street below, who neither saw nor heard her, "we are not in Paris, but
in Bernay-sur-Mer, which is quite another story, you see it is not
absurd or ridiculous at all, and I and my fisherman--"
She turned abruptly from the window at the sound of a knock and the
opening of her door. It was Nanette, her maid, with a tray.
"I have mademoiselle's _dejeuner_," announced Nanette. "Monsieur Bliss
has already finished his, and asks if mademoiselle will soon be ready.
He is waiting with Monsieur le Cure for you."
"Waiting--with Monsieur le Cure?"--Myrna's eyebrows went up in
well-simulated surprise.
"To visit the cottage mademoiselle has taken," amplified Nanette, and
her retrousse nose was delicately elevated a trifle higher. Nanette,
very evidently, was one at all events who was not in favour of the plan.
"Oh, the cottage--of course!" exclaimed Myrna, as though suddenly
inspired. "I had forgotten all about it. Dress me quickly then,
Nanette."
Nanette tossed a shapely dark head.
"Is mademoiselle going to stay here long?"--Nanette at times felt
privileged to take liberties.
"Gracious, Nanette!" complained Myrna sweetly. "What a question! How
can you possibly expect me to know?"
Nanette arranged the tray perfunctorily.
"There was a man who left a message with that imbecile proprietor for
mademoiselle early this morning," she observed. "Mademoiselle has
engaged a boatman?"
"A boatman? Certainly not!" declared Myrna Bliss. "Not without seeing
the boat--and I have seen no boat!"
"But mademoiselle engages a cottage without seeing the cottage,"
murmured Nanette slyly.
"That will do, Nanette!" said Myrna severely. "There was but one
cottage; there are dozens of boats. It is quite a different matter.
What did the man say?"
"That he was obliged to go out for the four o'clock fishing this
morning," said Nanette, pouting a little at the rebuke; "but that he
would go to mademoiselle at the cottage early in the forenoon."
A row of little white teeth crunched into a piece of crisp toast.
"Very well, Nanette." Myrna's brows pursed up thoughtfully. "You may
get out that new marquisette from Fallard's; and, I think"--she glanced
out of the window--"my sunbonnet. And, Nanette"--suddenly
impatient--"hurry, please--since father is waiting."
Myrna's impatience bore fruit. In ten minutes she was ready, and,
running down the stairs, went out to the street, where her father and
the cure, deep in conversation--on art undoubtedly, since her father
was doing most of the talking!--were pacing slowly up and down, as they
waited for her.
Her sunbonnet was swinging in her hand, the big grey eyes were shining,
the glow of superb health was in her cheeks.
"Good morning, Father Anton!" she called out gaily. "What a shame to
have kept you waiting!"
The old priest turned toward her with unaffected pleasure, as he held
out his hand.
"Good morning to you, mademoiselle"--he was smiling with eyes as well
as lips. "What a radiant little girl! It makes one full of life and
young again; you are, let me see, you are--a tonic!"
She laughed as she turned to her father.
"'Morning, Dad! Sleep well?"
Henry Bliss removed his cigar to survey his daughter with whimsical
reproach; then he patted her cheek affectionately.
"Fierce, wasn't it?" he chuckled. "Those beds are the worst ever! I
was telling the cure here about them."
"It is too bad," said Father Anton solicitously. "It is regrettable.
I am so very sorry. But"--earnestly--"you must not think too hardly of
the Fregeaus. Since no guests sleep here, I am sure they can have no
idea that--"
"No; of course not!" agreed Henry Bliss heartily, and laughed. "The
hard feelings are all in the beds--and we'll let them stay there. Now,
then, Myrna, are you ready to inspect this new domain of yours? And
shall we walk, or take the car? Father Anton says it is not far."
"We will walk then," decided Myrna.
It was the walk she had taken yesterday, at least it was the same as
far as the little bridge; and for that distance she walked beside her
father and the cure, chatting merrily, but there she loitered a little
behind them. Half impishly, half with a genuine impulse that she
rather welcomed than avoided, she told herself that it was quite unfair
to pass the little spot so indifferently. Was it not here that this
most bizarre of adventures had begun? She had stood here by the
railing, and he had stood there across on the other side, and--the red
leaped suddenly flaming into her cheeks. She had never looked at a man
like that before--no man had ever looked at her like that before! And
it had been spontaneous, instant, like a flash of fire that had lighted
up a dark and unknown pathway, which, in the momentary blaze of light,
was full of strange wonder; and which, because it was an unknown way,
and because the glimpse had shown so much in so brief an instant that
the brain fused all into confusion and nothing was concrete, resulted,
not in illuminating the way, but, the flash of light gone again, in
transforming the pathway only into a bewildering maze.
She laughed a little after a while, shaking her head. Such an absurd
fancy! But what an entrancing, alluring little fancy! Decidedly, it
would be a new sensation to be lost in a maze like that--for a time.
She would tire of it soon enough--the thrill probably would not even
last as long as she would want it to. No thrill ever did! She bit her
lip suddenly in pretty vexation. It was stupid of the man to go off
fishing! Had he done it to pique her? The idea! He certainly could
not have the temerity to imagine that it lay within his power to pique
her. The sunbonnet swung to and fro abstractedly from its ribbon
strings. Wasn't it strange that he had--piqued her!
She went on after her father and the cure. They were quite a way ahead
now, and she hastened to catch up with them. As she drew near, she
caught her father's words.
"... Peyre on the _Histoire Generale des Beaux-Arts_, Monsieur le Cure,
I recommend it to you heartily. It is a most comprehensive little
volume, embracing in a condensed form the story of the arts from the
time of the Egyptians down to the present day, and--"
Myrna, in spite of herself, laughed outright, at which both men turned
their heads. Her father, incorrigible, was at it again; and, once
started, there was no stopping him. Poor Father Anton! For the rest
of the way he would listen to art!
"Did I not tell you to beware, Father Anton?" she cried out in comical
despair--and waved them to go on again.
She had no desire to listen to art, its relation to nature, its
relation to science, its relation to civilisation, nor, above all, to a
dissertation on the modern school. She had heard it all before; and,
if it had not passed as quickly through one ear as it had come into the
other, her head, she was quite sure, would have driven her to
distraction. Besides, it was much more important to think about
something else--no, not what she had been thinking about a moment ago;
but, for instance, to be practical, about this menage whose wheels,
without knowing whether they were oiled or not, she had impulsively set
in motion. Would the cottage be at all habitable? Would this
Marie-Louise be at all suitable? Would Marie-Louise and Nanette get
along together? Nanette was insanely jealous of Jules--nothing but the
fact that Jules was with them would have induced Nanette, to whom Paris
was the beginning and the end of all things, to have come on such a
trip. Yes, there was a very great deal to think about--now that it
occurred to her! Myrna fell into a brown study, quite oblivious to her
surroundings.
When she joined her father and the cure again, they had stopped at the
edge of the little wood on the headland, and a cottage, almost as
prettily vine-covered as Father Anton's, lay before them.
"Well, Myrna," her father called, with a smile, "I must say your plunge
in the dark looks propitious so far."
"No, no! Not a plunge in the dark!" protested Father Anton quickly,
his eyes full of expectant pleasure on Myrna. "That is not fair,
Monsieur Bliss! It was on my recommendation, was it not, mademoiselle?
And now--eh?--what does mademoiselle think of it?"
It was like the imaginative conception of some painter. The cottage,
green with climbing vines, spotlessly white where the vines were
sparse, nestled in the trees--in front, as far as the eye could reach,
the glorious, deep, unfathomable blue of the Mediterranean; nearer, the
splash of surf, like myriad fountains, on the headland's rugged point;
while a tiny fringe of beach, just peeping from under the edge of the
cliff at the far side of the cottage, glistened as though full of
diamonds in the sunlight.
"Father Anton--you are a dear!" Myrna cried impetuously.
Her eyes roved delightedly here and there. There was a little trellis
with flowers over the back door--that little outhouse would do
splendidly as a garage. And then the front door opened, and her eyes
fixed on a girl's figure on the threshold--and somehow the figure was
familiar.
"Who is that, Father Anton?" she demanded.
"But it is Marie-Louise--who else?" smiled the priest. "I will call
her."
"No," said Myrna; "we will go in."
Of course! How absurd! She recognised the girl now. It was the girl
who had passed them on the bridge--Myrna's sunbonnet swung a little
abstractedly again--with Jean Laparde.
Father Anton bustled forward.
"Marie-Louise," he said, as they reached the door, "this is the lady
and gentleman who are to take the house, and--"
"Oh, but I think we have seen each other before," interposed Myrna
graciously. "Was it not you, Marie-Louise, who passed us on the bridge
yesterday afternoon?"
Marie-Louise's dark eyes, deep, fearless, met the grey ones--and
dropped modestly.
"Yes, mademoiselle," she said.
"Certainly!" said Henry Bliss pleasantly. "I remember you too,
and--ah!" With a sudden step, quite forgetting the amenities due his
daughter, he brushed by her into the room, and stooped over the clay
figure of the beacon. He picked it up, looked at it in a sort of
startled incredulity, as though he could not believe his eyes; then,
setting it down, went to the window, threw up the shade for better
light, and returned to the clay figure. And then, after a moment, he
began to mutter excitedly. "Yes--undoubtedly--of the flower of the
French school--Demaurais, Lestrange, Pitot--eh?--which?
And--yes--here--within a day or so--it is quite fresh!" He rushed back
to the doorway to Father Anton. "Who has been in the village
recently?"--his words were coming with a rush, he had the priest by the
shoulders and was unconsciously shaking him. "Was it a man with long
black hair over his coat collar and a beak nose? Was it a little short
man who always jerks his head as he talks? Or was it a big fellow,
very fat, and, yes, if it were Pitot he would probably be drunk?
Quick! Which one was it?"
Father Anton, jaw dropped, dumb with amazement, could only shake his
head. This American! Had he gone suddenly mad?
"Good heavens, dad, what is the matter?" Myrna cried out.
He paid no attention to her.
"You, then!"--he whirled on Marie-Louise, grasping her arm fiercely.
"Who has been here?"
"But--but, m'sieu," stammered Marie-Louise, shrinking back in affright,
"no one has been here."
Myrna pressed forward into the room.
"Dad, what _is_ the--" She got no further.
