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