so--whereas it +might be days and days yet before Jean would have completed it. And +instead of being disappointed, she should be very happy that the _bon +Dieu_ had made it possible for her to come here at all, to be so close +to Jean, and to be able to spend these hours here with his work--and +even if it were days and days before it was finished, could she not +still come here every night until it was done, and could she not still +be able to see it then? + +As she looked around her, the white-wrapt figures seemed to nod to her +and promise her that it would be so. How quiet and still it was, and +how peacefully the moonlight filled the _atelier_--Jean's _atelier_. +It was so different a scene from that magnificent reception where +France in all its glory had honoured Jean; where the marble stairs, the +lights, the throngs, the glittering uniforms, the marvellously dressed +women with their furs and jewels had awed and frightened her, and yet +had filled her, too, with ecstasy because it was Jean's triumph, and +had brought thankfulness into her resignation because she had seen with +her own eyes how great he had become and how little had been her own +sacrifice to achieve so much. Yes, it was strange how different was +that scene and this around her now--and yet they were both so intimate +a part of Jean's life. And they were so very different to her in a +personal way. She did not want to see that world of the rich and the +great any more, because she could not understand it, and no one there +could understand her; but here--she was so glad and happy to be +here--here she could understand, and here these figures understood her +when she spoke to them because they knew that she had given all she had +to give, not out of her own strength but out of the strength that the +_bon Dieu_ had given her, that they might be created by Jean's hands. +Here, Jean was so near to her; there, in that other world, he was so +far away--so far away that she had gone utterly out of his life, even +out of his thoughts. + +She sighed a little as she sat there on the modelling platform; and +then there came again that little smile of self-reproof, and with it a +chiding shake of her head. It was well that it was so. There was no +other way. It would have brought only distress and pain to Jean if he +were always to remember, and--and it was far better so. The gulf +between them was so wide and deep that it could never be passed, and if +she were still living in Jean's heart it could only make life a very +terrible thing for them both. And so--and so--yes, she should be very +thankful for that, too; be very thankful for both their sakes that he +had so entirely forgotten her. + +The white-wrapt figures seemed to nod most gravely in assent again--it +was only a tree branch in the courtyard frolicking with a moonbeam and +sending a little playful shadow over them that seemed to make them +move, but that was how they always talked to her, and made their +understanding seem so real. + +She sat quite still for a little while, gazing at the face of the +"_Fille du Regiment_" before her; and then, clapping her hands softly +together and with an impulsive little exclamation of delight she stood +up excitedly. Perhaps Jean had been working upon the statue, even if +he had not touched the face. And, anyway, there was more to see than +just the face--the figure itself was just as wonderful, just as +beautiful. Quickly, but very carefully, she loosened and removed the +covering from the body and base of the figure, let the covering fall +upon the floor--and, stepping back to look at it, stood suddenly +transfixed, her hands pressed tightly against her bosom, her face white +with fear. + +Some one was coming! She strained her eyes across the _atelier_, +holding them for an instant, fascinated, upon the portieres. No, no; +surely she had been mistaken! It could have been only fancy, and--a +low cry came from her lips. The front door had closed; there were +footsteps in the hall, a number of them it seemed; and--and that was +Jean's voice! + +"The salon, messieurs, if you please!" + +They were coming! They were entering the salon! What could she do? +She could not get away or escape! There was no way to get out! They +were already in the salon! She looked wildly, helplessly around +her--and then, with a little gasp that mingled relief and trepidation, +her eyes fixed on the door of the models' dressing room. She began to +steal toward it, holding her breath. How terribly her heart pounded! +She could not go very fast, because then she would make a noise and +they would hear her. And that was Jean's voice again, this time from +the salon itself, from just on the other side of the portieres, it +seemed. + +"The _atelier_ will serve us better than this polished floor, +messieurs." + +Oh, if she could only reach the dressing room in time! How hoarse +Jean's voice seemed to be! She was nearly there now--nearly there! If +only the _bon Dieu_ would help her! It was only a step more--just one! +Now--now she was there! She slipped into the little place that was +hardly any bigger than a large closet, and drew the door shut behind +her, as the portieres were swished apart and the rings on the pole +clattered with a terrifying noise. And then she found that she was +very weak, and that her knees were trembling as though they would give +way beneath her. + +It was very dark. She dared not move for fear she might knock into +something and make a noise. She told herself that she must stand very +still. She could hear them out in the _atelier_ now in a muffled sort +of a way; they were walking around and around, and it sounded as though +they were moving things about. And then she seemed to go cold with +fear again, and a sense of dismay surged upon her. The "_Fille du +Regiment_" was uncovered! She had had no time, even if she had thought +of it, to replace the covering. What would Jean do? Would he think it +was an accident, that the wrapping had been carelessly done, would he +blame Hector, or--would he think some one had been there, that some one +was perhaps there now, and--and suppose he should come to the dressing +room door, and open it, and--and find her there! + +She was frightened now, terribly afraid--more afraid than she had ever +been in her life before. If Jean should find her there, what would he +think of her? The blood rushed in a fierce crimson tide to her face. +She would rather die than that! But it was not only herself, it was +not only that--there was Jean. She had no right to obtrude herself +into his life and to disturb it. But surely--surely the _bon Dieu_ +would keep him away from the door! She had been very foolish and very +wicked ever to have come, ever to have risked so much, only the +temptation had been so great, and her heart had pleaded so hard; +but--but if only no harm should come of it all this time, she would +promise that--that she would not come there any more like this at night. + +Perhaps he had not seen it! Perhaps he had not noticed it! And yet it +was not just moonlight out there any more, and the _atelier_ was +lighted now, for she could see the tiny rays as they filtered in under +the door where it did not fit well over the threshold. She listened +intently, almost expecting to hear Jean cry out about the covering of +the "_Fille du Regiment_," but they still seemed to be moving around a +great deal, and the voices were indistinguishable, and she could +understand nothing of what they were saying, except only a name that +she caught because it was repeated several times--the name of Paul +Valmain. It seemed somehow to be familiar. Yes; she remembered. He +was one of Jean's friends of the _grand monde_, the man that Father +Anton had pointed out beside Monsieur and Mademoiselle Bliss in that +group with Jean on the night of the great reception. + +It seemed as though hours were passing as she stood there. It seemed +to grow unbearably hot in that small, dark place; it seemed even that +it was hard to breathe. Perhaps it was her fear that was suffocating +her! She unfastened the black velvet cloak and let it hang more +loosely, wide apart, upon her shoulders--and held her hand agitatedly +upon her bare throat, that was now exposed by the low-necked blouse. +Would they never go! And what were they doing there? It was very +strange! They seemed to keep on tramping and even running around, and +there was no sound of voices now--only a most peculiar sound that made +her think of Papa Fregeau when he stood in the kitchen of the Bas Rhone +and sharpened his carving knife on his long bone-handled steel. + +Then all grew suddenly quiet--and the quiet was as suddenly broken by a +voice, loud enough and distinct enough for her to hear. + +"It is nothing! But a touch, monsieur--continue!" + +Marie-Louise's eyes widened, and slowly her form grew rigid and tense, +and her hand at her throat slipped away and caught at the neck of her +blouse, and in a spasmodic clutch tore it wider apart. That voice--she +did not know whose it was--but there was no mistaking the cold, sullen +fury in it. And the tramping of feet had begun again--and that sound +again, the rasp of steel, was hideous now, bringing her a sickening +dread. + +It was as though for a moment she were too stunned to move. They were +fighting out there in Jean's _atelier_--with--with swords. And +perhaps--perhaps it was Jean who was fighting. And if--if he should +be--no, no!--she dare not even let the thought take form in her mind. +But she must see--somehow, she must see! How dark it was, and how +those sounds brought terror now! She could not stand there and--and +think; she must see that at least it was not Jean, or else--or else she +would scream out in her agony of suspense. + +She groped out with her hand for the door. She could open it very +silently, just a little way--they would be too occupied to notice it. +Her hand trembled as it fell upon the knob. She pushed the door open a +crack, an inch. There seemed to burst in upon her, in upon the +contrasting utter darkness, a blinding light that dazzled her so that +she could see nothing; and to burst in upon her a horrible riot of +noise--heavy, panting gasps for breath, the quick shuffle of feet upon +the floor, the grating, the ring, the metallic grinding of rapier +blades. + +In terror, she pushed the door open another inch--and held it rigidly, +as, suddenly, her heart seemed to stop its beat. There came a gurgling +moan--then--then an instant's deathlike silence--and then, with a wild +cry, she flung the door wide open, and, as it crashed back against the +wall, she stumbled out into the _atelier_. + +She could see now, but it was as though it were not herself at all who +looked around the room, for her brain seemed suddenly to be acting in +an impersonal, numbed, apathetic way. She could see everything very +clearly, but it was as though some one else, not she, were seeing it. +She stretched out her arms before her like one who was blind to feel +her way, and started across the _atelier_. She should have run, she +should have run so fast, so fast, something within her told her she +should run, but her limbs seemed scarcely able to support her +weight--she could only stumble across the _atelier_ with her arms +stretched out. That was not Jean who stood in the centre of the room +holding a rapier in his hand, it was Paul Valmain. And the man who +stood beside Paul Valmain was not Jean. And there were two other men, +but neither of them was Jean. But they held a silent, grey-faced, +unconscious form in their arms that they were lowering to the +floor--and that was Jean. And they looked at her as she came, looked +at her in so strange and startled a way; and Paul Valmain took a step +toward her, and cried out, and drew suddenly back--and then--and then +she was on her knees, and Jean's head was gathered into her arms, and +he was so white, so terribly white, and he made no sound--and--and-- + +"Jean! Jean!"--she was crying his name passionately, piteously, crying +it over and over again. "Jean! Jean!" + +And he made no answer--only lay there white and still. And then some +one took her arm and tried to draw her away--and some one spoke to her. + +"Mademoiselle must permit me," the voice said gravely. "I am the +doctor." + +They took Jean from her, and the man who had said he was the doctor +bent over Jean--and, still on her knees, she watched them. Why should +they take him from her--now? It could do no one any harm now that she +should have Jean, when Jean did not know, when perhaps--she lifted her +head quickly, lifted it far back until the white throat and bosom lay +bare; until the pure, glorious face, with its wonderful contour, its +divinely beautiful lips, tense with outraged grief, looked full into +another face that was thrust suddenly before her. It was Paul Valmain +who had done this, and he dared to come and stand over her now, and +hold in his hand the--why did she not scream out---the blade was red! + +"Look! Look!"--his face ashen, Paul Valmain was pointing to the +unwrapped figure of the "_Fille du Regiment_." "The face--the lips!" +he whispered hoarsely. "The lips--it is you who are his model! It was +you--last night! That hat! That cloak! My God!" he cried out, and +the rapier, falling from his hand, clattered upon the floor. "My God, +what have I done!" + + + + +-- VI -- + +"JEAN MUST NOT KNOW" + +Jean's model! Even in that moment, when it seemed that all else was +extraneous, that nothing mattered save that white face, that still form +on the floor, the thought brought a strange, troubled amazement--but it +was gone almost instantly, as her mind, still refusing to centre on +anything but the one great fear that perhaps Jean might die, carried +her swiftly back to what was passing around her. She looked again at +the doctor as he knelt on the floor and worked with deft fingers over +Jean, and something in those grey hairs, in that kindly face, even if +it were so grave now, gave her a little courage--surely, surely he +would not let Jean die; she looked at the man who, too, was kneeling +beside Jean--but he meant nothing to her, she could only wonder why he +was there; she looked at Paul Valmain--and shuddered. It was Paul +Valmain who had done this, who perhaps had killed Jean--and he was +still staring at her in such a fixed, horrible, fascinated way. She +rose quickly to her feet, clenching her hands. + +And then the doctor, raising his head suddenly, was speaking in quiet +tones: + +"I need hardly say that if Monsieur Laparde recovers, we are in honour +pledged to secrecy, messieurs. Monsieur Vinailles and I will carry +Monsieur Laparde upstairs to his bed, so that clatter-tongued concierge +and his wife will know nothing of this--and to-morrow, if they are told +that Monsieur Laparde has met with an accident it will be enough. +Monsieur Vinailles and I will attend to everything here; and I would +suggest, Monsieur Valmain, that you and Monsieur LeFair withdraw at +once. I will send you a report in half an hour." + +Paul Valmain shook his head. + +"No," he said, in a low, shaken voice. "LeFair will go--I remain +here." He pointed suddenly to Marie-Louise. "I must speak to +her--alone. Go, LeFair--wait for me at my rooms." + +Marie-Louise drew hurriedly back. + +"No, no!" she exclaimed sharply. The man filled her with abhorrence; +and now, besides, he was trying to keep her away from Jean--and +nothing, nothing in all the world would make her leave Jean's side now. + +But no one seemed to be paying any attention to her--not even Paul +Valmain any more, who had turned away, and, whispering as he went, was +walking rapidly into the salon with the man they had called LeFair. +The doctor had slipped his wrist through the handle of his black bag to +leave his hands free, and he and the other man were lifting Jean up in +their arms--and then, numbly, as they carried him from the room, she +followed. + +She saw nothing now only Jean's face, so ghastly in pallor, with its +closed eyes, and with the black hair tumbling over his forehead. It +brought a greater fear upon her; but she kept telling herself that she +must be brave, for perhaps they would let her help them when they got +upstairs, perhaps there would be something that she could do. + +They went on through the salon, and out into the hall, and began to +mount the stairs--and then some one, hurrying from the direction of the +front door, caught her arm. + +"Wait, mademoiselle, wait!" a voice said hoarsely. "Wait--I must speak +to you!" + +It was Paul Valmain again. She pushed him violently away from her, +and, without looking back at him, went on after the others. + +On the landing at the head of the stairs, they halted for a moment to +open a door, and then for the first time the doctor appeared to notice +that she had been following. + +"_Pardon_, mademoiselle," he said a little brusquely. "If mademoiselle +will be good enough to wait below!" + +They were trying to keep her from Jean again. Every one tried to keep +her from Jean. She clenched her hands passionately. But now--now they +should not keep her away any longer. + +"No!" she cried out fiercely. "You shall not send me away! I will not +go--I will not!" + +He stared at her for an instant, then shrugged his shoulders. + +"Very well, mademoiselle. It is perhaps your privilege. I have not +time to question it. But since you remain, perhaps you will be good +enough to help us." + +"Yes!" she said eagerly. "Oh, yes! Tell me what to do." + +"Water!" he said tersely. "A basin--cloths!" + +With a quick nod of understanding, she ran ahead of them through the +door, and hurried on down the hall. She had never been there in Jean's +apartment before, but Madame Mi-mi had not been loath to tell her all +about it--and so it was not strange to her, and there was something to +do now and that seemed to relieve the dull pain that had been torturing +her brain, and she could remember again every little detail that Madame +Mi-mi had described. The sitting-room, the dressing-room, the bedroom, +the dining-room, and from the dining-room into the kitchen--it was a +complete menage, though Jean used it so little, save to sleep there, +and for his _dejeuners_ which Madame Mi-mi prepared. She procured the +basin, filled it, and hurried back with it--going through the rooms +this time instead of the corridor--to where in the bedroom they had +placed Jean upon the bed. And then there were the cloths--a sheet +would serve best for bandages, and that was kept in the linen closet, +where too there were clean towels, Madame Mi-mi had said. She could +think very clearly now, and she could be much more brave because there +was something to do. She flew to the closet, tore a sheet into strips, +gathered up some towels, and returned with them again to the bedroom. + +The doctor glanced at her approvingly. + +"Thank you, mademoiselle," he said, in a much more kindly tone. "That +will be all for the present." + +But if they were more kindly, his words, they were too a sort of +dismissal. She did not know what to do for a moment; and then she went +slowly to the foot of the bed and knelt down--she would be out of their +way there, and ready in an instant if the doctor called again. She +would have given so much to help him in the intimate way this Monsieur +Vinailles was helping, to hold Jean, to touch Jean, but--but they +seemed so occupied, both of them, and--and she must not interfere. She +could only watch, while the agony of suspense crept upon her again; +watch the grey-haired man, in his shirt sleeves now, working so +quickly, so silently--and then suddenly she turned away her head, and +her heart sank with dread. It was so terrible a wound that she had +caught sight of in Jean's side, as the doctor straightened up for an +instant! It--it did not seem that any one could live with--with that. +And Jean lay so still, so motionless, and in his unconsciousness seemed +so much like--like dead. She shivered a little, and fought back the +tears, and tried resolutely to think of something else--of anything--of +how beautifully Madame Mi-mi had told her Jean's rooms here were +furnished. + +She forced herself to look around her. Yes, yes, it was as Madame +Mi-mi had said--the carpet seemed to shine as though it were of silk; +and the bed was very large and made of brass, which was something she +had never seen before; and in all the rooms, as she had passed through +them, she had been conscious that everything was very magnificent, just +as the salon downstairs was very magnificent. And here on that big, +carved dresser were wonderful candlesticks like those Father Anton used +to have at the altar in Bernay-sur-Mer, only these were perhaps real +silver, just as Father Anton had said that some day, when the parish +grew very rich, theirs would be instead of only looking like it, +and--she turned quickly back again toward the bed. Monsieur Vinailles +and the doctor were speaking. + +"But what would you have!" Monsieur Vinailles was exclaiming in a low +voice. "I know no more than you what it was about--and neither does +LeFair. We tried to bring about an understanding, LeFair and I, before +we called for you, or at least get them to consent to a delay in which +their tempers might cool; but neither Valmain nor Jean would listen to +us. Not a word! If LeFair and I would not act for them, they would +get some one else. _Voila tout_! What would you have!" + +"H'm!" returned the doctor gruffly. "Well, then, Vinailles, as I shall +not need you any more for the moment, I think you had better go and +tell Monsieur Bliss what has happened." + +"_Sacre_--no!" ejaculated Vinailles. "I prefer some one else should do +that! And besides, I do not think that he has returned to Paris yet." + +"Then Mademoiselle Bliss," insisted the doctor quietly. "It is all +one! They are Jean's family, as it were, are they not--eh? And then +is not Mademoiselle Bliss as good as his fiancee? Well? I consider +that she, or Monsieur Bliss, or both of them, should know." + +"You mean," said Vinailles, in a startled tone, "that Jean is--" + +"I mean nothing!" answered the doctor bluntly. "He is a long time +unconscious, and he is not responding well to stimulants, that is all. +On the other hand, you need not unnecessarily alarm any one; if I get +him through the next hour or so, and no septic complications set in +later on, we'll have him on his feet in a few days. If you take Jean's +car you should be back in fifteen or twenty minutes. Go at once, +Vinailles." + +"Very well," Vinailles agreed a little reluctantly--and left the room. + +What did the doctor mean? Marie-Louise crept timidly around to the +opposite side of the bed where she could watch his face, and where she +could see Jean's face too. What did the doctor mean? If--if +everything went right, Jean would be well in a few days, but--but he +was in danger now. She questioned the grave face piteously with her +eyes--but received no response. The doctor was bending over Jean, and +did not look up. + +The minutes passed, ten, fifteen perhaps, as she knelt there--and then +it seemed that she could not endure it any longer, and that all her +self-restraint was at an end. + +"Jean!" she whispered--and because they were stronger than she, and +because she could keep them back no longer, the tears came in a flood, +and she reached out and caught Jean's hand that was outstretched on the +bed, and held it between both her own, and buried her face between her +own two arms. + +She felt the doctor's hand laid gently on her shoulder. + +"Do not give way, mademoiselle," he said soothingly. "Courage! We +shall win, I promise you." + +She grew quieter after a little while--and again she tried to think. +They had sent for Mademoiselle Bliss, and very soon mademoiselle would +be here. It was the mademoiselle who had spoken to her so sharply that +day because she had not put on her shoes and stockings.... Hector had +said that Mademoiselle Bliss and Jean were to marry ... and--and that +was what the doctor had just said to Monsieur Vinailles ... and--and so +it was true. And what then? What--if Mademoiselle Bliss found her +here? She would do Mademoiselle Bliss no harm to stay here! Her hands +closed tighter over the one in her grasp. How cold Jean's hand was! +What would she do--what would she do? She did not want to go, it +seemed so hard to go, and it was so little to ask, so little out of all +her life, just to stay there and kneel beside Jean and hold his hand, +and--she raised her head, quickly, suddenly. The hand in hers twitched +a little, there came a half moan, half gasp, and then Jean's voice, +mumbling, wandering, reached her. + +"Gaston, see, we are back! Put your arms around my neck, _mon brave_, +and I will lift you up, and--" The words grew thick upon his tongue, +lost their coherence, and died away. And then he began to speak again, +and Marie-Louise leaned closer to catch the words. "See, it is a +beacon--and it is for you, Marie-Louise, because it is you ... _sacre +nom_, why do you say that? ... I can make a thousand ... has it not +those lips that I could fashion even in the dark ... a thousand, I tell +you ... how--not another, when--" + +"_Tiens_!" exclaimed the doctor briskly. "That is good! He is +regaining consciousness now, and--heh!--but what is the matter, +mademoiselle?" + +With a startled little cry, Marie-Louise was on her feet. She was +vaguely conscious that, while they seemed to call up all her life, all +the old life of Bernay-sur-Mer, her life and Jean's when they had been +together, Jean's words too held some strange relation to something that +had just happened here that night, some strange, puzzling, bewildering +significance--and that then all this seemed swept away from her on the +instant before a still greater significance in the doctor's words. +What had the doctor said--that Jean was returning to consciousness! It +brought joy and gladness and hope surging over her; but it brought too +something cruel and hard and cold, as though a sentence had been +pronounced upon her. She must go now, whether she wanted to or not. +Jean must not see her. It was not Mademoiselle Bliss she had to +consider now--it was Jean. He must not see her--he must not even know +that she had been there. He must not, he must not see her--he must not +know! And then a sort of panic fear seized her, and she ran around the +bed to the doctor's side. + +"Monsieur, monsieur, I must go!" she cried agitatedly. "And he must +not know--he must not know that I--that--that any one has been here. +Monsieur, will--will you promise that?" + +"But, mademoiselle!"