"It is true--I am a fool. I was wrong. Look, Myrna!"--his face
flushed, his eyes lighted with the fire of an enthusiast, he was at the
table, lifting up the little clay figure of the fisherwoman with the
outstretched arms, the beacon, in his hands again. "Look, Myrna! No,
I am not mad--I am only a fool. I, who pride myself as a critic, was
fool enough for a moment to think this the work of perhaps Demaurais,
or Lestrange, or Pitot--when no one of the three even in his greatest
moment of inspiration could approach it! There is life in it. You
feel the very soul. It is sublime! But it is more than that--it is a
stupendous thing, for, since it has been freshly done, and no stranger
to these people has been here, the man who did it must be one of
themselves. Don't you understand, Myrna, don't you understand? The
world will ring with it. It is the discovery of a genius. I make the
statement without reservation. _This is the work of the greatest
sculptor France will have ever known_!"
Father Anton had come forward a little timorously, lacing and unlacing
his fingers. Upon Myrna's face was a sort of bewildered stupefaction.
Marie-Louise, her breath coming in little gasps, was gazing wide-eyed
at the man who held in his hands her beacon, the clay figure she had
seen Jean make.
"Is--is it true--what you say?" she whispered.
Henry Bliss looked at her for a moment, startled--as though he was for
the first time aware of her presence.
"You--yes, of course, you must know about this, as it is in the house
here," he burst out abruptly. "You know who made it?"
"But, yes," said Marie-Louise, and now there was a sudden new note, a
trembling note of pride that struggled for expression in her voice.
"But, yes--it was Jean Laparde."
"Laparde--Jean Laparde?"--his voice was hoarse in its eagerness.
"Quick!" he cried. "Laparde--Jean Laparde? Who is Jean Laparde?"
A flush crept pink into Marie-Louise's face.
"He is my fiance," she said.
-- VI --
THE GIFT
Father Anton, with a smile, his eyes twinkling, looked from one to the
other of the group as much as to say: "There! Is that not an
altogether charming denouement?" Myrna had yet to discover herself in
a situation to whose command she did not rise--inwardly a sudden
confusion upon her, her face expressed a polite interest. As for Henry
Bliss, the words were without any significance whatever--it was not
what he wanted to know.
It was Marie-Louise, embarrassed, who broke the silence.
"Will mademoiselle and monsieur look through the house now, and tell me
what rooms they will occupy?"
Henry Bliss, for answer, caught Father Anton again by the shoulder.
"This Jean Laparde," he flung out excitedly, "you ought to know all
about him! He must have done other things besides this"--he swept his
hand toward the beacon, which he had now very carefully replaced on the
table.
"But, of course!" declared Father Anton, still smiling. "Mother
Fregeau will assure you--forever little faces and figures out of her
dough and the inside of her loaves."
"No, no--good Lord!" exclaimed Henry Bliss. "I mean--"
"I am telling you," interrupted Father Anton mildly. "He has been
forever at that since he was a boy, and then there are the clay dolls
for the children, of which there would be very many, at least a
hundred."
"A hundred! A hundred clay _dolls_ by the man who did this!" shouted
Henry Bliss eagerly. "And do you mean to say you never realised--oh,
good Lord! Where are they?"
Father Anton's eyebrows went up in almost pitying astonishment.
"But, monsieur," he said patiently, "where would they be? They do not
last long; and, even if the children did not break them almost
immediately, they would soon crumble to pieces like their own mud pies."
"Mud!" Henry Bliss bent quickly over the beacon again. "Yes, so it
is! It is mostly mud. It is unbelievable! The man did not even have
modelling clay to work with!" He swung again on the cure. "Well, where
is this Jean Laparde? I want to see him at once!"
Myrna's laugh rippled suddenly through the room.
"Dad--don't get so excited. Your Jean Laparde won't run away. He's
out fishing now, but he said he would come out here this morning."
"Out fishing--come out here this morning?" repeated her father, staring
at her. "How do you know?"
Myrna shook her finger at him in playful severity.
"If you had paid any more than the merest pretence of attention to me
last night, you would have remembered the name--no"--she laughed
again--"no, perhaps after all I didn't mention it, I'm not sure I
hadn't forgotten it myself; but he is the fisherman who took me to
Father Anton here, you know--the one I told you might possibly do as a
boatman for us while we were here."
"Great grief! Do as a--_boatman_!" ejaculated Henry Bliss weakly.
"You, Monsieur le Cure, what time do these fishermen return?"
"But anytime, now," Father Anton answered. "The boats go out very
early in the morning."
"Good!" Henry Bliss pushed the cure impetuously toward the door.
"Then, you and I, Father Anton, will go right back to the village and
be there when he comes in."
"But"--Father Anton was quite bewildered--one was literally carried off
one's feet--were they all alike, these Americans! "But," he protested
helplessly, as he was being pulled through the door, "but if the boats
are already in, and since mademoiselle said he was coming here, then--"
"Then we will meet him on the road"--they were already out of the
house. "Now, then, Monsieur le Cure, if you are a loyal Frenchman,
step out quickly, for this is the greatest day in the history of
France, the greatest day, I tell you, in the"--the voice died away in
the distance.
Marie-Louise had not moved. She was still standing in the centre of
the room, a strangely spellbound, dumfounded little figure.
"Mademoiselle," she ventured timidly, "what--what is--"
"I am sure I do not know," said Myrna languidly. "Have you no shoes or
stockings?"
Marie-Louise glanced perplexedly at her small, bare feet.
"But, yes, mademoiselle--for the village sometimes, and when one walks
in the fields."
"Go and put them on, then," directed Myrna. "And remember always to
wear them while we are here. When you come back, I will go through the
house with you and tell you what to do."
"Yes, mademoiselle," said Marie-Louise nervously--there was a sense of
guilt upon her, but wherein lay the enormity of her offence she did not
understand. Nevertheless, was not mademoiselle of the great world, and
since mademoiselle was displeased, surely mademoiselle must know. She
turned hastily from the room.
"No--wait!" Myrna's brain, for all her outward composure, was far from
calm. It seemed as though the little stone she had started rolling
down the hill in a--well, was it a whim?--was gathering many other
stones in its course and developing into an avalanche. She had no
desire to go into the details of the house with this Marie-Louise at
that moment; on the contrary, it was absolutely impossible. The one
thing she wanted was to be alone--to clear all this muddle out of her
head. "No--wait!" she repeated. "There will be quite time enough to
attend to that when Nanette and Jules arrive; and in the meantime you
had better go down to the Bas Rhone and help Nanette if you can. When
they are ready, come back with them."
"Nanette, mademoiselle? But I do not know who Nanette is."
"My maid," said Myrna tersely.
"Yes, mademoiselle"--Marie-Louise, with a quick nod, was running from
the room. "At once, mademoiselle--as soon as I have put on my shoes
and stockings."
Myrna tossed her sunbonnet on a chair, and walked over to the table to
inspect the little clay figure. For ten minutes she stood in front of
it, now frowning, now with unconscious admiration the dominant
expression upon her face, now with puzzled bewilderment in her eyes.
Of the technique of any art she not only knew nothing, but secretly
held it in contempt; but she could not have been her father's daughter
to have lacked a sense of appreciation for the beautiful. At the end
of the ten minutes she picked up her sunbonnet again, and walked slowly
out of the house.
At the headland's point, two hundred yards away, she sat down upon the
rocks. She could not seem to get that little clay figure out of her
head now. It was amazing how it took form before her eyes as
realistically as though it were still in front of her! What a
wonderful charm and appeal there was in it! She could see that for
herself, even if her father had not grown so excited over it. "The
greatest sculptor in France"--well, perhaps that was a little
exaggerated! But her father was nevertheless acknowledged to be a
critic second to none in the world of art, and he was far too chary of
his reputation to sacrifice it on a myth. Certainly then, there was at
least a promise in the man's work. What did her father mean to do? He
had not rushed off that way for nothing. It was really charming, that
little figure. She would get Jean to let her have it, buy it from him.
Imagine possessing the first piece of his work, if the man ever
amounted to anything!
She threw a stone out into the water, watched it splash, watched the
spray of the breaking waves on what seemed like a reef away out to one
side of the headland, and watched a boat coming shoreward from out
beyond the reef again. There was a disturbed little gathering of her
brows. But suppose she did buy it, the thing would crumble to pieces
in a few days, and--stupid! Of course! Had she not been often in
those dirty _ateliers_ that were always in a mess with their clay and
their plaster? One could send it to Marseilles to have a cast made;
and, afterwards, the cast could be sent home to Paris.
What was her father going to do with this "discovery" of his, as he
called it? Discovery--_his_! A little thrill ran through her. It was
not his discovery--it was _hers_! It was she who had discovered Jean
Laparde--in that one look. The man's soul, a great smouldering volcano
of emotion, was in his face, his eyes. It was amazing that this had
happened; amazing almost beyond credence that, hidden in the little
village, a fisherman, untaught, unconscious even of his own power, had
produced a piece of work that had aroused her father, one of the great
art critics in France, to such a pitch of elated excitement--but
somehow it was not in the least bit amazing that it was _Jean Laparde_
who had done it!
Her eyes fixed again on the boat, that was well in now between the reef
and the headland; and, with a sudden little gasp, she rose quickly to
her feet--it was Jean Laparde himself. What splendid width of
shoulder, what strength, and ease, and assurance in the sweep of the
oars that bent the blades backward from swirling little eddies, that
lifted the heavy boat to send it bounding forward as though it were a
feather-weight. It was Jean Laparde--the fiance of Marie-Louise!
It was to the front at last, that thought! It had been dominant from
the moment Marie-Louise had uttered the words, only she had attempted
to ignore it, lose it in the other phases of this bewildering morning.
But it was out now! Well, what of it? It was an impossible situation
this that she had created, was it not? There was no use in denying
even to herself that the man had aroused in her--what should she call
it?--a desire to cultivate him a little, since he would be so new, so
fresh, so quite different. And Marie-Louise was at the moment now
actually in her employ as--one could not call her a servant, it was
Marie-Louise's own house, and she was only there to help for a little
while at the cure's request--but still--the colour burned red in
Myrna's cheeks.
The next instant, she smiled a little. What a simpleton she was! What
on earth did it matter! What could it possibly matter! Good heavens,
she wasn't going to take this Jean Laparde away from Marie-Louise!
_She_ wasn't going to marry him! There wasn't the slightest reason in
the world why, just when the man turned out to be an embryonic genius
and promised to prove really interesting, she should change her
attitude toward him--and, anyway, it was almost a foregone conclusion
that her father now would monopolise Jean Laparde morning, noon and
night.
