— XI —
THE "DEATH" OF JEAN LAPARDE
How wonderful the metamorphosis in all around him! How glad and gay and happy were the waltz strains floating merrily upon the air from far down the deck, how exquisite the melody and harmony rippling through the chords! And the chill and ugliness of the night were gone; and the loneliness was gone; and it was as though a glorious moonlit, star-decked sky were overhead; and the wet mist that drove upon him was as some magical, refreshing balm that laved his face! And in his heart was song.
"Marie-Louise! Marie-Louise! I am coming to you, Marie-Louise—my beacon—to you, Marie-Louise." He stretched out his arms again across the rail; and then turning, and hurrying because there was a lightness in his steps that would not let them lag, he sought the deck companionway close at hand, and ran up to the deck above.
Not concrete yet, only dim and misty in his mind a plan took form. Only one thing stood out, sharp-lined, clear, absolute, irrevocable in itself—he must go to Marie-Louise paying the price. For, apart from all else, apart from the certainty that if he went to her as the great Laparde she would only bid him return again, not in bitterness but in her splendid self-abnegation, apart from this—how else could he make her believe him? He, a man who once had forsworn his oath; he, who once, in her stead, had chosen in ghastly selfishness the fame, the position, the place that were now his—how else could he make her believe him? How else, unless he flung them from him, when once for these very things, a traitor to his manhood and to her, he had turned his back upon her, could she believe that now he held them as naught compared to her; how else could she believe that in his soul and heart, dominant, supreme, lived now only a love for her, greater than it had ever been because it was chastened now, a love near like to her own great wondrous love that she had offered him—and he had spurned? How else—unless to-night the great Laparde should die, and in his place should live again the Jean Laparde she once had known, the humble fisherman of Bernay-sur-Mer? The fisherman of Bernay-sur-Mer! Yes, that was it! It seemed to crystallise suddenly, sharply, into definite, tangible form, the shadowy, nebulous plan that, from the moment his decision had been made as he had stood and watched her there below him on the steerage deck, had been seeking for expression in his mind. The fisherman of Bernay-sur-Mer! None would recognise in the fisherman of Bernay-sur-Mer the Jean Laparde that the world knew—none save her!
He was before the door of his luxurious deck-suite, and in feverish excitement now he flung it open, closed and locked it behind him, switched on the lights, and ran through the sitting-room into the bedroom beyond. Here, where there had been confusion, his things thrown everywhere when he had dressed for dinner and the dance, all was now in order, and his two steamer trunks were neatly stowed away—the steward's work—beneath the brass bed. He dropped on his knees, and hurriedly dragged one out—the one that Myrna Bliss had chosen for him that day when they had gone to Marseilles from Bernay-sur-Mer. If only Hector had not disturbed it! Bon Dieu, if Hector had not meddled with it! He wrenched up the lid. It was Marie-Louise who had thrust that fisherman's suit into his arms that day when she had told him he was free! What was it she had said? Yes, yes! "Promise me, Jean, that you will keep these with you always, and that sometimes in your great world you will look at them and remember—that they too belong to France." And he had laid them in the bottom of the trunk; and, because he had not forgotten so soon, when Hector, whom he had found already installed at the studio, had unpacked for him on his first arrival in Paris, he had told Hector always to leave them there, never to take them out—but after that he had forgotten. He lifted out the tray, and began to remove the clothing that lay beneath it. It was Hector who had packed the trunk for the journey, and—with an exultant cry, he straightened up, the old, worn, heavy boots, the coarse socks still tucked into their tops, in his hands.
He put these down, and reached into the trunk again. Yes, they were all here—the cap; the woollen shirt; the rough suit, crumpled, white-spotted with the old salt stains of the sea.
And then for a moment he stood and looked at them—and looked about the cabin—and for a moment fear came. As a blow that staggered him there fell upon him the full significance of their glaring contrast with the rich fittings of the stateroom-de-luxe about him. They seemed to mock at him, these garments, and jeeringly bid him put them back again into the trunk—as he had done once before. What hideously insincere jest did he imagine he was playing with himself, they sneered at him! What had he to do with toil, and poverty, and hardship, with the life these things stood for—he who knew the palaces of kings, he who had luxury, he who had fame, he who had all that he had ever longed for, he who had everything that money, that position, that authority could procure, he who had but to rub the lamp and demand of the world his will?
"No, no!" he cried out suddenly aloud—and, with a quick, impulsive movement, tore off his ulster and threw it on the bed. It was Marie-Louise now—Marie-Louise! Once she had given her all for him. It was Marie-Louise, wonderful, beautiful, pitiful, the saddest soul in all the world, out there alone on the steerage deck!
And then he stood still again, hesitant, listening. Some one was knocking on the cabin door. And now the door was tried—the knock repeated. Disturbed, uncertain, he still hesitated—then, stepping into the sitting-room, he closed the connecting door between it and the bedroom, and unlocked and opened the door to the deck.
It was Henry Bliss.
"Ah, you're here, Jean!" the other exclaimed, with what was obviously an attempt at unconcern, as he stepped into the cabin. "I've been looking for you all over the ship. What are you doing up here in your room alone, with all this gaiety going on below? Eh—what's the matter?"
Jean stared at Henry Bliss a little sullenly. Since the other had come, was there—it remained only to get rid of him as soon as possible.
"There is nothing the matter," he said shortly—and shrugged his shoulders.
Henry Bliss frowned, and rubbed his hand over his chin nervously.
"Confound it, Jean!" he burst out abruptly. "I know better! You and Myrna have been having another—er—another misunderstanding. In fact, she—that is, I discovered it a few moments ago. I"—he glanced about him as though to make sure they were alone, and caught Jean's arm confidentially—"I spoke to her very seriously, very seriously about it. I—I am sure it is nothing. It is only that you take these things very much to heart, Jean, while she laughs at them."
"Pardieu!" ejaculated Jean ironically. "That is so!"
"No, no!" said Henry Bliss, hurriedly and in confusion. "No—I—that is not what I meant, Jean. Not at all what I meant! I mean that if she takes it lightly, it cannot—er—be so—er—"
"I know what you mean," said Jean moodily. "I have discovered it for myself."
"Tut, tut!" protested Henry Bliss anxiously. "This will never do at all, Jean! You must both make an effort to understand each other better. Myrna is very—er—high-spirited—very! You see that, of course, Jean—eh? Well? Tut, tut! That is all! You must not be too firm or—er—exacting with her at first. I have found—that is, I have not found that to be the most tactful way of handling her. Now slip on your overcoat, my boy, and we'll go down together."
Again Jean shrugged his shoulders. Would it be necessary to open the door and bow even Henry Bliss out?
"No," he said, with pointed finality; "not now. I prefer to remain here for a little while—alone."
Henry Bliss, perturbed and upset, coughed uneasily—and suddenly began to fumble through his pockets. His fingers encountering first a cigar, he took it out mechanically, and, as evidence of the composure he did not possess, bit off the end with deliberate care. Then he fumbled through his pockets again, and this time produced a marconigram. He tapped it playfully with one finger, and smiled engagingly at Jean.