--he looked at her in amazement. "But, +mademoiselle, I--" + +She caught his hands wildly, and dropped upon her knees. + +"See, monsieur, see, I beg it of you!" she pleaded almost hysterically. +"It is not much to ask--that you will not tell. Promise me, monsieur, +promise me! Why should he know, why should any one know? I have done +no harm! And it--it is for his sake that I ask it. Monsieur, +monsieur, you will promise!" + +"I see no reason now why I should say anything," he answered gravely; +"but if I promise it must be with a reservation. I will promise you, +mademoiselle, that unless circumstances leave me no choice I will say +nothing." Then, quickly, as he leaned toward the bed: "But if he is +not to see you, you must go at once!" + +"Yes!" she breathed. "Yes! You are good, monsieur--you are very, very +good. And--and Monsieur Vinailles, and Mademoiselle Bliss, if Monsieur +Vinailles should have told her--you will not let them tell Jean any one +was here?" + +"I will speak to them," he said quietly. "But go then, mademoiselle, +immediately!" + +"And--and, monsieur"--her voice breaking--"Jean will not--not die?" + +"No, mademoiselle, he will not die, I think I can promise that now +without any reservation," he replied with a smile. "But, _ma foi_, if +he is not to know--eh!" + +She stole a half frightened, half wistful glance toward the bed--then +ran from the room and out into the hall. + +"He must not know! He must not know!"--she kept saying that to +herself; repeating it again and again, as she went slowly down the +stairs. It seemed as though those were the words that summed up her +life, that she had been saying them in her soul ever since the day +those strangers had come to Bernay-sur-Mer. "Jean must not know!" + +She halted suddenly on the lower step, and her face whitened a little. +Paul Valmain was standing in the doorway of the salon. He was still +here then, this Paul Valmain, the man who--who had tried to kill Jean! + +"Mademoiselle!" he cried out. "See, I am still waiting! I must speak +to you--here--in the salon--in the _atelier_ for a moment!" + +It seemed that she must run from him, that she abhorred him--and +yet--and yet--"Jean must not know!" She must get Paul Valmain to +promise too--Paul Valmain, and that other man who had been with him. + +"Mademoiselle!" he said again. "I--" + +"Yes," she said--and stepped past him through the salon door. + + + + +-- VII -- + +MEA CULPA + +The man frightened her. He had caught her arm the moment she had +entered the salon, and had hurried her roughly across the room and into +the _atelier_; and, besides, his face was ghastly it was so colourless, +and it kept twitching, and his eyes burned with such an unnatural light. + +"My arm, monsieur!" she cried out. "You are hurting me!" + +He laughed at her in a hollow way, and only tightened his hold, as he +pulled her in front of the clay figure of the "_Fille du Regiment_." + +"Stand so!" he burst out. "With your head--so! As you were when you +came from that dressing room! So--so!"--he pushed her chin up, and +grasped her by the shoulders. + +"Monsieur!" she cried out again, and struggled to free herself. +"Monsieur, what are you doing?" + +"Wait, I tell you!" he almost shouted. + +Frightened before, she was terrified now, and besides she hated the man +with all her strength, and her soul shrank from him because it was he +who had so nearly killed Jean; but she had come to plead with him, she +must not forget that, only--only he was acting so strangely. And then +suddenly, startling her, she remembered that it was he who had said she +was Jean's model. That was why he was staring so wildly first at her +and then at the face of the girl with the drum, and back at her again, +and then at the clay figure. + +"It is so!" he said hoarsely. "It is so! But wait--wait!" His hands +dropped from her shoulders, and he ran from one figure to another about +the studio, pausing before each one to gaze at it fixedly and intently. +"The lips--always the lips--always your lips--the wonderful, +inscrutable lips that all France is forever raving about!"--the words +came in sharp, broken snatches. "Never the face in its entirety, but +always the lips--and always with the lips some additional feature, the +forehead, or the poise, or the eyes--always you!" + +At first she followed the man with her eyes in a sort of incredulous, +fearsome wonder; and then slowly, seemingly without volition of her +own, drawn to it as by a magnet, she turned to face and stare at the +figure of the "_Fille du Regiment_." Was it true, could it be true +that it was she, her lips that Jean had made there in those lips of +clay? Was that what that strange sense of familiarity had meant, and +which she had not understood? No, no--Jean had forgotten, forgotten +long ago! It was not true, it was not possible! And yet--and yet they +_were_ her lips--her eyes would not lie to her. And this then was what +had seemed to give a significance, that she could not explain at the +time, to those words of Jean's of a little while ago. This man Paul +Valmain had said she was Jean's model before she went upstairs, and +then Jean had talked about the beacon. "It is a beacon--and it is for +you, Marie-Louise, because it is you ... has it not those lips that I +could fashion even in the dark?" he had said. She had not been able to +connect the two things then; but now--now she knew. Jean's model--all +through those two years she had been Jean's model! And yet how could +it be possible! The very thought seemed to leave her abashed--it--it +seemed as though she were committing a sacrilege to let herself imagine +that she, who was only Marie-Louise Bernier, a fishergirl of +Bernay-sur-Mer, was the model for Jean's beautiful work that made all +the great people of France so proud to call him one of themselves! It +was not strange that she had failed to understand what that sense of +familiarity in the clay faces had meant--she would never, never have +dared to think of such a thing by herself--and it would have been so +far away, that thought, that of itself it would never have come. Why +was she suddenly so weak now, as though a wondrous joy, so great that +it overwhelmed her, was surging upon her--and why was that cold fear, +that seemed to tell the joy that it was trespassing where it had no +place, stirring within her? What did this thing mean for her--that +those lips of clay were hers! It brought so much, so many different +emotions, and each of them was so overpowering in itself, and they all +came crowding so upon her at once, that it seemed she must cry out in +her cruel bewilderment. + +And then Paul Valmain was standing before her again. + +"So!"--he flung out his arms. "So--it is out at last, the secret! He +has kept you well under cover, mademoiselle!" + +The words came to her with a shock, rousing her from her thoughts. He +did not understand. He must not think that Jean knew; because that was +why she was there now--to tell him that Jean must not know. + +"No!" she said quickly. "No, no, monsieur! And, oh, monsieur, you +must not let--let Jean know that I was here to-night. It--it is some +mistake about--about the model, monsieur. He has not seen me since he +has been in Paris, and--" + +"What!" he broke in harshly. "You deny that you have been coming here?" + +"Only last night, monsieur," she said eagerly. "Only last night for +the first time." + +"It is well that you admit at least that!" he jeered, in a sort of +furious irony. "I congratulate you, mademoiselle! My profound +respects! In a single visit then you have accomplished wonders, even +with so beautiful a face and figure! You have made Jean Laparde famous +all over the world; and you have made me perhaps--a murderer!" + +She stared at him wide-eyed. What did he mean? + +"But, monsieur--monsieur--I swear it to you!" she stammered. "It was +only last night for the first time." + +He laughed mirthlessly, and shrugged his shoulders. + +"As you will, mademoiselle! A night or a thousand spent with Monsieur +Laparde, it is all one to me! It is your own affair! But"--his voice +rose suddenly in uncontrollable passion--"but, _sacre nom de Dieu_, +there is something that is my affair! That cloak! That hat! Where +did you get them?" He was clutching with one hand at the garment, +pulling at it with vicious twitches to emphasise his words. + +She drew back from him, the blood hot and burning in her cheeks. A +night or a thousand with Jean! He thought--he thought--_that_! And he +talked of her hat and cloak! What did they matter, what did anything +matter, except that--that shameful thought of his that stabbed at her, +and, with its sudden pain, brought a horrible giddiness and a horrible +ringing in her ears? + +"Answer me!" he cried fiercely. "Why are you wearing those things now? +Where did you get them? Why were you masquerading last night in that +hat and cloak, that belong to Mademoiselle Bliss, when I saw you enter +here?" + +"Mademoiselle Bliss!"--she could only repeat the words numbly. "It is +her hat and coat?" The room seemed to swim around her. She put her +hands to her eyes. A new terror was creeping upon her. The hat and +cloak belonged to Mademoiselle Bliss! Vaguely, dimly, understanding +began to come. He had thought that she was Mademoiselle Bliss, and +because of that--no, no! The _bon Dieu_ would not let her suffer that +too! It was so terrible--everything was so terrible this night--there +could not be anything more, for it was already beyond what she could +bear. She stretched out her hands to him imploringly. "It--it is not +because you thought that I was Mademoiselle Bliss"--she was pleading +piteously for a denial--"that--that you--that it is because of me you +fought with Jean, and that Jean is--is--" + +"Are you trying to play with me?" he rasped out savagely. "What else +but that? You were here all night last night. Yes, I thought you were +Mademoiselle Bliss! Yes, it was because of that I would have killed +Monsieur Laparde! Is that plain enough, mademoiselle? And now will +you answer me? Where did you get those things, and for what hellish +reason were you wearing them? Answer me, I tell you!" He caught her, +and shook her violently. "Answer me!" he fumed. + +"Yes, answer him!" came a mocking voice suddenly from the archway of +the salon. + +With a cry, Marie-Louise tore herself away--and, swaying, stared wildly +across the room. It was mademoiselle! It was Mademoiselle Bliss +standing there between the portieres! + +A low laugh rippled through the _atelier_--unmusically, because it held +a jarring, ominous note; and then Myrna Bliss was speaking again. + +"Monsieur Vinailles told me that some girl here had made quite a _coup +de theatre_," she said calmly--too calmly to be natural. She fixed her +grey eyes, narrowed a little now, on Marie-Louise. "I had no idea that +it was _you_. How astounding!" She swung toward Paul Valmain. "Yes; +Monsieur Valmain, I have been listening behind the portieres. From the +hall door, when I entered the house with Monsieur Vinailles a few +moments ago, I caught sight of mademoiselle and yourself across the +salon, thanks to the half open portieres; and--mademoiselle, there, +will perhaps understand this better than you--in spite of my anxiety +for Jean, I sent Monsieur Vinailles upstairs alone. Do I make it +plain, Monsieur Valmain, that I overheard your last remarks?" + +Marie-Louise glanced distractedly from one to the other. Mademoiselle +Bliss was smiling--only it was a very strange smile. Why was she +smiling like that? And Monsieur Valmain's face was twitching again, +only it seemed that, where there had been anger before, there was now a +curious mingling of confusion and passionate eagerness. + +"Then," he said, and took a step forward, "then--" + +"Then," Myrna Bliss interrupted evenly, and came slowly across the +_atelier_, "then, of course, I understand everything, Monsieur Valmain. +And I suppose I should feel flattered that you should take it upon +yourself to avenge"--her voice was rising now, and the grey eyes were +flashing dangerously--"to avenge my honour! How like a knight of old, +Monsieur Valmain! How heroic! I have heard that Monsieur Valmain is +one of the finest swordsmen in France; I have never heard that Monsieur +Laparde was an adept at the art, but that, indeed, he was almost +ignorant of it, and--" + +"Mademoiselle!" he exclaimed hoarsely. "Mademoiselle--Myrna! You have +no right to say that! It is not true!" He drew himself up, clenching +his hands. "By God, not even you shall say that to me, to Paul +Valmain! I offered--no, I insisted that we should fight with pistols. +Laparde would not hear of it--they would make too much noise." + +"Ah--a noise!" she said colourlessly. "And what then, Monsieur +Valmain? Have you any other excuse for what you have done?" + +"You know why I did it, if you have been listening!" he cried out. +"You know why! You know that it was because I loved you--that I love +you! That my soul was in hell with what I believed to be true!" + +It seemed to Marie-Louise that she was living through some terrible, +horrible dream. She reached out behind her, groping for the modelling +platform, and sank down upon it. Mademoiselle's laugh was echoing +through the room again, and there was something--something so menacing +in it that it made her shudder. + +"Love!"--Myrna Bliss was quivering with passion, as she stepped +fiercely toward Paul Valmain. "Love! If I were a man, I would kill +you for that kind of love! I would kill you! You beast! You dared to +think--to think that I had come here in the middle of the night alone, +to--to spend the night here! You dared to think that of me! +That--that I was--" + +"Myrna! Mademoiselle!"--his hands went out to her. His face was +ghastly white. "Wait! For God's sake--wait! You do not understand!" +He whirled around and pointed to Marie-Louise. "Look at her! Look! +It is your cloak--your hat! It was dark across the street. She was +wearing your hat and cloak!" + +"I heard you say all that before!" she retorted instantly. "I do not +care what she was wearing! I do not care what she looked like! You +dared to think that it was me! You dared to hold me as little better +than a woman of the streets! You dared to do that--you despicable +hound!" Her fingers were opening and shutting spasmodically. "I hate +you! I loathe you! I would strangle you for it, if I were strong +enough!" + +He shrank back from her, his lips working. + +"You are merciless!" he said in a choked way. "You--you do not +understand. You--you do not understand what helped to make me--to--why +I came to be there last night. It was the key of that door there, the +key of the door to the salon, the afternoon after the reception." + +Myrna Bliss appeared to control herself with an effort. + +"The key!"--there was well-simulated bewilderment in the quick, angry +exclamation. + +"When we came in," he said hurriedly. "Laparde, who was acting +strangely, had just unlocked the door, and he was still holding the key +in his hand without knowing it." + +It was a moment before she spoke--while her eyes swept him scornfully +from head to foot. + +"I wish Jean had killed you!"--her lips were just parted over her +clenched teeth. "So--you have the temerity to add another insult to +the first! That Jean and I were together in a locked room! I remember +the key now. And so Jean was acting strangely! It was to be a little +surprise party for Jean--was it not? Is it strange if he were +surprised then? When he heard all of you coming, laughing and talking +and tramping up the stairs, he ran to the door to open it, and I +remember now that the key fell out of the lock and to the floor, and +that he picked it up. How amazing that perhaps he held it in his hand, +Monsieur Valmain! And do you imagine, Monsieur Valmain, that it was an +opportune time for me, who not only knew you were coming, but who had +arranged the affair, to indulge in the amours that your vilely fertile +mind--" + +"Stop, mademoiselle!" he cried wildly. "I was mad--mad with my love +for you. I understand too well now! I understood that I had made a +terrible mistake, _miserable_ that I am, when this girl, when it was +too late, came out of that dressing room there, when--when Laparde had +fallen. I am a fool, a blind, senseless fool; but--but, mademoiselle, +it was my love--you will forgive, you--" + +"Besides a fool, you are a coward!" she said pitilessly. "But you do +not understand everything yet--and you shall have no further chance to +warp and twist things to suit your perverted fancy, Monsieur Valmain. +I think I could quite easily tell you where this girl, in whom you +imagine you have discovered Jean's model, obtained those clothes--and +if she will not tell you, I will. And then you will leave here, and +you will take pains, Monsieur Valmain, that we do not meet again. Do +you hear that? I tell you again that I hate you, that I loathe you, +and that if I were a man I would know how to make you answer for it!" +She stepped quickly to Marie-Louise's side. "Look up at me!" she +ordered curtly. "This man says that hat and cloak are mine, and it is +true--they were mine. Tell him where you got them!" + +Marie-Louise did not move, except that she clasped her hands together a +little more tightly in her lap. She could not tell; for suddenly she +thought of Father Anton, and a sense of loyalty to Father Anton +insisted that she should not tell. If mademoiselle knew, as +mademoiselle said, that was another matter, and she could not change +that now; but to tell it herself--no, she could not do that, for that +was to admit that the good cure was in the secret of her presence in +Paris, and after that it would be known almost surely that he had +arranged with Hector and Madame Mi-mi for her to come there to the +_atelier_. + +"Well?" prompted Myrna Bliss, sharply. + +Marie-Louise shook her head. + +Myrna Bliss stamped her foot angrily. + +"Are you stupid enough to imagine that you are protecting Father Anton? +I promise you I shall have a word with that gentleman in the morning! +And since you could have got that hat and cloak nowhere else, tell +Monsieur Valmain that Father Anton gave them to you, and have done with +it!" + +Marie-Louise looked up. Mademoiselle had said it, and--and Father +Anton certainly would not deny it. + +"Yes," she said under her breath. "Father Anton gave them to me." + +"Well, why didn't you say so at first?" snapped Myrna. She turned +again furiously on Paul Valmain. "You hear, Monsieur Valmain! You are +well acquainted with Father Anton. Go to him, if you have any doubts. +You have only to know now how Father Anton obtained them"--her words +were curling, biting, stinging like a whiplash in their bitter scorn. +"Well, listen! I and a few of my friends have become _charitable_ +since father established his fund. It is contagious, Monsieur Valmain! +We, too, give bounteously to Father Anton for distribution amongst the +poor--we give our discarded garments! I sent him that hat and cloak in +a bundle with some other things, a few days ago. Is it quite plain, +Monsieur Valmain? Are you satisfied? Well, then"--she swung an +outstretched arm toward the door--"go!" + +"But, mademoiselle--_pour l'amour de Dieu_!" he protested brokenly. +"Do you not see that I am in agony, in torment for what I have done, +that--" + +"Go!" she raged--and stamped with her foot upon the floor again. + +For a moment he stood lurching a little on his feet, as though he had +been struck a blow; and then, white-faced, he drew himself up and bowed +to her. + +"As you will, mademoiselle!" he said in a low voice, and walked past +her toward the door. + +Myrna Bliss turned to watch him--and halfway across the room halted him. + +"Wait!"--she pointed to the rapiers lying on the floor. "Take those +things with you! And one word more, Monsieur Valmain! I do not intend +to pose in Paris in the abandoned role you were so quick to cast me +for. You perhaps understand that! I do not propose that anything +shall be known of what has happened here to-night. I shall see to it +that nothing is said by the others, but a word of this from you, +Monsieur Valmain, or from Monsieur LeFair, who Monsieur Vinailles tells +me was acting as your second, and--" + +"Mademoiselle might have spared me that!" he said monotonously--and, +picking up the rapiers, walked on through the salon and out into the +hall. + +In a sort of miserably fascinated way Marie-Louise had followed him +with her eyes. She heard the outer door close behind him--and then +mechanically she rose to her feet, as Myrna Bliss came and stood before +her. + +"So"--Myrna's voice was quivering, tense with passion--"so it remained +for Monsieur Valmain to discover the secret of the wonderful, +beautiful, entrancing model! Monsieur Valmain is right, of course. I +knew it at once, the moment I heard him say so. I was not very clever, +I suppose, or I should have seen it for myself long ago; only--you +quite understand this of course--I had forgotten, utterly forgotten, +that you even existed! But it seems that Jean could not live without +his little peasant; nor the little peasant without Jean! It is +perfectly comprehensible now why there should have been such secrecy +about his model. And so you have been living with Jean, have you, ever +since he came to Paris? The naive, innocent little _ingenue_ of +Bernay-sur-Mer!" + +And then Marie-Louise lifted her head high again, and, while the hot +flushes came and swept her face, the great dark eyes held steadily on +the grey ones that were hard and cold like steel. It was not +mademoiselle of the _grand monde_ before her any more; it was a woman +whose tongue was making a sacrilege of all that was holy and cherished +in her life, making a hideous mockery of her love that was so sacred +and pure to her, making it a foul thing, smirching it, defiling it--it +was not Mademoiselle Bliss of another world than hers whom she +approached with diffidence and awe; it was a woman taunting her with a +shame from which her soul recoiled, and there came surging upon her, +born of the primitive, elemental life that had been hers, the days upon +the oars, the nights of rugged battling with the storms, a fury that +was physical in its cry for expression. + +"It is not true! It is not true!" she panted--and, her hands clenched +tightly, raised as though to strike, she took a quick step forward. + +Startled, Myrna Bliss involuntarily sprang back--but the next instant +she was laughing threateningly. + +"You little spitfire!" she exclaimed angrily. "And so it is not true! +Look at that statue behind you, look at any in this room, at any Jean +has ever done since he has been in Paris, and--oh, yes, I see it quite +plainly myself, now that I have been shown--it is you, you everywhere! +And you have the brazenness, the impudence to say that you have not +been living with Jean, that you have not been coming here at all hours +of the night for the last two years--as you have to-night--as you did +last night! Bah, you pitiful little hypocrite, would any one believe +you?" + +"Yes, they would believe me!" Marie-Louise cried passionately. "And +_you_ will believe me! I will make you believe me! I will make you! +I will make you! I--" Her voice broke suddenly, and with a half sob +she dropped her hands to her sides. Her fury had gone and in its place +had come only a desperate earnestness to make mademoiselle believe. +She had been thinking of herself alone--and there was Jean! If +mademoiselle would not believe her, the shame would be Jean's too, and +the guilt that mademoiselle imagined would be Jean's guilt too. And +even if she must tell all about Father Anton bringing her to Hector and +Madame Mi-mi, she must make mademoiselle believe. "Mademoiselle"--she +was pleading now, her voice choking as she spoke--"mademoiselle, +see--listen! You must--you must believe! It is true, every word I +have said is true! And it is true that I love Jean, and that that is +why I came, but--but Jean has never seen me since that day he left +Bernay-sur-Mer. See, mademoiselle--listen! It is only a few days +since I came to Paris--see, mademoiselle, even this hat and cloak +proves it. I did not know that it was cold, that one needed such +things in Paris, and I had nothing except just the clothes I had worn +in Bernay-sur-Mer, and the night I came I went to Father Anton and he +gave the hat and cloak to me--but I did not know, mademoiselle, that +they had been yours. I wanted to see Jean again, not to let him know +that I was here, but only to see him, only to see his work. It was two +years, mademoiselle, two years--and Father Anton understood, only he +made me promise, mademoiselle, that I would not speak to Jean, that I +would not let Jean know that I was here. Listen--listen, +mademoiselle!" Marie-Louise's hands were raised again--but +entreatingly now. "It was only to see Jean again, and see his work, +and then I was going away. For nothing, for nothing in the world would +I let Jean know that I had come. And so--and so, mademoiselle, so +Father Anton arranged with Hector that I should do the work about the +salon and the _atelier_, but very early in the mornings before Jean was +up; and then because I came so early Hector gave me the key--and last +night--oh, mademoiselle, mademoiselle, can you not understand?