She glanced at the boat--and started abruptly for the house. To remain
there would have been almost too obviously--a meeting. Jean had
evidently not gone to the village at all with the other boats--she
supposed there were other boats since the cure had spoken of them--but
had come directly in from wherever he had been fishing.
She reached the house and through the window watched Jean send the boat
sweeping up to the beach, leap from it, and, seemingly without
exertion, pull it higher over the sand. He turned then, searching the
house with his eyes; and suddenly placed his hands trumpet-fashion to
his lips.
"Marie-Louise! Ho, Marie-Louise!" she heard him shout, as he came
running up the cliff path from the beach.
Virile in movement, a striking figure, there seemed all of command,
something heroic even in the rugged strength, something absolutely
undauntable about the man. And then she laughed merrily to herself, as
she stepped to the door. What a change! Who would have believed it!
Jean, at sight of her, had stopped as though he had been struck,
self-consciousness mocked at the air of command, and through the brown
tan of his face crept the red.
"Oh, it is you, Jean!" she exclaimed.
Mechanically he reached up for his cap.
"I--I did not think that mademoiselle had got here yet," he said, the
dark eyes in their steady gaze disconcertingly at variance with his
stammering speech.
"We've been here ages," she told him quickly. "But the others have
gone back again. Marie-Louise has gone to help Nanette with the
things. And my father rushed off with that delightful old cure of
yours to look for you."
"Rushed off to look for me?" echoed Jean in astonishment. "But I told
Jacques Fregeau to tell you that I would come here as soon--"
"Yes, of course, to look for you--but not for the purpose you imagine!"
she broke in smiling, and shook her head reproachfully at him. "Jean,
do you know that I am quite angry with you! Come here!" She led the
way into the house. "Now!"--pointing to the clay figure on the table.
"Is not that your work?"
"But, yes, mademoiselle"--there was only a cursory glance at the
beacon; his eyes were on this fresh, glorious, wonderful woman, whose
white dress of some marvellous texture draped about her with such
exquisite, dainty grace ... and the throat was bare, and full, and
white as ivory is white ... that glint of bronze that was always
playing over the massive coils of hair ... the playful severity in the
pursed lips ... it was intoxication, it was fire ... he had been drunk
with it all the night, all that morning in the boat while he had fished.
"Then why did you not tell me about it last night?" she demanded.
With a start, he shrugged his shoulders--and perplexity came.
"But it is nothing--that," he said slowly. "What was there to tell,
mademoiselle?"
"Nothing!" She stared at him in amazement. "Do you really mean to say
that you think it is--nothing?"
"But, of course!" he said simply.
And then suddenly she smiled, and shook her head at him again.
"Did I not tell you last night, Jean, that you were less like a
fisherman than any man I had ever seen?"
"Yes; mademoiselle said that." Was there a word of hers that he had
forgotten!
"Very well, then," she began magisterially, "since you think nothing of
that little statue, I will tell you what I think. It is so much more
than 'nothing' that I am going to buy it from you. It is"--her voice
changed suddenly, soft in abandon, full in admiration--"oh, Jean, it is
superb, magnificent; it is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen;
and--and I think I want it more than I have ever wanted anything
before."
She had come closer to him, touched him, her hand was on his sleeve,
her cheeks were flushed. That look--God, was he mad?--that _same_ look
was in her eyes again. Yes, he was mad--with a madness that bade him
sweep her into his arms and crush her there in all her alluring beauty.
He was white--he felt the blood leave his face. She wanted
that--wanted that bit of clay that _he_ had made!
"It is not for sale, mademoiselle," he said hoarsely; "it is yours."
"No, no, Jean!" she cried. "You do not understand. It is worth--oh, I
do not know how much--ever so much money. Father will be able to tell
us. It is on account of this that he rushed off to try and find you.
He is terribly excited about it."
His hand at his side was clenched; his arm was rigid--he dared not move
it for fear she might draw her hand away--it would not come often, a
touch of intimacy like that. What did it matter about her father!
What did anything matter--but that fiery tide that was whipping through
his veins.
"It is good of monsieur, it is good of mademoiselle to praise it," he
muttered.
"But it is not good of us!" she asserted earnestly. "Really, I must
try to make you understand, Jean. I can't take it under false
pretences, you know--you might hate me for it afterwards. I am sure
you would. My father says it is a wonderful piece of work--that you
are a great artist."
"I?" said Jean--and suddenly in a sweep of passion laughed a little
fiercely. "Impossible! But it is enough that mademoiselle, for some
reason that I cannot understand, thinks so much of it. It is hers."
"And I tell you that it is not impossible!" she insisted seriously.
"Listen, Jean"--her hand closed a little tighter on his arm. "Suppose
that I took it, accepted it, and some day you should find that it had
become a tremendously famous thing--what then?"
"It would still be unworthy of mademoiselle," he answered, in a low
tone.
With a little gasp, she drew back a step and looked at him--but it was
the grey eyes that dropped, and for a moment to Jean, unconscious of
his own tense poise, the rapt burning in his eyes, she seemed all
glorious with that play of colour now that was even in the pulsing
throat. But the next instant she was smiling radiantly.
"Thank you, Jean," she said naively. "I will take it very gladly, and
I will always keep it. Father will have a cast of it made at once,
and--" she stopped suddenly, turning quickly toward the door.
"Listen!" she said. "That's the motor, isn't it? Marie-Louise must
have met it on the road."
An automobile had come to a stop by the side of the house; and, a
moment later, a girl's voice, high-pitched in sarcasm, reached them.
"_Ma foi_! Fancy! She owns the house! What an aristocrat! No doubt
she will expect mademoiselle and monsieur to invite her to table with
them next! Oh, _la, la_, but you have lots to learn, _ma petite
paysanne_!"
"Oh, let her alone, Nanette!" exclaimed a man's voice sharply. "She
has done nothing but answer your own questions, except"--with a
laugh--"that she has ridden on the front seat!"
It seemed to come with a shock to Jean that snatch of conversation, as
something cold, chilling the fire that but an instant gone had been
raging within him. It was an arraignment of himself, a slap in the
face, sharply, curtly given, a reminder that for all his temerity he
was--a fisherman. Myrna had gone to the front door. He swept his hand
in a dazed way across his eyes, then straightened suddenly--it was a
spell that he had been under. Nor was the spell gone; but now, at
least, he was in control of himself. He walked across the room to
where Myrna stood.
"Mademoiselle," he offered quietly, "can I help with the baggage?"
She turned to him, smiling.
"Oh, if you will, Jean!" she cried gratefully. "Please help Jules with
the trunks. And afterwards"--her hand was on his sleeve again--"though
I must see about arranging things, you mustn't go away. Father will be
back shortly, and you must wait."
"I will wait," said Jean.
-- VII --
WHERE GLORY AWAITS
His back to the cliff, and leaning against the gunwale of his boat,
which on landing a little while ago he had drawn up on the beach, Jean
dug abstractedly at the sand with the toe of his boot. He had helped
Jules, the chauffeur, to carry the baggage into the house, where Myrna
Bliss, her maid and Marie-Louise were now busily engaged
within--occasionally he could hear one or other of their voices--and he
was waiting. What for? He did not know. He had promised her that he
would wait. Her father wanted to see him because he made _poupees_ out
of clay, and because he had made that little statue which, somehow, had
so delighted her. It was very curious--very curious that a little
thing like that should have taken their fancy!
His hand passed nervously across his forehead. But that was of no
account, the statue! There were other things. He was living in a
dream--no, not a dream--something much more vital than a dream. From a
dream one awoke, and the dream was dispelled. He was awake now and the
spell was still upon him. In her presence he lost his reason, his
being seemed to become a seething furnace of passion that consumed him;
away from her, some strange, magnetic power kept bidding him return,
kept his mind picturing her, kept his thoughts upon her. It was but
half an hour ago that, alone with her in the cottage, he had almost
utterly lost control of himself.
A hot flush was on his cheeks. It was bad, that! Some day he would
lose control of himself completely; some day the impulse to crush that
ravishing form in his arms, to look deep into those laughing,
self-possessed grey eyes until the laughter and the self-possession
were gone and he was master, would prove too strong for him. And
then--what?
His hands clenched at his sides, the broad shoulders sloped a little
forward. Well--what then? His brain would not answer him, save only
with that persistent "she was a woman and he was a man." He laughed
shortly aloud. Was that true? How true was it? He glanced mockingly
at his clothes; his hands unclenched, and, feeling in a sort of
tentative way, slid along the gunwale of the boat. Yes; it was quite
evident that he was what he had always been, what he always would be--a
fisherman. It was quite evident too that he was mad. It was only last
night that he had seen her for the first time, only since last night
that this enchantment had fallen upon him--and now it possessed him,
mind, soul and body. One could not credit that! He laughed out
again--and suddenly the laugh died on his lips.
He had heard no step upon the sand, but a hand now touched his arm. He
turned quickly. It was Marie-Louise. He had forgotten all about
Marie-Louise--since yesterday evening. He had seen her of course since
then, had walked home with her after that meeting on the bridge, had
called out for her when he had landed here on the beach a little while
ago, but for all that Marie-Louise had been forgotten.
"Jean"--she was speaking in a low, anxious voice--"it's--it's not true,
is it, Jean?"
The dark eyes were trying to smile through a troubled mist; the lips,
that he remembered he had likened yesterday to the divinely modelled
lips of that dream statue, were quivering now.
Jean stared at her. What would she be like if she were dressed in
clothes, marvellous, dainty things, such as Myrna Bliss wore, with
little shoes and silken ankles? She was pretty of course, Marie-Louise
had always been pretty; but there was not the physical thrill, the
witchery in the eyes that turned his head. She was more sober--yes,
that was it--more sober. Marie-Louise took things more seriously, and--
"Jean!" She seemed almost frightened now in her appeal. "Did you not
hear me? Jean--it isn't true, is it?"
"True?" Jean roused himself with a little start. "What is not true? I
do not know what you are talking about."
"The beacon, Jean"--she spoke hurriedly, breathlessly now. "A few
minutes ago mademoiselle told me to put it in the room she has chosen
for herself, and to be very careful of it because--because"--her voice
broke suddenly--"because she said that you had given it to her.
Jean--it's not true, is it?"
