— XI —
THE PENDULUM
How many miles had they come? Jean did not know. It had been far—but far along a road of golden dreams, where time and distance mattered only because they were so quickly passed.
It was Myrna Bliss who had suggested it because, had she not said? she wanted to have a little talk with him alone before she left for Paris that afternoon—and they would walk out along the road before her father started, and the automobile would pick her up on the way.
And so they had come, and so she had talked and he had listened—feasting his eyes upon the superb, alluring figure that swung, so splendidly supreme, along beside him. She had told him of Paris—Paris, the City Beautiful—of the great city that was the glory of France, of its magnificent boulevards, its statues, its arches, its wonderful architecture, its wealth of art garnered from the ages, its happy mirth, its gaiety, its richness and its life, the life that would now be his. And he had listened, rapt, absorbed, fascinated, as though to some entrancing melody, now martial, now in softer strain, that stirred his pulse as it carried him beyond himself, and unfettered his imagination until it swept, free as a bird in air, into the land of dreams, that knew a fierce, ecstatic echo in his soul—the melody of her voice.
But now there had come a jarring note into that melody; and a sudden, swift emotion, that mingled dismay, a passionate longing, a panic sense of impotency, was upon him. The quick throb of the motor was sounding from down the road behind them. Monsieur Bliss was coming now. In a moment she would be gone.
She had heard it, too, for she ceased speaking abruptly, and, halting, turned to face him.
"Isn't it too bad, Jean?" she cried disappointedly. "And I had hardly begun to tell you about it! But then, never mind, the rest of it all you will see for yourself in a few more days, when you get to Paris."
In a moment she would be gone! What was it that held him back—that had always held him back before? He was strong enough—strong enough to crush her to him, to cover that gloriously beautiful face with his kisses, to bathe his face in the fragrance of her hair, to feel her heart, the throb, the pulse, the life of her body against his own! What was it that, strong as he was, was stronger than he?
"It—it is good-bye," he said, in a low, tense way.
She felt the passion that was possessing him—he read it in the startled glance of the grey eyes before they were veiled; in the ivory of the perfect throat grown colourful with the mounting red; in the parted lips before the teasing, merry smile was forced there, as she stepped back a little away from him. She knew! She knew, as he knew, that his soul was aflame—and it was she, not he, who dammed back the tide of his passion with that "something" that was so powerful an ally of hers, so readily, so always at her instant command. She knew, as he knew, that his soul was aflame—and yet she had not repulsed him. What did it mean? That she cared! But why did she laugh so lightly now, why was she so perfectly self-possessed? What did it mean? That she was playing with him!
"How absurd, Jean!" she laughed gaily. "Of course, it isn't 'good-bye'; that is"—she glanced at him demurely—"that is, unless you've changed your mind about coming to Paris." Then, impulsively eager: "But you haven't done that, have you? And you want to come more than ever now after what I have told you, don't you? And, Jean"—she came suddenly close to him again, and her face, its demureness gone, was puckered up in very earnest little wrinkles—"there isn't anything, you won't let anything keep you from coming—will you?"
Keep him from Paris—from her! Why had she asked that? He laughed out boisterously, harshly. It was very near now, that accursed automobile! Monsieur Bliss was calling out to them. Keep him from—Paris! He could only laugh out again wildly, as he looked at her.
"Jean!"—it was a quick, hurried exclamation, not all composure now, and her eyes were hidden, and her face was turned away. "Jean, good gracious, don't you hear father calling to you? Look, here he is!"
Jean swept his hand across his eyes. It was the madness upon him. Yes, here was Monsieur Bliss beside him, and she and her father were both talking at once. It was Paris! Always Paris that they talked of! In a week, in ten days, he would be there. And then they had both shaken hands with him, the grey eyes had smiled into his for an instant, and she had sprung from him into the automobile. It was a daze. They had gone. He was standing in the road watching them. She was fluttering a scarf at him, as she leaned far over the back of the car—her voice, full-throated, was throbbing in his ears.
"An revoir, Jean! Au revoir—till Paris!"
The car disappeared over the brow of a little hill, came into sight again as it topped the opposite rise, became a blur and then a tiny dot, scarcely discernible, far on along the road. And still he stood there.
It was gone at last. He turned then, and started back along the road toward Bernay-sur-Mer; now walking slowly, now suddenly changing his pace to a quick, impulsive stride. His eyes were on the road before him, but he saw nothing. Her voice was ringing in his ears again, and again he was living in that golden land of dreams—with her.
Paris! The City Beautiful! Paris—where he should know fame and power, where his genius should kindle a flame of enthusiasm that would spread throughout all France! Paris—where men should do him honour! Paris—where riches were! Paris—where she was!
His brain reeled with it. It was not wild imagining. A power, a mighty power, the power that made him master of his art lived and breathed in every fibre of his being. He needed no tongue of others now to tell him that this power was his; the knowledge of it was in his soul until he knew, knew as he knew that he had being and existence, that the work of Jean Laparde would stand magnificent and supreme before the eyes of the world. He saw himself the centre, the leader of a glittering entourage. Fame! Men of the highest ranks should envy him—the gamins of Paris should know his name. He threw back his head on his great shoulders. Conceit, all this? No; it was stupendous—but it was not conceit. He knew—his soul knew it. He was more sure of himself now than even those great critics of France had been sure. They had seen nothing—he had not begun. A year, two years in Paris, the tools to work with, the models of flesh and blood at his command—and, ah, God, what would he not do! They should see, they should see then! And they should stand and wonder, as they had not wondered before—at Jean Laparde!