--I came +here, and--and I came again to-night. See, mademoiselle--it is so easy +to believe! You do believe! Father Anton will tell you that it is all +true, and that I have been in Bernay-sur-Mer all this time. +Mademoiselle, mademoiselle--you do believe!" + +Myrna Bliss was staring at Marie-Louise in startled amazement. + +"You mean--you mean," she said, in a low, tense way; "you mean that +Jean knows nothing of this--that he does not know that you are even in +Paris, that he has not seen you since he left Bernay-sur-Mer?" + +"But, yes; yes, yes, yes, mademoiselle, it is so, all that--it is so!" +Marie-Louise answered feverishly. "And--and he must not know now, +mademoiselle--he must not know now." + +And then Myrna Bliss smiled ironically. + +"I will see to that!" she said grimly. "You need have no fear on that +score, if what you say is true!" She turned abruptly from +Marie-Louise, walked straight to the "_Fille du Regiment_," and gazed +at it for a moment. Then, scarcely aloud: "'The womanhood of France,' +he had said ... 'The model in his heart.'" And so Jean did not know! +Well, if that were so, she would take very good care that he never did +know! It seemed incredible, but the girl's sincerity was not to be +denied. She laughed out sharply, and wheeled back upon Marie-Louise. +"Well, and what now?" she said coldly; and then, thrusting quickly: +"Are you aware that I am to marry Monsieur Laparde?" + +Marie-Louise's face blanched. + +"Yes," she said faintly. + +"And so"--the scathing tones were back in Myrna's voice--"and so you +were just playing with fire! Well, are you satisfied with what you +have done? If Jean Laparde lives it will be no thanks to you; if he +dies it will be you who--" + +Marie-Louise put out her hands as though to ward off a blow. She was +swaying upon her feet. + +"Not that--not that, mademoiselle!"--she could scarcely force the words +to her lips. "Do not say it, mademoiselle! I know that it is +true--God in his infinite pity, have pity on me!--but do not say it! I +will go away, mademoiselle--I will go away--for always. I will wait +only to know that--that Jean is well, for the _bon Dieu_ will not let +him die--and then--and then I will go--and then I--" A great sob shook +her frame, and covering her face with her hands she sank down again +upon the modelling platform. + +She was conscious that Mademoiselle Bliss was standing there, that the +grey eyes were fixed upon her; and then that from the salon some one +called to mademoiselle--but she did not hear mademoiselle go, only when +she looked up again she was alone in the atelier. And it was very kind +of mademoiselle to go so softly, and to say no more. + +She rose slowly to her feet, and passed through the atelier, and +through the salon, and out into the hall, and to the stairs--and paused +there to listen with pitiful eagerness. But there was no sound from +above--there was only the voice of her soul that kept whispering so +cruelly, "it is you ... it is you ... it is you ... it is not Paul +Valmain who has done this ... it is you ... it is you." + +And there at the foot of the stairs she knelt down for a moment; then +rose, and crossed the hall slowly to the door, and opened it--and +walked blindly out. + + + + +-- VIII -- + +FLIGHT + +Madame Garneau's hair straggled untidily about her head, her hands were +red, calloused, inclined indeed to be grimy, she had passed even that +poets'-consolation-prize age of forty, and she had no figure; but +Madame Garneau was possessed of a heart. She pushed open the door of +Marie-Louise's room, and dangled in her hand a yellow paper bag that +was grease specked on the bottom. + +"_Voila_, my little lodger!" she cried gaily. "I have this for you, +and you will never guess what it is; and, besides, I have something +else--a message for you from Father Anton. Now which will you have +first?" + +Marie-Louise, from her chair by the window, rose quickly to her feet, +with a little exclamation of pleased surprise. + +Madame Garneau immediately pushed her back into the chair. + +"But you are to remain quiet--eh, _ma petite_!" She wagged her finger +severely in front of Marie-Louise's nose. "Now sit still, or you shall +have neither one nor the other!" + +"What nonsense!" laughed Marie-Louise, as she stood up once more. "I +am quite well again--and I am even to go out this morning." + +The paper bag banged belligerently on Madame Garneau's hip, as she +placed her arms akimbo. + +"You are to go out! And who said you are to go out?" + +"But, who else--the doctor," Marie-Louise answered with a smile. + +"Ah, the doctor!" sniffed Madame Garneau disdainfully. "I have my +opinion of doctors! In two or three days it will be time enough!" She +wagged her forefinger again, and held up the bag. "Eh, _bien_--can you +guess?" + +"Never!" admitted Marie-Louise, shaking her head prettily. + +"Cream-puffs!" announced Madame Garneau triumphantly. It was perhaps +the most indigestible edible with which she could have outraged a diet +list, but in that quarter of Paris, where _sous_ were scarce, +cream-puffs were the delicacy _par excellence_, and therefore a +delicacy for all occasions, rare enough in any event, when they could +be obtained. And besides, as Madame Garneau had said, she had her +opinion of doctors--Madame Garneau, even if unconsciously so, was +consistent! "Cream-puffs, _ma petite_! From the _patisserie_ around +the corner--I sent the gamin, who brought the message from Father +Anton, for them. And now what do you say?" + +Marie-Louise had neither heart nor appetite for cream-puffs, but she +must needs peek excitedly in through the top of the bag, and thank +Madame Garneau effusively, while she protested earnestly at the +extravagance. + +"It is nothing!" declared Madame Garneau, her honest face flushed with +pleasure. She placed the bag on the foot of the bed. "It is +nothing--_ma foi_! And now about Father Anton. He was to have come +this afternoon, eh?" + +"Yes," said Marie-Louise. + +"Well, then," said Madame Garneau, "he is not coming." + +"Not coming!" + +"It is his poor!" Madame Garneau exclaimed tartly. "Your Father Anton +has no sense! I would teach him a lesson if I had anything to do with +him! Fancy! The idea! And at his age! He will kill himself! The +gamin's mother was sick, and Father Anton must sit up the night, and +stay there all this day! And it is not once, but all the time he does +that! Bah, I have no patience with him! His heart is too soft! It is +well for his poor that I am not Father Anton!" There was finality in +the shrug of Madame Garneau's shoulders. She glanced at Marie-Louise, +and then her eyes fell upon the paper bag. "Oh, I forgot to tell you!" +she said anxiously. "There is a cream-puff gone from the +quarter-dozen. I gave one to the gamin, he made such eyes at the bag." +She tucked in a refractory wisp of hair that was straying over her ear. +"Well, then, as I was saying, he is not coming this afternoon, but he +will come this evening; and he said you were not to worry at all, +because what he was talking to you about yesterday--whatever that +is!--is all arranged." + +All arranged! It came as a sudden shock. Marie-Louise turned her head +quickly away, and, with her back to Madame Garneau, stood looking out +of the window. All arranged! Then what should she do--what should she +do? She put her hands wearily to her eyes. + +"_Mais, la, la_!" soothed Madame Garneau. "You must not be +disappointed. It is only for a few hours. He will come this evening." + +Marie-Louise forced a laugh. + +"But I am not disappointed," she answered. "I do not mind at all." +She was still staring down into the street. If Madame Garneau would +only go so that she could think what to do, and--no! She knew what she +must do, she had thought it all out before; it was only that the moment +when she must act upon her decision was thrust so suddenly upon her. +"Oh, Madame Garneau, I was almost forgetting!" she cried--and, turning +from the window, ran to the dilapidated and wobbly bureau, pulled open +a drawer, and took out her purse. "It is a week since I have paid for +my room--a week to-day, isn't it?" + +Madame Garneau promptly retreated toward the door. + +"_Mais, non_! _Mais, non_!" she protested. "When one is sick, one +does not earn the _sous_! Next week, the week after, when you are at +work again, you shall--" + +Marie-Louise laughingly caught Madame Garneau's hand, and began to +count the franc pieces into it; while Madame Garneau, still protesting, +kept up her retreat for the door. + +"There!"--Marie-Louise triumphantly closed the other's fingers over the +money. + +"But, no!" Madame Garneau expostulated vigorously. "But I will not +hear of it! What do you imagine! I--" + +And then Marie-Louise pushed the other playfully through the door, and +closed the door, and placed her back against it, and laughed as she +heard Madame Garneau grumbling outside and finally go grumbling +away--but the laugh was all for Madame Garneau. When she could no +longer hear Madame Garneau, she clasped her hands tightly to her bosom, +and caught her breath. That was done! She had both paid and got +Madame Garneau from the room. + +She stood still by the door, her shoulders drooped; her hands dropped +to her sides, and her fingers began to pluck nervously at the folds of +her dress, as she stared unseeingly before her. Father Anton had it +all arranged--the words brought so much, meant so much, and seemed to +embody in themselves all that had happened in the week that had passed +since the night when Jean and Monsieur Valmain had fought in the +studio. She had wandered blindly and like one dazed all the rest of +that night through the streets of Paris; and it must only have been the +_bon Dieu_ who had led her at last to where, lying unconscious on the +floor outside the door of his room, Father Anton had found her in the +morning. And then--how good they had all been to her!--Father Anton, +and Madame Garneau, and Doctor Maurier, the grey-haired, kindly doctor +who had been with Jean that night, and who would take not a _sou_ for +his visits to her, but only fill the room with sunshine through his +good news of Jean. + +She remembered that she had asked Father Anton for Jean's doctor +because then she would always have word of Jean--and she remembered +Father Anton's dismay at the request. "But, Marie-Louise," Father +Anton had said anxiously, "you do not know what you are asking! He is +the most famous man in Paris, and--" "And he will come," she had told +Father Anton. And she had been right, for Doctor Maurier had come; and +so each day she had had news of Jean, and now Jean was so well that he +was walking about the studio again. + +But most of all how good Father Anton had been! She had told him +all--everything--and he had not been angry with her; though she knew, +from little things he had said inadvertently, that Mademoiselle Bliss +had been very angry with him. Dear old Father Anton! He had tried to +take all the blame upon himself, because he said he had been +deceitful--though she could not understand that, no matter how hard he +tried to make her believe it, for he had only helped her to see Jean +and to be near Jean, and that was what she herself had pleaded with him +to do. + +And then, as she had grown stronger and had begun to talk of going +away, Father Anton had agreed with her, but he had insisted that she +should go back to Bernay-sur-Mer. And he had become so earnest and +determined that it must be Bernay-sur-Mer, and because she knew that it +was his love for her that made him so anxious about her future, she +could not bring herself to tell him what she really meant to do, what, +in the long hours through the nights as she had lain awake, she had +made up her mind to do--to go somewhere, she did not know where, but +somewhere far away where there would be nothing to remind her of +Jean--not that she could forget, no matter where she went, but that +scenes and associations, as they had done in the past two years, might +not again prove too strong for her. And so, rather than pain Father +Anton by an absolute refusal, or the admission that even he was to go +out of her life, she had told him only that she did not want to go back +to Bernay-sur-Mer, that her house was sold, and that every one there +would think it very strange that she had gone away like that only to +return again so soon. + +But he was not to be shaken in his determination. "Ah, even if that +were true," Father Anton had said to her only yesterday, "nevertheless, +my little Marie-Louise, it is the thing you must do. I cannot let you +do anything else; and in a little while--who knows!--you will be very +happy there again. But it is not true, for there is a way that I have +been thinking about as I came here. As for the house, it is as well +that it is sold; you have the money, and besides it is much better that +you should not live there alone--you will live for a while with those +honest Fregeaus, who will be overjoyed. And as for the rest--see, +Marie-Louise, this is what we will do! I will speak to Monsieur Bliss +and tell him that I wish to go back for a little visit, and we will go +together--and the good people of Bernay-sur-Mer will not think it +strange at all then, for I will tell them that you have been with me +here in Paris, and that it is I who have persuaded you that it is best +for you to go back and live in Bernay-sur-Mer. _Tiens_, could anything +be better? And I will speak to Monsieur Bliss at once." + +She knew quite well what was in Father Anton's mind. If she were in +Bernay-sur-Mer he would feel that she was quite safe, that no harm +could come to her; and he had mentioned, so innocently as he believed, +Amide Dubois once or twice, and he was perhaps imagining that some day +she would marry there. But he did not understand! She shook her head +slowly; and then, suddenly rousing herself, she walked across the room +to the little bureau, and took out her things, and laid them upon the +bed, and began to make them up into a little bundle--the same bundle +she had carried with her from Bernay-sur-Mer. He did not understand! + +It was all arranged! Father Anton had seen Monsieur Bliss then--and +perhaps it would be to-morrow, or maybe even to-night that Father Anton +would want her to go with him. But she could not go back to +Bernay-sur-Mer! For nothing in the world would she go back there! If +there were no other reasons, there was one that alone made it +impossible--some day Jean might return there himself for a visit. And +she must go somewhere where there was no possibility that she and Jean +should ever see each other--and she must go now while she had the +chance. There was nothing to keep her any longer; she was quite well +and strong again, and she knew that Jean was getting well, and--and she +had seen Jean and his work, and she could picture his splendid life +stretching out before him in which even his marriage with Mademoiselle +Bliss, who was very rich and of the _grand monde_, would help to make +him even greater, and--and so there remained nothing more to hold her +there. It was very wonderful that it should be her lips that Jean had +fashioned--unconsciously, as Father Anton said--into his clay. It was +very wonderful! It was something that the _bon Dieu_ had given her to +make her glad; to make the sadness and remorse for the tragedy she had +brought about less terrible; to make her know that, after all, her +share in Jean's career had not just ended with that day, so long ago in +Bernay-sur-Mer, when she had given him to France. + +She tied the bundle neatly. She was ready to go now, and she picked it +up, took a step toward the door--and, holding the bundle in her hand, +paused hesitantly. She could not go like that--Father Anton would be +in a state of frenzy over her. She--she could write him a little note. +Yes; she would do that. She set the bundle down, and hurriedly untied +it. She remembered that when she had written down Father Anton's +address before leaving Bernay-sur-Mer she had put the pencil in the +pocket of her apron. Yes; here it was, but--she looked around her in +sudden anxiety--there was nothing, no paper to write on. Her eyes +rested upon the bed. Madame Garneau's cream-puffs! She picked up the +bag, tore a piece from it, and, taking it to the window sill, wrote a +few hurried sentences. It was just to say that she could never go to +Bernay-sur-Mer; just to say that she was going away, very far away +somewhere, and that he must not be sad about her, or try to find her +for she did not know where she was going herself; just to say that she +loved him, and that he had been so good, so very, very good to her, and +that she would pray always to the _bon Dieu_ for him. + +There was a mist in her eyes as she folded the yellow, grease-spotted +paper--she could buy an envelope and a stamp and mail it to Father +Anton. She took up her bundle again, and went to the door; and, making +sure that Madame Garneau was not in sight, hurried out of the house to +the street. Here, she ran until she had turned the first corner and +could no longer be seen from the house, then walked quietly along. + +Blocks away, she stepped into a little store. + +"Monsieur," she said to the man who served her with her envelope and +stamp, "monsieur, will you be kind enough to tell me the way to the +railway station?" + +"To which one, mademoiselle?" he inquired politely. "The _Gare de +l'Est, the Gare du Nord, the Gare St. Lazare_, the--" + +She had not thought that there might be more than one, but one would +take her away equally as well as another--it made no difference. Only +he would think it very strange that she did not know which one she +wanted. + +"The _Gare St. Lazare_, if you please, monsieur," she ventured +quickly--and thanked him when he had told her, and went out on the +street again. + + + + +--IX-- + +MYRNA'S STRATEGY + +"Two months--three months in America! And to be married there!" +ejaculated Henry Bliss, as he stared at his daughter in utter +bewilderment. + +Myrna, from the depths of her father's favourite lounging chair, which +she had appropriated on entering the library after dinner that evening, +nodded her head in a quite matter-of-fact way. + +"Isn't this rather--rather sudden?" inquired Henry Bliss, mustering a +facetious irony to his rescue. + +"Oh, no!" said Myrna demurely. "I decided upon it almost a week ago." + +"Oh, you did!"--a wry smile flickered on her father's lips. "A week +ago, eh? And what does Jean say?" + +"Jean doesn't say anything," replied Myrna complacently. "He doesn't +know anything about it--it wasn't necessary until the time came. I +haven't said anything to any one--until now." + +"Well, upon my soul!" exclaimed her father. "You are beginning early +with your future husband, Myrna! So then, we are both to be twisted +around your finger--eh? I shall have to speak to Jean--warn him. For +myself, of course, it's quite hopeless, I've given it up years ago; but +as for Jean, that's quite another matter--it's all in starting right, +with a firm hand, you know!" His eyes twinkled. "I'll have a little +confidential talk with Jean." + +"Don't be ridiculous, father!" she laughed. She rose from her chair. +"Well, that's settled; and now I--" + +"Eh--what? Settled! Nothing is settled! What's settled?" he +spluttered anxiously. + +"That we are going to America, of course," said Myrna sweetly. "You, +and Jean, and I." + +"Now, see here, Myrna," protested her father, with what he meant for +severity, "a trip to America is all very well, but it isn't the sort of +thing one decides on the spur of the moment." + +"Of course it isn't!"--Myrna's eyebrows went up archly. "Didn't I tell +you that I have been arranging it for a whole week? I was only waiting +for cable replies to some of my letters before speaking to you, and--" + +"And of course as you have not overlooked minor details, I suppose we +sail sometime next week!" her father interrupted with mild sarcasm. + +"No," said Myrna placidly. "From Havre, the day after to-morrow, by +the _Lorraine_." + +Henry Bliss sat down weakly in a chair. He removed his cigar from his +lips, and made one or two helpless passes with it in the air. + +"Impossible!" he finally exploded. "Absolutely impossible! Utterly +out of the question!" + +"I don't see why," observed Myrna, quite undisturbed. + +"You don't see why? No, of course, you don't see why"--Henry Bliss was +still waving his cigar. "Well, I can't run away at a moment's notice, +can I? Good heavens! The day after to-morrow! There's a thousand and +one affairs that would have to be attended to before I could even think +of it!" + +"Which, of course, isn't true at all"--Myrna's laugh rippled merrily +through the room. "There are perhaps a dozen social engagements, and +two or three other affairs for which you will have to send 'regrets,' +and"--she perched herself cosily on the arm of her father's chair--"and +your secretary will do that for you. In fact, I told him he was to do +it to-morrow morning." + +"You--_what_? Well, I'll be damned!" gasped Henry Bliss. + +"Father!" + +"Well, it was excusable!" muttered Henry Bliss. "I--I am half inclined +to repeat it." + +Myrna's arm slipped around her father's neck. He was quite manageable, +of course--but still he had to be managed. For, if what had come +within so narrow a margin of being a tragedy with a fatal ending had +forced her hand and forced the inevitable, as it were, upon her, she +could at least see to it that the adjustment of the new order of things +was of her own arranging. It was inevitable that she would marry Jean, +she had decided that long ago; it was only the "day" itself which, +until all this had introduced a new factor into her plans, had been at +all vague in her mind. But with Paul Valmain eliminated, and her +quarrel with Jean made up as he had lain there dangerously hurt that +night of the duel, everything had taken on a totally different aspect. +Perhaps she had yielded a little weakly under sick-bed influences, but +however that might be, she was now Jean's fiancee, though it was not +publicly announced; as, coming upon the heels of Jean's mysterious +accident and Paul Valmain's sudden departure from Paris, it would to a +certainty have caused talk and gossip, which for very good reasons she +was most anxious to avoid; for, a wheel within a wheel, if talk went +too far the truth might come out, and the truth at all hazards was the +one thing that Jean must not know. This was one reason why, almost +from the moment that she had grasped the situation that night in Jean's +studio, she had determined to get Jean away from Paris the instant he +was able to go. But there was a still stronger and more potent reason. +The marriage of Jean Laparde, the world-famous sculptor, and Myrna +Bliss, heiress to millions, a society leader in both Paris and New +York, was not an affair to be consummated in a moment, nor to have its +preparations go unmarked. It would be the most brilliant function that +society had ever known on either side of the water--to that she had +quite definitely made up her mind! But all that would take time; and +meanwhile, more to be feared than any talk, was the possibility of Jean +seeing Marie-Louise--and the possibility, or rather, perhaps, the +opportunity that would be afforded to Marie-Louise herself, whom she, +Myrna, was by no means inclined to trust! She was quite convinced that +Jean had not seen the girl since he had left Bernay-sur-Mer, that to a +certain extent the girl had told the truth, but that made it all the +more imperative that he should not see her now; for if, though +unconsciously so, Marie-Louise was so intimate a part of his life that +the girl took form constantly in his work, it would be, to put it +mildly, just as well if they did not meet--until after Jean was +married. After that--well, after that, she was quite capable of +looking after a _husband_! In the meantime she would take good care +that the possibility of such a contretemps was entirely obviated by +going to America, spending the few months necessary for the marriage +preparations there, months in which Jean would be the recipient of even +greater honours than Paris had accorded him, be married, and--well, +that was all! It was very simple! What this impertinent little +peasant girl had attempted once, even if Father Anton did intend to +take her back to Bernay-sur-Mer, she was quite capable of attempting +again--if she had the chance! + +Myrna nestled her arm snugly around her father's neck, and held up two +daintily extended fingers before his eyes. + +"Now, listen, father," she said, puckering up her forehead prettily. +"Now I am going to be very serious. There are two very good reasons +why we will go. First, now that Jean is able to be up again, a sea +trip is the one thing above all others that he needs. Doctor Maurier +prescribes it." + +"Insists on it, I suppose!" observed Henry Bliss dryly. + +"He will," said Myrna, laughing, "if I ask him to." + +"H'm!" commented Henry Bliss, the wrinkles around his eyes beginning to +nest into a smile. "Well--and the other reason?" + +"The other one," said Myrna, and laid her head down against her +father's cheek; "the other one is--I must whisper it--now, listen--is +because I've set my heart on it, and I want to go." + +"Which settles it!" groaned Henry Bliss, with mock lugubriousness. +"Well"--he got up from his chair, and brushed vigorously at the cigar +ash which, incident to Myrna's embrace, bedecked his waistcoat--"well, +I'll see what Jean says about it." + +"Why, of course!" agreed Myrna innocently. "It all depends upon Jean. +We'll leave it that way, father." + +Henry Bliss looked at her, gasped once--and grinned in spite of himself. + +"There isn't any other trifling matter you'd like to call my attention +to this evening, is there?" he hazarded, pinching his daughter's cheek +playfully. "Because, if there is, I'm--" He paused, as a footman +coughed discreetly from the doorway. "Well?" he demanded. + +"It is Monsieur le Cure, Monsieur Bliss," said the man. + +"Show him in," instructed Henry Bliss--and, as the man retired, glanced +quickly at his daughter. "I hope, Myrna, that--" + +"That we've made up our differences!" she supplied, with sudden +impatience. "That I quite understand that the gentle old soul in an +endeavour to set the world right meant well, and was actuated by the +loftiest of motives! Oh, yes, I think Father Anton and I understand +each other perfectly, and--" + +"Monsieur le Cure!" announced the footman. + +Myrna calmly turned her back--but only to whirl suddenly around again, +as, with a sharp exclamation, her father stepped quickly toward the +door. + +"Good heavens, my dear man, what is the matter with you?" Henry Bliss +cried out in consternation. + +Father Anton's white hair was unbrushed; he was unshaved; and his face +already haggard, his eyes already deep-set and blue-circled from his +twenty-four hours of bedside vigil, now bore added and unmistakable +signs of violent mental agitation and distraction. His hand, that held +a piece of torn yellow paper, trembled as though with the ague. + +"Ah, Monsieur Bliss--ah, _pardon_, mademoiselle!" he stammered, and +attempted a bow. "I--I have run very fast--and--I--I--" + +"Is anything the matter?" inquired Myrna coolly, joining the two at the +door. + +Father Anton looked at her piteously. + +"She is gone!" he said, his lips quivering. + +"Gone!" repeated Henry Bliss bewilderedly. "Who is gone?" + +"Our charming little Marie-Louise of Bernay-sur-Mer, of course! Who +else?"