For a moment Jean did not speak. There were tears in her eyes! A
twinge of guilty confusion seized him. Yes, it was so--Marie-Louise
had been forgotten. Yesterday he had given it to Marie-Louise. But
who would have thought it would make any difference to her--a thing
like that! She was perhaps angry for the moment, but it would be only
for the moment.
"_Mais, sacre nom_!" he exclaimed, and forced a laugh. "And what of
it? It is nothing! I will make you another."
She did not answer; but into the brown eyes came a miserable hurt, and
into the face a sudden whiteness. It was only the day before that he
had given it to her, and had said it was a beacon, and that the beacon
was herself with arms outstretched to welcome him always. It had meant
so much to her--and now it seemed to have meant so little to Jean.
Jean shifted uneasily, as she did not speak.
"I will make you another, Marie-Louise," he blurted out appeasingly.
"To-day--to-morrow--whenever you like, I will make you another. Then
it will be all right, eh, _petite_?"
She shook her head--and the words came very slowly.
"You can never make another beacon, Jean."
"How--not another?" he cried impetuously. "I can make a thousand! Did
I not tell you that it was you--has it not those lips that I could
fashion even in the dark, even if you were far away from me! _Tiens_,
do you not see--I could make a thousand! And to-morrow you shall have
another."
The dark eyes were full.
"Was it yours to give, Jean?" she asked.
It was true! He had nothing to say to that. She was crying. He was
angry now because he could say nothing, because there was no excuse for
what he had done--and yet he would do it again. But he could not tell
Marie-Louise that though, _pardieu_! She would only cry the harder.
And because she was right and he had nothing to say, he groped, angry
with himself, for some defence.
"Ah!" he burst out sharply. "So that is it! Yesterday you would have
thought nothing of it, but now you have been listening to what they
say, and you believe it all--that it is worth a great deal of money,
maybe a hundred francs, eh? Well, it is not--it is worth nothing! You
have nothing to cry over."
Wide-eyed, as though a whip-lash had curled across her face, she drew
back, her small hands shut tightly at her sides, as she looked at him.
And then somehow that little prayer that she had prayed to the _bon
Dieu_ last night came back to her--"make me that, _mon Pere_; make me
that--Jean's beacon all through my life"--and the bitter words that
were on her lips were crowded back, and she turned slowly away.
But now Jean caught her arm.
"No, no, Marie-Louise, I did not mean that!" he cried penitently.
"See, I did not mean that!"
She made no answer. Her head was averted; her eyes fixed far out over
the water.
Jean bit his lips. Certainly he had had no right to give it away, but
it was a small matter to make such a fuss over, and he had already
promised her another. Was it possible that she had sensed anything of
the wild passion that had come upon him for this beautiful American!
Was she already jealous? Well, it was easily knocked out of her head,
that--if one took the bull by the horns! And if he were mad it was no
reason that hurt should come to Marie-Louise because of it. Some day
it would be all over this madness, and was it not Marie-Louise and he
who were to make their little home together? He forced a laugh again,
and caught her shoulders and drew her closer.
"Confess, Marie-Louise," he said teasingly, "that it is because I gave
it to another woman. Is it not so, eh? That you are--oh, _la,
la_!--that little Marie-Louise is jealous of mademoiselle."
Her head lifted, a new light suddenly in her eyes--one of incredulous
amazement.
"Jealous of mademoiselle!" she repeated wonderingly. "Of mademoiselle
who is of the _grand monde_ and so far above us and not of our world at
all--and you who are a fisherman! How could I be jealous? How could
such a thing be possible? Oh, Jean, don't you understand, it is not
that you gave it to her--it is that you gave it at all."
"But what does it matter, then," demanded Jean, inwardly relieved,
"since I will make you as many more as you please? To-morrow you shall
have another much better than this one."
Footsteps sounded from the gravel walk on the cliff above; and
Marie-Louise, glancing around, lifted Jean's hands from her shoulders.
"I have told you, Jean, that you can never make another," she said,
with a little catch in her voice; then hurriedly: "It is mademoiselle
and her father coming to see you. I must go."
"And I have told you," declared Jean, with sudden, fierce assertion,
"that I can make a thousand, and all better than this one!"
She bent her head to hide the blinding tears that were filling her eyes
again. It meant nothing to him, that which had been so great a pledge
to her. It was only a _poupee_, a clay doll, one of dozens that he had
given to the children to amuse them. And the things he had said about
it meant nothing--they had only been words--only words, but she could
not forget them. A little sob rose in her throat, and was choked
bravely back. They were coming down the path now, mademoiselle and her
father, and she must go.
"You do not understand," she said brokenly--and, turning, ran quickly
along the beach.
For a space Jean watched her as she sped over the sand, until, ignoring
the path, she climbed lithely up the rocks at the far end of the beach,
and disappeared in the direction of the house. His hand, a knotted
lump, drawn back for a smashing blow on the gunwale of the boat, a blow
that should relieve his feelings, opened hesitantly instead and passed
a little dazedly across his eyes.
"_Sacre maudit_!" he muttered in slow earnestness under his breath.
Since last night the world was upside-down! Since last night he did
not know himself! He knew nothing! Only that all Bernay-sur-Mer was
changed. That everything was changed. That he had made Marie-Louise
cry. That they had talked about that accursed piece of clay that had
made Marie-Louise cry, as though it were worth talking about!
"_Sacre maudit_!" muttered Jean again. "What does it all mean?"
And then he was watching her, this glorious American, coming now along
the beach toward him with the man who Marie-Louise had said was
mademoiselle's father.
"Jean!"--she was calling out to him. "Here is father at last! Did you
think we were never coming?"
Two hands fell upon his shoulders, holding him off at arms' length; and
the man, with frank eagerness, was staring into his face. Over her
father's shoulder, Myrna was laughing roguishly.
"So you are Jean Laparde?" Henry Bliss exclaimed heartily. "Well,
well! My daughter told me I would lose half my surprise when I had a
good look at you, and I am free to admit she was right." One hand fell
from Jean's shoulder, caught Jean's hand and wrung it in a genial grip.
"Well, Jean, my boy, I want to say to you that if you will listen to
me, this will be a day that you will remember as long as you live."
From one to the other Jean stared bewilderedly.
"It is to the clay figure that monsieur refers, I know," he said
slowly; "but I do not understand. Mademoiselle was kind enough to
praise it, but--" He shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly.
"But--nothing!" laughed Henry Bliss impulsively. "Here--sit down!" He
sat down himself on the boat's gunwale, and turned to his daughter.
"Myrna, we're going to talk business--are you going to stay?"
"Of course, I'm going to stay!" she declared merrily, perching herself
beside her father and smiling up at Jean, who still remained standing.
"It will take both of us to convince him. Jean, father wants to take
you to Paris."
"To Paris!"--the words came from Jean with a sort of startled jerk.
His eyes searched the two faces for an instant uncertainly, and then he
smiled incredulously. "Mademoiselle is pleased to have a little joke
with me--yes?" he said quietly.
It was Henry Bliss who answered.
"Indeed, she is not!" he asserted, with brisk emphasis. "That is
exactly what I have to propose, my boy. My daughter tells me she
cannot make you believe that the superb little statue you have made
amounts to anything more than a gouged-out piece of mud. I'm not so
much surprised that you have not sensed its actual worth, for I think
that almost invariably the really big men in art, the men of real
genius, are the last to appreciate themselves; but the astounding thing
is that you have seen nothing in it at all. As a matter of fact, I
can't believe it. It is impossible! It is simply that you have given
it no thought. Think a little about it, Jean. How did you come to
make it? How did you conceive it? Where did you get your model?"
"But I do not know," said Jean a little absently--something, the fire,
the enthusiasm, the earnestness in the other's voice was kindling a
strange response within him. "I do not know. I think it was the
bronze statue in the great square of the city."
"The--what?" demanded Henry Bliss quickly. "What city? I know them
all--and I do not recall anything that could have served as a model for
you."
"And you told me, Jean," Myrna added, wagging her finger at him in
pretty reproach, "that you had never been away from Bernay-sur-Mer."
Jean laughed uncomfortably, self-consciously.
"It is nothing!" he said. "You do not understand. It is foolish! The
statue and the square and the city are only in the dream that comes
sometimes."
"Ah--a dream!" ejaculated Henry Bliss, with a quick nod of his head.
"Oh, Jean!" Myrna clapped her hands delightedly. "Tell us about it."
"There is nothing to tell, mademoiselle," he replied, colouring. "It
is just a dream that comes sometimes when I am fishing, when I lie
awake at night, when I am not thinking of it. That is all,
mademoiselle. It means nothing."
"It means a great deal!" said Henry Bliss, jumping excitedly to his
feet. "And at least it should help you to understand that it is not so
impossible after all when I tell you that, barring little crudities of
technique that are a paltry consideration, there is no sculptor in
France to-day could produce a piece of work comparable to that which
you have done."
Jean's lips were slightly parted. Excitement was upon him too. A
strange stirring was in his soul.
"But I cannot believe that," he said in a low voice.
Henry Bliss's hands were on Jean's shoulders once more, pressing them
in a hard, earnest grip.
"Nevertheless, it is true!" he asserted forcibly, "You do not know me;
but those who do could tell you that I am qualified to speak. And I
tell you that it is true. I tell you that in Paris fame, wealth, the
greatest name in France awaits you! You are through to-day with this
life forever, my boy, if you will come with me to Paris."
Fame, wealth, the greatest name in France! Jean felt the blood leave
his face. His brain seemed to whirl and to be afire. Yes, those were
the words, and the man was not playing with him; but it was some wild
hallucination, some bizarre mistake. To-day, to be through with the
hard, penniless life of a fisherman forever--and to work hereafter only
with what before had been his play! No, that was not true--it could
not be true. He meant well, this man, the father of the girl whose
eyes seemed to burn into his now and insist too that it was true, but
the little statue had been too easily done to be anything more than
perhaps a pretty little thing. Fame, a great name--that strange
stirring of his soul again! God, why had this man aroused that thought
within him, when it was not, could not be true?
"Monsieur," he said, and his voice in its hoarseness sounded strangely
in his own ears; "monsieur, has made a mistake. It cannot be so."
"Think so!" returned Henry Bliss bluntly. "I do not make mistakes of
that kind, my boy. But I will convince you. In a few days you will
see. I have telegraphed for some of the famous critics of France, men
of the Academy, men whose names are known all over Europe, and they
will tell you what I have told you--and their despair that it is I, not
they, who have discovered you will be so pitifully genuine that even
you will understand. And to-morrow we will motor to Marseilles and get
some modelling clay for you, and you will see for yourself what you can
do with that. And then, Jean, you will go to Paris with me--and work."