"Well, well, I knew I had a panacea with me," he said cheerily. "This came by wireless half an hour ago; it's what sent me out on the hunt for you, and ran me into Myrna, and made me stumble on the lovers' quarrel that I am sure will end just like all the rest of them—eh—my boy? Listen!"—unfolding the message. "It is from a gentleman with whom I am well acquainted, who is very prominent in art circles in New York, stating that he has just learned that you are en route for America, and asking, on behalf of the leading New York societies, if you will accept a public reception on the steamer's arrival in New York. There you are, my boy! Think of that! I promise you that it will be something to eclipse anything you could imagine. We do things in America—if I say it myself! It will be the triumph of your career. Bands, flags, bunting, cheers, the dock en fête—to say nothing of reporters"—he was laughing now, and patting Jean's arm excitedly. "They'll show you, my boy, what they think of Jean Laparde in America! That's the kind of a welcome they're getting ready for you—it will be the greatest moment of your life! But here"—he stole an almost wistful glance at Jean, and stepping over to the writing desk at the side of the cabin, laid the marconigram down—"I'll just leave this here, and"—he coughed again, and moved tactfully to the door—"and you just kind of think about that instead of anything else, and—er—in about half an hour or so, I'll bring Myrna along up, and we'll talk it all over together—eh—my boy?"
He waved his hand genially, and, without waiting for a reply, went out.
For a moment Jean did not move; then his eyes, as though drawn irresistibly in that direction, shifted from the door that had closed on Henry Bliss to the marconigram lying on the desk—and abruptly he walked over and picked up the wireless message. He read it through laboriously, for his English still came hard to him—and read it again, more slowly, lingering over the words, muttering snatches of the sentences aloud. "... Shall spare no effort ... endeavour worthily to express our sentiments ... splendid genius of which France is so justly proud..."
And, holding it there in his hands, a dull flush came and spread itself over Jean's face. The triumph of his career, Henry Bliss had said—the greatest moment of his life! This great and wonderful America, of which he had heard so much, was waiting for him eagerly—waiting for him—Jean Laparde—Jean Laparde! This was to be his welcome to that New Land where all was on a scale so tremendous and magnificent. To his ears there came the mighty roar of thousands shouting again and again the name of Jean Laparde; before his eyes a sea of faces looked up into his from dense-lined streets as he drove along—and all, all in that vast multitude were cheering, waving, acclaiming Jean Laparde. They were waiting for him there at the gateway to America, open-handed, royal in their hospitality, to pay him honour such as he had never known before. They were waiting for him there—for him—for Jean Laparde! They were waiting—
The flush faded from his face, and a whiteness came, and upon his forehead oozed out a bead of moisture—and, as the seconds passed, he hung there almost limply, swaying a little in the agony that was upon him. And then slowly the paper that was in his hands was torn across, and the pieces fluttered to the floor, and the great head rose proud in kingship on the broad shoulders—the kingship of himself, the kingship of Jean Laparde.
Ay, they were waiting for him—but there was another beside who was waiting too! He looked at the torn pieces of paper on the floor—and his laugh rang suddenly clear and buoyant through the cabin. Once he had sold his soul for such as that; but to-night, in spite of these devil's tempters that sought to shake his resolution—there was his answer! There was his answer—the answer that had come to him through the fog and mist as through a veil rent suddenly asunder, the answer that was in Marie-Louise's outstretched arms, the answer that was in her banishment from the friends and the France she loved, in the bitter wrong that he had done, in her love that now he knew for its priceless worth! There in that torn paper was his answer!
And he laughed again—and as he laughed, he ran to the door and locked it for the second time. There would be no more of that, no more interruption, no more of those tempter thoughts, no more of them! And, for the moment, no more thought even of Marie-Louise. He had need to centre all his attention upon his immediate acts now, for he must be very careful what he did. And he had little time—had not Henry Bliss said that in half an hour he would return with Myrna?
He ran back into the bedroom, tore off his coat, vest and shirt; and, catching up his toilet-case, hurried into the bathroom. Here, he clipped off his beard and shaved it close—then quickly, a sort of tense, keyed-up excitement constantly growing upon him, he returned once more to the bedroom, and, stripping off the remainder of his clothes, began to put on the fisherman's suit. How heavy and stiff the boots felt upon his feet, how rough and coarse the socks were against his skin—and yet how their familiarity thrilled him! He swung his arms, wondering and laughing at the free play of his muscles in the loose shirt, and memories and thoughts began to press upon him—but he checked them almost instantly, for there was no time now for that.
He finished dressing hastily. He must leave no clue behind him that would occasion even a suspicion that he had not carried out the purpose that the world, and essentially those on board the ship, must be made to believe was the last act of Jean Laparde. Amongst a thousand, amongst the conglomerate races that cluttered the ship's steerage, where even amongst themselves few knew each other, where difference in language precluded all but the most scattered and superficial acquaintanceship, none would recognise Jean Laparde in the rough-garbed fisherman—provided always that no search was instituted, provided always that there should be no incentive in the mind of any one to search, provided always that it was accepted as a fact—that Jean Laparde was dead! He could not hope perhaps, between now and the time they reached New York, or, at least, on landing, to escape the attention of the ship's officers or the shore officials; but with Jean Laparde a suicide in the mist and fog of that Atlantic night, he would be no more to them than one as rough and ignorant and poor as those others in the steerage—no more than a stowaway.
Jean dropped down on his knees again beside the trunk, and began to replace the articles he had been obliged to remove in order to get at the fisherman's suit. Nothing—not a sign of anything approaching disorder must appear. They would look through everything—Myrna and her father! He shrugged his shoulders whimsically. The visit of Henry Bliss to the cabin, the other's knowledge of the quarrel with Myrna, the other's concern over his, Jean's, moodiness, was, after all, not to be regretted! It would have its significance for Henry Bliss!
He pushed the trunk back beside its mate under the bed. Money now! A sudden, sharp exclamation, almost of dismay, escaped him. He had little or no money—a few French notes, sufficient for his needs on board ship only. Monsieur Bliss had said more was unnecessary—that he could make drafts through the other's banking connections in New York as he needed them. He searched through the clothes he had taken off, found his pocketbook, opened it, and counted the contents—five twenty-franc notes, a ten-franc gold piece, some silver—that was all! Less than twenty-five dollars in American money! Well, if it was all—it was all! It could not be helped! He shoved the pocketbook philosophically into his pocket; and, gathering up the clothes he had worn, tied them into a bundle. There remained only the heavy ulster.
He looked slowly, critically about him; and, satisfied that he had overlooked nothing, walked swiftly into the sitting-room, seated himself at the writing desk, and, from one of its pigeon-holes, pulled out a sheet of the ship's notepaper. He hesitated a moment thoughtfully—then picked up a pen.