--Myrna laughed sharply. "Well, _mon cher_ Monsieur le Cure, +will you tell us how it happened? I had an idea you were very shortly +to return with her to Bernay-sur-Mer. It seems I was mistaken!" + +"But I do not know how it happened!"--Father Anton shook his head +distractedly. "I was away last night and to-day. This evening when I +returned to my rooms I found this letter from her"--he stared at the +torn yellow paper in his hand, and the tears began to well into his +eyes. "She said that she was going away--that she could not go back to +Bernay-sur-Mer--that I was not to look for her--that she did not know +where she was going herself. I waited for nothing. I ran at once to +Madame Garneau's. Madame Garneau had seen nothing of Marie-Louise +since this morning. We looked in Marie-Louise's room. Her clothes +were gone. And then--and then I ran here to get help to find her." + +"And so," said Myrna icily, "are we never to hear the last of her? The +trouble in the first place is of your own making, Father Anton--it is +unfortunate that others have to suffer for it! Well, what does it +mean? She did not want to go back to Bernay-sur-Mer--she has run away +from you--from everybody that could keep track of her. Why? That she +can go to Jean again without being found out?" She shrugged her +shoulders. "However, under the circumstances, if that is so, it will +do her little good, since Jean himself is going away to--" + +"No, no!" Father Anton cried out brokenly. "You do not know +Marie-Louise! You do not know Marie-Louise to say that! She, more +than any one else, would not let Jean know. It is because her heart is +broken that she has gone. And it is true, I am to blame." The tears +were running down his cheeks; he held out his hands to them +imploringly. "She is not well--she is only just recovered from her +illness, my little Marie-Louise, and--and--" the words died away in a +sort of frightened sob, at a quick, warning touch upon his arm from +Myrna. + +Steps came running across the hall--and the next moment Jean himself +was standing in the doorway. + +"_Tiens_!" he cried out gaily. "It is the first time I have left the +studio. I would not let the man announce me. _Me voici_! Here I am! +It is a surprise--eh? But--eh!--what is the matter?" He stared at the +three--at Henry Bliss, who was evidencing palpable confusion; at Myrna, +who seemed suddenly to have lost her colour; at Father Anton, who had +tears trickling down his face, and acted as though he were gazing at a +ghost. + +"It--it is Jean!" faltered Father Anton nervously, the letter +fluttering from his hand to the floor. + +"But, yes, of course, it is Jean! Who else?" Jean laughed--and +stepped forward mechanically to pick up the paper. "Permit me. I--" + +A dainty satin-slippered toe was covering the letter. Myrna was +smiling reprovingly. + +"It is quite time enough for you to be gallant, Jean, when you can do +so without the danger of reopening your wound!" she said sweetly. +"Have you not been told often enough that you are not to stoop down +like that? Father Anton is much better able than you to pick it up!" + +"Yes, yes," said Father Anton hurriedly, reaching for the paper and +tucking it into the breast of his _soutane_. "Yes, you--you must be +careful of yourself, Jean." + +"Nonsense!" declared Jean. "I am perfectly recovered!" He stared at +the three in turn again for a moment. "But--but perhaps I am +intruding--_de trop_?" + +"Not at all!" Myrna answered composedly. "It is a matter that concerns +only father and Monsieur le Cure; and they"--she glanced brightly at +her father--"I am sure, will be only too glad to get away to father's +den where they can discuss it by themselves." + +"Yes--er--yes, of course," coughed Henry Bliss. "It's--er--good to see +you out again, Jean, my boy." Then jocularly, in an attempt to +disguise his self-consciousness: "Come along, Father Anton"--he caught +the other's arm, and led the cure out of the room--"there are perhaps +others who prefer to be by themselves." + +A slightly puzzled expression on his face, Jean watched them out of +sight across the hall; then turned inquiringly to Myrna. + +Myrna's shoulders lifted daintily. + +"If it isn't one thing, it's another," she said, as though the subject +bored her. "There has always been something or other ever since father +started that fund of his; and the cure trots to father with everything. +This time, it seems that one of Father Anton's protegees has run away +from him; and, as you saw, the cure is beside himself." Again the +shoulders lifted "But you, Jean"--infusing a sudden note of perturbed +anxiety into her voice--"are you sure you were wise in coming out +to-night? What brought you?" + +And then Jean threw back his head, and laughed, and closed the +door--and caught her in his arms. + +"_Mon Dieu_!" he cried, holding her close to him, and trying to kiss +the suddenly averted face. "Do you ask what brought me? Well, then, I +will tell you! Did you not say that you would come this afternoon, and +did you not promise that we would settle about our marriage? And you +did not come, and all the afternoon I was waiting, and now"--his face +fell a little, as she slipped away from him--"and now that I am here +you run away from me." + +"You are too impulsive, Jean! You are destruction on gowns!" she +laughed, and backed merrily away from him to sink down gracefully in a +chair. + +"Gowns!" he echoed, a sudden flush of anger coming to his cheeks, as he +followed her. "What does it matter, a gown, when--" + +"Now, don't be cross!" she commanded teasingly; and, gaily regal, +extended her hand. "See, here is my hand to kiss." + +He hesitated; and then, as, a little sullenly, he bent and touched her +fingers with his lips, she laughed again. She loved to excite and +watch moods in Jean--as now for instance, when the tall, strong figure +was drawn up haughtily, and the emotions, that he would never learn to +hide, were so apparent in his face, as he bit his lips and pulled at +his short, pointed beard. Jean was as readable as a book at all times, +and always would be--which was not a bad trait for a husband to +possess! And this was Jean Laparde, the man of genius, unquestionably +at that moment the most famous man in France! She smiled at him +through half veiled eyes. To be Madame Laparde! Socially, it meant an +incomparable triumph; intimately, it meant--well, at least, it was +obvious enough that the marriage need hold no terror of tyranny in +store for her! Jean, for all his greatness, and save for his +occasional passionate outbursts, was as plastic as his own clay. Her +eyelids lifted, and in the grey eyes was laughter. + +"Well, and why the brown study? What are you thinking about?" she +demanded pertly. + +"I was thinking of Paul Valmain," he answered abruptly. + +"Paul Valmain!" she repeated--and sat suddenly upright in her chair. + +"Yes," said Jean, a little bitterly. "That he would have small reason +to be jealous, even now that we are engaged." + +"Don't be absurd!" she retorted sharply. + +Jean shrugged his shoulders. + +"And speaking of Paul Valmain," he went on, a menacing note creeping +into his tones, "I have been talking to Hector again this afternoon +about that night--the night that Valmain said he saw you enter the +house." + +She looked at him quickly. Surely, after what she had said to Hector, +Hector had not dared to speak of the girl to whom he had +given--reprehensibly, she had taken pains to make Hector understand--a +key to Jean's studio. She believed she had frightened Hector and +Madame Mi-mi too thoroughly for that, and yet--if he had! + +"Well?"--serenely, as her eyebrows went up. + +"Nothing! He knows nothing! He heard nothing!" Jean flung out +impatiently. "But Hector is a fool, and Valmain said he saw you go in." + +"Well, was I there?" she inquired frigidly. + +"No, you were not there--naturally!" he asserted with wrathful +finality. "But--I have been thinking--if it were some one else!" + +"Ah!" Myrna's smile was cold, as she rose with a curiously ominous air +from her chair. "Ah! Some one else! Well, since you bring up the +subject again, do you imagine I am so stupid that such a possibility +has not also occurred to _me_? Your conscience seems to trouble you, +Monsieur Jean! If there was some one else--a woman in your rooms from +two o'clock at night until daylight--you should know better who it was, +I imagine, than either Hector or Madame Mi-mi! And since I am your +fiancee, Monsieur Jean--perhaps you will explain!" + +"But, _sacre nom d'un diable_!" Jean shouted in angry amazement. "I +know of no woman!" + +"If there was a woman there it is inconceivable that you should not +know it"--Myrna's voice was monotonous, relentless. + +"But, I tell you--_no_!"--Jean's hands went up in the air, as he raged +in exasperation. "Do you understand, that I tell you--no? It is not +so! There was no woman there!" + +"Well, then?"--still monotonously. + +"Well, then?" Jean stormed furiously, clenching his fists, "it can be +nothing but that cursed Valmain and his damned jealousy! It can be +nothing but a lie, all of it, that he has made up! It is all a lie +then--nothing but a lie! And so I am not through with him! He will +answer for it! I am not through with him! It will not be with swords +this time--we will fight with pistols, and I will kill him! He thinks +he has no longer any reason to hide and stay away--but, _nom de Dieu_, +he will see! I promise you that! Vinailles told me that Valmain would +be back the day after to-morrow, and"--he laughed out harshly--"the day +after to-morrow--" + +"You are going to America," said Myrna calmly. + +Jean's clenched fist, raised, remained motionless in mid-air. He +stared at her open-mouthed. + +"To--to America!" he gasped. + +"To be married there," supplemented Myrna composedly. + +"To be married there!"--he repeated the words in his bewilderment like +a parrot. + +"And to receive an ovation, to be accorded a triumph such as you have +never dreamed of." Her laugh trilled out deliciously. "You will see +how they do things in America!" + +He was still staring at her in dumfounded amazement. + +"To America--to be married--a triumph!" he mumbled dazedly. "But--but +who--" + +"I did," said Myrna, laughing at him again. "Did you not remind me +that I had promised to tell you about our marriage to-day? Well, we +are to be married in America. Are you not delighted?" + +"But--but, yes! _Mon Dieu_! But--but, yes!" stammered Jean helplessly. + +"Well, then," said Myrna, puckering up her brows in prettily affected +deliberation, "I think, Monsieur Jean, you may kiss me--once." + + + + +-- X -- + +THROUGH THE FOG + +With an angry tightening of his lips, as he caught sight of Myrna still +the centre of the same masculine _entourage_, Jean turned from the +window where he had paused for an instant to glance into the ship's +main saloon, transformed for the moment into a ballroom, and resumed +his moody pacing up and down the deck. He pulled his ulster more +closely about him, for the night was cold, lighted a cigarette and +puffed at it irritably, as he was forced to acknowledge the, for the +most part effusive, salutes that his fellow passengers went out of +their way to accord him, as in couples and groups they constantly came +and went between the saloon and the deck. Then, after another turn or +two, he tossed away his cigarette with a vicious jerk, sought out the +most secluded portion of the deck--a recess near the ship's +funnels--and, appropriating a steamer chair, flung himself into it. + +He had barely ensconced himself there, however, when, with a muttered +oath, he sat angrily upright in the chair again. Was there no place on +the cursed ship where he could be alone for five minutes with his own +thoughts? He had left the dance after a heated, if short, altercation +with Myrna, been annoyed by the advances of those on deck, and now two +women had elected to halt within earshot of him around the corner to +_discuss_ him! + +"Well," murmured a voice sweetly, "have you met the famous Monsieur +Laparde yet?" + +"No"--eagerly. "Have you?" + +"No--not exactly, my dear"--patronisingly. "But I'll promise to +introduce you in the morning." + +"Oh, _will_ you? How perfectly gorgeous! You _are_ a dear! But how +have you managed it? Tell me all about it! I'm simply dying to know +how you succeeded!" + +"It wasn't at all difficult"--in naive self-disparagement. "I met Mr. +Bliss. He's simply charming, and so unaffected! He is going to tell +me all about the art schools in Paris--of course, I'm terribly +interested! There are three in their party, you know--Mr. Bliss and +his daughter, and Monsieur Laparde." + +"Do you think she's pretty? I don't see what all the men are raving +about! And did you notice her dress to-night--those black velvet +shoulder straps are actually startling!" + +"Yes--_aren't_ they? I've heard so many remarks about them! But I +suppose she is pretty--in a way. It's being whispered around that she +is going to marry Monsieur Laparde. I wonder if it's true?" + +"Huh!"--with a sniff. "Well, if it is true, Monsieur Laparde does not +do what I would do if I were a man in his place. It's simply +outrageous the way she carries on, if she's engaged. I wouldn't stand +it for a moment! She must have the wool pretty thoroughly pulled over +his eyes, if he imagines she is in love with him!" + +"In love with his name, my dear"--in cooing amendment. "I don't +suppose she _does_ care for anything else. She doesn't appeal to me as +that kind of a woman. I'm sure I think just as you do about her. I +wouldn't care to trust her very far from what I've seen of her--she's +the sort that always strikes me as being capable of saying _anything_ +behind one's back! She flirts mercilessly!" + +"Yes; and fancy a man like Monsieur Laparde permitting himself to be +made ridiculous! Did you notice this morning, when everybody wanted to +walk, that the deck was utterly impassable with her court spreading +their chairs two or three deep all around her? Of course, one can't +_say_ anything! And all the time she had Monsieur Laparde trotting +back and forth like an overgrown errand boy, carrying books and wraps +and--" + +"No, my dear, you are quite wrong there. She couldn't make a man like +Monsieur Laparde ridiculous--she could only make one feel sorry for +him." + +"Well, anyway, it's quite evident that she--oh, isn't that Lord Mornely +just going inside? Gracious, I had no idea I was getting so cold! Do +come! I'm nearly perished! We'll catch our deaths out here!" + +The arms of the steamer chair creaked as Jean's hands clenched upon +them. His face was crimson with passion. What right had these cursed +and _banale_ women to meddle in his affairs, and to discuss him? His +hands gripped harder on the chair and it creaked again. So, then, this +was the talk and gossip of the ship--and everybody knew it! If it were +idle talk he could have laughed at it, and gone and bowed before them +sardonically, and taken his revenge in their confusion; but it was +true, and it only made his fury the greater. They had but voiced his +own thoughts of five minutes ago, and his thoughts of yesterday, and of +the day before, and of the days before that, since almost from the +moment indeed that Myrna had promised to be his wife--the moment that +once, like a poor, deluded fool, he had thought would be counted the +greatest in his life! A hundred little things during his convalescence +had been like signposts of bitter disappointment. She cared nothing +for Jean Laparde the man; she was marrying Jean Laparde the +sculptor-genius, whose name was on every tongue! She did not know the +meaning of love! She loved only what his name might bring her. There +was no tenderness, no intimacy. She _put up_ with him--_sacre +nom_!--that was all! He had refused to believe it in those few days in +Paris. He had shut his eyes to it then. He could not shut his eyes to +it here on board ship--where everybody's eyes, even those damned cats'! +were open. And now she seemed to assume that, since he was her +property, her possession, and that the whole matter, as far as it +concerned her, was quite and entirely settled to her satisfaction, she +could devote herself to a new affair every half-hour, while he, he, +Jean Laparde, the great Laparde, looked on--and grinned! + +He rose savagely from his chair, and, turning up the collar of his +ulster and pulling his cap far down over his eyes, went along to the +extreme end of the deck. Here, unprotected by the canvas +weather-cloths such as those along the ship's side that closed in the +promenade, sheltering the passengers from the damp, driving mist of a +North Atlantic fog, it was wet and uninviting enough to guarantee him +immunity from any intrusion. Below him, as he looked over the rail, +the steerage deck, dim, dismal, forbidding, was deserted save for a few +people, who, probably choosing the lesser of two evils, braving the +night in preference to sharing the fetid atmosphere below with many +hundred others, were huddled about in miserable discomfort. He stared +at this sight for a moment; then turned around, and leaned with his +back against the rail to face the gay, brilliantly-lighted scene far +down at the other end of the promenade deck. He watched this +sullenly--the extravagantly gowned women and their escorts coming and +going like hiving bees from the deck to the saloon ... clustering +around the entrance ... retailing the ship's gossip ... a breath of air +... a cigarette ... and back to the dance again. Who cared what the +night was like? Who cared if, far up above on the mighty liner's +bridge, oil-skinned figures peered out anxiously into the night? Who +cared or thought of those huddled forms on the steerage deck? Who +cared--the sea was smooth, and one could dance? + +Jean dug his hands deep down into his pockets and closed them fiercely. +The long, hoarse-throated cry of the fog siren boomed out and vibrated +through the ship--and died away; and, sharp in contrast, came again the +calm, steady pulse and throb of the engines, and laughter, and the +dreamy, sobbing notes of a waltz. + +And now a depression, utter and profound, a more grievous thing than +the fury that had preceded it, was settling upon him. It was not only +Myrna, the knowledge forced home upon him that he was but a vehicle for +her ambitions, that their marriage was to be a hollow thing, a form, a +husk covering the semblance of love--it was the sea! Until this trip +he had not seen it since he had left Bernay-sur-Mer. It held a +thousand memories. He had fought them back angrily, defiantly ever +since he had come on board--but they had been present almost from the +hour that the shores of the France he loved had faded from sight, and +at unexpected moments this thing and that had flashed suddenly upon +him, striking with quick, stabbing passes under his guard. But now, +his spirits at a low ebb, reckless of combating even poignant +memories--those memories were surging overwhelmingly upon him. It +seemed to mirror his life like some strange kaleidoscope, the sea that +he had always known; it seemed to stir something within him that was +soul-deep in his life--the smell of it in his nostrils, the feel of it +upon his cheeks was flinging wide apart now the floodgates of the past. + +Living, vivid before him was the sparkling, wonderful blue of that +southern sea, fringed with the little white cottages of Bernay-sur-Mer +that had been his home; and beneath bare feet he felt again the smooth, +fine, yielding sand upon the beach where as a baby he had crawled, +where still a baby he had taken his first step, where as a man he had +struggled for his place among men and once had played a man's part. +The cheery voices of the fishermen as they launched their boats were in +his ears; they called to him; and laughed; and, because all were his +friends, twitted him good-naturedly, twitted him and teased him +about--about Marie-Louise. Marie-Louise! A low, sharp, involuntary +cry of pain rose to his lips. With a violent effort he tried to shake +himself free from his thoughts--but it was as though he were in the +grip of some strange, immutable power that held him bound and shackled, +while with lightning-like rapidity, whether he would or no, upon him +rushed the ever-changing scenes. The face of Madame Fregeau, his +foster-mother, coarse-featured perhaps, but beautiful because it was a +sweet and wholesome face, came before him; and her arms that were +rough, and red, and shapeless were around his neck in an old-time +embrace. She had loved him, the good Mother Fregeau! Came the faces +of Pierre Lachance, of Papa Fregeau, of little Ninon, of a score of +toddling mites clapping their hands in childish ecstasy over the clay +_poupees_ he had made for them--and all these had been his friends. +And all these were gone now, all were gone, and in their place +was--what? He raised his head. Hoarse-tongued, the siren cried again. +It seemed like the wail of a lost soul out-flung into the night, into +the vastness, calling, calling where there was none to answer--echoing +the loneliness that was filling his heart that night. + +He had forgotten all these things in Paris; he had made himself +forget--and besides there had been Myrna. He had fought for her, +striven for her tempestuously, fiercely, as a prize that nor heaven nor +hell could hold back from him--and, ghastly in its mocking irony, it +was only when the prize was won that, like some wondrously beautiful, +iridescent bubble, glorious in its colours as the sunlight played upon +it, it burst and nothing but the dregs of it remained as he reached out +and grasped it in his hands. He had looked for the love, the passion +that he could give in return; he had found only a cold-blooded +strategical move on the checkerboard of social aspirations. He was not +blind any more--nor angry. It was only a profound and bitter +loneliness that he knew. It would be a dreary thing, that +marriage--and dreary years. Once, when he had no right, he had forced +his kisses upon her; he had no more inclination now to force from her +what should be so freely offered--and was withheld! + +Who cared for Jean Laparde? Not Myrna! He had bought her as he had +sworn he would buy her, and his own words had come true--with fame. He +was the great Laparde! But who cared for _Jean_ Laparde? None that he +knew now! All that was in the past; all that was in the little village +on the Mediterranean shore in the days when he had made the clay +_poupees_ on the banks of the creek, and dreamed of that wondrous dream +statue that had been so real a thing to him--and now even that was +gone--and he was alone. + +Ah, they were back again, those scenes of Bernay-sur-Mer! Whose face +was that? Gaston Bernier! Old Gaston! And what was this that he was +living again, that was so cruel in its realism? That night on the +Perigeau ... that night when old Gaston died ... that day when he had +made the beacon for Marie-Louise, the beacon with its arms outstretched +that--he covered his face suddenly with his hands. If he could only +strangle these thoughts--God, the loneliness and the pain they brought! + +How the strains of that waltz seemed to sob out like some +broken-hearted, lost and wandering thing! He shivered a little. How +cold the night was, how wet and damp! How the engines throbbed, +throbbed, throbbed, and seemed to catch the tempo of the distant music, +and like muffled drums beat time to it as to a dirge! + +His hands dropped to his sides. From far down the deck came Myrna's +rippling, silvery peal of laughter; and, through the group around her, +he caught the sparkle of the magnificent diamond necklace at her +throat, the white, fluffy wrap of fur thrown across her shoulders--and +heard her laugh again. And at her laugh, he turned bitterly around to +the rail to face the night as the ship drove into it, to let the wind +and the wet mist blow into his face, to look down on the steerage deck +below him. What a contrast! There, just beneath where he stood, in +the filmy light that shone out from an open alleyway, alone, +unsheltered, a pathetic figure in the drifting mist, her clothes damp +around her, a woman leaned with bowed head against the ship's side. A +wave of pity, but a pity that knew bitterness and irony, came upon him. +What would he read in the face of this poor immigrant if he could but +see it? Misery? She looked miserable enough! Loneliness? Was she +lonely, too? Was she as lonely as he? And then, as though in answer +to his thoughts, she turned suddenly, lifting her face, and with a +gesture of infinite yearning, of infinite longing, stretched out her +arms toward the land, toward France, so far behind. + +He did not move. He uttered no sound. In that moment, as she made +that gesture, he was living only subconsciously. It was his beacon +with outstretched arms, with those pure, perfect lips, with that sweet, +gentle face, beautiful even with the pallor that was upon it. _It was +Marie-Louise_! + +The voices, the waltz strains, the throb of the engine, the sounds +about him, the lift and fall of the liner's deck, the blackness of the +night, all were blotted from him. He was conscious only of that figure +on the deck below. There she stood, her arms +outstretched--outstretched as he had modelled her in that figure that +first had brought him fame, and his own words of the days gone by were +ringing in his ears again. "See, it is a beacon--the welcome of the +fisherman home from the sea. And are you not that, Marie-Louise, and +will you not stand on the shore at evening and hold out your arms for +me as I pull home in the boat? Are you not the beacon, +Marie-Louise--for me?" A welcome he had called it then, that posture +of outstretched arms, that now symbolised, mute in its anguish, the +tearing away from her of all that life had ever held to make it glad +and joyous, the love of cherished France, her native country, her home, +the friends that made home dear, those that loved her, those she loved. +Those she loved! And of them all, she had loved him, Jean Laparde--the +most! It seemed to sound the depths of some abysmal treason in his +soul. Whom or what had she to welcome now? It seemed to sum up all +the tragedy that life could hold, and sweep upon him and engulf him. +It was Marie-Louise standing there on the steerage deck! It was +Marie-Louise! He did not need to ask why--the answer was in his own +soul. + +And now a moan broke from his lips; and condemnation, stripped of +mercy, naked, bare in its remorseless arraignment, surged upon him. +Honour, and glory, and wealth, and power, and fame, and luxury were +his--and what had she, alone here in the cold, wet misery of the +steerage, driven to the deck perhaps for a breath of pure air from +where below a thousand, babel-tongued, were cattle-herded? What had +she--where he had all? If the memories of that little white-cottaged +haven on the sun-kissed shores of the Mediterranean had brought him a +bitter loneliness--what must those memories be bringing to her? There, +in Bernay-sur-Mer, was the only life that she had ever known; there +were the simple folk who loved her; there were her friends, her +associations; there was her little world; there was her all--and he had +driven her from it! As surely as though by brutal physical force, he +had driven her from it! Yes; he had done that! That was why she was +here! + +His face, grey as the mist around him, went down on his arms upon the +rail, and a sob shook the great shoulders. Where were the dreams that +she and he had dreamed of life there together in the love that had +known its birth in childhood? Where were they? Who had shattered +them, that she was no longer there, but stood an outcast, friendless +and alone, here in the steerage of the ship that was taking her from +France? Where was the oath that he had sworn to Gaston as the brave +old fisherman had died? "There is a crucifix there; swear that you +will guard her and that you will let no harm come to her." Forsworn! +A traitor! He had chosen fame, and power, and position--and she, in +her pure, unselfish love, had stood aside for him! + +Again the sullen boom of the siren mourned out into the night, held, +quavered, died away. Silence, intense, absolute! Then, stealing again +upon the senses, the slap and wash of water against the liner's hull, +the medley of a thousand ship sounds. + +"_God_!"