"If it were true, if it should be true," said Jean numbly, "still I
could not go. One does not make _sous_ enough at the fishing to go to
Paris."
"But, great heavens!" ejaculated Henry Bliss. "That is precisely what
I am offering you, young man--money. I am rich. I will pay every
expense. I will establish you."
Jean shook his head.
"I could not do that--take your money," he said simply.
"Couldn't take it!" exploded the American earnestly--and then he
laughed--and then grew serious once more. "Listen, my boy! I do not
want you to think for a moment that this is a purely charitable little
scheme on my part--far from it! It is most of it, I am afraid, utter
selfishness. I love art--for many years I have devoted myself to it.
I cannot create myself--God knows the miserable attempts and the
miserable failures that have been mine!--and so I have tried to help
others to do what I could not do myself"--Henry Bliss was smiling now
in a kindly, wistful way. "And now to discover the greatest sculptor
of the age, to bring him out of obscurity into fame and power--can you
not see, Jean, how selfish I am? And so why do you stand there
hesitating?"
Into Myrna's face, for the girl had risen and was now standing beside
them, into the man's face so close to his, Jean stared--and then his
eyes swept about him, over his surroundings. It was magnificent, but
it was not reality--for here was the beach, and here was the boat, and
in the boat were his nets, and there was the nick in the handle of the
oar where he had fended off that night from the Perigeau Reef, and out
there, surf-splashed, was the reef itself, and his clothes were the
same rough, coarse clothes that he always wore just like every other
fisherman in Bernay-sur-Mer. It was magnificent, but it was not
reality--and yet his heart was pounding with mighty hammer beats, and
the blood was surging fiercely through his veins.
"And as for the money," Henry Bliss went on quietly. "You need have no
qualms on that score, my boy. Pay it back by all means, if you'll feel
the better for it. In a year, two years, you'll be a wealthy man.
Why, Jean, don't you understand--there isn't one of the men who will be
here shortly but would pay you any price you chose to ask for that
little statue you gave to my daughter here? So, even on a basis of
dollars and cents alone, as it stands now, you couldn't owe me
anything, don't you see?"
What were they saying to him! Fame, a great sculptor, wealth, a name,
his name, the name of Jean Laparde to be known throughout all France!
Why did it come back to him now, that night of the great storm when he
had stood and watched the scene, rapt and awed, on his way to
Marie-Louise? What strange blasphemy was that, that had been his, that
had envied the _bon Dieu_ the creation of that mighty picture?
"Jean"--Myrna had caught his arm, her head was between her father's now
and his, the soft, bronzed hair for an instant brushed his forehead,
her breath was on his cheek, the grey eyes were smiling into
his--"Jean, wouldn't you like to go to Paris?"
To Paris! She lived in Paris--she was always in Paris--always there.
A day, a week, two weeks, a month he would have seen her here--in Paris
there would be neither days nor weeks nor months to count. The grey
eyes were veiled suddenly, demurely, under the long lashes--but the
little hand on his arm, with a quick, added pressure, remained. His
head swam dizzily--there was an untamed, pulsing elation upon him, a
greed for her that racked and tormented him, a greed to clasp her head
between his hands and lift up her face and press kiss after kiss upon
those eyelids, that mouth, until in the very insatiability of his
passion she should fling her arms around his neck and return his
embrace!
"Yes--_yes_!" he said tensely, fiercely. "_Mon Dieu_, yes--I would
like to go to Paris!"
Her hand fell from his arm.
"Oh, Jean--I'm so glad!"--it seemed as though she were whispering
softly to him.
"Good!" cried Henry Bliss enthusiastically, with a double slap on
Jean's shoulder.
Jean did not speak. It was not easy in an instant to quench that fire
that was devouring him, it was not easy to understand that to-day all
his life was to be changed. He looked at Myrna--the grey eyes were
gaily mocking him, as she nodded her head. He looked at her
father--Henry Bliss was laughing ingenuously like a pleased school-boy.
"I know just how you feel!" said Henry Bliss genially. "All up in the
air--eh? Well, I feel that way myself. It is the most amazing thing
that ever happened! It seems as though there were a dozen questions I
wanted to ask you all at once. And to begin with, those _poupees_ now,
how did you--no, hold on! Myrna, we'll motor over to Marseilles for
the clay to-day, instead of waiting until to-morrow. We'll have
something else to show old Bidelot by the time he gets here! You go up
to the house and order an early luncheon. Jean will join us, and we'll
have from now to Marseilles and back again to talk."
"Splendid!" agreed Myrna. "You will, won't you, Jean?"
"I?" said Jean, in sudden dismay. He, to eat with the _grand monde_!
But perhaps he had not understood--they would give him lunch with Jules
and Nanette and Marie-Louise. He had heard Nanette make that very
plain to Marie-Louise a little while ago. "I--I have my dinner with
me," he stammered, and pointed to a paper parcel in the stern of the
boat. "I will be ready when mademoiselle and monsieur are ready."
"Oh, will you?" laughed Henry Bliss. "Well, I guess not! You'll come
up and lunch with Myrna and me."
"No," said Jean, embarrassed, "I--"
"Yes, you will," insisted Henry Bliss.
"Why, Jean," expostulated Myrna, "of course you will, we--" she stopped
abruptly. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "I think I know! It's what that
stupid Nanette said to Marie-Louise about sitting at table with us,
isn't it?"
"What's that?" demanded Henry Bliss quickly. "What has Marie-Louise to
do with--h'm--yes--I remember"--his face screwed up perplexedly. "Her
fiance, she said--h'm--yes--it _is_ a bit awkward, isn't it?"
"It's nothing of the kind!" declared Myrna, and, with a laugh,
possessed herself of the paper parcel from the boat. "It's quite a
different matter. If only half of what father has said is true, Jean,
it would be an honour for any one to have Jean Laparde as a guest. And
anyway I've got your lunch now!" She waved it in the air, threatening
him merrily with it; then turned, and ran toward the house. "You come
when you're called, sir!" she flung back over her shoulder, laughing
again.
-- VIII --
SHADOWS BEFORE
Who, in all France, a week ago, had heard of Bernay-sur-Mer? Upon
whose lips to-day was not the name of that little Mediterranean
village? Men, the great men of France, came at the bidding of their
confrere, the American millionaire art-critic; came sceptically--and
stayed to wonder. And because there were no accommodations in
Bernay-sur-Mer, they made their headquarters at Marseilles, and their
daily pilgrimages from there; an arrangement that, if in a measure
inconvenient, was not without its compensation, for at Marseilles was
being made the plaster cast of that exquisite little figure, fashioned
so amazingly from scarcely more than mud, that marked a new epoch to
them in the world of sculpture, the birth of a supreme genius, a
surpassing glory for the art of France!
They came and watched Jean at his work; for there was clay now such as
Jean had never imagined, clay that seemed to give form itself, of its
own initiative, to wonderful conceptions. They watched and marvelled;
and at night they carried him back with them to Marseilles to fete him,
until indeed to Jean the world of yesterday was as some vast haze,
befogged, that had shut down behind him.
"In a year, with the study of technique in Paris!" murmured Henry Bliss
ecstatically.
And old Bidelot, seventy years of age, grizzle-haired, the most
caustic, bitter critic of them all, stormed in his wrath.
"Technique! You talk of technique--for _him_! He is a school in
himself--a school that will revolutionise the art. You talk of
technique for a genius awakened out of the sleep of ignorance, who in a
day accomplishes undying work that no other man in Paris, in Rome--bah!
where you will--could accomplish in twice a lifetime! You are senile,
my poor friend Bliss--you are in your dotage!"
Jean Laparde! Was it possible that this was Jean Laparde? The simple
fisherfolk stared awe-struck at each other, at the metamorphosis that
had come to Bernay-sur-Mer, at the great people who came and went, to
whom one instinctively lifted one's hat--the great people who now
lifted their hats to Jean. It was true! Could they not see with their
own eyes? One, too, then, should lift one's hat to Jean. And did not
the good Father Anton read to them from the newspapers that all France
was ringing with the name of Jean Laparde?
"_Sacre nom d'un miracle_!" swore Pierre Lachance heavily. "And once
he made clay _poupees_ for little Ninon! _Bon Dieu_, think of that!"
Bernay-sur-Mer had set Jean apart, above itself.
But the old cure was troubled in his heart. And one night, after a
week had gone since the American strangers had come to Bernay-sur-Mer,
Father Anton shook his head over his newspaper as he read of Jean
Laparde--and found difficulty with his spectacles, for his thoughts
were of Marie-Louise.
It was only a week ago that she had come to him so happily, so gladly,
the proud light in her eyes, to talk of the great thing Jean had
done--and she had changed a great deal in the week. The proud light
would come back quickly enough at mention of Jean, but she had grown
strangely quiet and silent. And Jean, too, had changed. It seemed, as
indeed it was true, that Jean was no longer one of the village.
The old priest took off his offending spectacles, rubbed them with his
handkerchief, and replaced them only to find that the mistiness was in
his own wet eyes.
Jean did not seem the same in his new clothes. Of course, it was quite
natural that Jean should have discarded his fisherman's dress.
Mademoiselle Bliss had said very truly that though it might be
picturesque in Bernay-sur-Mer, in Paris it would be only eccentric; and
besides, to go to Marseilles with his new friends of his new world, one
needed to be dressed as they were not to be ridiculous. Monsieur Bliss
had been very generous. The American was very whole-heartedly
interested in his protege. Jean would lack for nothing that either
money or influence could procure.
But it was not only the clothes--Jean himself had changed. Father
Anton shook his head again slowly. It had come gradually during the
week, and he, who loved Jean as a son, had not failed to see it. At
first it had been amazement, bewilderment, incredulity, then a dawning
belief in the genius of his power that they preached to him, and then a
fierce assurance that it was so; it had begun with wonder at the
camaraderie with which the famous men who had come there treated him,
at the respect that Bernay-sur-Mer paid to him--and it had ended with
the acceptance of it as his due, and had come to be looked for with a
tinge of arrogance as though he had drunk of heady wine. Yes, it was a
change! Jean was afire now, a different man, consumed, possessed with
the lure of fame, the golden vista that was before his eyes, steeping
his soul in it, reaching out to it, straining toward it like a young
eagle that suddenly liberated from captivity takes wings to the great
void.