He laughed suddenly aloud. Father Anton had preached a sermon once in the little church, he remembered it now—that fame was an empty thing. An empty thing! He laughed again. It was the simplicity of the good curé, who believed such things because, pardieu! the curé was a gentle soul and knew no better. What should Father Anton, who never went anywhere, into whose life came nothing but the little daily affairs of the fisherfolk in Bernay-sur-Mer, who could never have had any experience in the things outside the life of the village that turned everlastingly like a wheel in its grooves, know of fame? It was not the fault of Father Anton that he talked so, for he got those things out of his books, and, having no reason out of his own knowledge of life to know any better, believed them!
Jean shrugged his shoulders. One felt sorry for Father Anton! Perhaps once in two years the curé journeyed as far as Marseilles—and the few miles was a great event! What could one expect Father Anton to discover for himself out of life?
Fame—an empty thing! Poor Father Anton, who, because he believed it, so earnestly preached it to Papa Fregeau and Pierre Lachance who never went even as far as Marseilles, and who therefore in turn were very content to believe it, too! An empty thing? It was everything!
He drew in his breath sharply; his hand was feverishly tossing back the hair from his forehead. It was everything! It was wealth, it was power, it was might, it was greatness. It was real; it brought things to the very senses one possessed, things that one could see and hear and touch and taste and smell. They were real—real, those things! It brought money that bought all things; it brought position, honour and command, a name amongst the great names of France; it thrilled the soul and fired the blood; it was limitless, boundless, without horizon. It brought all things beyond the dreams that one could dream, the plaudits of his fellow-men, the wild-flung shouts of acclamation from hoarse-throated multitudes; it brought riches; it brought affluence; and it brought—love.
Love! Ay, it would bring love! It would bring him that more than it would bring him any other thing. He knew now what had held him back from crushing that maddeningly alluring form in his arms, from giving free rein to the passion that was his, from giving him the mastery of her. It was that same thing that Marie-Louise sensed between herself and what she called the grand monde. He, too, had not yet bridged the gulf. He had not yet been able to look into those grey eyes of the beautiful American and forget, deep in his soul, that she was different, that he had been Jean Laparde the poor fisherman and not always Jean Laparde the great sculptor. Was she playing with him? What did it matter? The day would come when she would not play! She would be his—and this fame, that was so empty a thing, would give her to him. If for no other thing than that he would go to Paris. She would be his—as all the world would be his! His! That is what fame would bring him! Would she play with him then in his greatness!
Paris! Paris! It lay before him, a glittering, entrancing vista; it held out its arms to him, and beckoned him; it heaped honour and glory and riches upon him; it gave him—-her!
His hands were clenched at his sides, and the skin over the knuckles, tight-drawn, showed white; his stride was rapid, fierce; he was breathing quickly; his face was flushed; his eyes were burning. Paris, his art that would bring him fame, the fame that would bring him her—nor heaven nor hell would hold him back!
And then suddenly in the middle of the road he stopped, and his hand tore at his collar as though it choked him. Subconsciously he had seen stretching out before him the sparkling blue of the quiet sea, the headland, the little strip of beach where he and Gaston used to keep the boats, a blur of white where the house on the bluff showed through the trees—he had come that far on his way back. Subconsciously, in a meaningless way, he had seen this; but now it was blotted from him in a flash, and in its place came a scene that, though imaginary, was vivid, real, actual, where before reality itself had meant nothing.
It was black, intensely black, and the wild howling of the wind was in his ears. The rain was lashing at his face, and all along the beach echoed the terrific boom and roar of the surf. And now there came the crash of thunder, and quick upon its heels the heavens opening in darting, zigzag tongue-flames, lurid, magnificent, awesome, as the lightning flashes leapt across the sky. And he was standing on that little strip of beach, and far out across the waters, shrouded in a white smother of spume and spray, the figure of Marie-Louise stood outlined on the edge of the Perigeau Reef. And now he was crossing that stretch between them, and living again the physical agony that had been his; and now he was in the water, clinging to the gunwale of the boat, and in all the wild abandon of the storm her lips and his were pressed together in that long kiss that seemed to span all life and all eternity.
As though spellbound, a whiteness creeping into his face, Jean stood tense and motionless there in the road. Why had this come now—he had never let it come in the week that was past. Why should it have come now, like floodgates opened against his will, to overwhelm him? Ah, was it that? That little figure, that was just discernible, far off on that beach, the little figure, bare-footed, that was sitting now on the stem of his boat where it was drawn up on the sand, and whose face was cupped in her hands, and who seemed to be staring so intently out toward the Perigeau Reef! That was Marie-Louise there—Marie-Louise. Was it the sight of her that had brought this thing upon him? And now the scene was changed again. And it was against the window panes that the rain lashed, and against the sashes that the wind tore, and the lamp threw its light on the grey-grim face of old Gaston Bernier on the bed.
Jean shivered a little. What was coming now? What was that? Gaston's hand was upon his. He could hear Gaston's voice: "Jean, do you love Marie-Louise?" And then Gaston was repeating the question, and repeating it again: "Jean, do you love Marie-Louise?" And the old rugged strength seemed back again in Gaston Bernier, as he, rose up in bed, and his voice in a strange, stern note rang through the room: "Swear it, Jean ... to a dying man and in God's presence ... swear that you will..."