--the soul-torn cry fluttered from Jean's lips. + +He had chosen wealth, and power, and fame, and position, and they had +been Marie-Louise's gift to him--and his gift to her in return had been +the bitterest dregs of life! And now wealth, and power, and fame, and +position were his to-day, his beyond that of any other man's, he knew +them all; they were his; he knew the adulation and the fawning of the +great; but out of it all, out of the pomp and pageantry and the +glitter, the tinsel and the gleam of gold, where was the one supreme, +undying, immortal truth of life--who cared for Jean Laparde? + +And then, as he raised his head and looked at her again, a strange, +glad wonder crept upon him. Who cared for Jean Laparde? Out of all +the world, who cared for Jean Laparde? In the figure there, +wind-swept, the damp, thin clothing clinging closely about her form, in +the face, half-veiled by the night and mist, he saw again that figure +on the Perigeau Reef that once he had been man enough to risk his all, +his life to save; and the kiss that had been his, the kiss that pledged +them to each other in the fury of that storm, seemed warm again upon +his lips--a pledge again--his answer! Who cared for Jean Laparde? + +He strained toward her over the rail. It seemed as though some flame +of glory were lighting up her face, and, reflected back, was lighting +up his own soul with understanding. Those lips, the face, the throat, +everything, all--he knew it now!--it was _she_ that he had been +modelling there in Paris! It was she who was the womanhood of France +to him because her soul and his were one, she who had been living in +his heart, she that he loved--she who cared for Jean Laparde! + +He lifted his head, bared now, far back on the massive shoulders. +There was one way, and one way only, that he could claim her now. To +be the Jean Laparde of old again! To slough from him the trappings +that had stood a barrier between them! To be the Jean Laparde again of +the world she knew! + +He leaned further over the rail. She was moving away. He watched her, +his face aglow--watched her until she was lost in the darkness along +the deck. + +"Marie-Louise! Marie-Louise!" he whispered, and reached out his arms. +"I am coming to you, Marie-Louise--my beacon--to you, Marie-Louise." + + + + +--XI-- + +THE "DEATH" OF JEAN LAPARDE + +How wonderful the metamorphosis in all around him! How glad and gay +and happy were the waltz strains floating merrily upon the air from far +down the deck, how exquisite the melody and harmony rippling through +the chords! And the chill and ugliness of the night were gone; and the +loneliness was gone; and it was as though a glorious moonlit, +star-decked sky were overhead; and the wet mist that drove upon him was +as some magical, refreshing balm that laved his face! And in his heart +was song. + +"Marie-Louise! Marie-Louise! I am coming to you, Marie-Louise--my +beacon--to you, Marie-Louise." He stretched out his arms again across +the rail; and then turning, and hurrying because there was a lightness +in his steps that would not let them lag, he sought the deck +companionway close at hand, and ran up to the deck above. + +Not concrete yet, only dim and misty in his mind a plan took form. +Only one thing stood out, sharp-lined, clear, absolute, irrevocable in +itself--he must go to Marie-Louise paying the price. For, apart from +all else, apart from the certainty that if he went to her as the great +Laparde she would only bid him return again, not in bitterness but in +her splendid self-abnegation, apart from this--how else could he make +her believe him? He, a man who once had forsworn his oath; he, who +once, in her stead, had chosen in ghastly selfishness the fame, the +position, the place that were now his--how else could he make her +believe him? How else, unless he flung them from him, when once for +these very things, a traitor to his manhood and to her, he had turned +his back upon her, could she believe that now he held them as naught +compared to her; how else could she believe that in his soul and heart, +dominant, supreme, lived now only a love for her, greater than it had +ever been because it was chastened now, a love near like to her own +great wondrous love that she had offered him--and he had spurned? How +else--unless to-night the great Laparde should die, and in his place +should live again the Jean Laparde she once had known, the humble +fisherman of Bernay-sur-Mer? The fisherman of Bernay-sur-Mer! Yes, +that was it! It seemed to crystallise suddenly, sharply, into +definite, tangible form, the shadowy, nebulous plan that, from the +moment his decision had been made as he had stood and watched her there +below him on the steerage deck, had been seeking for expression in his +mind. The fisherman of Bernay-sur-Mer! None would recognise in the +fisherman of Bernay-sur-Mer the Jean Laparde that the world knew--none +save her! + +He was before the door of his luxurious deck-suite, and in feverish +excitement now he flung it open, closed and locked it behind him, +switched on the lights, and ran through the sitting-room into the +bedroom beyond. Here, where there had been confusion, his things +thrown everywhere when he had dressed for dinner and the dance, all was +now in order, and his two steamer trunks were neatly stowed away--the +steward's work--beneath the brass bed. He dropped on his knees, and +hurriedly dragged one out--the one that Myrna Bliss had chosen for him +that day when they had gone to Marseilles from Bernay-sur-Mer. If only +Hector had not disturbed it! _Bon Dieu_, if Hector had not meddled +with it! He wrenched up the lid. It was Marie-Louise who had thrust +that fisherman's suit into his arms that day when she had told him he +was free! What was it she had said? Yes, yes! "Promise me, Jean, +that you will keep these with you always, and that sometimes in your +great world you will look at them and remember--that they too belong to +France." And he had laid them in the bottom of the trunk; and, because +he had not forgotten so soon, when Hector, whom he had found already +installed at the studio, had unpacked for him on his first arrival in +Paris, he had told Hector always to leave them there, never to take +them out--but after that he had forgotten. He lifted out the tray, and +began to remove the clothing that lay beneath it. It was Hector who +had packed the trunk for the journey, and--with an exultant cry, he +straightened up, the old, worn, heavy boots, the coarse socks still +tucked into their tops, in his hands. + +He put these down, and reached into the trunk again. Yes, they were +all here--the cap; the woollen shirt; the rough suit, crumpled, +white-spotted with the old salt stains of the sea. + +And then for a moment he stood and looked at them--and looked about the +cabin--and for a moment fear came. As a blow that staggered him there +fell upon him the full significance of their glaring contrast with the +rich fittings of the stateroom-de-luxe about him. They seemed to mock +at him, these garments, and jeeringly bid him put them back again into +the trunk--as he _had_ done once before. What hideously insincere jest +did he imagine he was playing with himself, they sneered at him! What +had he to do with toil, and poverty, and hardship, with the life these +things stood for--he who knew the palaces of kings, he who had luxury, +he who had fame, he who had all that he had ever longed for, he who had +everything that money, that position, that authority could procure, he +who had but to rub the lamp and demand of the world his will? + +"No, no!" he cried out suddenly aloud--and, with a quick, impulsive +movement, tore off his ulster and threw it on the bed. It was +Marie-Louise now--Marie-Louise! Once she had given her all for him. +It was Marie-Louise, wonderful, beautiful, pitiful, the saddest soul in +all the world, out there alone on the steerage deck! + +And then he stood still again, hesitant, listening. Some one was +knocking on the cabin door. And now the door was tried--the knock +repeated. Disturbed, uncertain, he still hesitated--then, stepping +into the sitting-room, he closed the connecting door between it and the +bedroom, and unlocked and opened the door to the deck. + +It was Henry Bliss. + +"Ah, you're here, Jean!" the other exclaimed, with what was obviously +an attempt at unconcern, as he stepped into the cabin. "I've been +looking for you all over the ship. What are you doing up here in your +room alone, with all this gaiety going on below? Eh--what's the +matter?" + +Jean stared at Henry Bliss a little sullenly. Since the other had +come, was there--it remained only to get rid of him as soon as possible. + +"There is nothing the matter," he said shortly--and shrugged his +shoulders. + +Henry Bliss frowned, and rubbed his hand over his chin nervously. + +"Confound it, Jean!" he burst out abruptly. "I know better! You and +Myrna have been having another--er--another misunderstanding. In fact, +she--that is, I discovered it a few moments ago. I"--he glanced about +him as though to make sure they were alone, and caught Jean's arm +confidentially--"I spoke to her very seriously, very seriously about +it. I--I am sure it is nothing. It is only that you take these things +very much to heart, Jean, while she laughs at them." + +"_Pardieu_!" ejaculated Jean ironically. "That is so!" + +"No, no!" said Henry Bliss, hurriedly and in confusion. "No--I--that +is not what I meant, Jean. Not at all what I meant! I mean that if +she takes it lightly, it cannot--er--be so--er--" + +"I know what you mean," said Jean moodily. "I have discovered it for +myself." + +"Tut, tut!" protested Henry Bliss anxiously. "This will never do at +all, Jean! You must both make an effort to understand each other +better. Myrna is very--er--high-spirited--very! You see that, of +course, Jean--eh? Well? Tut, tut! That is all! You must not be too +firm or--er--exacting with her at first. I have found--that is, I have +not found that to be the most tactful way of handling her. Now slip on +your overcoat, my boy, and we'll go down together." + +Again Jean shrugged his shoulders. Would it be necessary to open the +door and bow even Henry Bliss out? + +"No," he said, with pointed finality; "not now. I prefer to remain +here for a little while--alone." + +Henry Bliss, perturbed and upset, coughed uneasily--and suddenly began +to fumble through his pockets. His fingers encountering first a cigar, +he took it out mechanically, and, as evidence of the composure he did +not possess, bit off the end with deliberate care. Then he fumbled +through his pockets again, and this time produced a marconigram. He +tapped it playfully with one finger, and smiled engagingly at Jean. + +"Well, well, I knew I had a panacea with me," he said cheerily. "This +came by wireless half an hour ago; it's what sent me out on the hunt +for you, and ran me into Myrna, and made me stumble on the lovers' +quarrel that I am sure will end just like all the rest of them--eh--my +boy? Listen!"--unfolding the message. "It is from a gentleman with +whom I am well acquainted, who is very prominent in art circles in New +York, stating that he has just learned that you are en route for +America, and asking, on behalf of the leading New York societies, if +you will accept a public reception on the steamer's arrival in New +York. There you are, my boy! Think of that! I promise you that it +will be something to eclipse anything you could imagine. We _do_ +things in America--if I say it myself! It will be the triumph of your +career. Bands, flags, bunting, cheers, the dock _en fete_--to say +nothing of reporters"--he was laughing now, and patting Jean's arm +excitedly. "They'll show you, my boy, what they think of Jean Laparde +in America! That's the kind of a welcome they're getting ready for +you--it will be the greatest moment of your life! But here"--he stole +an almost wistful glance at Jean, and stepping over to the writing desk +at the side of the cabin, laid the marconigram down--"I'll just leave +this here, and"--he coughed again, and moved tactfully to the +door--"and you just kind of think about that instead of anything else, +and--er--in about half an hour or so, I'll bring Myrna along up, and +we'll talk it all over together--eh--my boy?" + +He waved his hand genially, and, without waiting for a reply, went out. + +For a moment Jean did not move; then his eyes, as though drawn +irresistibly in that direction, shifted from the door that had closed +on Henry Bliss to the marconigram lying on the desk--and abruptly he +walked over and picked up the wireless message. He read it through +laboriously, for his English still came hard to him--and read it again, +more slowly, lingering over the words, muttering snatches of the +sentences aloud. "... Shall spare no effort ... endeavour worthily to +express our sentiments ... splendid genius of which France is so justly +proud..." + +And, holding it there in his hands, a dull flush came and spread itself +over Jean's face. The triumph of his career, Henry Bliss had said--the +greatest moment of his life! This great and wonderful America, of +which he had heard so much, was waiting for him eagerly--waiting for +him--Jean Laparde--Jean Laparde! This was to be his welcome to that +New Land where all was on a scale so tremendous and magnificent. To +his ears there came the mighty roar of thousands shouting again and +again the name of Jean Laparde; before his eyes a sea of faces looked +up into his from dense-lined streets as he drove along--and all, all in +that vast multitude were cheering, waving, acclaiming Jean Laparde. +They were waiting for him there at the gateway to America, open-handed, +royal in their hospitality, to pay him honour such as he had never +known before. They were waiting for him there--for him--for Jean +Laparde! They were waiting-- + +The flush faded from his face, and a whiteness came, and upon his +forehead oozed out a bead of moisture--and, as the seconds passed, he +hung there almost limply, swaying a little in the agony that was upon +him. And then slowly the paper that was in his hands was torn across, +and the pieces fluttered to the floor, and the great head rose proud in +kingship on the broad shoulders--the kingship of himself, the kingship +of Jean Laparde. + +Ay, they were waiting for him--but there was another beside who was +waiting too! He looked at the torn pieces of paper on the floor--and +his laugh rang suddenly clear and buoyant through the cabin. Once he +had sold his soul for such as that; but to-night, in spite of these +devil's tempters that sought to shake his resolution--there was his +answer! There was his answer--the answer that had come to him through +the fog and mist as through a veil rent suddenly asunder, the answer +that was in Marie-Louise's outstretched arms, the answer that was in +her banishment from the friends and the France she loved, in the bitter +wrong that he had done, in her love that now he knew for its priceless +worth! There in that torn paper was his answer! + +And he laughed again--and as he laughed, he ran to the door and locked +it for the second time. There would be no more of that, no more +interruption, no more of those tempter thoughts, no more of them! And, +for the moment, no more thought even of Marie-Louise. He had need to +centre all his attention upon his immediate acts now, for he must be +very careful what he did. And he had little time--had not Henry Bliss +said that in half an hour he would return with Myrna? + +He ran back into the bedroom, tore off his coat, vest and shirt; and, +catching up his toilet-case, hurried into the bathroom. Here, he +clipped off his beard and shaved it close--then quickly, a sort of +tense, keyed-up excitement constantly growing upon him, he returned +once more to the bedroom, and, stripping off the remainder of his +clothes, began to put on the fisherman's suit. How heavy and stiff the +boots felt upon his feet, how rough and coarse the socks were against +his skin--and yet how their familiarity thrilled him! He swung his +arms, wondering and laughing at the free play of his muscles in the +loose shirt, and memories and thoughts began to press upon him--but he +checked them almost instantly, for there was no time now for that. + +He finished dressing hastily. He must leave no clue behind him that +would occasion even a suspicion that he had not carried out the purpose +that the world, and essentially those on board the ship, must be made +to believe was the last act of Jean Laparde. Amongst a thousand, +amongst the conglomerate races that cluttered the ship's steerage, +where even amongst themselves few knew each other, where difference in +language precluded all but the most scattered and superficial +acquaintanceship, none would recognise Jean Laparde in the rough-garbed +fisherman--provided always that no search was instituted, provided +always that there should be no _incentive_ in the mind of any one to +search, provided always that it was accepted as a fact--that Jean +Laparde was dead! He could not hope perhaps, between now and the time +they reached New York, or, at least, on landing, to escape the +attention of the ship's officers or the shore officials; but with Jean +Laparde a suicide in the mist and fog of that Atlantic night, he would +be no more to them than one as rough and ignorant and poor as those +others in the steerage--no more than a stowaway. + +Jean dropped down on his knees again beside the trunk, and began to +replace the articles he had been obliged to remove in order to get at +the fisherman's suit. Nothing--not a sign of anything approaching +disorder must appear. They would look through everything--Myrna and +her father! He shrugged his shoulders whimsically. The visit of Henry +Bliss to the cabin, the other's knowledge of the quarrel with Myrna, +the other's concern over his, Jean's, moodiness, was, after all, not to +be regretted! It would have its significance for Henry Bliss! + +He pushed the trunk back beside its mate under the bed. Money now! A +sudden, sharp exclamation, almost of dismay, escaped him. He had +little or no money--a few French notes, sufficient for his needs on +board ship only. Monsieur Bliss had said more was unnecessary--that he +could make drafts through the other's banking connections in New York +as he needed them. He searched through the clothes he had taken off, +found his pocketbook, opened it, and counted the contents--five +twenty-franc notes, a ten-franc gold piece, some silver--that was all! +Less than twenty-five dollars in American money! Well, if it was +all--it was all! It could not be helped! He shoved the pocketbook +philosophically into his pocket; and, gathering up the clothes he had +worn, tied them into a bundle. There remained only the heavy ulster. + +He looked slowly, critically about him; and, satisfied that he had +overlooked nothing, walked swiftly into the sitting-room, seated +himself at the writing desk, and, from one of its pigeon-holes, pulled +out a sheet of the ship's notepaper. He hesitated a moment +thoughtfully--then picked up a pen. + +"_Je m'ennui de tout_--I am tired of it all," he wrote. He balanced +the pen in his fingers, and stared at the words cynically. What a +commotion it would cause! What food for excitement, for the hysteria +of those who cared nothing save for the self-importance it brought them +in being so intimately connected with so famous a tragedy as to have +been on the _same_ ship where it occurred! They would remember what he +had eaten for dinner that night, and quarrel over who had last seen +him; and they would envelope themselves with an air of pained and +morbid gloom--and cling to the gloom tenaciously because they delighted +in it! What an event! And out of them all, with the exception of +Henry Bliss, there was none who--ah, yes! Ironically, as the grim +humour of it struck him, a smile curled Jean's lips. The stewards who +had looked after him would care very much! That one might die, if one +wished, was all very well; but to be inconsiderate enough to jump +overboard without leaving the _douceurs_ of the voyage behind, could be +construed as nothing less than a personal affront! He reached suddenly +into his pocket, the irony of the thought lost in a flash of +inspiration, and pulled out his pocketbook. It was the one crowning +touch required to stamp as a fact, beyond a peradventure of doubt, the +conviction that he had made away with himself. He could ill spare any +of the money; but he could much less afford to ignore anything that +would lend colour to his plan and so minimise the risk of discovery! +He opened the pocketbook again, took from it three of the twenty-franc +notes, tucked these into his pocket, and laid the pocketbook with the +balance of the money inside of it down upon the desk. It was not a +fitting amount, doubtless--but there was his pocketbook and all there +was in it! What more could any one give? He took up his pen, and +finished his note. "Please divide what is in my pocketbook amongst my +stewards. Adieu! Jean." + +He folded the note, placed it in an envelope, sealed it, addressed it +to Henry Bliss, and, carrying it with him, returned to the bedroom and +pinned it securely to the sleeve of his ulster. Then, taking up both +the ulster and the bundle he had made of the clothes in which he had +been dressed that evening, and leaving the lights turned on, he went to +the outer cabin door, opened it cautiously, and peered out. Here, on +the upper deck, there was no one in sight. He opened the door wide, +marked the spot where the light, flooding from the room, lay across the +ship's rail; then, stepping out on the deck, he closed the door softly +behind him. + +For a moment he stood in the darkness, looking about him, listening. +There was nothing--only the ship-sounds--only the confused voices and +laughter of the passengers on the deck below--only, faint-borne, the +music from the ship's saloon. And then, he crept across the deck to +the rail; and, drawing himself back to give his arm full play, he +hurled the bundle with all his strength far out over the ship's +side--and as he hurled it, in requiem as it were for Jean Laparde, +through the night there crashed, and boomed, and moaned, and whined +anew the sullen blast of the siren. + +It startled him momentarily; but the next instant he stooped and laid +the ulster upon the deck beside the rail. It was perhaps fastidious in +a suicide to remove his ulster, but the light from his room, when the +door was opened, that would shine upon the white paper pinned on the +sleeve, would disclose a sufficient motive! + +It was done! In all the world now for him there was only one to share +his life--a life whose future course he could not see, nor guess; but a +life where, greatest of all gifts, most splendid of all splendours, was +love. There was but one--only one--and that one out of all the world +was she alone who cared for Jean Laparde. And she did not know yet +that he was there, that he was going to her, that he would never leave +her again--but in a moment she would know! In only another moment now +I Ah, he could see the pure, beautiful face shine in welcome with the +gladdest light it had ever known; the great eyes, deep, true and +fearless, grow dim and misty in their wondrous smile; those lips, +divine in contour, lift in tenderest passion to his; her arms stretch +out, no more in cruel longing, in bitter emptiness, but stretch +out--stretch out to him! + +"Marie-Louise! Marie-Louise!"