"Je m'ennui de tout—I am tired of it all," he wrote. He balanced the pen in his fingers, and stared at the words cynically. What a commotion it would cause! What food for excitement, for the hysteria of those who cared nothing save for the self-importance it brought them in being so intimately connected with so famous a tragedy as to have been on the same ship where it occurred! They would remember what he had eaten for dinner that night, and quarrel over who had last seen him; and they would envelope themselves with an air of pained and morbid gloom—and cling to the gloom tenaciously because they delighted in it! What an event! And out of them all, with the exception of Henry Bliss, there was none who—ah, yes! Ironically, as the grim humour of it struck him, a smile curled Jean's lips. The stewards who had looked after him would care very much! That one might die, if one wished, was all very well; but to be inconsiderate enough to jump overboard without leaving the douceurs of the voyage behind, could be construed as nothing less than a personal affront! He reached suddenly into his pocket, the irony of the thought lost in a flash of inspiration, and pulled out his pocketbook. It was the one crowning touch required to stamp as a fact, beyond a peradventure of doubt, the conviction that he had made away with himself. He could ill spare any of the money; but he could much less afford to ignore anything that would lend colour to his plan and so minimise the risk of discovery! He opened the pocketbook again, took from it three of the twenty-franc notes, tucked these into his pocket, and laid the pocketbook with the balance of the money inside of it down upon the desk. It was not a fitting amount, doubtless—but there was his pocketbook and all there was in it! What more could any one give? He took up his pen, and finished his note. "Please divide what is in my pocketbook amongst my stewards. Adieu! Jean."
He folded the note, placed it in an envelope, sealed it, addressed it to Henry Bliss, and, carrying it with him, returned to the bedroom and pinned it securely to the sleeve of his ulster. Then, taking up both the ulster and the bundle he had made of the clothes in which he had been dressed that evening, and leaving the lights turned on, he went to the outer cabin door, opened it cautiously, and peered out. Here, on the upper deck, there was no one in sight. He opened the door wide, marked the spot where the light, flooding from the room, lay across the ship's rail; then, stepping out on the deck, he closed the door softly behind him.
For a moment he stood in the darkness, looking about him, listening. There was nothing—only the ship-sounds—only the confused voices and laughter of the passengers on the deck below—only, faint-borne, the music from the ship's saloon. And then, he crept across the deck to the rail; and, drawing himself back to give his arm full play, he hurled the bundle with all his strength far out over the ship's side—and as he hurled it, in requiem as it were for Jean Laparde, through the night there crashed, and boomed, and moaned, and whined anew the sullen blast of the siren.
It startled him momentarily; but the next instant he stooped and laid the ulster upon the deck beside the rail. It was perhaps fastidious in a suicide to remove his ulster, but the light from his room, when the door was opened, that would shine upon the white paper pinned on the sleeve, would disclose a sufficient motive!
It was done! In all the world now for him there was only one to share his life—a life whose future course he could not see, nor guess; but a life where, greatest of all gifts, most splendid of all splendours, was love. There was but one—only one—and that one out of all the world was she alone who cared for Jean Laparde. And she did not know yet that he was there, that he was going to her, that he would never leave her again—but in a moment she would know! In only another moment now I Ah, he could see the pure, beautiful face shine in welcome with the gladdest light it had ever known; the great eyes, deep, true and fearless, grow dim and misty in their wondrous smile; those lips, divine in contour, lift in tenderest passion to his; her arms stretch out, no more in cruel longing, in bitter emptiness, but stretch out—stretch out to him!
"Marie-Louise! Marie-Louise!"—like a prayer, softly, he breathed her name; and, thrilled, eager, his blood afire, he turned from the rail, and ran to the deck companionway.
Barring a possible encounter with a ship's officer who might stop and question him, he would have little trouble in reaching the steerage deck. He was not obliged to enter any part of the ship's saloons or alley-ways—he had only to descend to the deck below, and from there it was but a half dozen steps to the head of the ladder with its little sign "passengers forbidden" that led directly to the steerage deck. True, it was possible that some of the steerage passengers might notice him descending the ladder, but they would be too far away and it was too dark for them to see his face from any distance; and to them, in any event, unaccustomed to question, it would mean nothing more, if indeed they gave it any thought at all, than some one of the ship's crew in the ordinary performance of his duty.
At the head of the companionway Jean stopped to assure himself that the saloon passengers were still avoiding the wet, unsheltered portion of the deck beneath; and then, descending quickly, he stole across the deck-space below, gained the second ladder, and, boldly now, but with the swift agility born of the fishing days of Bernay-sur-Mer that any seaman might have envied, swung himself down to the steerage deck. And here, almost leisurely, he turned, and, seeking the darkest shadows, and so disappearing from the sight of any of the steerage passengers who, still huddled about the deck, might have noticed him, he stood motionless, close up against the ship's superstructure. It was perhaps an exaggerated precaution; but it would preclude the possibility of any one of them connecting him, when he eventually went amongst them, with the man who had come down the ladder and presumably had disappeared in some, to them mysterious, where all was mysterious, recess of the ship.
His heart was pounding, he could feel the hot blood flush his cheeks, as his eyes strained through the gloom and semi-darkness, searching the deck. Was she still there—somewhere? Surely, surely she had not yet gone below! For then it would be very hard, perhaps impossible, to find her until to-morrow, and he could not wait so long as that; for it was to-night that he was to take Marie-Louise in his arms again, and hold her there, and stand, they two, and look into each other's eyes, glad, beyond any gladness else, in the love that God had given back to them. To-morrow? No! To-night! To-night! It must be to-night! Surely she was still here! Yes—who was that, whose form he could just make out in the darkness at the ship's side far along the deck?
He moved quickly now, still keeping in the shadows, until he reached the side of the ship furthest away from the ladder by which he had descended, and then stepped out across the deck. He passed little knots of people, and voices in strange tongues that he had never heard before fell upon his ears; but he gave them no heed—there was only that figure, alone, apart, toward which he was hurrying. And now—yes—he was sure! Her back was turned, and, as before, she was leaning ever the ship's side, but—yes—yes—it was Marie-Louise!
He halted a yard away from her, trembling with an emotion that brought a strange weakness to his limbs, and reached out his arms—her name quivering, low and passionate, his soul in his voice, upon his lips.
"Marie-Louise!"
She turned sharply, in a frightened, startled way, and for a moment stared at him; and then, even in the darkness, he could see her face grow deathly white, while her hand groped blindly out behind her for support.
"Dead!" she whispered. "I was praying to the bon Dieu for you, Jean. And now you are dead, and you have come to me."
"Ay!" he cried blunderingly in his joy. "Ay, that is true, Marie-Louise! Jean Laparde is dead!"
She moaned a little, and shrank back, and pressed her hands to her face.
"Dead!" she whispered again. "You are dead, Jean, and you have come to me."
She was swaying as he caught her in his arms. Fool, accursed fool, that he had not understood!