And so the paper slid unheeded to the floor from the old priest's knees
that night, a week after the American strangers had come to
Bernay-sur-Mer, and the spectacles were removed again--but this time
the eyes were wiped. He was glad for Jean, proud in his love for the
greatness that was to come--but somehow in his heart there was sadness,
too. It seemed that between Marie-Louise and Jean a shadow crept, and
lengthened, and there was a parting of the ways.
"I love you both, my children, Marie-Louise and Jean," the old cure
whispered. "I am an old man. Perhaps I am foolish in my fears. I
pray the good God for you both."
-- IX --
FORKED ROADS
It was the room Myrna Bliss had occupied. Mother Fregeau had insisted;
Jacques Fregeau had implored. It was fitting that the best at the Bas
Rhone should be Jean's. The little back room that had been his for ten
years was quite impossible. It was different now. It would be but to
make him ridiculous--what with all these grand strangers that were
around him! And besides, _merveille du bon Dieu_, was he not now
himself the greatest of the great ones!
In through the window the late afternoon sun played over the faded
wallpaper of the _chambre de luxe_; from without there was the hum of
voices, exclamations of amazement, cries of delight and admiration, the
curious composite sound of a gathered, eager crowd. And Jean, well
back from the sill that he might not be seen, glanced outside, it was
his--his! The work that he had done during the past week in the
_atelier_ they had made for him in the barn behind the Bas Rhone! It
was finished! Monsieur Bidelot was exhibiting it now to
Bernay-sur-Mer. The great Academician was standing in the tonneau of
the automobile and holding it up for every one to look at--the
fisherman with his boat and net in clay. Ah, they understood that, the
people of Bernay-sur-Mer! But they understood only that it was
magnificent because Bidelot and Monsieur Bliss and the great men who
had come amongst them told them that it was magnificent.
For years he had made the _poupees_, and they had seen nothing--and he
had seen nothing. But now they knew because they were told; and now he
knew because his soul, his brain was ablaze with the knowledge of
creative power, because what had gone before was nothing, because what
was to come would sweep the past, that little thing that Bidelot in his
emotion cried over, into insignificance.
He drew back, his head high; his outflung arms, hands clenched,
stretched heavenward. These strangers, these great critics had said
it, and it was so! The name of Jean Laparde would never die!
He stripped off the long sculptor's apron that covered him from neck to
knees, and held it out at arm's length, gazing first at it and then at
the rough fisherman's clothes that hung, where Mother Fregeau had
placed them, on the end peg on the wall--a little apart, significantly
it seemed, whether by accident or design, from the new clothes that had
come from Marseilles. And then he laughed out suddenly in a quick,
exalted way, and tossed the apron on the bed. It was all changed,
that! He was through with the fisherman's dress, he was through with
Bernay-sur-Mer! To-night he was to dine with Bidelot and a score of
others in Marseilles, and after that in a few days it would be--Paris.
He undressed hurriedly, and began to dress again in a clean suit--but a
little slowly now, none too deftly. They were still strange to him
these clothes; but then everything was strange. The people around him
were strange. At times he felt awkward, constrained in their
presence--and at times he could laugh down at them as from a superior
height. Ay, he could laugh--they were at his feet! Only--he frowned
heavily--he could not laugh at Myrna Bliss. He was not master there!
And yet she, somehow, did not erect the barrier. It was himself that
did that--because he could not forget that behind the roguish smile in
the grey eyes might lurk the thought that, after all, he was only a
fisherman.
A fisherman! They were cheering now outside. His hands shut tightly.
A fisherman! He was no longer a fisherman! He was Jean Laparde, a
sculptor of France, a man before whom lay a path of glory, a man whom
the nation would acclaim, a man of whose future all stood in envy!
They had told him that, these men whom France had already honoured,
these men who had accepted him as more than their equal. But there was
no need for them to tell him--he knew it in his soul. None, no man,
the world itself, could hold back now the genius of Jean Laparde!
Paris! He was pacing the room now, his eyes afire. To-morrow or the
next day, when the Blisses had made their plans, Paris and fame was
his. What a life it was that now opened out before him! A place
amongst the highest, the world to resound with the name of Jean
Laparde--and those grey eyes, that bronze hair, that glorious beauty of
the American--God! he would immortalise her in clay, in bronze, in
marble.
Ay, they might well cheer while the chance was theirs, these people of
Bernay-sur-Mer! To-morrow or the next day he would be saying good-bye
to them, and--he stood suddenly still--and good-bye, too, to
Marie-Louise. The thought put a damper upon his spirits; his brows
gathered in deep furrows of impatient perplexity.
He had not seen much of Marie-Louise in the last week--he had seen her
scarcely at all. Only twice--when she with many others had stood in
the doorway to watch his work. She had smiled at him then, as though
it were her work, too, as though it were a joint proprietorship--but
she had gone before he could speak to her. And at the cottage, when he
had been there at the invitation of Myrna or her father, Marie-Louise,
strangely enough, now that he thought of it, was never to be seen.
He would have to speak to her, of course, about going away; but what
chance, with the whirl he had been in, had he had to do it? She would
know that he was going to Paris, for everybody knew it--but he would
have to speak to her himself about it before he went. And what was he
to say? Certainly, he loved Marie-Louise--but the great chance of his
life was before him. What was he to say to her? He would go to Paris
for a time, make this great name for himself, and then
afterwards--_what_?
He refused to tolerate the question. He had refused to tolerate it all
week. It was enough for the present that he was going for a time to
Paris. Marie-Louise was sensible enough not to make a scene. She
could see readily enough that he must go and that she must stay. How,
for instance, could she associate with women of fashion and society
like Myrna Bliss, who would be the women of the new world that must
necessarily form part of his life hereafter. What was he thinking of?
Was it the "afterwards" again? Was he not coming back to Marie-Louise?
Was he choosing now between his art and Marie-Louise? No; he was
not--he would not! That was an issue for the future. It would work
itself out. Why should he plague himself about it!
He loved Marie-Louise, of course; but it would have been easier now if
there had been nothing between them. He could not go to Marie-Louise
and say: Marie-Louise, I love you; but it is finished--you can see that
the _grand monde_ would make a very great difference between Jean
Laparde, the great sculptor, and Marie-Louise the fisherwoman of
Bernay-sur-Mer. No; he could not say that, but--_sacre nom_!--was he
back to the everlasting "afterwards" again, when he refused so
resolutely to go beyond the present? Was it not enough that he was
simply going to Paris for a time--a matter that would seem natural
enough to her, and of which she would be glad because great things had
come to him? He would talk to her like that--that would be
enough--Marie-Louise was a sensible girl. One could not say to her
that it would be better to finish everything, he would never say that
to Marie-Louise--but if, _par example_, he and Marie-Louise had never
talked of the marriage there would be nothing now to trouble him.
And--he swung around sharply as a knock sounded on the door.
"Come!" he called.
Papa Fregeau stuck in his head.
"_Pardon_, Monsieur Jean"--it was "monsieur" now--"it is Mademoiselle
Bliss who is alone in the cafe below. Will Monsieur Jean see her for a
moment before he goes out?"
"In an instant," Jean answered quickly. "Tell mademoiselle that I will
be there in an instant."
Papa Fregeau hesitated, stared about the room, and stared at Jean, his
fat cheeks grotesquely expanded--and his arms rose suddenly in a
gesture of profound helplessness.
"_Mon Dieu_!" he muttered heavily. "Is it possible that it is our
little Jean there--ah, _pardon_"--he stammered--"_Monsieur_ Jean"--and
made a hasty exit from the room, as though utterly confounded at his
own temerity.
But Jean, following his reply, had paid no further attention to Papa
Fregeau. He had learned to knot the long, flowing tie that Myrna had
chosen as part of his dress, for she had said, had she not, that it was
the tie the artists wore in Paris? He knotted it now with extra care,
put on his coat, snatched up his hat, and ran downstairs to the cafe
below.
She was waiting for him back by the little _comptoir_ where he had
stood that evening when she had first spoken to him. She had been like
a glorious vision that had burst suddenly upon him that evening--she
was a thousand times more glorious now, for her smile was eager with an
intimacy that promised--what did it promise? He did not know. It was
there--and her eyes were shining, and the white throat was divinely
beautiful--and the thrill of her presence quickened the beat of his
heart.
Her laugh rang through the room, silver-toned.
"Jean," she cried merrily, "you are harder to see these days than a
prime minister! What do you mean, sir? Have you deserted us?"
"_Ma foi_!" protested Jean, a little anxiously. "Mademoiselle does not
mean that! Was I not at lunch with her to-day, and yesterday, and the
day before that?"
"Yes, and all day at the work, and every evening in Marseilles"--she
manufactured a dainty pout through her smile. "And even now that I
have snatched a little moment, I must not keep you for they are waiting
for you outside."
"Let them wait!" said Jean tensely.
"Oh, no; we mustn't do that," she said laughingly, shaking her head.
"So listen, Jean. I have come to tell you that--can you guess what?
That you are not going to Paris with us after all."
"Not going to Paris!"--Jean gazed at her bewilderedly, as he repeated
the words.
"With _us_--silly boy!" she smiled teasingly. "Are you disappointed?"
She teased, and mocked, and delighted him, and fired his blood by
amazing and elusive turns. He could not cope with her yet.
"But mademoiselle knows," he blundered. "I--I do not understand. It
is a great disappointment."
"Then it mustn't be!" she declared brightly. "For it is my idea, and
if you are not pleased with it, it is I who will be terribly
disappointed. It is just a little while ago that father and I arranged
the plans. We are to go to-morrow direct to Paris, and as soon as we
get there--now listen very attentively, Jean!--we are going to pick out
an _atelier_ for you and fit it up. And you are not to come until we
send you word that everything is ready. And the day you arrive I shall
be hostess at the studio at a reception to which all Paris will be
invited. Everybody that is worth while will come, and your entree will
be a triumph. Now, Jean, will that not be splendid?"
She was smiling at him, vivacious, flushed with excitement.
Splendid--yes, it would be splendid! An entree to Paris like that! It
was the first tangible glimpse of reality out of the chaotic blaze of
luring, golden dreams.
"It--it is too good of mademoiselle!" he stammered excitedly.