--like a prayer, softly, he breathed her +name; and, thrilled, eager, his blood afire, he turned from the rail, +and ran to the deck companionway. + +Barring a possible encounter with a ship's officer who might stop and +question him, he would have little trouble in reaching the steerage +deck. He was not obliged to enter any part of the ship's saloons or +alley-ways--he had only to descend to the deck below, and from there it +was but a half dozen steps to the head of the ladder with its little +sign "passengers forbidden" that led directly to the steerage deck. +True, it was possible that some of the steerage passengers might notice +him descending the ladder, but they would be too far away and it was +too dark for them to see his face from any distance; and to them, in +any event, unaccustomed to question, it would mean nothing more, if +indeed they gave it any thought at all, than some one of the ship's +crew in the ordinary performance of his duty. + +At the head of the companionway Jean stopped to assure himself that the +saloon passengers were still avoiding the wet, unsheltered portion of +the deck beneath; and then, descending quickly, he stole across the +deck-space below, gained the second ladder, and, boldly now, but with +the swift agility born of the fishing days of Bernay-sur-Mer that any +seaman might have envied, swung himself down to the steerage deck. And +here, almost leisurely, he turned, and, seeking the darkest shadows, +and so disappearing from the sight of any of the steerage passengers +who, still huddled about the deck, might have noticed him, he stood +motionless, close up against the ship's superstructure. It was perhaps +an exaggerated precaution; but it would preclude the possibility of any +one of them connecting him, when he eventually went amongst them, with +the man who had come down the ladder and presumably had disappeared in +some, to them mysterious, where all was mysterious, recess of the ship. + +His heart was pounding, he could feel the hot blood flush his cheeks, +as his eyes strained through the gloom and semi-darkness, searching the +deck. Was she still there--somewhere? Surely, surely she had not yet +gone below! For then it would be very hard, perhaps impossible, to +find her until to-morrow, and he could not wait so long as that; for it +was to-night that he was to take Marie-Louise in his arms again, and +hold her there, and stand, they two, and look into each other's eyes, +glad, beyond any gladness else, in the love that God had given back to +them. To-morrow? No! To-night! To-night! It must be to-night! +Surely she was still here! Yes--who was that, whose form he could just +make out in the darkness at the ship's side far along the deck? + +He moved quickly now, still keeping in the shadows, until he reached +the side of the ship furthest away from the ladder by which he had +descended, and then stepped out across the deck. He passed little +knots of people, and voices in strange tongues that he had never heard +before fell upon his ears; but he gave them no heed--there was only +that figure, alone, apart, toward which he was hurrying. And +now--yes--he was sure! Her back was turned, and, as before, she was +leaning ever the ship's side, but--yes--yes--it was Marie-Louise! + +He halted a yard away from her, trembling with an emotion that brought +a strange weakness to his limbs, and reached out his arms--her name +quivering, low and passionate, his soul in his voice, upon his lips. + +"Marie-Louise!" + +She turned sharply, in a frightened, startled way, and for a moment +stared at him; and then, even in the darkness, he could see her face +grow deathly white, while her hand groped blindly out behind her for +support. + +"Dead!" she whispered. "I was praying to the _bon Dieu_ for you, Jean. +And now you are dead, and you have come to me." + +"Ay!" he cried blunderingly in his joy. "Ay, that is true, +Marie-Louise! Jean Laparde is dead!" + +She moaned a little, and shrank back, and pressed her hands to her face. + +"Dead!" she whispered again. "You are dead, Jean, and you have come to +me." + +She was swaying as he caught her in his arms. Fool, accursed fool, +that he had not understood! + +"No, no; Marie-Louise, _cherie, ma bien-aimee_!" he said tenderly. +"See, are my arms not real about you? See, it is I, it is really I! +It is not death, it is love that has brought me! See, Marie-Louise, +lie very still for a little while in my arms, and you will not be any +more afraid." + +It seemed as though for a space she were in a faint, so white her face +was, so quiet she lay; and then her hand felt out and touched his +shoulder, and his face, and his hair in a wondering, hesitant, +incredulous way. + +Her lips moved. + +"You--you are like Jean as he used to be before he went away to the +_grand monde_." + +He bent his head, and laid his cheek against her cheek. + +"Yes, Marie-Louise," he said softly. "And now I shall always be that +Jean. Try very hard now to understand, little one! See, I am back +again--for always--for always--and I will never go away from you any +more. Don't you see, _petite_, that it is really Jean?" + +"Yes," she said, in a low, dead voice, "it is Jean; but how can it be +Jean--here--on this great ship--when Jean, I know, is in France--for I +left Jean in France." + +And then Jean laughed--because it would help to drive the sense of +unreality from her mind, and because in his heart was only joyous +laughter. + +"It is very simple, that! I came with Monsieur Bliss and mademoiselle. +And it is no more strange for me to be here than for you--than that I +should have seen you a little while ago from the deck up there, +Marie-Louise." + +She seemed to rouse herself as though in dawning comprehension, raising +herself a little in his arms. + +"But the clothes--those clothes that you are wearing!" she faltered. + +"Ah, Marie-Louise!" he cried out happily. "Do you not remember? Was +it not you who told me that day that I was to keep them with me always? +And see, I have kept them--and they have brought me back to you!" + +He felt her tremble suddenly, and draw away. + +"Let me go, Jean." And, as he released her, she stood for an instant +clinging to the ship's side, her head turned away, before she spoke +again. "You--you put them on to come down here to me?" she said dully, +at last. + +"But, yes! But, yes! What else?" he answered eagerly. "To come to +you, Marie-Louise!" + +She faced him, pitifully white. + +"Oh, Jean, Jean! Why did you do it?"--it was a bitter, hopeless cry. +"What good could this hour bring to you, what could it give you when +you go back there that you have not already got, while for me"--her +voice broke--"it was so hard before--so hard before, and now--" + +She did not understand! She did not understand! He caught her hands. + +"It is not for an hour!"--his voice was ringing, vibrant, glad. "It is +not for an hour, Marie-Louise, it is for--always--always! I am not +going back. I have come for always--to be with you always now, +Marie-Louise, as long as we shall live. Look up, Marie-Louise! Look +up, and smile with those wondrous lips, and put your arms around my +neck, and lay your head upon my shoulder, for there is none here to see +or heed." + +She did not move; and, as she stood there staring at him, the colour +came into her face--and went again, leaving it as white and drawn as it +had been before. + +"You are not going back"--she scarcely breathed the words. Then, +almost wildly: "Jean, what do you mean? Your life, your work, your--" + +"Are yours, my Marie-Louise," he said quickly. "It was that I meant +when I told you Jean Laparde was dead." + +"Mine! You would do this--for me--for me--Jean?"--it was as though she +were speaking to herself, so low her voice was, as she leaned slowly +toward him. "For me?" she said again; and in a tender, wistful way +took his face between her hands, and looked a long time into his eyes +while her own grew dim. "You are very wonderful, and big, and brave, +and strong, Jean," she whispered presently; and there was a little +quickened pressure of her hands upon his cheeks, and then they fell +away--and she shook her head. "But it can never be, Jean--it can never +be. You must go back." + +"Never be!" Jean echoed--but now there was a sudden fierce triumph in +his voice. "It _must_ be now, for there is no other way. I cannot go +back! Have I not told you that Jean Laparde is dead? Listen, listen, +Marie-Louise, my little one. Up there I have destroyed all traces of +myself, and in a little while they will find the note I left, and +believe that I have thrown myself overboard. Ah, Marie-Louise, when I +saw you here to-night--see, you were standing down there with your arms +stretched out! But how can I tell you--the joy, the grief, the +_miserable_ I had been? But it was only you then--you, Marie-Louise, +my Marie-Louise again! And I must show you it was true that my life +should be yours, that I knew at last all else against your love was +nothing, that I had been as some sick soul wandering, deluded, in a +world of phantom things--ah, I do not say it well, Marie-Louise, but +you must read my heart, and out of that great love of yours forgive. +And I must make you believe--my beacon! Do you remember that? My +beacon! Ah, Marie-Louise, for a little while I lost it in the darkness +and the storm, but now it is bright again, and it shall always burn for +me. And so, see, I have come; and it is the long past back again, and +the between is gone, and it is again as the night old Gaston died, and +you and I, Marie-Louise, are alone together in all the world." + +"Jean! Jean!" she said brokenly--and turned away her head, and, +leaning there, buried it in her arms. When she looked up again her +face was wet with tears. + +He held out his arms to her, and smiled. + +But now again she shook her head; and, as her lips quivered, gently +pushed his arms away, and took one hand of his in both her own. + +"Jean, it is not too late," she was trying bravely to control her +voice. "You must go back. The _bon Dieu_ has given you a great life +to live, and a great work to do--the work you love." + +"It was not the work that I loved--it was Jean Laparde," he said, with +a bitter laugh. "But now, I tell you again, Jean Laparde is dead." + +"There is your life and there is your work," she went on, as though she +had not heard him. "And, Jean--Jean, I have seen them both, and--and +so I know." + +"You have seen them!" he repeated in a puzzled way. "What is that you +say?" + +"Yes," she said. "Jean, it was I who went to your studio that night. +It was I that Monsieur Valmain saw enter there. I had a cloak and hat +that Father Anton had given me that had belonged to Mademoiselle Bliss." + +"You?" he cried out, in wild amazement. + +"Wait!" she said tensely. "It does not matter if you know now, since +you have seen me here; and I am telling you because--because I must +make you understand that I know what your life is there in the great +world, and how the name of Jean Laparde is honoured, and how now, more +than ever before, Jean, you belong to France--and that you must go +back--and that this can never, never be, Jean--and that I can never let +you do this thing." + +He stared at her for a moment and could not speak. It was Marie-Louise +who had been at the studio that night! There was bewilderment upon +him; and there was something of finality in the gentle voice that swept +the laughter from his heart, and brought a cold, dead thing there in +its place. And then a sudden, eager uplift came. + +"You were there that night!" he said swiftly. "What brought you there, +Marie-Louise? What brought you there--to Paris--from Bernay-sur-Mer?" + +She did not answer. + +"Ah, I know! I know!" he cried out joyously. "It was your love, +Marie-Louise--your love that brought you there. And so you love me +now, Marie-Louise--and how then can you talk of sending me away?" + +"I have always loved you, Jean," she said simply. "It is because I +love you that I must not let you do this thing." + +"And it is because I love you that I _will_ do it!" he burst out +passionately. "Marie-Louise, you were there that night! But is that +all? You do not say it, but perhaps you are thinking of Mademoiselle +Bliss. You have seen her? She knew you were there? That you were in +Paris? You knew that we--" + +"She told me that you were to be married, Jean," Marie-Louise +interrupted quietly. "But it is not of her that I am thinking." + +"She does not love me, I do not love her--_voila_! There is the end of +that!" Jean flung out his arms. "It is the work then? Well, listen, +Marie-Louise, to a wonderful secret that came to me to-night. It is +you--you--your eyes, your face, your lips, your beauty, that has made +the name of Jean Laparde! It is you that I have been modelling all +this time--it is you who have been my model--you, my Marie-Louise! And +I in my blind conceit did not realise it, and dreamed that I was +creating out of my own genius the true, perfect, glorious womanhood of +France--and it was you! You did not know that, my little one!" + +"I am not that, Jean," she said steadily. "But I knew that night. +Monsieur Valmain, when he saw me, when I stepped out into the studio +and you--you were lying there on the floor, Jean--Monsieur Valmain said +so. And afterwards, Mademoiselle Bliss said so too." + +"Monsieur Valmain! Myrna! The others too--they all saw you there! +They knew! Ah!"--he cried, a gathering fury in his voice. "Ah, I +begin to understand Myrna's sudden desire for a voyage to America! +There was to be no chance that we should meet, you and I, Marie-Louise! +_Nom de Dieu_, I begin to see--many things! And you, meanwhile--how +did she get rid of you? She made you leave Paris, eh? You were to go +away!" + +"It was what I must do. It was not mademoiselle who made me," she +answered. "I was sick for a little while, and then I went away. Oh, +Jean, can you not see what I have been trying to make you understand? +I had no right even to have _risked_ your seeing me, and I had meant +that it should never be possible again--and so--and so that is why I am +here. And now you have come to-night, Jean! It is very, very strange, +and--and"--her voice was breaking again, despite the brave efforts at +self-control--"but it cannot change anything--and you must go back--to +France--and to your work. Go, Jean; go now, or I--I must go, +because--because--" + +"Marie-Louise!"--it was like some panic fear at his heart. +"Marie-Louise--you do not mean that?" + +"There is no other way," she said. + +"But it is you who do not understand!" he told her frantically. "My +work! Can I not still work anywhere--anywhere where you and I can live +our lives together, anywhere so that the world cannot come between us +again? Somewhere in America and we will begin a new life together. +And is it not you that I need for that work? Is it not you that I must +have if I am to work at all?" + +"I was not with you, Jean, in Paris," she said, and tried to smile, +"and yet all the world knows the name of Jean Laparde." She held out +her hands. "I am going now, Jean--and you must go back to that world. +It was so grand and big, Jean, for you to do what you have done +to-night--but there is _to-morrow_. Jean, dear Jean, in your great +loving impulse you have not counted that. You could not live without +the world you have come to know. You think you could to-night, because +to-night there is only love; but to-morrow all that you would so +splendidly have thrown away would begin to call to you again, and it +would grow stronger and stronger, and you could never forget, and +misery would come." + +"You do not believe me?"--it was like some cruel amazement upon him. +"You do not believe me? It is because once I thought those things +greater than your love! And you do not believe me now, Marie-Louise!" + +"It is because I will not let you spoil your life that I am going," she +said slowly; "it is because I must make you understand that I will not +let you do this thing; because you must, and I must make you--go back." +She stood an instant looking at him, the dark eyes wide and tearless +now, the lips parted bravely in a smile--and then she turned and walked +from him along the deck. + +"Marie-Louise! No!" he cried out hoarsely, and stepped after her. "I +will not go back, Marie-Louise! I will never go back! It is done! +Marie-Louise! Marie-Louise!" + +She did not answer him until she had reached the head of the steerage +companionway that led below--and then for a moment she paused. + +"All your life, Jean," she whispered, "you will be glad of what you +have done to-night, because it was so brave a thing to do; and it will +make you a better man, and I am no more afraid, as once I was, that you +will forget that it is the _bon Dieu_, and not yourself, who has made +you great. And after a little while you will be glad too that I--that +I have gone." + +She was gone! He stood there in a numbed way. She was gone! He could +not seem to realise that. Go back! Go back--and leave Marie-Louise! +Only that one thing was clear out of his dazed and staggered +consciousness. He would not go back! He would never go back! +To-morrow, ay and the to-morrows all through life, Marie-Louise would +find him there! + +He raised his head suddenly, and turned and looked behind him. High +above on that upper deck there seemed a strange confusion--and on the +moment, from the bridge shrilled out an officer's whistle. Then, from +deep down within the ship, the engine-room bell sounded in a muffled +clang; and an instant later dark forms were scurrying around one of the +lifeboats; and now there were shouts, the creak of tackle--and the +vibration of the ship was gone. + +He moved back along the deck to stand close below the rail of the main +deck where, oblivious to the damp and wet now, the passengers in +low-necked gowns, in evening dress, the dance forgotten, were crowding, +jostling and pushing each other in mad excitement. + +A dozen voices spoke at once. + +"Somebody has fallen overboard! ... Who is it? ... Who is it? ... How +did it happen? ... Who is it? ... Who is it?..." + +Jean's brows gathered in perplexed, strained furrows. Myrna and +Monsieur Bliss had made their discovery of course, that was evident; +but to stop the ship, to lower a boat when it was obviously absurd, +when they had every reason to assume that his body by then must be +miles astern! What was the meaning of that? + +The ship was silent, still, motionless now, save for the tumult of the +excited passengers; the lifeboat dropped into the water and rowed +away--and then a queer smile flickered on Jean's lips. Ah, yes! It +was Myrna--mistress of every situation! Her fiance as a _suicide_ was +impossible; an _accident_ of course was quite another thing--that was +only deplorable! She and her father had influence enough with the +captain, in whom no doubt they had confided what they believed to be +the truth, to induce him to carry out, for the benefit of the +passengers and all else on board, the semblance of accident, and the +attempt at rescue; and, besides, as far as the captain was concerned, +was it not the great Laparde, the most famous of his passengers, who +was involved--whose name was to be preserved from infamy and dishonour? +He shrugged his shoulders. What story had that clever brain of Myrna's +devised to fit the case? Had she _seen_ the accident itself? + +"Who is it? ... Who is it?" cried the passengers above him. "How did +it happen? ... Who is it? ... Who is it?..." + +And then a voice above the others, breathless with importance: + +"It was Jean Laparde! He was up on the deck above with Mr. and Miss +Bliss. He dropped his cigarette-holder, it rolled across the deck and +went outside the rail, where the boats are, you know, and the ship +lurched as he stooped to pick it up, and--" + +"And so, you see, Marie-Louise," completed Jean to himself, in +whimsical wistfulness, "and so, you see, Marie-Louise, that Jean +Laparde is dead." + + + + +-- XII -- + +AT THE "GATEWAY" + +What confusion, what noise, what bewilderment--tugs pulling and +snorting as they warped the great liner into her berth; orders shouted; +the cries of passengers leaning from the upper decks to the knot of +people gathered on the pier below; and, distant, like the muffled roll +of a drum, the roar from the city streets! + +Marie-Louise clasped at her little bundle of clothing timidly. For +hours she had stood there on the crowded steerage deck; for hours she +had strained her eyes toward the land, and then at the mighty city +unfolding itself as the liner steamed up the harbour. And she had +gazed long, too, at that majestic, towering figure on the little island +that had evoked such strange emotions from all these people around +her--a figure whose fame must be very great, for of these, who could +not read or write, who were ignorant and poor, who came from so many, +many lands, none, it seemed, even to the little children, but knew and +reached out their arms to it, some laughing in hysteria, and some with +tears, but all with the one word upon their lips that neither dialect +nor tongue confused--liberty! + +It was that they had come for, these Czechs of Moravia, these +Croatians, these Slovenes from the Austrian provinces of Carinthia and +Styria, these Lithuanians and Magyars; it was that, too, that had +brought these Jews from a score of lands where the blessed cross that +Father Anton had taught her to adore symbolised neither love nor rest +for them. How many stories of oppression, and cruelty, and +hopelessness had she listened to on the voyage from such as she could +understand? It was not the dream of money alone that brought them; it +was because, they had told her over and over again, that here they had +heard was the land of freedom, that here they could work with no +tyranny to rob them of their toil or of their souls, that here they +were to know happiness because here was liberty. + +How they laughed, and talked, and sobbed, and whispered around her now! +How they crowded, and pushed, and swayed in their excitement! How +eager some were, how dazed and frightened were others! What a riot of +colour and strange dress the women and the men wore! How they clung to +their bundles, as instinctively she clung to hers! + +What did it mean, that word--liberty? She too, had come for liberty. +She, too, had fled from her native country; she, too, had fled to seek +freedom from the scenes and memories that were there. That day when +she had gone so blindly to the _Gare St. Lazare_ and a train had taken +her to Havre, that day when she had no thought of any definite place to +go save that she must first of all leave Paris and then go far away, it +had seemed like an answer to her perplexity when, in Havre, she had +seen the sign in the window of the steamship office about the ship +sailing for America from there. And she had bought a ticket; and +then--and then that night, here, here on the ship, Jean had come to her. + +Her lips quivered suddenly, and her eyes filled with tears. None, none +but the _bon Dieu_ and herself knew how near she had come that night to +yielding to her love; none else knew how through that brave, splendid +act of Jean's her love had seemed suddenly a thousand-fold greater, +making it that much the harder to deny, as it pleaded with her to +answer the cry of her soul. Oh, it had been so hard, so hard before to +let Jean go, to send him from her--but that night when she had turned +from him here upon the deck it had been as though she were walking out +into some cold, dread place of eternal darkness, where there was no +life, no living thing, and all was utter desolation. Why--why had she +done it? She had asked herself that a thousand times in the days since +then, in the nights when she had lain sleepless in her bunk; and yet, +even while she asked, the answer was always present, always there, +repeating itself over and over again--Jean had not realised what he was +doing, Jean had not realised what he was doing. It was like Jean, so +like the big, brave Jean of the old days to give his all on the impulse +of the moment, and never a thought to what it might mean in the +afterwards. That was why she had sent him away that night--that was +why. She would not have been strong enough to have done it for any +other cause. She had only been strong because of the bitter regret, +the misery that would have come when he began to realise, even with a +few hours of the hardships of the steerage, what he had lost--he who +would have come from comfort, from refinement to where even soap and +water were luxuries; to food that he could not eat, dealt out of huge +kettles into dinner pails; to where there was little light and the air +was foul; to where like cattle in a pen they slept two hundred in a +compartment; to where, instead of servants at his beck and call, there +was cold, brutal contempt--and oftentimes a curse; to where, even to +her, who had not known the luxuries of Jean's life, it had brought +dismay! Yes; in a day of this, even in a few hours of it, with its +terrific contrast, he would have known, and--and his love, great as it +must have been to have prompted his impulse to the sacrifice that he +had tried to make, would not be strong enough to compensate for what he +had lost, to make him happy. And so--and so she had sent him back. +And the _bon Dieu_ had been very good to her to give her the strength +to do it, for she had been right, and she had known Jean better than he +knew himself. She had been right; it had been only impulse, stronger +than himself for the moment, that had brought him to her, only +impulse--for he had gone back. She had not seen him since that night, +not even a glimpse of him amongst the passengers on what little of +those decks above that she could see, though she had looked whenever, +safe from observation herself amongst a crowd of the steerage +passengers, she had ventured out on deck. She would have liked to have +asked about him, but who was there to ask? To the steerage the life of +the great ship was as a thing apart; no news, nothing came to the +steerage--sufficient to the steerage was the babel of its own +hundred-tongues. + +She brushed the tears angrily from her eyes. She should be glad and +thankful that she had not been unfair to Jean, that she had not taken +advantage of that moment of impulse to so tremendous a sacrifice; she +should be glad, not sorrowful--and yet it was not easy to be glad when +the pain in the heart was always there, and there was loneliness that +would not let her spirits be gay or bright. Liberty! What did it +mean, that word--liberty? She had left her native land to seek it--and +what she had found so far could only make the memories keener, add to +them, and bring a greater sadness. + +About her every one was talking, some boisterously, some whose cheeks +were wet, some who swore valiantly, some as though they prayed; but all +eager, all expectant, all with that word "liberty" continuously upon +their lips. It meant that, throughout all the remote places of Europe, +in the mountains, in the valleys, in the plains, in the towns and +villages of countries she had never heard of before, this great new +land of America was known, and meant--liberty. + +She wondered if it could be true, if this could be a land of magic that +transformed all bitterness and misery into sunshine and song. She +wondered if the dreams of all these strange creatures who had come from +so many different worlds to this one because its name was liberty would +find their dreams realised--if there might not be for some a cruel +awakening that would be more than they could bear. This woman who +stood beside her, old before her prime, who was very dirty, who was so +queerly dressed, who crooned incessantly to the child in her arms--what +dreams was she dreaming, what hopes had she, what was it that this new +land was to bring to her? And then a great, tender wave of pity swept +Marie-Louise. They had been standing there so long! And how drawn and +weary the woman's face was, and how her arms must ache! + +"Give me the baby for a little while," she said--and placed her bundle +at her feet, and took the child in her arms. + +And now the confusion around her and about the ship increased. They +had come alongside an enormous shed; and, though she could not see, she +was sure from the noise and commotion that the rich passengers were +getting off. But it was well that she could not see. She was glad of +that. Jean would be amongst them, and she could not have helped +looking, and--and to have watched him go and know that it was for the +last time, would have been but to torture herself beyond her strength. + +She was very tired, for still they were kept standing there for so +long, long a time, until her arms too ached, and the child grew leaden +in its weight. Then the woman took the baby back again, and said +something that Marie-Louise could not understand--but the touch of the +brown hand as it patted gratefully on her arm brought a quick mist to +her eyes, because it was human, a human touch, and out of all the +strangeness around her, out of her loneliness it seemed so priceless a +thing to win. + +And then there came harsh, strident commands, and the press around her, +carrying her with it, began to surge forward; and presently she found +herself inside the shed on the pier--and then it was like the deck of +the ship again, for she stood and waited so long and so interminably. +Why did they still have to wait? It could not be here that one must be +examined before one could go out into those streets whose rumble and +noise was louder now! Some one on board, a man who knew a few words of +French, who had made the voyage before, had told her that every one +must be examined; only he had said it was in a vast hall where there +were two big American flags that hung out over it from the gallery, and +that men sat at high desks at the end of long rows of benches, and that +one was towed to it in droll-looking barges that had two decks and were +all closed in like arks. So it could not be here--that place! And +then, more attentive to the details about her, she remembered the +_octroi_ when she had entered Paris from Bernay-sur-Mer. One's things +too must be examined--and she opened her bundle until one of the men +with uniforms should have come and looked at it. + +After that, she waited again; and then she was carried forward once +more with the movement of those about her; and, passing out of the +shed, was crowded onto a barge such as the one that the man on the ship +had described to her. + +And then here again they waited; for all these people could not get on +one barge, even though it held so many and was so closely packed--and +there were other barges to be filled. She could not see very much, for +she was in the centre of the crowd on the barge's upper deck, and could +only occasionally obtain a glimpse through the little windows that were +in rows on each side--but, at last, she could tell by the motion that +they had started. + +There did not seem to be quite so much talking, or chattering, or +confusion now. It was as though, hanging over all these people, had +come a subdued sense of disquiet and trepidation, the sense of some +ordeal to be faced, vaguely grasped, save that it loomed ominously, an +unknown, perhaps impassable barrier erected against the fulfilment of +their hopes; and men and women alike were nervously beginning to handle +the white cards with the big red figures on them, which every one had +attached to his or her clothing. + +Marie-Louise found herself involuntarily doing the same--staring at the +little punch-holes along the bottom edge of the card that the doctor on +the ship had put there, one for each day. And there was her name +written there at the top--"Marie-Louise Bernier." And underneath it, +"Paris"--for she had given that as her last residence, because in this +new country none was to know that she had come from Bernay-sur-Mer. +For who could tell what these people here might not do? They might +write to Bernay-sur-Mer, and then all her efforts would have been in +vain, for some one in Bernay-sur-Mer would write to Father Anton, +and--the card dropped from her fingers, and dangled by its string from +the button of her blouse. + +The hot, scalding tears were in her eyes again. Memories! Always +memories! + +On the faces of those around her, so many of them anxious now, was +written the question that lips in so many different languages were +whispering to each other. + +"Will they let me in? What will they do? Will they let me in? Will +they let me in?" + +Liberty--for them! Yes, they would go in, as she would go in--and some +of them, perhaps many of them, would find what they had sought. But +she--even here in this strange country, where she could understand no +single word that was spoken, where, surely, now that Jean was gone +again, there would be nothing, no familiar scenes to come to her to +revive those memories--could she find liberty in some day learning to +forget? + +It did not seem so now, for it seemed as though all her strength, her +resistance had gone out from her that night in her struggle to send +Jean away, and that it had not come back again. Why--oh, why had the +_bon Dieu_ sent Jean upon that ship? It had been so cruelly hard +before! It did not change anything that he was in the same country, +for he would not stay long, and the country was so many times bigger +than France that they were utterly separated, but it was making it so +hard to be brave now---so much harder--so much harder! And then +suddenly she lifted her head proudly, even though the lips would still +quiver, and though the lashes of her eyes were still wet. What was it, +that old and simple faith, that her Uncle Gaston in his rugged, honest +way had taught her? Yes, the words came back, and they came now like a +benediction to send her on her way with hope and comfort--"to love God +and be never afraid." + +She kept repeating that to herself all the rest of the way--until she +was leaving the barge again, and, with the hundreds of her +fellow-passengers, still so curious a sight to her in their many +costumes, began to file in through the doorway of a huge building that +was red-roofed and had towers. And here, once inside, they went very +slowly at first, for they must pass between railings one at a time, +while the doctors looked at each in turn. This frightened her a +little, but they did nothing more to her than to stamp her card; and +then, after that, there was a big, broad staircase--and then, as she +climbed to the top, the vast hall was before her, with its many rows of +benches, and its two great flags hanging out from the balcony, that the +man had told her about. + +What a buzz of noise--so many voices; the constant, shuffling tread of +feet; the cry of an infant; the stir and movement of such a crowd of +people! And the sounds, floating upward, seemed to form themselves +into a strange, humming echo that was forever swirling around and +around at the roof of the hall over the gallery. It bewildered her. A +man in uniform--there were so many men in uniform!--spoke to her. She +did not understand; but somehow, nevertheless, she found herself seated +on one of the long benches that ran nearly the whole length of the hall. + +For a little while she remained quiet, staring down at her bundle that +she had placed upon the floor. And then, as her confusion and +bewilderment gradually passed away, she began to look around her. She +had never imagined that any hall could be so big--it was bigger even +than that place with the marble staircase where she had seen the great +reception to Jean. How many hundreds would it hold? Still the people +who had been with her on the ship kept coming up the stairs, and still +the benches were not nearly filled! + +She turned and looked in the other direction, to where, quite close to +her, for she was almost at the head of the line, an officer sat at a +high desk, with one of the passengers standing before him. And there +were many of these desks, each with an officer seated at it, just as +many as there were rows of benches, for there was one at the head of +every line; and behind these there was an open space beneath the +gallery; and against the wall of the building there were some little +railed-off enclosures; and doors that were constantly opening and +shutting, one of which, at least, seemed to lead into a corridor; and, +too, there was another wide stairway, down which some of those who had +come with her were already passing. + +Her eyes came back to the inspector at the head of her own line, and +she watched him eagerly, as he kept writing all the time he talked to +the man who stood in front of him. It would be her turn in a moment. +What was he doing? What was he saying? And then, as she watched, the +man in front of the inspector swung a large, ungainly valise to his +shoulder, and passed behind the desk, and crossed the open space +beyond, and went down the stairs. + +There was only one more now before her--another man. Her heart began +to pound rapidly. She was not afraid of the inspector at the desk; she +was not afraid that he would refuse to let her through--why should she +be? It was not that--it was only that the moment had come now when she +was to go out into this new land, and face new conditions where even +the language was unknown to her, and--and begin her life over again. +It was only that this moment seemed so big with finality--the threshold +between the future and the past. + +It was her turn now. Mechanically she took up her bundle, and stepped +to the desk. "To love God and be never afraid"--she was saying that to +herself again. + +"Your name?" demanded the inspector. He spoke in French, in quick +appreciation of her nationality. + +"Marie-Louise Bernier," she answered in a low voice, her eyes on the +bundle in her arms. + +"Your age? And"--he added kindly--"do not be nervous." + +She raised her eyes to smile gratefully back at him--and then, with a +cry that rang and rang again through the immense hall and stilled all +else to silence, she flung herself madly past the desk, and ran across +the open space behind it. + +"_Jean! Jean! Jean!_" + +A figure, grimy, dirty, disreputable, whose hands were manacled, rose, +with an answering cry, from within one of the railed-off enclosures. + +"Jean! Jean!"--she had reached him now, and was sobbing, clinging to +him. "Jean--you--here! These things on your wrists! And your face is +so white, Jean! Jean, Jean, what does it mean? Jean--" + +And then she was conscious of a rush of men, and hands were upon her +trying to tear her away--and then, with a strength that was greater, +that seemed to mock at the strength of all these hands that snatched at +her, she was whirled off her feet, and Jean, towering there in all his +great might, snarling like some beast at bay, was between her and the +others. + +"_Let her alone_!"--Jean's steel-locked wrists and clenched hands were +raised above his head. "Let her alone!"--his voice was hoarse, low +with a murderous fury. "I'll kill, do you understand--with these"--he +shook the steel bracelets on his wrists--"I'll kill--the first +man--that tries to take her away!" + +Before the white, livid face, the passion in the mighty, quivering +form, they fell back instinctively; and for an instant that tense, +bated silence fell again upon the hall--and then a child cried +peevishly--and then a voice spoke authoritatively. + +She did not understand what was said; but she was clinging to Jean +again, and the crowd of men in uniform were going away, leaving only +one or two near them. + +"What was it? What did he say?" she asked wildly. + +"That there must be something in common between us--and to bring us +both together before the special inquiry board," he answered +mechanically--and because he could not spread his hands apart, he laid +them, still trembling with the fury that had been upon him, both +together on her shoulder, and drew her to him. + +It terrified her, the sight of those manacles on his wrists. Why--why +were they there? What were they going to do with him? What was this +inquiry--was it to send him to prison? + +"Jean, what is it?" she whispered piteously. "What does it mean? What +are they going to do with you?" + +"I do not know," he said, and smiled at her. "I only know that for a +little while at least you are here with me again." + +"Jean--answer me!" she cried out in her fear. + +"But I do not know what they will do," he said again. "I am a +stowaway. They caught me that night on the ship when I was trying to +find some place to sleep--and, _pardieu_, they were not too gentle +until one or two were hurt!--and then they made me work my passage in +the stokehole." + +It seemed so hard to think! Some wonder, that was a glorious wonder, +was in her heart. + +"You--you did not go back, Jean; I--I thought you had gone back, +Jean"--it was as though she were telling, in a low, whispering way, +some great, glad, joyous thing to herself. And then there came a +sudden whiteness to her face, but her head was lifted bravely until her +eyes met his. "Jean, tell them!" she said steadily. "You must tell +them now who you are. Tell them, Jean, and they will let you go." + +"Tell them now!" Jean cried--and shook his head, and drew his shoulders +back. "Tell them--_now_! Did I tell them that night, Marie-Louise? +Look!"--he thrust out his handcuffed wrists before him. "Is this not +proof, Marie-Louise, that I will never tell them, that I will never go +back--alone? If the world is ever to hear of Jean Laparde again, it +will be because he has won back the only thing he has to live +for--you--you, Marie-Louise, my little Marie-Louise. I told them my +name was Jacques Legault--and Jacques Legault I will always be until +you have made Jean Laparde live again, until--until--you are his +wife--as in God's sight you have been, Marie-Louise, since we were +little children, as in God's sight you were when I swore that oath to +Gaston as he died, as in God's sight you have been though I was a +traitor to that oath. Look, Marie-Louise! Look at these things again, +these irons on my wrists, are they not proof that there is nothing now, +that I will have nothing, that I will know nothing but your love? Ah, +Marie-Louise, once you said that I belonged to France, and you bade me +go alone and work; and I forgot France, and love, and there was only +Jean Laparde, and I forgot the God that gave the gift--but now, +Marie-Louise, look up into my face and answer, shall I work this time +for France and you and love, or shall I never work again? +Marie-Louise, see"--his voice broke in its passionate pleading--"they +are coming! Marie-Louise, do you not know now that there is only +you--only you, Marie-Louise--for always?" + +She did not answer. They were taking Jean, and taking her somewhere +now. She walked almost blindly. Jean had not gone back that night, +and--and those things on his wrists were proof that--that he would +never go back. Proof that, whatever might happen now, whatever he was +going now to face, whatever they might do with him, the choice he had +made that night was made for all his life; that she, even if she would, +could not alter it now--proof that his love was so great and wonderful +and strong and big that nothing could bend or break or shatter +it--proof it was a love so pure that it had risen in sacrifice so high +as to make a glory of the years when he had forgotten it! Yes; she +knew now! Her heart, and her soul, and the _bon Dieu_ told her so! +What was it he had said that night on the ship--that even in those +years she had been his inspiration? Yes; she knew that, too, for she +had seen it, and others had seen it. It was true! And he had said +that he would never work again--never do that great, wondrous work of +his again--alone--without her--never return to it--without her. And he +had said that the _grand monde_ that once had taken her place in his +life, the _grand monde_ in which she could have no part, was of the +past now--the past to which he would never return--no matter what she +did or said now--to which he would never return. + +They were in a corridor; and from the corridor they entered a room, +where there were three men seated in a row at desks. These men began +to talk amongst themselves; but it was only when an interpreter, who +was also present, put questions to Jean that she could understand +anything. + +"To love God and be never afraid"--she tried to think of that again, +tried to say it over and over. But she _was_ afraid. There was +terror; and, besides terror, there was that new wonder in her +soul--and, mingling, they brought confusion upon her, and at first even +the words in her own tongue conveyed no meaning, and possessed for her +only an unnatural sense of familiarity. And then, in snatches, she +began to catch the drift of what was going on around her--a stowaway in +any case was almost invariably deported ... undesirable for other +reasons ... murderous assault upon one of the crew when he was +discovered ... his outburst of fury and threat of attack upon the +officers only a few moments ago ... medical examination ... stab wound +in side barely healed ... a vicious character.... + +The wound! The wound in Jean's side! She had forgotten that! It +brought a sharp cry to her lips, that caused them all to turn and look +at her. But she did not care. What if they looked! She was looking +at Jean--looking at the gaunt, white, haggard-faced giant, who smiled +and shrugged his shoulders to every question that was put to him. His +wound--barely healed! What must those days and nights of torturing, +brutal work in the stokehole of that ship have meant to him--and she +had thought so pitiful a thing as an hour of the coarse food, the +paltry misery of the steerage, would have made him falter and regret! + +They kept on questioning him--but she was not listening now. Her soul +was whispering to her: "It is Jean; it is Jean; Jean that you love; +Jean that you have loved all your life, all your life, who has done +this for you. It is Jean who has lived through black hours where only +a courage and a heroic love, so splendid and so true that it will last +while life will last, has kept him from the single word, the single act +that could so easily have brought back to him again everything in the +world--save you." Her eyes were filling with tears. It was +Jean--Jean--Jean--who had done this for her. Jean who stood there with +irons upon his wrists--for her. Jean who had-- + +"Who is this woman?" the interpreter demanded abruptly of Jean. "Is +she any relation to you?" + +There was no answer--save only in Jean's eyes, as he turned and looked +at her. + +"Tell him, Marie-Louise," Jean's eyes seemed to say. "Tell him, +Marie-Louise, for it is you who must answer now--for always." + +"You, then," the interpreter asked, addressing her. "Are you any +relation to this man?" + +She felt her face grow very white. + +"You must tell the truth," the interpreter cautioned sharply. "It is +evident on the face of it, from what happened out there in the hall, +that there is something between you. Tell the truth for your own sake. +This man is to be deported, and he will not be allowed to come back. +Do you understand that? If he is any relation to you, say so--unless +you want to be separated. Well?" + +Separated! Marie-Louise raised her head a little--and looked at +Jean--and at the interpreter--and at the officers. + +"I"--oh, it was true; true as life was true; true as love was true; +true in God's sight, as Jean had said it was true; true because all +through the years to come, through the sunshine and the storm and until +death it would be true!--"I--I am his wife," she said. + +"Marie-Louise!" + +She heard Jean breathe her name, she heard the half sob upon his lips, +she felt the cold steel of the handcuffs touch her wrist as his hand +found and closed on hers--but she was looking only at the officers, +hanging, her heart stilled in suspense, upon their every act, trying to +read their faces where she could not understand their words. And then, +involuntarily, because they told her nothing, because the seconds as +they passed were as eternities, she flung out her hands to the +interpreter. + +"What are they saying? What are they saying?" she cried imploringly. + +But it was Jean who answered--and his voice was lifted as though in +song, radiant, triumphant, deathless. + +"You are to be sent back to France, Marie-Louise, Marie-Louise--with +me." + + + + +-- XIII -- + +DAWN + +Strange noises! The myriad voices of the ship talking one to +another--the creak and grind of girders and stringers; the grunting, +faintly from far above, of the wooden superstructure; the whine and +complaint of the deck-beams as the vessel lurched to the sea; the +sibilant hiss and whir of the racing screws lifting from the water; the +swift infuriated response of the unfettered engines, chattering +angrily, as it were, in wrath for the scurvy trick played upon them; +the eternal dull, moaning throb, throb, throb from everywhere, that +seemed finally to absorb these voices unto itself and stand as +spokesman for them all. Strange noises--a medley of pain, of travail, +of strain, human almost in its outcry, seeking relief from unendurable +effort and distress. + +For days and days they had talked like that, and Jean had +listened--listened through the watches of the day and night, listened +through the hours of his own toil and pain, and the cursings of the +raw-boned, wizened apparition that came and went through the murky +gloom of the bunker, and croaked continually like some ill-omened thing +for coal, coal, coal, lifting a brutal fist at times to enforce the +words. But, too, as he had listened, through the plaint of this +strange medley had come the lilt, underlying all, of another refrain +that all these voices seemed to sing--a refrain that found a deeper +echo in his own soul, that seemed to make the kin between him and these +inanimate things the closer, a refrain of hope, a refrain in which lay +immortal happiness. + +"In five days ... in three days ... in one day more we shall reach +France, France, France--and the end of strife--France--and the end of +strife." + +And now that refrain was changed again, and it made his heart leap, and +he laughed out in pure joy, as he swept the great sweat beads from his +forehead. + +"To-day--to-day--_to-day_ we shall reach France--reach France--reach +France!" + +Over yonder through the murk of the dimly lighted bunker, through the +swirling coal dust, another trimmer shovelled his barrow full of coal, +and then the wheel _clacked, clacked_ over the steel deck plates, and +steel rang against steel as the barrow was whipped over on its side to +send its load tumbling down the chute to the boiler-room below--but +Jean's own barrow lay idly for a moment beside the black, mountainous +heap of coal, and his shovel hung idly in his hand. + +"To-day--to-day! France, and the end of strife!"