"No, no; Marie-Louise, chérie, ma bien-aimée!" he said tenderly. "See, are my arms not real about you? See, it is I, it is really I! It is not death, it is love that has brought me! See, Marie-Louise, lie very still for a little while in my arms, and you will not be any more afraid."
It seemed as though for a space she were in a faint, so white her face was, so quiet she lay; and then her hand felt out and touched his shoulder, and his face, and his hair in a wondering, hesitant, incredulous way.
Her lips moved.
"You—you are like Jean as he used to be before he went away to the grand monde."
He bent his head, and laid his cheek against her cheek.
"Yes, Marie-Louise," he said softly. "And now I shall always be that Jean. Try very hard now to understand, little one! See, I am back again—for always—for always—and I will never go away from you any more. Don't you see, petite, that it is really Jean?"
"Yes," she said, in a low, dead voice, "it is Jean; but how can it be Jean—here—on this great ship—when Jean, I know, is in France—for I left Jean in France."
And then Jean laughed—because it would help to drive the sense of unreality from her mind, and because in his heart was only joyous laughter.
"It is very simple, that! I came with Monsieur Bliss and mademoiselle. And it is no more strange for me to be here than for you—than that I should have seen you a little while ago from the deck up there, Marie-Louise."
She seemed to rouse herself as though in dawning comprehension, raising herself a little in his arms.
"But the clothes—those clothes that you are wearing!" she faltered.
"Ah, Marie-Louise!" he cried out happily. "Do you not remember? Was it not you who told me that day that I was to keep them with me always? And see, I have kept them—and they have brought me back to you!"
He felt her tremble suddenly, and draw away.
"Let me go, Jean." And, as he released her, she stood for an instant clinging to the ship's side, her head turned away, before she spoke again. "You—you put them on to come down here to me?" she said dully, at last.
"But, yes! But, yes! What else?" he answered eagerly. "To come to you, Marie-Louise!"
She faced him, pitifully white.
"Oh, Jean, Jean! Why did you do it?"—it was a bitter, hopeless cry. "What good could this hour bring to you, what could it give you when you go back there that you have not already got, while for me"—her voice broke—"it was so hard before—so hard before, and now—"
She did not understand! She did not understand! He caught her hands.
"It is not for an hour!"—his voice was ringing, vibrant, glad. "It is not for an hour, Marie-Louise, it is for—always—always! I am not going back. I have come for always—to be with you always now, Marie-Louise, as long as we shall live. Look up, Marie-Louise! Look up, and smile with those wondrous lips, and put your arms around my neck, and lay your head upon my shoulder, for there is none here to see or heed."
She did not move; and, as she stood there staring at him, the colour came into her face—and went again, leaving it as white and drawn as it had been before.
"You are not going back"—she scarcely breathed the words. Then, almost wildly: "Jean, what do you mean? Your life, your work, your—"
"Are yours, my Marie-Louise," he said quickly. "It was that I meant when I told you Jean Laparde was dead."
"Mine! You would do this—for me—for me—Jean?"—it was as though she were speaking to herself, so low her voice was, as she leaned slowly toward him. "For me?" she said again; and in a tender, wistful way took his face between her hands, and looked a long time into his eyes while her own grew dim. "You are very wonderful, and big, and brave, and strong, Jean," she whispered presently; and there was a little quickened pressure of her hands upon his cheeks, and then they fell away—and she shook her head. "But it can never be, Jean—it can never be. You must go back."
"Never be!" Jean echoed—but now there was a sudden fierce triumph in his voice. "It must be now, for there is no other way. I cannot go back! Have I not told you that Jean Laparde is dead? Listen, listen, Marie-Louise, my little one. Up there I have destroyed all traces of myself, and in a little while they will find the note I left, and believe that I have thrown myself overboard. Ah, Marie-Louise, when I saw you here to-night—see, you were standing down there with your arms stretched out! But how can I tell you—the joy, the grief, the misérable I had been? But it was only you then—you, Marie-Louise, my Marie-Louise again! And I must show you it was true that my life should be yours, that I knew at last all else against your love was nothing, that I had been as some sick soul wandering, deluded, in a world of phantom things—ah, I do not say it well, Marie-Louise, but you must read my heart, and out of that great love of yours forgive. And I must make you believe—my beacon! Do you remember that? My beacon! Ah, Marie-Louise, for a little while I lost it in the darkness and the storm, but now it is bright again, and it shall always burn for me. And so, see, I have come; and it is the long past back again, and the between is gone, and it is again as the night old Gaston died, and you and I, Marie-Louise, are alone together in all the world."
"Jean! Jean!" she said brokenly—and turned away her head, and, leaning there, buried it in her arms. When she looked up again her face was wet with tears.
He held out his arms to her, and smiled.
But now again she shook her head; and, as her lips quivered, gently pushed his arms away, and took one hand of his in both her own.
"Jean, it is not too late," she was trying bravely to control her voice. "You must go back. The bon Dieu has given you a great life to live, and a great work to do—the work you love."
"It was not the work that I loved—it was Jean Laparde," he said, with a bitter laugh. "But now, I tell you again, Jean Laparde is dead."
"There is your life and there is your work," she went on, as though she had not heard him. "And, Jean—Jean, I have seen them both, and—and so I know."
"You have seen them!" he repeated in a puzzled way. "What is that you say?"
"Yes," she said. "Jean, it was I who went to your studio that night. It was I that Monsieur Valmain saw enter there. I had a cloak and hat that Father Anton had given me that had belonged to Mademoiselle Bliss."
"You?" he cried out, in wild amazement.
"Wait!" she said tensely. "It does not matter if you know now, since you have seen me here; and I am telling you because—because I must make you understand that I know what your life is there in the great world, and how the name of Jean Laparde is honoured, and how now, more than ever before, Jean, you belong to France—and that you must go back—and that this can never, never be, Jean—and that I can never let you do this thing."
He stared at her for a moment and could not speak. It was Marie-Louise who had been at the studio that night! There was bewilderment upon him; and there was something of finality in the gentle voice that swept the laughter from his heart, and brought a cold, dead thing there in its place. And then a sudden, eager uplift came.
"You were there that night!" he said swiftly. "What brought you there, Marie-Louise? What brought you there—to Paris—from Bernay-sur-Mer?"
She did not answer.
"Ah, I know! I know!" he cried out joyously. "It was your love, Marie-Louise—your love that brought you there. And so you love me now, Marie-Louise—and how then can you talk of sending me away?"
"I have always loved you, Jean," she said simply. "It is because I love you that I must not let you do this thing."
"And it is because I love you that I will do it!" he burst out passionately. "Marie-Louise, you were there that night! But is that all? You do not say it, but perhaps you are thinking of Mademoiselle Bliss. You have seen her? She knew you were there? That you were in Paris? You knew that we—"
"She told me that you were to be married, Jean," Marie-Louise interrupted quietly. "But it is not of her that I am thinking."