"God! My God!" Jean cried out aloud—and like a blind man feeling before him, turned from the road, stumbled a little way through the fields, and flung himself face down upon the grass.
There was torment and dismay upon him. His mind was in riot; his soul bare and naked now before him. Paris! No; he must go instead to Marie-Louise and tell her that he would stay in Bernay-sur-Mer, that they would live their lives together, because they loved each other. Yes; he loved Marie-Louise, not with the mad passion he had for this American who bewitched him, but as he had loved her all the years since they were children. He had told Gaston that, and it was true. It was the act of a misérable to go away! No; he would not go now. It was true, all that he had told Marie-Louise, that she should stand on the beach and hold out her arms to him in welcome when he pulled ashore from the fishing, and that they would be always happy together. And yet—and yet had not Marie-Louise herself said that he belonged to France, and said herself that he must go for the great career that lay before him, for the great work that he was to do?
He cried out aloud sharply, as though in hurt—and prone upon his face, his hands outstretched before him, lay still for a little time.
It seemed to come insidiously, calling to him, luring him, wrestling, fighting, battling with the soul of him—Paris! Here there was love, but there, too, was love. One was calm; the other like the wild tumult of the storm that in its might, primal, elemental, swept him blindly forward. Paris—she would be there, she who held him in a spell, who made him forget Marie-Louise. And there was fame and glory there, honour and wealth—all, all, everything that the world could give. And it was his, all his—he had only to reach out and take it. There, all France would be at his feet. It made his brain swim with the mad intoxication of it. It was as a man dying with thirst who sees afar the water that is life to him. Here, he could never be contented now, he could never be happy, and in a year, two years, Marie-Louise, therefore, would be unhappy, too. But—but he could not go ... that night that he had held Gaston Bernier's hand ... and there was Marie-Louise that he loved ... Marie-Louise with the pure, fearless face, the great eyes that were full of a world of things, of calm, of trust, of tenderness and love, the lips, the wonderful lips that were so divinely carved, the lips like which there were no others. And he must choose now forever between Marie-Louise and—Paris. If he went, he would never come back. He was honest with himself now. He knew that. Marie-Louise knew that. He must choose now. Choose! Had he not already decided that he would—that he would—what?
It began all over again, and after that again for a hundred times, until the brain of the man was sick and weary, and the torment of it had brought the moisture to his forehead and into his eyes a fevered, hunted look—and still he lay there, and the hours went by. And after a time, beneath the rim of the sea in the west, the sun sank down, and the golden afterglow, soft and rich and warm, was as a gentle, parting benediction upon the earth—and Jean's head was buried in his outflung arms. And twilight came—and after that the evening—then darkness, and the myriad, twinkling stars of a night, calm and serene, were overhead—and it grew late.
And there came a soul-wrung cry from Jean, as he lifted a worn and haggard face to the moonlight.
"What shall I do? What shall I do?"
BOOK II: TWO YEARS LATER
— I —
THE DUPLICITY OF FATHER ANTON
It was early evening in Paris; an evening in winter—and cold. Father Anton drew his chair quite close to the little stove that, not without some prickings of conscience at his prodigality, he had fed lavishly with coals from the half empty scuttle beside it; and, leaning forward, alternately extended his palms to the heat and rubbed them vigorously together. The room, or rather the two small rooms, that comprised his lodgings in one of the poorest neighbourhoods of the city, were, since the windows were tightly closed and the sides of the stove a dull red, stifling hot; but Father Anton was not a young man, and the winter of Paris was not the balmy winter of his beloved South.
He took off his spectacles, polished them abstractedly on the sleeve of his soutane, replaced them, and picked up a book. He opened the book, turned a few pages without looking at them, and with a little sigh laid the book upon his knees. It was only in strict privacy that he permitted himself an indulgence in regrets and the somewhat doubtful solace of retrospection. And now he opened the stove door. It always seemed that in the glowing coals and the little spurts of flames one could picture so much more clearly the blue of the Mediterranean, the sunny skies, the clean white cottages of Bernay-sur-Mer, the boats dotting the sea and beach, and Papa Fregeau standing in the doorway of the Bas Rhône, and Pierre Lachance trudging along the street with a great pile of nets slung over his shoulders.
Father Anton shook his head slowly. It was very strange, the workings of Providence. He had always thought to die in Bernay-sur-Mer. And now already he had been in Paris a year! But the sacrifice was very little, it mattered nothing at all, and if he had longings and dreams of the days that were gone, he was still very happy here and should be thankful to God for the wonderful work that had been given him to do; only he remembered his dismay that morning, when, unannounced, the bishop had come to Bernay-sur-Mer and had told him word had been received from Paris that Monsieur Bliss, the millionaire American, would give the enormous sum of five hundred thousand francs a year to be distributed amongst the poor of Paris on the condition that he, Father Anton, would undertake its distribution. And he remembered how the bishop had explained that it had been suggested to Monsieur Bliss that perhaps he, Father Anton, would not care to leave Bernay-sur-Mer and his people there, and that there were others, younger men, nearer at hand, who, under the guidance and direction of the ecclesiastical authorities, would willingly and gladly undertake the work. And, above all else, he remembered what monsignor had told him had been the reply of Monsieur Bliss: "No; it isn't because Father Anton is a clergyman that I want him, it's because he's the man I've been looking for," that most astounding American had said. "There isn't any creed, or religion, or sect, or anything like that in this—or any supervision. What I'm after is practical results, and nothing else. I just want a piece of bread to go where it is needed, and no questions asked. I've always had the idea, but I didn't have the man. I've got him now. Father Anton might not care to leave Bernay-sur-Mer—eh? H'm! There's five hundred thousand francs a year at his disposal for the poor of Paris—ask him if he thinks he can do any good with it?"