--how joyously the +voices trilled in his ears! "France, and life to begin anew! +France--and Marie-Louise! France, and--" + +"You damned loafer!" snarled a voice beside him--and quick, with the +words, a stinging blow fell upon Jean's face. + +It was the raw-boned, wizened engineer--the man above all others who +was responsible for his, Jean's, presence there in the bunker again on +this return voyage to France--the man who had made of the voyage a +living hell. Marie-Louise's money, her attempt to pay his passage back +and save him from this had counted for nothing--against this man. Two +trimmers had deserted almost on the hour of sailing--he, Jean, was +lawful prey--a stowaway being deported--and there had been a vicious +smirk of satisfaction on the man's face, reminiscent of Jean's +unruliness that night on the outward voyage when he had been +discovered, as the engineer had claimed him for one of the vacancies. + +The shovel clanged on the steel plates of the deck as it dropped from +Jean's hands. He whirled like a flash, and, grasping the engineer by +the shoulders, lifted the other off his feet, and held him as powerless +as in the clutch of an iron vise; held the other off at arms' length in +his mighty strength to wriggle impotently; held the other there--and +laughed out with that wondrous surge of joy that was upon him. + +"I will not hurt you!" cried Jean--and laughed in a big, glad way. "I +am too happy! See, I will not hurt you! I am too happy! Do you know +what it is to be happy? To love everything--to have your heart +singing, singing all the time! Ah, if you could but know! But, go +now--for see, I will not hurt you! I am too happy!"--and laughing +again, he released the man. + +The engineer stood for an instant gazing at Jean. Happy! This great +giant of a man, in torn clothes, the sweat rolling furrows down the +grime-smeared face--this man, a stowaway on the voyage out--this man, +deported from America--this man, forced to work here on the voyage +back, who was to be treated, and had been treated like a dog--this +man--_happy_! Happy! Was the man mad? The engineer, muttering in his +amazement, wondering and dazed and awed at the strength that had made +of him a puny thing, edged away, and disappeared in the gloom. + +Two little incandescents burned yellow from the stanchions +overhead--there was no other light. There was nothing but the choking +swirl of the coal dust, the rasp of the shovels, the clack of the +barrow wheels, the clang as they were dumped--and the voices that told +of France, and life, and love, and joy again. + +"To-day--to-day!"--how the words rang in his heart and soul and mind +like some silver-throated clarion call! + +To-day, when the shores of France should loom in sight, the last of all +barriers between Marie-Louise and himself would be swept away forever. +There, on Ellis Island, they had kept him and Marie-Louise apart; and +here on the ship again, the same ship that had brought them +out--"guests" of the company that was forced by the government to +return them to France--they had seen each other little. For, though it +had not been as on the outward voyage when he was held a prisoner and +closely watched even when he was off duty, and though he was now at +least as free as any of the crew, it had only been at odd moments +snatched here and there, usually in the early morning hours while it +was still dark and he had gone off watch to the steerage deck, and she +had come up from below to meet him, that he had seen Marie-Louise--that +was all, the very little when their souls cried out for so much, that +they had been together. + +But what did it matter now? To-day--to-day all that was to be ended! +To-day--how his heart leaped, and his being thrilled at the +thought!--to-day they were to be together for always, to-day was to +know the fulfilment of their love. + +And then, too, there was another joy--the joy of a new and beautiful +thing that had come into his life. The joy, pure, without alloy, +unsmirched by sordid aims--the joy of work. How it brought a feverish +excitement, how his fingers tingled for the touch of clay, how he +yearned to give expression to that with which his soul was now aflame, +the statue of dreams, real before him now, that mighty picture, that +splendid allegory that should tell his beloved France that Jean Laparde +lived again--but lived a new Laparde, and, if the good God willed it +so, worthy in a humble way of the great gift that was his, worthy in a +glad, tender way of the love that, so steadfast and so true, so +unselfish and so pure, had saved him from himself. Yes, it had come to +him--come to him at last, the base of that statue that he had never +been able to see before. It had come to him here in the gloom, and +struggle, and sweat, and toil of this miserable coal bunker; come to +him, leaving him to stand a chastened man before the picture that was +held up, perfect in every detail, before his mind's eye for him to gaze +upon, leaving him to tremble with emotion at the thought that he should +give it to the world to see. + +It was a secret yet from Marie-Louise--a secret that was to be told +to-night. There were to be just they two--and--yes, Father Anton, who +would be there to bless them--to know. No one else, least of all +Monsieur and Mademoiselle Bliss, who would in that case come hurrying +back from America. No one else to know that he lived until the dream +statue was done. There was the dream statue to make, and then all +France, and all the world, if it would, should know that Jean Laparde +still lived; for then the world would understand why the Jean Laparde +it knew--had died. + +He filled his barrow, emptied it, and filled it again--and worked +on--and, strangest sound of all, strange indeed for that dark, joyless +place, as he worked, he sang. + +Came at last, faintly, the four double strokes of the ship's bell. +Eight bells--four o'clock in the morning--the watch was ended. Jean +handed his barrow and shovel to his relief, and, mounting the +succession of steep, iron-runged perpendicular ladders, climbed upward +from the ship's black depths, and made his way to the steerage deck. + +It was dark here--with the darkness before the dawn. A fresh wind was +blowing, and he put on his jacket; and, leaning over the side, watched +the racing waves, and laughed at the buoyant lift of the deck beneath +his feet, and threw back his head to drink into his lungs for the first +time in many hours the sweet, fresh, God-given air. + +"Marie-Louise! To-day--Marie-Louise! Marie-Louise!" his heart was +saying. + +And presently she came along the deck, and her hand stole into his. It +was too dark to see her face; but her hair, truant in the wind, swept +his cheek, and close to him he could feel her heart beat against his +own. And as he held her there, there came upon him, softly, like some +sacred presence, moving the soul of him with an holy joy, the wonder of +her, and the great, immeasurable, priceless worth of the love she had +given him. + +"Marie-Louise," he whispered tenderly. "Your lips, _ma bien-aimee_!" + +And in the darkness she raised her face to his, and he kissed her--and +suddenly he found his eyes were wet. Glad tears they were; and yet, +too, a pledge between himself and God that he would hold her always as +he held her now, her life and happiness his dearest trust--a pledge +that in itself asked grace and pardon in contrite penitence for that +pledge of other days that he had broken. + +His arms were around her. God, the sorrow and the misery he had +brought to her, who had so freely laid aside her own happiness that +he--that he-- He drew her closer still. + +"Marie-Louise, are you happy?" he cried out, and it was his soul that +spoke, yearning, pleading fiercely for the assurance that meant all in +life to him now, the assurance that alone could stand, radiant and +thankful, where before, in keen, bitter pangs of remorse, had stood the +memories of the past--of her betrayal. "Marie-Louise, are you happy?" +he cried out again. + +"I did not know that one could be so happy, Jean," she said softly--and +her hand lifted to touch his face, and linger there, smoothing the hair +back from his forehead. + +They were silent for a little while in each other's arms--a deep peace, +a quiet thankfulness in their hearts. + +And then Jean spoke again. + +"Look, Marie-Louise!" he said, and pointed out far over the waters to +the horizon line ahead. "It is the dawn. _Our_ dawn, Marie-Louise. +The dawn of the day when we shall be together always." + +Grey it was in the east; faint and timorous streaks of light that +seemed like skirmishers flung out in tentative attack upon the massed +blackness of the night. + +Her hands tightened about him. + +"To-day! Oh, Jean! It is like a dream--like a wonderful dream that +the _bon Dieu_ has brought to us." + +He drew her head to his shoulder. Presently, when in the east that +greyness should have grown pink and golden with awakening day, he would +drink in the pure, glorious beauty of the sweet, chaste face, look into +the dark, brave, tender eyes and read in her soul the happiness that +God had restored to them; but now he could only hold her close and feel +the lithe young form against his own, and feel her heart throb against +his breast. + +"A dream, little one, that shall always last," he said. "Ah, +Marie-Louise, it is our dawn, our day, the beginning of a new life, +_cherie_, where there shall be only love--our love, yours and mine, the +love of old friends, of those we love, the love of work--ah, you shall +see what that will be!" His voice thrilled suddenly. "You shall see, +for now Bidelot shall have that 'touch' he asked for--for now I know! +I know! It was you I modelled, Marie-Louise--your face, your form--and +they were perfect, beautiful; but I was blind to what was most +beautiful of all! I modelled only features--and I forgot the soul, for +I had forgotten love, and I could not see the dearer things. I forgot +the soul that should soften so tenderly and refine the courage and the +resolution and the purity of that dear face of yours and make nobility +divine. I forgot--" + +"Jean!"--her fingers were laid tightly upon his lips. "Jean, you must +not say such things! Jean, Jean, I am so far from that--so far from +that!" + +He could just see her face now in the growing light--see the eyes shine +through a mist of happy tears, see those perfect lips quiver in their +smile, as she shook her head. + +"But you shall see!" he told her eagerly. "A little while in +Paris--ah, Marie-Louise, that is a secret that I have for you!--a +little while there, and then you shall see! And all France shall +see--and France shall tell you that it is so! Ah, Marie-Louise, +perhaps some day they will forget Jean Laparde; but France shall always +remember one who is worthier far, and in that one see its hope, its +inspiration and its glory, for France shall never forget--Marie-Louise!" + +She had slipped from his arms. Her face was full of wonder, and upon +it fell the soft glow of light that now was tinging the eastern sky. +How pure, how brave, how beautiful she was! How love shone in the eyes +that were like Heaven's stars; how the soft light seemed to caress her +face and rejoice in the radiant happiness that was there, a happiness +that even her wondering bewilderment for the moment seemed to enhance! +How the strong, young form swung free and lithesome to the lifting +deck, and found a wondrous joy in its own glorious virility! + +"Jean, what do you mean?" she said breathlessly. + +"You shall know!" he laughed, and laughed because there was only joy +and gladness in all the world--in the waves that tumbled and frolicked +and played, and tossed their white manes at each other and the ship; in +the breeze that sang merrily its way along on its busy errand into the +great everywhere; in the vibrant throb of the mighty ship, in that +spokesman's voice--for it was to be to-day--to-day! "You shall know, +Marie-Louise--to-night, when Father Anton is there to hear, and has +blessed us, and made Marie-Louise my little wife! And then that little +while in Paris that you will understand--and then--_home_! Ah, +Marie-Louise, can you not see it now--the blue water, blue with the +wonderful colour that only God can make, and the white beach where we +played when we were little children, and the boats, Marie-Louise, and +the brave, true, loyal friends! Home, Marie-Louise, home, home, +home--to Bernay-sur-Mer! Ah, is not God good? We shall go home, _ma +bien-aimee_--and there we shall live, and there I shall work for you, +and France, and love, and there old Bidelot and those who really love +the things we do shall come at times to make us proud and happy! Ah, +it will be a _grand monde_, Marie-Louise, a _grand monde_ of wealth and +riches, and a very proud _grand monde_, careful of those who shall have +the entree there--for it shall be a _grand monde_ where you, my little +Marie-Louise, are queen, a _grand monde_ of love and happiness." + +Purple and golden and pink and crimson was the east--and over the +horizon rim rose the sun. And it mounted higher, and the dawn was +gone, and the day had come. + +"Look!" he said suddenly. + +And a cry rose to Marie-Louise's lips; and her eyes grew dim and misty +again until she could no longer see. + +"It is the land! It is France!" she whispered. + +It was light now, men and women were moving about the steerage deck, he +could no longer hold her in his arms; but, standing there at the ship's +side, her hand was tightly clasped in his. + +There were glad words on Jean's lips: + +"It is France, Marie-Louise--and home." + + + + +-- XIV -- + +THE STATUE OF DREAMS + +Four months had passed. The spring had come. France mourned for Jean +Laparde. Old Bidelot shook his grizzled head, and pushed away, with a +curiously reproachful motion of his hand, the mass of sketches and +designs that lay upon the desk before him. If France grieved for the +loss of one of her most brilliant sons, the great critic of France +grieved besides for the loss of a personal friend that he had loved. +Of these competitive designs that he had been appointed to judge for +the statue with which France was to commemorate Jean Laparde--none +would do! Not one! Not one, but was so far from the genius of Jean's +own work that there seemed something mocking and incongruous in the +thought that it should aspire to perpetuate and typify the work of the +master-sculptor who was gone! Not one would do--and meanwhile they +besieged him, those who had submitted their designs, to cast Jean's +mantle upon them! They came at all hours; they waited interminably on +his door-step for him to return; they buttonholed him on the streets +and in the cafes to urge their claims and to explain the allegory of +their conceptions, lest some subtle beauty in their work might have +escaped his eye! One would not think they would do that--eh? That it +was not dignified? No? Well--there was the mantle of Jean Laparde! + +"_Mon Dieu_!" sighed Bidelot heavily--and suddenly raised his head at a +timid knocking upon the door. Here was another of them then, no doubt! +He had been wrong to let his servant take the afternoon, and leave his +apartment so unguarded that his very door was at their mercy! "Well, +come!" he called out, querulously--but the next instant he had risen, +and was smiling, as he extended his hand. It was Father Anton. "Ah, +Father Anton!" he cried. "This is a pleasure! This is a pleasure +indeed! I do not often see you these days! As a matter of fact--let +me see--not since Monsieur Bliss went away to America, and the evenings +at his house were at an end." + +"That is so," agreed Father Anton. "But then, I have been very busy; +and besides, for a little while, I was in Bernay-sur-Mer." + +"_Tiens_! So! But, tell me, what is the news from Monsieur Bliss? +When will he return?" + +"I do not know," Father Anton replied. "He has said nothing about it +in his letters; but I have a letter to write him to-day, that may +perhaps bring him back at once." + +"Then write it, my dear Father Anton--write it, by all means!" Bidelot +burst out with a vehemence that, if exaggerated, was at least sincere, +as he waved his hand helplessly toward the desk. "I am in despair! I +have been on the point of writing Monsieur Bliss myself." + +Father Anton's eyes followed the direction of the gesture, and fixed +interrogatively on the desk. + +"The competitive designs," explained Bidelot. "None are worthy! It is +tragic!" + +But now Father Anton smiled, and shook his head, and laid his hand on +Bidelot's arm. + +"But Jean still lives," he said, in his gentle way. "Jean is not dead." + +"It is the Church that speaks," old Bidelot answered. "I know what you +mean. That is all very well, and it is also true in a material sense +that men like Jean Laparde do not die; but what of the work that he had +yet to do? What of that, Monsieur le Cure? Will you say that his work +was finished? Then I, who went there every day, who knew so well, who +looked for that final master-touch that was yet to come--I tell you, +no! He had still his masterpiece before him! And then, with that +achieved"--the caustic old critic's hand swept a dozen sketches from +the desk to the floor--"bah, he would have no need of these in any +case!--but with that achieved, then, I tell you then, that"--his hands +dropped to his sides, and he shrugged his shoulders. "Ah, well, I had +thought to see it before I died; and yet I, who am an old man, whose +work is over, am still alive, and Jean Laparde is dead. Will you +explain that, Monsieur le Cure?" + +Father Anton's smile now was one of kindly amusement. + +"But Jean is not dead," he said again. "It is to tell you that, that I +have come." + +"Hey!" cried Bidelot. He stared at Father Anton in startled and amazed +incredulity. "Hey!" he cried hoarsely, and grasped with both hands at +Father Anton's shoulders. "What is this you say? Are you mad, +Monsieur le Cure? Not dead! You say that Jean Laparde is not dead! +It is impossible! It is inconceivable!" + +"And yet," said Father Anton, still smiling, "since I married him at +the studio--eh? And since I am here now from him with a message for +you!" + +"Married! At the studio!" Old Bidelot gazed wildly around him. "My +hat!" he ejaculated excitedly. "Where is my hat? I will go at once! +At once! Jean--at the studio! It is not possible--but I will go!" + +"Yes," Father Anton nodded, "we will go to the studio, for that is what +Jean wanted you to do. But Jean himself is no longer there." + +Old Bidelot, already halfway to the door, stopped abruptly and whirled +around. + +"Not there! Then--then what? He is not dead! He is married! He is +at the studio! He is not at the studio! I do not understand! I +understand nothing!" + +"I will explain it all to you," Father Anton told him soothingly. "But +let us go. It will take time to tell it, for it is a long story, and +we can talk on the way." + +"Yes--well, then! Well, then! But make haste!" Bidelot dragged at +the skirt of Father Anton's _soutane_, and led the way from the +apartment, exclaiming as he went. Then, as they reached the street, he +caught Father Anton's arm and shook it almost as he would a refractory +child's. "Now, then! Now, then--tell me!" + +"But be calm, Monsieur Bidelot; I pray you to be calm!" expostulated +Father Anton gently. "See"--stepping out--"I will tell you as we walk +along. Well, then--listen! One night, a little over four months ago, +Hector came to my rooms in such excitement that I thought he was ill. +He told me that Jean had come back. Like you, I could not believe it. +I hurried there--I ran. It was true! It was Jean--not like the Jean +that went away; but like the Jean when you first saw him, the Jean of +Bernay-sur-Mer. And with him was--ah, but what amazement!--was my +little Marie-Louise--no, Jean's Marie-Louise, for I married them there +that night, and--" + +"But," interrupted Bidelot, gesticulating with his hat, for he had +forgotten to put it on, "but, still I do not understand! Over four +months ago! And since then? Where has he been since then?" + +"He has been working there at the studio in secret," Father Anton +answered. + +"Working! Ah! Let us hurry--faster then!" urged Bidelot eagerly. +"But why has he gone away? Why did he not wait? But +to-morrow--eh--to-morrow, he will be back to-morrow?" + +"No," said Father Anton slowly. "I do not think Jean will come back +any more to Paris." + +"Monsieur le Cure," spluttered Bidelot, halting suddenly in the middle +of the street, "what is the matter with you? Enough of these riddles! +Jean not come any more to Paris! I can understand nothing!" + +"But you would understand," said Father Anton patiently, "if only you +would let me tell you. See now, listen--it is the story as Jean told +it to me that night"--and, as he took old Bidelot's arm, and they +walked on again, Father Anton, smiling sometimes radiantly, fumbling +sometimes with his spectacles, told of the old days in Bernay-sur-Mer, +of Marie-Louise, of how she came to Paris, of how Jean "died" that +night at sea, and of how they came to France again. And they were at +the studio and mounting the steps, as Father Anton ended. + +"And so," he said, "and so, that night I married Jean and Marie-Louise. +And what days after that! If you could but have seen Jean in the joy +of his work, and Marie-Louise there beside him! And I must needs go to +Bernay-sur-Mer to buy back Marie-Louise's house without her knowing it, +and see to the building of an _atelier_ to be added to it. And--it is +there they went this morning--to live." + +And Bidelot was very quiet now, and his eyes were wet. + +"I understand," he said, as Father Anton opened the door with a key. +"But"--shaking his head a little--"even in Bernay-sur-Mer Jean will be +famous, and the world will follow to Bernay-sur-Mer." + +"That is perhaps true, and it would be a sad thing if it were +otherwise," said Father Anton, with his rare, grave smile, "for there +is a pride that is pure, and a joy like no other joy in the tribute +that is paid to one for work well done. And if the world follows to +Bernay-sur-Mer, it can be only to the life that it will find there, the +life in which Marie-Louise has her glad place, a life that the world, +as you speak of it, will never mould or change." + +They passed in across the hall, and entered the salon, and walked down +its length to the portieres that hid the _atelier_ from view--but here +Bidelot paused. + +"Wait!" he said. "Tell me one thing more. Why has Jean stayed here in +Paris to work in secret like this for all these months since he came +back?" + +"I think you will find the answer here," said Father Anton--and, +reaching out his hand, drew the portieres quietly apart. + +And Bidelot, with a low, sudden cry, stepped forward into the +_atelier_--and after that stood still, and neither spoke nor moved. + +Two life-sized figures were before him--a woman, and a man. And the +woman, a fishergirl, stood as on a perilous, wave-swept ledge, and +leaning forward was stretching out her hands; and at her feet, from +storm-lashed waters that swirled around him, rose the head and +shoulders of the man, one hand clasped in both of hers, the fingers of +the other clawing into the crevice of the rock, the muscles of the bare +arm, where the shirt had been torn away, standing out like whip-cords +as he drew himself to safety. And as Bidelot gazed, the studio, the +surroundings, all were gone. Alone those figures--as in some mighty +power that was supreme, that knew naught but itself, but in itself knew +all of triumph, of defeat, of struggle, of glory, of undying love, of +victory, that knew the sadness and the joys of life, its empty things +and its immortal truth! And in the wind-wrapt, wave-wet clothes that +clung about the fishergirl, disclosing in pure, chaste beauty the +strong young limbs and form, in the torn and bleeding shoulders of the +man, buffeted, near spent, there seemed to fall upon the studio the +darkness of blackened skies, to come the roar of waters in turbulent +unrest, the play of lightning, the roll of thunder, now ominous, now +dying muttering away--and all was storm and battle and dismay and +death. And then, as sunshine breaking through the clouds--a glad and +perfect triumph--victory! It was in the woman's face that was rigidly +set with high, unfaltering courage, yet softened as by some divine +touch with a wondrous tenderness until the beautiful lips, as they +panted in the struggle, smiled, and the brave, fearless eyes held trust +and love; it was in the man's face, shining like some radiant glory +from out the drawn and haggard features, as though the physical +evidence of the torture and pain of one who had been near to death were +lost in the joy and wonder of life regained--is though his soul were in +his face. + +It was long before Bidelot spoke. + +"There are no words," he said. "It is what I dreamed and hoped that I +might see." + +"It is Marie-Louise--his wife," said Father Anton softly. "It is his +statue of dreams, with the base at last that he could never see before." + +There were tears upon old Bidelot's cheeks. + +"I understand," he said. "It is Jean himself." He moved closer to the +figures, and stood silent again. "It is a priceless thing," he said +presently. "It is not himself alone; it is the womanhood of France, +pure in her courage and her love, immortal in her sacrifice, that is +the inspiration, the life, the anchorage, the guiding star, the hope of +France itself! Ah, my friend"--the grizzled head was high, the eyes +were shining with pride and a glad excitement--"I speak for this for +France. All must see it--the France as yet unborn, the children when +we are dead and gone who shall serve their country better for the +masterpiece of Jean Laparde and the story that it tells. I go +to-night! I go to-night to Bernay-sur-Mer to Jean--to speak for this +for France!" + +Father Anton made no answer; but he stooped and from the pedestal of +the group removed the cloths that, as though they had fallen in a +careless heap when the figures had been uncovered, were bedded around +it. He was smiling through misty eyes, as he stood up again. + +"It was the message that I had for you," he said. "Read!" + +And Bidelot, bending forward, read the words that were carved there in +the clay: + + + TO FRANCE--FROM JEAN LAPARDE + + + + +THE END + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Beloved Traitor, by Frank L. Packard + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BELOVED TRAITOR *** + +***** This file should be named 34034.txt or 34034.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/4/0/3/34034/ + +Produced by Al Haines + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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