"She does not love me, I do not love her—voilà! There is the end of that!" Jean flung out his arms. "It is the work then? Well, listen, Marie-Louise, to a wonderful secret that came to me to-night. It is you—you—your eyes, your face, your lips, your beauty, that has made the name of Jean Laparde! It is you that I have been modelling all this time—it is you who have been my model—you, my Marie-Louise! And I in my blind conceit did not realise it, and dreamed that I was creating out of my own genius the true, perfect, glorious womanhood of France—and it was you! You did not know that, my little one!"
"I am not that, Jean," she said steadily. "But I knew that night. Monsieur Valmain, when he saw me, when I stepped out into the studio and you—you were lying there on the floor, Jean—Monsieur Valmain said so. And afterwards, Mademoiselle Bliss said so too."
"Monsieur Valmain! Myrna! The others too—they all saw you there! They knew! Ah!"—he cried, a gathering fury in his voice. "Ah, I begin to understand Myrna's sudden desire for a voyage to America! There was to be no chance that we should meet, you and I, Marie-Louise! Nom de Dieu, I begin to see—many things! And you, meanwhile—how did she get rid of you? She made you leave Paris, eh? You were to go away!"
"It was what I must do. It was not mademoiselle who made me," she answered. "I was sick for a little while, and then I went away. Oh, Jean, can you not see what I have been trying to make you understand? I had no right even to have risked your seeing me, and I had meant that it should never be possible again—and so—and so that is why I am here. And now you have come to-night, Jean! It is very, very strange, and—and"—her voice was breaking again, despite the brave efforts at self-control—"but it cannot change anything—and you must go back—to France—and to your work. Go, Jean; go now, or I—I must go, because—because—"
"Marie-Louise!"—it was like some panic fear at his heart. "Marie-Louise—you do not mean that?"
"There is no other way," she said.
"But it is you who do not understand!" he told her frantically. "My work! Can I not still work anywhere—anywhere where you and I can live our lives together, anywhere so that the world cannot come between us again? Somewhere in America and we will begin a new life together. And is it not you that I need for that work? Is it not you that I must have if I am to work at all?"
"I was not with you, Jean, in Paris," she said, and tried to smile, "and yet all the world knows the name of Jean Laparde." She held out her hands. "I am going now, Jean—and you must go back to that world. It was so grand and big, Jean, for you to do what you have done to-night—but there is to-morrow. Jean, dear Jean, in your great loving impulse you have not counted that. You could not live without the world you have come to know. You think you could to-night, because to-night there is only love; but to-morrow all that you would so splendidly have thrown away would begin to call to you again, and it would grow stronger and stronger, and you could never forget, and misery would come."
"You do not believe me?"—it was like some cruel amazement upon him. "You do not believe me? It is because once I thought those things greater than your love! And you do not believe me now, Marie-Louise!"
"It is because I will not let you spoil your life that I am going," she said slowly; "it is because I must make you understand that I will not let you do this thing; because you must, and I must make you—go back." She stood an instant looking at him, the dark eyes wide and tearless now, the lips parted bravely in a smile—and then she turned and walked from him along the deck.
"Marie-Louise! No!" he cried out hoarsely, and stepped after her. "I will not go back, Marie-Louise! I will never go back! It is done! Marie-Louise! Marie-Louise!"
She did not answer him until she had reached the head of the steerage companionway that led below—and then for a moment she paused.
"All your life, Jean," she whispered, "you will be glad of what you have done to-night, because it was so brave a thing to do; and it will make you a better man, and I am no more afraid, as once I was, that you will forget that it is the bon Dieu, and not yourself, who has made you great. And after a little while you will be glad too that I—that I have gone."
She was gone! He stood there in a numbed way. She was gone! He could not seem to realise that. Go back! Go back—and leave Marie-Louise! Only that one thing was clear out of his dazed and staggered consciousness. He would not go back! He would never go back! To-morrow, ay and the to-morrows all through life, Marie-Louise would find him there!
He raised his head suddenly, and turned and looked behind him. High above on that upper deck there seemed a strange confusion—and on the moment, from the bridge shrilled out an officer's whistle. Then, from deep down within the ship, the engine-room bell sounded in a muffled clang; and an instant later dark forms were scurrying around one of the lifeboats; and now there were shouts, the creak of tackle—and the vibration of the ship was gone.
He moved back along the deck to stand close below the rail of the main deck where, oblivious to the damp and wet now, the passengers in low-necked gowns, in evening dress, the dance forgotten, were crowding, jostling and pushing each other in mad excitement.
A dozen voices spoke at once.
"Somebody has fallen overboard! ... Who is it? ... Who is it? ... How did it happen? ... Who is it? ... Who is it?..."
Jean's brows gathered in perplexed, strained furrows. Myrna and Monsieur Bliss had made their discovery of course, that was evident; but to stop the ship, to lower a boat when it was obviously absurd, when they had every reason to assume that his body by then must be miles astern! What was the meaning of that?
The ship was silent, still, motionless now, save for the tumult of the excited passengers; the lifeboat dropped into the water and rowed away—and then a queer smile flickered on Jean's lips. Ah, yes! It was Myrna—mistress of every situation! Her fiancé as a suicide was impossible; an accident of course was quite another thing—that was only deplorable! She and her father had influence enough with the captain, in whom no doubt they had confided what they believed to be the truth, to induce him to carry out, for the benefit of the passengers and all else on board, the semblance of accident, and the attempt at rescue; and, besides, as far as the captain was concerned, was it not the great Laparde, the most famous of his passengers, who was involved—whose name was to be preserved from infamy and dishonour? He shrugged his shoulders. What story had that clever brain of Myrna's devised to fit the case? Had she seen the accident itself?
"Who is it? ... Who is it?" cried the passengers above him. "How did it happen? ... Who is it? ... Who is it?..."
And then a voice above the others, breathless with importance:
"It was Jean Laparde! He was up on the deck above with Mr. and Miss Bliss. He dropped his cigarette-holder, it rolled across the deck and went outside the rail, where the boats are, you know, and the ship lurched as he stooped to pick it up, and—"
"And so, you see, Marie-Louise," completed Jean to himself, in whimsical wistfulness, "and so, you see, Marie-Louise, that Jean Laparde is dead."
— XII —
AT THE "GATEWAY"
What confusion, what noise, what bewilderment—tugs pulling and snorting as they warped the great liner into her berth; orders shouted; the cries of passengers leaning from the upper decks to the knot of people gathered on the pier below; and, distant, like the muffled roll of a drum, the roar from the city streets!
Marie-Louise clasped at her little bundle of clothing timidly. For hours she had stood there on the crowded steerage deck; for hours she had strained her eyes toward the land, and then at the mighty city unfolding itself as the liner steamed up the harbour. And she had gazed long, too, at that majestic, towering figure on the little island that had evoked such strange emotions from all these people around her—a figure whose fame must be very great, for of these, who could not read or write, who were ignorant and poor, who came from so many, many lands, none, it seemed, even to the little children, but knew and reached out their arms to it, some laughing in hysteria, and some with tears, but all with the one word upon their lips that neither dialect nor tongue confused—liberty!