And so he had come to Paris. It was magnificent that—the generosity of Monsieur Bliss! And Monsieur Bliss was amazing! He had found a most beautiful little apartment, most beautifully furnished, in a very fashionable part of the city, and with two servants already installed, awaiting him. Imagine! It was impossible! How could one reach the poor unless one lived amongst them? And to maintain an establishment when—Father Anton sighed again—when even the enormous sum of five hundred thousand francs was all too little!
He glanced around the room. Even as it was, his quarters must seem ostentatious compared with the poverty about him—the Widow Migneault, for example, in the rear room of the troisième étage above him. But what could one do? There was no arguing with those Americans! They had insisted on furnishing the place to their own satisfaction.
Father Anton's eyes returned to the glowing coals in the stove. He was very happy because his work was the work that he, too, had dreamed of; but one could not help thinking sometimes of Bernay-sur-Mer, and all the lifelong friends, and the people who were so close to his heart. And if he loved to picture them in his mind, and if there was perhaps a little ache at the thought that he had left them, he was none the less thankful to the bon Dieu that he could do so much now with what was left of his life.
What were they all doing in Bernay-sur-Mer to-night? What was Marie-Louise doing? It was two months now since she had written him. She did not write as often as she used to write. He shook his head sadly. She had had her sorrow, poor Marie-Louise! What a boundless store of love there was in that brave little heart! If only it would be given to some worthy young fellow now—Father Anton wrinkled his brows in deep thought, as though he would decide the matter on the spot—say, Amidé Dubois, who was a fine, honest lad; they would both be very happy, and Marie-Louise would forget the sooner. Yes, certainly, Amidé Dubois would do admirably.
A clatter of hoofs, the rattle of wheels over the cobble stones on the street, and the sudden cessation of both in front of the house, broke in on the curé's musings. He rose slowly from his chair, and, going to the window, peered out. His curiosity was rewarded only to the extent of seeing a fiacre driving away again. It was rather strange, that! Fiacres were not in the habit of stopping before any house in that section of Paris. It would be some one for him then undoubtedly. Monsieur Bliss, perhaps. No; not Monsieur Bliss, for was there not the grand reception to-night that the Société des Beaux-Arts was tendering to Jean Laparde, and for which Monsieur Bliss had sent him a card, but to which he was not going. It was to be a great affair at which the President of the Republic was to be present, and a rusty soutane would be not a little out of place there—and besides, the Jean of Bernay-sur-Mer and the Jean of Paris were not the same. Perhaps one should not let such thoughts come—but it was true.
Father Anton listened. Yes; he had been right. Some one was knocking at the door now.
"Yes—come!" he called, and hurried hospitably across the room, as the door opened—and stopped in stunned amazement—and ran forward again, holding out his arms. "Marie-Louise!" he cried.
Half laughing, half crying, she was in his arms; her own around his neck.
"Oh, Father Anton! Dear, dear Father Anton!" she was repeating over and over again.
"Well, well—but, but—well, well," was all he could say—and kissed her, and pressed her face against his shoulder, and patted her head.
And then he held her off to look at her. It was the same Marie-Louise, with the same bright eyes, even if they were glistening now with tears; the same Marie-Louise, just as though this was Bernay-sur-Mer and not Paris at all, for there was no hat to hide the great black tresses of hair, and there was just the same simple style of loose blouse and ankle skirt that she always wore in the little village, and it might well have been that he and she were there again, there in Bernay-sur-Mer—only on the floor, where she had dropped it as she ran to meet him, was a neatly tied-up little bundle that spoke of the long journey.
"Well, well!" he ejaculated helplessly again, and closed the door, and drew her to a chair and sat down, while she knelt affectionately on the floor at his knees.
"Oh!" she said excitedly. "I did not think Paris could be so big a place. And there was such a crowd in the station, and such a crowd outside, and so many streets, and all the people I spoke to only shook their heads when I asked for Father Anton, and—and then I began to be a little frightened. And then—what do you think? Imagine! Was I not grand? For a franc-fifty a coccer said he would drive me to the address, and—me voici! Did I not do well?"
"Splendidly!" he agreed approvingly. "But, Marie-Louise, I do not understand. It is a great surprise. You did not write; you said nothing about coming to Paris. Why did you not tell me you were coming?"
She looked up at him merrily.
"Must I answer that—quite truthfully?"
"Of course!" he said, smiling indulgently.
"Well, then," she said demurely, "I was afraid you would say I should not come—and now that I am here you cannot say it."
"Ah," he exclaimed, with mock severity, "that is a serious confession you are making, Marie-Louise! So! And you thought I would not approve, eh? What then has happened in Bernay-sur-Mer?"
"Nothing has happened," she answered—but now she looked away from him as she spoke. "I have sold my house there."
"Nothing! Sold your house?" Father Anton began to take alarm. He took Marie-Louise's face between his hands and forced her to look at him. Yes, yes, the gaiety, the lightness of spirit was only make-believe; the tears were more genuine than the smile that came tremulously to her lips. "Marie-Louise," he said anxiously, "what is it?"
"Nothing!" she said again. "Only—only I could not stay there any longer"—and suddenly, in a flood of tears, she buried her face on the old priest's knees.