Low, musical, her laugh rippled through the room again, as she looked
at him. The man was magnificent--the head, the shoulders, the splendid
strength, the mobile, changing lights and shadows in his face like a
child who had not yet learned to mask its emotions, and all this
coupled with the deliciously picturesque background of the discovery of
his art, would make him the rage in Paris. Paris would literally go
wild over him! And she? Well, he would be still more a new sensation
than ever--and perhaps, who knew?--but the man was too easily
aroused--and then there was the possibility that her father, that
Bidelot and the others had overrated him, that he would be but the
phenomenon of the moment, only to sink after a while into uninteresting
mediocrity--she would see. But for the present at least Paris would
echo and re-echo with the name of Jean Laparde. Her eyebrows arched
demurely, innocently. There was something else she had to say to Jean.
She had never spoken to him of Marie-Louise--naturally. But she must
speak now. Marie-Louise, a peasant girl, a bare-footed fisherwoman, in
Paris as Jean's fiancee was perfectly impossible!
"Jean," she said ingenuously, "you know we took the cottage without
much formality as far as any definite length of time was concerned. Of
course we expected to stay longer, and if all this had not happened we
certainly should have done so. So, do you think, when we speak to
Marie-Louise about going, that she would be perfectly satisfied with a
month's rent? I told father I would ask you."
Jean's face clouded.
"You have not told Marie-Louise then that you are going to-morrow?" he
asked slowly.
"How could we--when we did not know ourselves until a little while
ago?" she answered.
"No; that is so," he said. Then, with a short, conscious laugh: "I
have not spoken to Marie-Louise myself."
"Of course you haven't!" she returned quickly, "And you have been wise."
"Wise?"--Jean looked at her, puzzled.
"Marie-Louise is not blind," said Myrna quietly. "It is far better
that she should have seen things for herself--and she could not help
seeing them during the last week."
"You mean?" Jean began--and stopped.
"You know what I mean, Jean," she said gravely. "That she must have
seen what everybody else sees--what you see yourself. That if she ever
had any idea of going to Paris with you, it is quite out of the
question. It is different now--everything is changed. You are not a
fisherman any longer; you have a great place to take in the world that
she cannot take beside you. A week in Paris and, even if neither of
you see it now, you would both see it only too bitterly and clearly
then. For both your sakes it is better settled now."
Jean was staring across the room to where, outside, the crowd was
packed densely in the road. Had he not thought of just those things
that she had been saying? Had he not thought of them all week? They
were true; but still there was Marie-Louise who--what was that? They
were cheering him there outside--it made his blood tingle, he felt the
mad elation of it, his soul seemed to leap out to meet the acclaim!
"But that is not all, Jean"--she was speaking again. "There is another
thing, something you owe to--oh, how shall I say it?--to your country,
and--" She stopped suddenly and caught his arm. "Listen!" she
breathed. "Listen!"
It was Bidelot, the great Academician, his voice raised in impassioned
words. Through the window they could see him standing, bare-headed, in
the automobile.
"... Bernay-sur-Mer will evermore live in the hearts of Frenchmen--you
have given to France the immortal name of Jean Laparde."
Her hands, both of them now, were clasped tightly on his arm.
"Jean!" she whispered. "Jean!"
"_Mon Dieu_!"--the words came hoarsely from Jean's throat. They were
cheering again. He moved, like iron impelled to the magnet, across the
room. He looked at Myrna. He had never seen her eyes so bright.
"It is only the beginning, Jean"--she seemed half hysterical herself.
"But in Paris, Jean--in Paris you shall see!"
They were at the door, and suddenly she flung it wide open. There was
a roar of voices. She was smiling at him from the doorway. They were
shouting his name. They rushed at him, and, lifting him shoulder high,
carried him to the automobile. Fame--was this only a taste of it? No
more than that? In Paris--what was it he should see in Paris? They
were shouting again. It was like some fiery draught that his soul was
drinking in. He craved it with a lust that was passionate,
all-possessing. He cried out to those around him. He did not know
what he said. And then Bidelot was speaking to him, and the automobile
was whirling down the road, followed by the shouts of all
Bernay-sur-Mer.
All Bernay-sur-Mer? No; not all. For as the car flashed by, halfway
between the little bridge and the eastern headland, the fringe of
bushes by the roadside parted, a dark head lifted, and Marie-Louise
gazed after it. It was all so strange, and she could not quite
understand. Once, twice before, on other evenings, she had watched the
car pass. They were all of the great world those men with Jean in the
car; of the great world of which she knew nothing, only that the
village spoke of the strangers with awe. And now Jean was one of
them--and they seemed so proud of him, so proud to make him one of
themselves, these great men. And she was proud of him, too, oh, so
proud and glad and happy--only back of it all was a little chill of
dread and fear, and she could not quite understand. She had smiled at
Jean from the edge of the crowd that was clustered around the door of
the barn those days when he had been working at the clay--and then she
had stolen away and cried so bitterly. She did not know why she had
done that. If only some one would tell her what it all meant! Was it
because Jean was going away for a little time? The dark eyes widened
slowly. Was it only for a little time? She had not talked to Jean
since that morning on the beach, and that was so long, long ago. It
wasn't Jean's fault, though, nearly so much as hers. She had really
tried to evade him. No, not to evade Jean; but to evade the others out
of the shyness and diffidence for the great strangers who were now
constantly around him. Would there be always these strangers around
him?
She drew herself up suddenly, her small hands fiercely clenched. She
hated these strangers! That was it! They were always coming between
Jean and herself! They were always there! They made of Jean a
different man; they made him one of themselves, and in doing that they
were snatching him away from her, taking him across what seemed like
some vast gulf that she could not traverse herself. She hated this
Monsieur American, and this mademoiselle; and she hated the day they
had come, for it had all begun that day. The red burned angrily in her
cheeks, the lithe form quivered in a quick rush of passion--and then,
instantly penitent, with a little sob, she flung herself down upon the
grass.
No; she did not hate them! What had she said! The _bon Dieu_ would be
very angry with her for that. And they had been very kind and good to
her, this monsieur and this mademoiselle. And to hate all the others
was to commit a sin, for were they not there because Jean--she raised
her head quickly, parting the bushes again, as she caught the sound of
steps and voices from the road.
It was Monsieur Bliss speaking in French to Father Anton, who walked
between Monsieur Bliss and mademoiselle.
"Why should he not work here? Why should he go to Paris? What a
question, my dear Monsieur le Cure! It is because here is nothing;
because in Paris there is everything. It is there that he will study
the great works of famous sculptors; it is there that he will have
models and facilities for his work; it is there that he will have
inspiration from the art around him; it is there that, with his genius,
he will sift and choose, profiting from the different schools even as
he creates a new one for himself; and it is there that the leading men
of France will unite with the social world to make the name of Jean
Laparde known and honoured wherever art is known."
"But," said Father Anton anxiously, "but he will come back--to
Marie-Louise."
Henry Bliss's hand fell sympathetically upon the old priest's shoulder,
as he shook his head.
"I do not know," he said soberly. "Who can tell? It depends upon
Jean--and Marie-Louise. Frankly, I do not think he will come back, for
there is always the danger that the greater he becomes the greater will
become the distance between them--and Jean will unquestionably become a
national figure. But it is a vastly different thing with him than it
is with her. It is innate in him to take that place gracefully, even
as his genius is innate in him. To her, I am afraid, it would be an
impossible and an impracticable life. It is likely she would be
miserable to begin with and feel herself a drag upon him, for, we must
admit, she could not, as we say in America, hold up her end in his new
life. It is one of those tragedies of life, isn't it, that we cannot
shape one way or the other? It is something they alone must work out.
It is not a little matter, this future of Jean's. France has claimed
Jean, Monsieur le Cure, and it may well be, as Myrna here said a moment
ago, there is no place in his new life for Marie-Louise. I--"
They had passed on.
It seemed to Marie-Louise that she was very cold, that somehow she
could not move. There were three figures out there on the road walking
along. It was very strange that so ordinary a thing as that should be
taking place. She seemed to be numbed, to be waiting somehow for a
return to consciousness. Was that consciousness that was returning
now, was that it--this dull, monotonous pain? And that great choking
in her heart--what was that? She was standing erect, and words were
quivering on her lips.
"There is no place in his new life for Marie-Louise."
She was staring out before her; but the road, and, beyond it, the white
beach, and, beyond that again, the blue of the sea with the great
golden shaft of light from the setting sun upon it was gone--and there
was only nothingness. Only her lips moved.
"There is no place--in his new life--for Marie-Louise."
-- X --
A DAUGHTER OF FRANCE
How still the house was! Only once during the night had Marie-Louise
heard a sound as she had sat, dressed, by the window in the little
attic room. And that sound had been the whir of an automobile rushing
by on the road--it had been Jean returning from Marseilles. That was
while it was very dark, very long ago--now it was daylight again, and
the sun was streaming into the room.
The chaste, sweet face was tired and weary and aged a little; but on
the lips, sensitive, delicate, making even more beautiful their
contour, was a brave, resolute little smile, as her eyes rested on the
small white bed, neatly made, unslept in. It was over now, the fight
that had been so hard and so cruel to fight; and she needed only the
courage to go on to the end.
Over and over again, all through the night, she had thought it out.
She loved Jean. She loved Jean so much! She had trembled once when
she had tried to think how much, and the thought had come so quickly,
before she could arrest it, that she loved Jean as much as she loved
God--and then she had prayed the _bon Dieu_ not to be angry with her
for the sin, for she had not meant to think such thoughts as that.
It was true what they had said when they had passed by on the road
yesterday evening. There was no place in his new life for her. A
hundred little things all through the week had shown her that, only,
until yesterday evening when Monsieur Bliss had spoken, she had not
understood what they meant--Nanette, that first day, when Jean had come
to lunch with mademoiselle and monsieur; the curious, side-long glances
that the villagers gave her now; a strange, embarrassed reserve in
Father Anton, when the good cure had spoken to her lately; that wide,
vast gulf that lay between the world mademoiselle lived in, the world
that Jean was going to, and her own world. They had all seen
it--except herself. And she had not understood because she had not
allowed herself to think what it might mean, what she knew now it
meant--that she must lose Jean.
To let Jean go out of her life because France had claimed him--that was
what her soul had whispered to her all through the night. A Daughter
of France, her Uncle Gaston had called her proudly--it was Jean who had
told her what her uncle had said--that he had taught her to love God
and be never afraid. But she was afraid now, she had been afraid all
through the night, for it seemed as if there were no more happiness, as
though a great pain that would never go away again had come to her.