It was that they had come for, these Czechs of Moravia, these Croatians, these Slovenes from the Austrian provinces of Carinthia and Styria, these Lithuanians and Magyars; it was that, too, that had brought these Jews from a score of lands where the blessed cross that Father Anton had taught her to adore symbolised neither love nor rest for them. How many stories of oppression, and cruelty, and hopelessness had she listened to on the voyage from such as she could understand? It was not the dream of money alone that brought them; it was because, they had told her over and over again, that here they had heard was the land of freedom, that here they could work with no tyranny to rob them of their toil or of their souls, that here they were to know happiness because here was liberty.
How they laughed, and talked, and sobbed, and whispered around her now! How they crowded, and pushed, and swayed in their excitement! How eager some were, how dazed and frightened were others! What a riot of colour and strange dress the women and the men wore! How they clung to their bundles, as instinctively she clung to hers!
What did it mean, that word—liberty? She too, had come for liberty. She, too, had fled from her native country; she, too, had fled to seek freedom from the scenes and memories that were there. That day when she had gone so blindly to the Gare St. Lazare and a train had taken her to Havre, that day when she had no thought of any definite place to go save that she must first of all leave Paris and then go far away, it had seemed like an answer to her perplexity when, in Havre, she had seen the sign in the window of the steamship office about the ship sailing for America from there. And she had bought a ticket; and then—and then that night, here, here on the ship, Jean had come to her.
Her lips quivered suddenly, and her eyes filled with tears. None, none but the bon Dieu and herself knew how near she had come that night to yielding to her love; none else knew how through that brave, splendid act of Jean's her love had seemed suddenly a thousand-fold greater, making it that much the harder to deny, as it pleaded with her to answer the cry of her soul. Oh, it had been so hard, so hard before to let Jean go, to send him from her—but that night when she had turned from him here upon the deck it had been as though she were walking out into some cold, dread place of eternal darkness, where there was no life, no living thing, and all was utter desolation. Why—why had she done it? She had asked herself that a thousand times in the days since then, in the nights when she had lain sleepless in her bunk; and yet, even while she asked, the answer was always present, always there, repeating itself over and over again—Jean had not realised what he was doing, Jean had not realised what he was doing. It was like Jean, so like the big, brave Jean of the old days to give his all on the impulse of the moment, and never a thought to what it might mean in the afterwards. That was why she had sent him away that night—that was why. She would not have been strong enough to have done it for any other cause. She had only been strong because of the bitter regret, the misery that would have come when he began to realise, even with a few hours of the hardships of the steerage, what he had lost—he who would have come from comfort, from refinement to where even soap and water were luxuries; to food that he could not eat, dealt out of huge kettles into dinner pails; to where there was little light and the air was foul; to where like cattle in a pen they slept two hundred in a compartment; to where, instead of servants at his beck and call, there was cold, brutal contempt—and oftentimes a curse; to where, even to her, who had not known the luxuries of Jean's life, it had brought dismay! Yes; in a day of this, even in a few hours of it, with its terrific contrast, he would have known, and—and his love, great as it must have been to have prompted his impulse to the sacrifice that he had tried to make, would not be strong enough to compensate for what he had lost, to make him happy. And so—and so she had sent him back. And the bon Dieu had been very good to her to give her the strength to do it, for she had been right, and she had known Jean better than he knew himself. She had been right; it had been only impulse, stronger than himself for the moment, that had brought him to her, only impulse—for he had gone back. She had not seen him since that night, not even a glimpse of him amongst the passengers on what little of those decks above that she could see, though she had looked whenever, safe from observation herself amongst a crowd of the steerage passengers, she had ventured out on deck. She would have liked to have asked about him, but who was there to ask? To the steerage the life of the great ship was as a thing apart; no news, nothing came to the steerage—sufficient to the steerage was the babel of its own hundred-tongues.
She brushed the tears angrily from her eyes. She should be glad and thankful that she had not been unfair to Jean, that she had not taken advantage of that moment of impulse to so tremendous a sacrifice; she should be glad, not sorrowful—and yet it was not easy to be glad when the pain in the heart was always there, and there was loneliness that would not let her spirits be gay or bright. Liberty! What did it mean, that word—liberty? She had left her native land to seek it—and what she had found so far could only make the memories keener, add to them, and bring a greater sadness.
About her every one was talking, some boisterously, some whose cheeks were wet, some who swore valiantly, some as though they prayed; but all eager, all expectant, all with that word "liberty" continuously upon their lips. It meant that, throughout all the remote places of Europe, in the mountains, in the valleys, in the plains, in the towns and villages of countries she had never heard of before, this great new land of America was known, and meant—liberty.
She wondered if it could be true, if this could be a land of magic that transformed all bitterness and misery into sunshine and song. She wondered if the dreams of all these strange creatures who had come from so many different worlds to this one because its name was liberty would find their dreams realised—if there might not be for some a cruel awakening that would be more than they could bear. This woman who stood beside her, old before her prime, who was very dirty, who was so queerly dressed, who crooned incessantly to the child in her arms—what dreams was she dreaming, what hopes had she, what was it that this new land was to bring to her? And then a great, tender wave of pity swept Marie-Louise. They had been standing there so long! And how drawn and weary the woman's face was, and how her arms must ache!
"Give me the baby for a little while," she said—and placed her bundle at her feet, and took the child in her arms.
And now the confusion around her and about the ship increased. They had come alongside an enormous shed; and, though she could not see, she was sure from the noise and commotion that the rich passengers were getting off. But it was well that she could not see. She was glad of that. Jean would be amongst them, and she could not have helped looking, and—and to have watched him go and know that it was for the last time, would have been but to torture herself beyond her strength.
She was very tired, for still they were kept standing there for so long, long a time, until her arms too ached, and the child grew leaden in its weight. Then the woman took the baby back again, and said something that Marie-Louise could not understand—but the touch of the brown hand as it patted gratefully on her arm brought a quick mist to her eyes, because it was human, a human touch, and out of all the strangeness around her, out of her loneliness it seemed so priceless a thing to win.
And then there came harsh, strident commands, and the press around her, carrying her with it, began to surge forward; and presently she found herself inside the shed on the pier—and then it was like the deck of the ship again, for she stood and waited so long and so interminably. Why did they still have to wait? It could not be here that one must be examined before one could go out into those streets whose rumble and noise was louder now! Some one on board, a man who knew a few words of French, who had made the voyage before, had told her that every one must be examined; only he had said it was in a vast hall where there were two big American flags that hung out over it from the gallery, and that men sat at high desks at the end of long rows of benches, and that one was towed to it in droll-looking barges that had two decks and were all closed in like arks. So it could not be here—that place! And then, more attentive to the details about her, she remembered the octroi when she had entered Paris from Bernay-sur-Mer. One's things too must be examined—and she opened her bundle until one of the men with uniforms should have come and looked at it.
After that, she waited again; and then she was carried forward once more with the movement of those about her; and, passing out of the shed, was crowded onto a barge such as the one that the man on the ship had described to her.