"But, Marie-Louise—Marie-Louise!" he protested in helpless dismay—and laid his hand soothingly on the bowed head.
She looked up in an instant, dashing the tears away angrily.
"I am a baby!" she cried, trying to laugh. "It was the journey, and the new things, and seeing you again—but it is over now." Then, a little hesitantly: "Tell me of Jean."
"Jean?" repeated Father Anton, startled. "Jean?" He looked at her closely. Could it be that? And then, with a little gasp, as he seemed to read the truth in her eyes: "It—it is Jean then, Marie-Louise, who has brought you to Paris?"
"Yes," she answered, in a low voice.
The curé's face grew very grave.
"You have heard from him?"
She shook her head.
"I have never heard from Jean since the day he left Bernay-sur-Mer"—she was plucking with her fingers at the skirt of the priest's soutane.
There was a long silence, broken at last by the old priest's deep sigh.
"You still love Jean, my child?" he asked gently.
"I have always loved him," she said simply.
Father Anton fumbled with his spectacles. His heart had grown very heavy. It seemed that the cruelest, saddest thing in the world had happened.
"Tell me about him!" she demanded eagerly. "You see him every day, father."
"I have not seen Jean in many months," he replied sadly.
"Not seen him!" she echoed in consternation. "But he is here—in Paris—isn't he?"
"Yes; he is here," the curé said slowly. "But Paris is a big place, and—and even old friends sometimes do not meet often."
"But tell me about him!" she persisted. "He has become a great man—a very great, great man?"
"Yes," said Father Anton gravely, "he has become a great man—the greatest perhaps in all of France." Then suddenly, laying his hands on Marie-Louise's shoulders: "Marie-Louise, what is in your heart? Why have you come here?"
"But I have told you, and you know," she said. "To see Jean."
The curé's hands tightened upon her shoulders. What was he to say to her? How was he to tell her of the danger she in her innocence would never guess, that lay so cold and ominous a thing upon his own heart? How was he to put into words his fear of Jean for this pure soul that was at his knees? As wide as the world was the distance that lay now between Marie-Louise and Jean—but it was not that, not even that Jean was openly attentive to Myrna Bliss—that was only a little thing. Jean was not the Jean of Bernay-sur-Mer. The man was glutted now with power and wealth. And swaying him was not the love of art that might have lifted him to a loftier plane, it was the prostitution of that divine, God-given genius for the lust of fame. And for fame he had exchanged his soul. What was there sacred to Jean now? It was a life closely approximating that of a roué that Jean lived. And for Marie-Louise, with her love a weapon that might so easily be turned against her, to come in touch with—no, no; it was not to be thought of!
"Marie-Louise," he said hoarsely, "you must go back. You do not understand. Jean is very different now—he is not the Jean—"
"I know," she interposed, with a catch in her voice. "I know—better than you think I know. It is you who do not understand. He is of the grand monde, I understand that; and I—I am what I am, and it must be always so. But I love him, father. Is it wrong that I should love him? I will never speak to him, and he shall never know that I am here; but I must see him, and see his work, and—and—oh, don't you understand?"
"And after that?" asked the old priest sorrowfully.
"What does it matter—after that?" she said tensely. "I do not know."
"No, Marie-Louise," he said earnestly, "no, my child, no good can come of it. You must go back to Bernay-sur-Mer."
She drew away from him, staring at him a little wildly.
"But do you not understand?" she cried out with a sudden rush of passion. "But do you not understand that it is stronger than I—that I could not stay in Bernay-sur-Mer because I was always thinking, thinking—that I could not go back there now any more than I could stay there before? I must do this! I will do it! Nothing shall stop me! And if you will not help me, then—"
Father Anton drew her gently back against his knees. Yes; he was beginning to understand—that the problem was not to be settled so easily as by the mere expedient of telling Marie-Louise she must go back to Bernay-sur-Mer. Those small clenched hands, those tight lips were eloquent of finality. It became simply a matter of accepting a fact. He might insist a dozen times that she should go. It would be useless. She would not go! The old priest's brows furrowed in anxiety. This love for Jean was still first in the girl's heart. Words, arguments, were of no avail against the longing that was supreme with her, that had brought her on the long journey across all France. But her love was the love that pictured the frank, strong, simple fisherman of Bernay-sur-Mer. If she should see Jean as he really was! If she should see for herself the change in him, the abandon of his life; and, too, see the glittering circles in which he moved! The first would dispel her love for him; the second would show her in any case the utter futility of it. As long as she held this love, that he had hoped and prayed she had forgotten, it spoiled her life. It could only bring her misery, unhappiness and sorrow. It would hurt cruelly, this disenchantment; but it would save her, this poor child, whom he loved as he would have loved a daughter of his own. Yes; if she should see Jean as he really was, see him intimately enough to realise the truth of the life he was leading! But how could that be brought about—and at the same time protect her and keep her safe?
She rose slowly to her feet, and stood before him, her hands still tightly shut at her sides.
"I was so sure, so sure that you would help me!" she said miserably. And then, in pleading abandon, she flung out her arms to him. "Oh, won't you, Father Anton, won't you? Won't you try to understand? It can do no harm, only—only it is all my life—just to see him, to be near him for a little while, to know that it has all been a wonderful thing for him—and he will never know, I will not let him know."
The curé's hands clasped and unclasped nervously.
"Would you promise that, Marie-Louise? That you would not speak to him, that you would not let him know you were here in Paris?"
She answered him almost passionately, in hurt pride.