And then here again they waited; for all these people could not get on one barge, even though it held so many and was so closely packed—and there were other barges to be filled. She could not see very much, for she was in the centre of the crowd on the barge's upper deck, and could only occasionally obtain a glimpse through the little windows that were in rows on each side—but, at last, she could tell by the motion that they had started.
There did not seem to be quite so much talking, or chattering, or confusion now. It was as though, hanging over all these people, had come a subdued sense of disquiet and trepidation, the sense of some ordeal to be faced, vaguely grasped, save that it loomed ominously, an unknown, perhaps impassable barrier erected against the fulfilment of their hopes; and men and women alike were nervously beginning to handle the white cards with the big red figures on them, which every one had attached to his or her clothing.
Marie-Louise found herself involuntarily doing the same—staring at the little punch-holes along the bottom edge of the card that the doctor on the ship had put there, one for each day. And there was her name written there at the top—"Marie-Louise Bernier." And underneath it, "Paris"—for she had given that as her last residence, because in this new country none was to know that she had come from Bernay-sur-Mer. For who could tell what these people here might not do? They might write to Bernay-sur-Mer, and then all her efforts would have been in vain, for some one in Bernay-sur-Mer would write to Father Anton, and—the card dropped from her fingers, and dangled by its string from the button of her blouse.
The hot, scalding tears were in her eyes again. Memories! Always memories!
On the faces of those around her, so many of them anxious now, was written the question that lips in so many different languages were whispering to each other.
"Will they let me in? What will they do? Will they let me in? Will they let me in?"
Liberty—for them! Yes, they would go in, as she would go in—and some of them, perhaps many of them, would find what they had sought. But she—even here in this strange country, where she could understand no single word that was spoken, where, surely, now that Jean was gone again, there would be nothing, no familiar scenes to come to her to revive those memories—could she find liberty in some day learning to forget?
It did not seem so now, for it seemed as though all her strength, her resistance had gone out from her that night in her struggle to send Jean away, and that it had not come back again. Why—oh, why had the bon Dieu sent Jean upon that ship? It had been so cruelly hard before! It did not change anything that he was in the same country, for he would not stay long, and the country was so many times bigger than France that they were utterly separated, but it was making it so hard to be brave now—-so much harder—so much harder! And then suddenly she lifted her head proudly, even though the lips would still quiver, and though the lashes of her eyes were still wet. What was it, that old and simple faith, that her Uncle Gaston in his rugged, honest way had taught her? Yes, the words came back, and they came now like a benediction to send her on her way with hope and comfort—"to love God and be never afraid."
She kept repeating that to herself all the rest of the way—until she was leaving the barge again, and, with the hundreds of her fellow-passengers, still so curious a sight to her in their many costumes, began to file in through the doorway of a huge building that was red-roofed and had towers. And here, once inside, they went very slowly at first, for they must pass between railings one at a time, while the doctors looked at each in turn. This frightened her a little, but they did nothing more to her than to stamp her card; and then, after that, there was a big, broad staircase—and then, as she climbed to the top, the vast hall was before her, with its many rows of benches, and its two great flags hanging out from the balcony, that the man had told her about.
What a buzz of noise—so many voices; the constant, shuffling tread of feet; the cry of an infant; the stir and movement of such a crowd of people! And the sounds, floating upward, seemed to form themselves into a strange, humming echo that was forever swirling around and around at the roof of the hall over the gallery. It bewildered her. A man in uniform—there were so many men in uniform!—spoke to her. She did not understand; but somehow, nevertheless, she found herself seated on one of the long benches that ran nearly the whole length of the hall.
For a little while she remained quiet, staring down at her bundle that she had placed upon the floor. And then, as her confusion and bewilderment gradually passed away, she began to look around her. She had never imagined that any hall could be so big—it was bigger even than that place with the marble staircase where she had seen the great reception to Jean. How many hundreds would it hold? Still the people who had been with her on the ship kept coming up the stairs, and still the benches were not nearly filled!
She turned and looked in the other direction, to where, quite close to her, for she was almost at the head of the line, an officer sat at a high desk, with one of the passengers standing before him. And there were many of these desks, each with an officer seated at it, just as many as there were rows of benches, for there was one at the head of every line; and behind these there was an open space beneath the gallery; and against the wall of the building there were some little railed-off enclosures; and doors that were constantly opening and shutting, one of which, at least, seemed to lead into a corridor; and, too, there was another wide stairway, down which some of those who had come with her were already passing.
Her eyes came back to the inspector at the head of her own line, and she watched him eagerly, as he kept writing all the time he talked to the man who stood in front of him. It would be her turn in a moment. What was he doing? What was he saying? And then, as she watched, the man in front of the inspector swung a large, ungainly valise to his shoulder, and passed behind the desk, and crossed the open space beyond, and went down the stairs.
There was only one more now before her—another man. Her heart began to pound rapidly. She was not afraid of the inspector at the desk; she was not afraid that he would refuse to let her through—why should she be? It was not that—it was only that the moment had come now when she was to go out into this new land, and face new conditions where even the language was unknown to her, and—and begin her life over again. It was only that this moment seemed so big with finality—the threshold between the future and the past.
It was her turn now. Mechanically she took up her bundle, and stepped to the desk. "To love God and be never afraid"—she was saying that to herself again.
"Your name?" demanded the inspector. He spoke in French, in quick appreciation of her nationality.
"Marie-Louise Bernier," she answered in a low voice, her eyes on the bundle in her arms.
"Your age? And"—he added kindly—"do not be nervous."
She raised her eyes to smile gratefully back at him—and then, with a cry that rang and rang again through the immense hall and stilled all else to silence, she flung herself madly past the desk, and ran across the open space behind it.
"Jean! Jean! Jean!"
A figure, grimy, dirty, disreputable, whose hands were manacled, rose, with an answering cry, from within one of the railed-off enclosures.
"Jean! Jean!"—she had reached him now, and was sobbing, clinging to him. "Jean—you—here! These things on your wrists! And your face is so white, Jean! Jean, Jean, what does it mean? Jean—"
And then she was conscious of a rush of men, and hands were upon her trying to tear her away—and then, with a strength that was greater, that seemed to mock at the strength of all these hands that snatched at her, she was whirled off her feet, and Jean, towering there in all his great might, snarling like some beast at bay, was between her and the others.
"Let her alone!"—Jean's steel-locked wrists and clenched hands were raised above his head. "Let her alone!"—his voice was hoarse, low with a murderous fury. "I'll kill, do you understand—with these"—he shook the steel bracelets on his wrists—"I'll kill—the first man—that tries to take her away!"
Before the white, livid face, the passion in the mighty, quivering form, they fell back instinctively; and for an instant that tense, bated silence fell again upon the hall—and then a child cried peevishly—and then a voice spoke authoritatively.
She did not understand what was said; but she was clinging to Jean again, and the crowd of men in uniform were going away, leaving only one or two near them.
"What was it? What did he say?" she asked wildly.