"Oh, how little you understand!" she cried. "Do you think that my love is like that? Do you think that for anything in the world I would force myself into his life? Do you think that is why I came? Yes; I will promise that!"
"Well, well," said Father Anton soothingly, "we will see. But first—eh?—a little supper? You are tired, my little Marie-Louise, and hungry after the long journey. Come now, you will help me! We will make a little omelette, and boil the coffee, and pretend that we are in Bernay-sur-Mer—eh?"
He began to bustle around the room, setting out bread and cheese from the cupboard, and putting the coffee-pot upon the stove—and presently they sat down to the simple meal.
Marie-Louise ate very little; and finally, when she pushed her plate away, the tears were in her eyes again.
"I cannot eat any more," she said. "I—oh, Father Anton, you said that you would see. You meant that—that you would help me, didn't you?"
It was plain, it was very plain that nothing would distract her for a moment! Father Anton sighed again, and got up from his chair, and began to pace the room. He had been turning a plan over and over in his mind while he had watched her so anxiously during the meal. It was strange how readily it had come to him, that plan! A monitor within whispered the suggestion that perhaps it had come readily because it was deception! The curé passed his hand in a troubled way back and forth through his white hair. He had seen little of Jean—it was perhaps because he reminded Jean of Bernay-sur-Mer and the past that Jean was anxious to forget, that Jean had gradually come, in manner more than words, to intimate that the old friendship was distasteful. But if latterly he had seen little of Jean, at least when he had first come to Paris his visits to the studio had been frequent enough to enable him to form an intimate acquaintance with Hector, the red-haired concierge of Jean's studio and apartment, and with madame, Hector's wife. Nor had he permitted this intimacy to wane. He could not forget that he had loved Jean, and through these good people he still kept his interest alive. It was but a few days ago that Hector had complained that the work was too much for his wife alone, that after some nights at the studio with a gay company the morning presented a debacle to clear up that was a day's work in itself. It was too much for her; and they came often, those nights.
Father Anton glanced at Marie-Louise. She was still watching him, a sort of pitiful, eager expectancy in her face. His eyes fell to the floor, as he continued to pace up and down. It could be arranged. Jean rose very late. Marie-Louise could go early in the mornings to tidy up the studio and the atelier. He could tell Hector she was a charge of his, an honest girl to be trusted, who would do the work for a few francs; and Hector in turn could obtain Jean's consent. Marie-Louise would see for herself the life Jean led—and, besides, Hector and his wife were not tongue-tied! But it was a terribly cruel thing to do! The old priest's hands clasped and unclasped again in genuine distress. It was terribly cruel! But it was little Marie-Louise, whom he loved so tenderly, whose future was at stake. It must not always be as it was to-day—sadness and hopelessness for the brave young heart that should be so full of joy and life.
He halted before Marie-Louise. Yes, it was the right thing to do; there was no other way; she must be disillusioned; she should see Jean's life at the studio; and to-night at the great reception she should see Jean himself. Only his heart was very heavy—it was so hard a thing to do.
"Listen, Marie-Louise," he said abruptly. "I will help you, but it is on the condition to which you have agreed—that Jean is in no way to know that you are here. I will arrange with his concierge that very early in the mornings, before Jean is up and when nobody is there, you shall have the care of his studio and atelier, so you will be able to see all you want to of his work; and to the concierge you are simply a charge of mine who is in need of the few francs you will earn."
"Oh, Father Anton, how good you are!"—she had jumped up joyfully from her chair, and was in his arms again. "But I do not want the money. I have plenty—from my house, you know."
"But if you took no money, they would not understand why you would work," explained Father Anton hurriedly. The depth of his duplicity was very great! The gentle soul of Father Anton was conscience stricken at her gratitude, her innocence. If he had not gone so far he would retreat. She was crying in his arms. Never before had he known what it was not to be able to look another in the eyes. He was glad that Marie-Louise's head was hidden on his shoulder for he could not have looked at her. Father Anton felt himself a criminal. It was not a rôle that lay lightly upon him.
"And Jean himself," she whispered. "When shall I see Jean?"
Father Anton coughed nervously.
"There—there is a reception to-night," he said hesitantly. He coughed again. "For Jean. You might see him there perhaps—from the gallery. I—I have a card."
She sprang away from him, with a quick exclamation of excitement.
"Oh, come then!" she cried impulsively, and caught his hand to pull him toward the door.
Father Anton turned away his head. Tears had sprung to his eyes. He was indeed a criminal—the criminal of the ages! But if it would save Marie-Louise! Ah, yes, he must keep that thought always before him. He looked at her again, as he fumbled once more with his spectacles.
"Yes, yes; at once!" he said mechanically. "But"—he was staring at her now in sudden consternation—"but you cannot go like that! Have you no other clothes?"
She pointed at the little bundle on the floor.
He shook his head.
"No hat? No coat?"
"No-o," she said tremulously, as though she sensed an impending tragedy.
"But this is not Bernay-sur-Mer, Marie-Louise!" he said, in concern. "You cannot go about dressed like that in Paris; and, besides, you would freeze, my child."
She looked at him in silence—a sort of pitiful despair, mingling bitter disappointment and helpless dependence, in her eyes, in the expression of her face.
"Tut, tut!" murmured Father Anton, pulling at his under lip. And then quickly: "But wait—wait! We shall see!" And he ran into the other room.
There were always clothes there—for his poor. The rich people, the friends of Monsieur and Mademoiselle Bliss were always sending him their old things for distribution amongst his poor. Mademoiselle Bliss had sent him a package that afternoon. He remembered that there was a long cloak and a hat amongst the other things. Ah, yes; here they were! He held them up to look at them in the light from the doorway of the connecting rooms. They had strange notions about "old things," the rich! These, for example—he turned them about in the light—were as good as new. They bought clothes one day, the rich, wore them the afternoon, and gave them to him the next morning—because overnight there had been created a new style! Father Anton smiled at his little conceit. But it was almost literally true. He had seen Myrna Bliss wearing these very things only a few days ago—the same black velvet cloak, and the same black velvet turban with the little white cockade. At least, he supposed it was a cockade! Ah, well—he shrugged his shoulders—his poor were the gainers!
"Here, Marie-Louise!" he called out, returning into the front room. "You may have these, child."
"Oh!" she exclaimed, as she took them. Her eyes widened. "Oh—they are pretty! But—but, Father Anton, where did you get them? They are new."
"No, not quite," he smiled; "but new enough, I think, to last you all the winter. They were"—he stopped suddenly, in gentle tactfulness. Marie-Louise knew Myrna Bliss—it might cause her diffidence if she were aware that the cloak and hat had been mademoiselle's. "They were sent to me by the rich people amongst many other things," he amended, "to be distributed where"—he smiled again—"where I think they will do most good. So now they are yours. Put them on, and we will go."
"Oh, Father Anton!" she cried again, in wonder at the sudden luxury that was hers—and slipped on the cloak; and ran to the curé's shaving glass, which was the only semblance of a mirror in evidence, to set the turban daintily upon her head. "Dear, dear Father Anton—how good you are!"
But Father Anton did not answer. He was brushing his threadbare black overcoat—and making a very poor business of it. There was a great lump in his throat that refused to go either up or down—and he brushed continuously at one sleeve, because that was all he could see through the sudden mist that had come before his eyes. And then, as he caught her gazing at him, he put on the coat hurriedly.
"Yes, yes," he said hastily. "But we are all ready, are we not—eh? Come then, Marie-Louise, we will go."
And presently they were on the street—and somehow to Father Anton the crisp cold of the night was very grateful, preferable for once to the soft warmth of his far-away South, since the hot flushes now kept coming and burning in his cheeks, as he walked abstractedly along. And they were silent for a little while, until a pressure of her fingers on his arm aroused him, and he turned his head to look at her. Her cheeks, too, he could see even in the murky light from the street lamps, were flushed, and the dark eyes were very bright.
"Couldn't—couldn't we hurry a little, Monsieur le Curé?" she suggested timidly.
"Hurry? Ah—you are cold!" he said contritely, and quickened his step.
"No," she answered. "I—it is only that it might be over—that we might be too late."
The words brought an added twinge to the already sore and overburdened soul of Father Anton. It was the heart of Marie-Louise that spoke, the heart that had no room but only for Jean. Ah, yes; but did he not understand that already! Had she not come across all France for Jean? But that was not all! How ignorant of this great world-city, its life, its customs, its fineness, its sordidness her words proclaimed her to be—how dependent they proclaimed her to be! But did he not know that too? How great indeed had been his own bewilderment, and confusion, and dismay when he had first come to Paris a year ago—even he who was accustomed to journeying, for had he not gone almost once a year from Bernay-sur-Mer to Marseilles? How well he remembered it—but, tut, tut—of what avail was that? This was a vastly different matter, a very serious matter. Marie-Louise was a woman, so young, so beautiful, and in her ignorance, in her ingenuousness which was so marked a trait because she was so purely innocent, she—ah!—he found himself asking the bon Dieu to watch very carefully over Marie-Louise; and, very earnestly, with sad misgivings, as a corollary to that prayer, to forgive him if he were doing wrong in betraying the very innocence, the trust and simple confidence for which he asked protection for her from others.
"Father Anton, will—will we be late?" she ventured, evidently alarmed into the belief, since he had not replied, that so dire a misfortune was even more than a possibility.
And then he answered her very gravely.
"No, Marie-Louise. You need have no fear. It will only have begun; and even if it were midnight we should still be in time. Affairs like this are for all the evening, you see. Indeed, before going there, now that I come to think of it, perhaps we had better see about finding lodgings for you first. I know several very estimable families in this neighbourhood who would be glad to give you a room for a small sum, and you would be quite close to me, and—"
"But could we not do that afterwards?" she interposed quickly.
"Why, yes, of course, afterwards—if we do not stay too long at the reception," Father Anton acquiesced. "You would rather do that, Marie-Louise?"
"Yes!" she said—and the word came tensely—and she pulled impulsively upon his arm.
And so then they hurried along, and after a little time the streets grew brighter, better lighted, and from streets became great boulevards, and from an occasional passer-by they were in the midst of many people where one must needs elbow one's way to get along; but Marie-Louise, save in a subconscious way that brought no concrete sense of meaning, saw none of this—she saw only Jean again, the sturdy, rugged figure that seemed to stand so clearly outlined now before her, so real, so actual, so living, as he had been that night when he had borne Gaston up the path in his strong arms; and the roar of the traffic upon the streets was as the roar of that mighty storm and the thunder of the sea breaking so pitilessly, so unceasingly upon the rocks. And Father Anton spoke to her, pointing to this and that as they went along—but she did not hear the curé. She was listening only to another voice. "In just a little minute I shall see Jean ... I shall see Jean ... I shall see Jean," her soul said. "I shall see Jean."