"That there must be something in common between us—and to bring us both together before the special inquiry board," he answered mechanically—and because he could not spread his hands apart, he laid them, still trembling with the fury that had been upon him, both together on her shoulder, and drew her to him.
It terrified her, the sight of those manacles on his wrists. Why—why were they there? What were they going to do with him? What was this inquiry—was it to send him to prison?
"Jean, what is it?" she whispered piteously. "What does it mean? What are they going to do with you?"
"I do not know," he said, and smiled at her. "I only know that for a little while at least you are here with me again."
"Jean—answer me!" she cried out in her fear.
"But I do not know what they will do," he said again. "I am a stowaway. They caught me that night on the ship when I was trying to find some place to sleep—and, pardieu, they were not too gentle until one or two were hurt!—and then they made me work my passage in the stokehole."
It seemed so hard to think! Some wonder, that was a glorious wonder, was in her heart.
"You—you did not go back, Jean; I—I thought you had gone back, Jean"—it was as though she were telling, in a low, whispering way, some great, glad, joyous thing to herself. And then there came a sudden whiteness to her face, but her head was lifted bravely until her eyes met his. "Jean, tell them!" she said steadily. "You must tell them now who you are. Tell them, Jean, and they will let you go."
"Tell them now!" Jean cried—and shook his head, and drew his shoulders back. "Tell them—now! Did I tell them that night, Marie-Louise? Look!"—he thrust out his handcuffed wrists before him. "Is this not proof, Marie-Louise, that I will never tell them, that I will never go back—alone? If the world is ever to hear of Jean Laparde again, it will be because he has won back the only thing he has to live for—you—you, Marie-Louise, my little Marie-Louise. I told them my name was Jacques Legault—and Jacques Legault I will always be until you have made Jean Laparde live again, until—until—you are his wife—as in God's sight you have been, Marie-Louise, since we were little children, as in God's sight you were when I swore that oath to Gaston as he died, as in God's sight you have been though I was a traitor to that oath. Look, Marie-Louise! Look at these things again, these irons on my wrists, are they not proof that there is nothing now, that I will have nothing, that I will know nothing but your love? Ah, Marie-Louise, once you said that I belonged to France, and you bade me go alone and work; and I forgot France, and love, and there was only Jean Laparde, and I forgot the God that gave the gift—but now, Marie-Louise, look up into my face and answer, shall I work this time for France and you and love, or shall I never work again? Marie-Louise, see"—his voice broke in its passionate pleading—"they are coming! Marie-Louise, do you not know now that there is only you—only you, Marie-Louise—for always?"
She did not answer. They were taking Jean, and taking her somewhere now. She walked almost blindly. Jean had not gone back that night, and—and those things on his wrists were proof that—that he would never go back. Proof that, whatever might happen now, whatever he was going now to face, whatever they might do with him, the choice he had made that night was made for all his life; that she, even if she would, could not alter it now—proof that his love was so great and wonderful and strong and big that nothing could bend or break or shatter it—proof it was a love so pure that it had risen in sacrifice so high as to make a glory of the years when he had forgotten it! Yes; she knew now! Her heart, and her soul, and the bon Dieu told her so! What was it he had said that night on the ship—that even in those years she had been his inspiration? Yes; she knew that, too, for she had seen it, and others had seen it. It was true! And he had said that he would never work again—never do that great, wondrous work of his again—alone—without her—never return to it—without her. And he had said that the grand monde that once had taken her place in his life, the grand monde in which she could have no part, was of the past now—the past to which he would never return—no matter what she did or said now—to which he would never return.
They were in a corridor; and from the corridor they entered a room, where there were three men seated in a row at desks. These men began to talk amongst themselves; but it was only when an interpreter, who was also present, put questions to Jean that she could understand anything.
"To love God and be never afraid"—she tried to think of that again, tried to say it over and over. But she was afraid. There was terror; and, besides terror, there was that new wonder in her soul—and, mingling, they brought confusion upon her, and at first even the words in her own tongue conveyed no meaning, and possessed for her only an unnatural sense of familiarity. And then, in snatches, she began to catch the drift of what was going on around her—a stowaway in any case was almost invariably deported ... undesirable for other reasons ... murderous assault upon one of the crew when he was discovered ... his outburst of fury and threat of attack upon the officers only a few moments ago ... medical examination ... stab wound in side barely healed ... a vicious character....
The wound! The wound in Jean's side! She had forgotten that! It brought a sharp cry to her lips, that caused them all to turn and look at her. But she did not care. What if they looked! She was looking at Jean—looking at the gaunt, white, haggard-faced giant, who smiled and shrugged his shoulders to every question that was put to him. His wound—barely healed! What must those days and nights of torturing, brutal work in the stokehole of that ship have meant to him—and she had thought so pitiful a thing as an hour of the coarse food, the paltry misery of the steerage, would have made him falter and regret!
They kept on questioning him—but she was not listening now. Her soul was whispering to her: "It is Jean; it is Jean; Jean that you love; Jean that you have loved all your life, all your life, who has done this for you. It is Jean who has lived through black hours where only a courage and a heroic love, so splendid and so true that it will last while life will last, has kept him from the single word, the single act that could so easily have brought back to him again everything in the world—save you." Her eyes were filling with tears. It was Jean—Jean—Jean—who had done this for her. Jean who stood there with irons upon his wrists—for her. Jean who had—
"Who is this woman?" the interpreter demanded abruptly of Jean. "Is she any relation to you?"
There was no answer—save only in Jean's eyes, as he turned and looked at her.
"Tell him, Marie-Louise," Jean's eyes seemed to say. "Tell him, Marie-Louise, for it is you who must answer now—for always."
"You, then," the interpreter asked, addressing her. "Are you any relation to this man?"
She felt her face grow very white.
"You must tell the truth," the interpreter cautioned sharply. "It is evident on the face of it, from what happened out there in the hall, that there is something between you. Tell the truth for your own sake. This man is to be deported, and he will not be allowed to come back. Do you understand that? If he is any relation to you, say so—unless you want to be separated. Well?"
Separated! Marie-Louise raised her head a little—and looked at Jean—and at the interpreter—and at the officers.
"I"—oh, it was true; true as life was true; true as love was true; true in God's sight, as Jean had said it was true; true because all through the years to come, through the sunshine and the storm and until death it would be true!—"I—I am his wife," she said.
"Marie-Louise!"
She heard Jean breathe her name, she heard the half sob upon his lips, she felt the cold steel of the handcuffs touch her wrist as his hand found and closed on hers—but she was looking only at the officers, hanging, her heart stilled in suspense, upon their every act, trying to read their faces where she could not understand their words. And then, involuntarily, because they told her nothing, because the seconds as they passed were as eternities, she flung out her hands to the interpreter.
"What are they saying? What are they saying?" she cried imploringly.
But it was Jean who answered—and his voice was lifted as though in song, radiant, triumphant, deathless.
"You are to be sent back to France, Marie-Louise, Marie-Louise—with me."