And then she was standing before a great building, and the building was ablaze with lights, and carriage after carriage, automobile after automobile was drawing up before a strange sort of canopy where even the street itself was laid with crimson carpet, and out of the carriages and the cars poured a constant stream of wonderfully dressed, fur-clad women and their escorts. And suddenly she drew back with a start. What had she done? She had stepped upon the soft carpet and in under the canopy—and a man bewilderingly covered with gold lace, who could be no less than a Marshal of France, though he seemed so effusive and polite as he opened the carriage doors to welcome each new arrival, was fixing her sternly with his eyes.
"Come, Marie-Louise," prompted Father Anton.
She felt the blood leave her face, and she drew very close to Father Anton, clinging tightly to his arm. How fast her breath came! There was laughter, merriment around her; they pressed against her, they touched her, these wonderfully dressed people. How soft the carpet was! How one's feet sank into it! It was a sacrilege that she should walk upon it! How that constant murmur of voices rose and fell, rose and fell! What were they saying? It seemed that she should know! What was it? Yes, yes! "Jean Laparde ... Jean Laparde ... Jean Laparde." From in front, from behind her, on either side, on every tongue was the name of Jean Laparde. And it thrilled her, and her soul in a clarion echo caught up the refrain. "Jean Laparde ... Jean Laparde ... Jean Laparde!" And it seemed as though a thousand emotions surging upon her were welded together and massed and made into one, and that one was comparable to none she had ever known before because it was too great, and overpowering, and bewildering to understand. Only now she could lift up her head, and the blood was rushing proudly to her cheeks again.
And now they were in a great marble vestibule, and Father Anton was handing a card to an attendant, and speaking to the man.
"But Monsieur le Curé has full entrée—to the floor," the man replied.
She did not catch Father Anton's answer—but the attendant was bowing and speaking again.
"But certainly, monsieur—as Monsieur le Curé desires. To the right, monsieur."
And then there were stairs, beautiful wide marble stairs, and the press of people was left behind, for there seemed to be but few who climbed the stairs; and then—and then—she was in a balcony, and below her—ah, she could not see—it was all blurred before her—and there seemed a great fear upon her, for her heart pounded so hard and so fiercely. And then, strangely, as a mist rises from the sea, it began to clear away, that blur from before her eyes, and myriad lights from a massive chandelier, that was suspended from a great dome overhead, played on the bare, flashing shoulders of women on the floor below her, played on the jewels that adorned coiffures and necks, played on glittering uniforms, on a scene magnificent and splendid—and focused, as her eyes fixed and held, on that one outstanding figure, the figure that was like to the figure of a demi-god, the only figure, the only one that she saw now in all that vast assemblage, who stood erect, strong and massive-shouldered, the black hair, a little longer now, flung in careless abandon back from the broad, white forehead. It was Jean! It was Jean!
"Jean!" she whispered—and her hand stole into Father Anton's. "Jean!"
And he was not changed—only that short, pointed beard, that seemed to add a something, that made him more imposing. It was Jean, the same Jean—only there was a grace, an ease, a command, a kingship in his poise as he stood there, and—yes—yes—they came—one after the other—the men, the women—and bowed before him.
"Do you remember Monsieur and Mademoiselle Bliss?" Father Anton said gently. "See—they are there beside Jean. And that tall man to whom they are talking is a very famous statesman for one so young. His name is Paul Valmain."
They did not interest her. There was only Jean. And she could not look long enough at him. There was music playing somewhere, softly, very softly, scarcely audible above the sound of so many voices all talking at once, voices that ascended in a subdued roar like the sound of a shell that one held to one's ear. She tried to think, and she could not. Afterwards she would think. Now she could only look.
Father Anton touched her arm. Was it already time to go? No, no—not yet! Not yet—for a little while! She had come so far, so long a way just for this—to see Jean.
"It is the President of the Republic coming, Marie-Louise—see! Listen!"
There was tumult about her. Those in the gallery around her were clapping their hands, waving their handkerchiefs; and the music she had heard playing so softly crashed suddenly into the strains of that song of glory, immortal, undying, that was cradled in the very soul of France itself—the Marseillaise. And as it fired the blood, that melody, martial, stirring, that men had died for, ay, and women, too, the outburst around her rose to hysterical heat, and thunders of applause rolled and reverberated through the room that was bigger than any room she had ever seen or dreamed of. And they were calling Jean's name again—and the President, the great President was there with Jean.
"Jean Laparde! Jean Laparde! Vive Jean Laparde!"
She could not see any more. Her eyes were blinded with tears now, and they were proud tears, and they were glad tears, and they were wondering tears that she could not comprehend herself. Jean's beacon! Had the bon Dieu permitted her to be that in a little way, given it to her to have helped just a little, to have had just a little share in bringing Jean to this great moment, this wonderful triumph? Jean's beacon! How vividly that scene of the years ago came back, when she had told Jean he did not belong to her—and reliving that scene, here in the presence of its great fulfilment, she spoke aloud unconsciously.
"It is true! He does not belong to me. He belongs to France!"
And Father Anton, because he did not understand, because it seemed that the disillusionment must have been so much more complete and so much more cruel and hard to bear than he had feared it would be, and because her renunciation was accepted so bravely, turned away his head and did not answer.
And Marie-Louise's fingers closed in a tense, involuntary pressure over Father Anton's hand—and she spoke again.
"He belongs to France!"
And then, after another moment:
"Take me—back now—Father Anton, please."