France had claimed Jean. He was to be a famous man. Did they not all
talk of his glorious future? It was different with Jean--years ago
even she had known that. She herself had told him he was different
from the fishermen of Bernay-sur-Mer. Jean was born to the life that
he was going to. Was he not even now taking his place amongst these
great strangers as though he had been accustomed to do so always? And
she, if she should try to do it, they would laugh at her, and she would
bring ridicule upon Jean, and she could not do what Jean could do. She
was a peasant girl whom mademoiselle scolded about going without shoes
and stockings.
And Jean must surely have seen these things, too. But Jean, though he
had heedlessly hurt her so when he had given away again the little
beacon, would never speak to her of this, because this was a much
greater thing which was to change all their lives. It was she who must
speak to Jean, it was she who must tell him that she understood that
the great future which lay before him must not be harmed; that she must
not hold him back; that she must not stand in his way; that she would
only hurt him in that dazzling, bewildering world that would disdain a
fishergirl; that it was France, not she, who came first.
The night had brought her that. It was only the courage she needed now
to act upon it.
She stood up, looking through the window--and the great dark eyes
filled with a blinding mist.
"Jean! Jean!" she said brokenly aloud.
A little while she stood there, and then walked slowly across the room
to the bed. And as once she had knelt there before, she dropped again
upon her knees beside it. And now the smile came bravely again. They
were wrong. It was not true. There was a place in his life for
her--something that she could do now. There was one way in which her
love could still help Jean in the wonderful life that had come to him.
The dark head bent to the coverlet.
"_Mon Pere_," she whispered, "make me that--Jean's beacon now."
And after a time she rose, and bathed her face, and fastened the black
coils of hair that had become unloosed, and, as she heard Nanette
stirring below, went quietly downstairs.
She must see Jean. They were going away to-day, mademoiselle and
monsieur, and Nanette and Jules; and Jean was to follow them in a few
days. She had heard mademoiselle and her father discussing it at their
supper last evening. She must see Jean now before the others went,
so--so that everybody would understand.
She stole out of the house, gained the road and started to run along it
toward the village. Jean would be up long ago, all his life he had
risen hours before this, and she would be back by the time mademoiselle
and monsieur were up and needed her. She stopped suddenly, and in
quick dismay glanced down at her bare feet. She had forgotten to put
on her shoes and stockings. Suppose mademoiselle should see her
returning like that!
And then Marie-Louise shook her head slowly, and went on again. It was
not right to disobey, but it could not matter very much now, for
mademoiselle was going away in the afternoon. And besides she could
run much faster without them, and--the tears came with a rush to her
eyes--they seemed all at once to mean so much, those shoes and
stockings. It--it was the shoes and stockings and all they meant that
was taking her out of Jean's life. She understood it all so well now.
She brushed the tears a little angrily from her eyes. She must not do
that. To go to Jean and cry! Far better not to go at all!
Afterwards, when they were gone, these Americans, and when Jean was
gone, and she was alone and only the _bon Dieu_ to see, then perhaps
the tears would be too strong for her. But now she must talk very
bravely to Jean, and not make it harder for him; for, no matter what
happened or what was to come, Jean, too, in his love, would feel the
parting.
She understood Jean better now, too. The night had made so many things
much clearer. Had he not confessed that he was not always happy as a
fisherman in Bernay-sur-Mer? And must it not have been just this, this
greatness within him, that had made him discontented? And now that it
had come true, a far greater thing than he could have dreamed of,
changing his whole life, must it not for the time have made him forget
everything else? It had not killed his love for her, it had not done
that--but this thing must be first before either of their loves.
Afterwards, perhaps, it might kill his love--afterwards, yes,
afterwards it might do that. She tried to smile a little. It was what
she was going now to bring about--afterwards it _must_ kill his love.
It was the only way. And that would come surely, very surely--his
giving away of the beacon, so lightly forgetting what he told her it
had meant, taught her that. If he went now, if she bade him go now, it
was not for a little time--it was for always.
She was running, very fast, breathlessly--as though she were trying to
outrun her thoughts. It was coming again, the same bitter fight that
she had fought out through the darkness, through all those long hours
alone--but she must not let it come, that sadness, that yearning that
tried to make her falter and hold back. The way was very plain. If
she loved Jean, if she really loved him, she must not let that love do
anything but what would help him in his new, great life--she must cling
to that. It would not be love if she did anything else; it would only
mean that she loved herself more than she loved Jean.
"To be never afraid"--Uncle Gaston had taught her that, and the words
were on her lips now--"To be never afraid."
She was walking again now, for she had reached the village. Some one
called to her from a cottage door, and she called back cheerfully as
she passed on to the Bas Rhone, where Papa Fregeau was standing in the
doorway.
"_Tiens, petite_!" the fat little proprietor cried heartily. "But it
is good to see our little Marie-Louise! You do not come often these
days. They make you work too hard, those Americans, perhaps? But
to-day they are going--eh? Wait, I will call Lucille."
"Good morning, Jacques," she answered. "Yes; it is to-day that they
are going, so do not call Mother Fregeau, for there is a great deal to
do at the house and I must hurry back."
"Ah!" observed Papa Fregeau. "You have come then with a message?"
"Yes," she said hurriedly; "for Jean. Do you know where he is?"
"But, _la, la_!" chuckled Papa Fregeau. "But, yes; he is upstairs in
his room. But wait--I must tell you. I have just helped him carry it
up. It is a very grand American affair, and he is like a child with
it. It arrived from Marseilles last night after he had gone."
"What did?" inquired Marie-Louise patiently.
"What did!" ejaculated Papa Fregeau. "But did I not tell you? The
American trunk, _pardieu_! that he is to go away with, and--" The fat
little man grew suddenly confused. "_Tiens_!" he stammered. "He is
upstairs in his room, Marie-Louise. I am an old fool--eh--an old
fool!"--and he waddled away.
Why should it have hurt a little more because Jacques Fregeau had said
Jean was going away? And why should Jacques Fregeau have been able to
read it in her eyes? She was not so brave perhaps as she had thought.
And her heart was pounding now very quickly and so hard that it brought
pain, as she went up the stairs.
"_Mon Pere_"--her lips were whispering the same prayer over
again--"make me that--Jean's beacon now."
And then she was knocking at the door.
For an instant she hesitated, as his voice called to her to enter; then
she opened the door and stepped inside. It was Jean, this great fine
figure of a man, who turned so quickly toward her; but it was already
the Jean of the world where they wore shoes and stockings, and his
clothes were like the clothes of Monsieur Bliss. They made him very
handsome, very grand; only somehow they made it seem that her errand
was useless now, that she had come too late, that Jean was already gone.
Her eyes met his, smiled--and, from his face, strayed about the room.
It was very fine that American trunk, but not very large. It was like
one that mademoiselle had, that she called a steamer trunk, and carried
on the automobile--and the trunk was empty, and the tray was on the
floor beside it.
"Marie-Louise!" he cried--and then, a little awkwardly, he caught her
hands. "But--but what has brought you here, Marie-Louise?"
"To see you, Jean," she told him simply.
For a moment he stared at her uneasily. Was this then to be the scene
that he had dreaded, that he had been putting off? And then he laughed
a little unnaturally.
"Ah, did you think, then, Marie-Louise, that I had forgotten you? You
must not think that! Only, _mon Dieu_, what with Bidelot, and the
critics, and Marseilles, and the work all day at the new design, what
could I do? But Bidelot and the rest have returned to Paris, and
mademoiselle and monsieur go to-day; and this afternoon I was going to
find you and tell you about the great plans they have all made for me."
"Yes; I know, Jean," she answered. "And that is what I have come
for--to have a little talk about you and me."
"About my going away, you mean?" he said, infusing a lightness into his
voice. "But you must not feel sad about that, Marie-Louise. You would
not have me lose a chance like that! And it is only for a little
while, until I have learned what, they say, Paris will teach me. I
shall do great things in Paris, Marie-Louise--and then I shall come
back."
She shook her head slowly.
"Jean," she said very quietly, "it is about your coming back that I
want to speak to you. I have thought it all out last night. It is not
for a little while. When you go it is for always. You can never come
back."
"Never come back! Ah, is it that then that is troubling you?" he said
eagerly. "You mean that you would not mind my going for a little
while, only you think it is for more than that?"
"You do not understand, Jean"--it seemed as though she must cry out in
wild abandon, as though the tears must come and fill her eyes, as
though she were not brave at all. Would not the _bon Dieu_ help her
now! She drew her hands away from him, and turned from him for an
instant. "You can never come back, Jean; you can never come back to
the old life. You will go on and on, further and further away from it,
making a great name for yourself, and your friends will be all like the
_grand monde_ who have been here, and I know that I cannot go into that
life, too--I understand that all so well. And--and so, Jean, I have
come to tell you that you are free."
"Free!" he cried--and gazed at her in stupefaction. The colour came
and went from his face. He had not thought of this from her! And yet
it was what he had said in his soul--if only there were nothing between
Marie-Louise and himself! It was as if a weight had been lifted from
him--only replacing the weight was a miserable pricking of conscience.
"Free! What are you saying?"
And now the dark eyes were bright and deep and unfaltering--and
suddenly she drew her form erect, and her head was thrown proudly back.
"Free, Jean, because you must not think any more of me; because you are
to be a great man in your country and it is your duty to go, for France
has called you, and France is first; because"--her voice, quivering,
yet triumphant, was ringing through the room--"because I give you to
France, Jean! You do not belong to me now--you belong to France!"
For a moment he did not speak. There seemed a thousand emotions,
soul-born, surging upon him. Her words thrilled him; it was over;
there was relief; it was done. She had gone where he had not dared to
go in his thoughts--to the end. He would never come back, she said.
He was free. But he could not have her think that he could let her go
like that!
"No, no, Marie-Louise!" he burst out. "Do you think that even if I
belonged to France, even if all my life were changed, that I could ever
forget you, that I could forget Bernay-sur-Mer, and all the people and
my life here?"
"Yes," she said, "you will forget."
"Never!" he asserted fiercely.
"Jean"--her voice was low again--"it is the _bon Dieu_ last night who
has made me understand. I do not know what is in the new world that
you are going to, only that you will be one of the greatest and perhaps
one of the richest men in France. And I understand you better, Jean, I
think, than you understand yourself. This fame and power will mean
more to you than anything else, and it will grow and grow and grow,
Jean. And, oh, Jean, I am afraid you will forget that it is not you at
all who does these great things but that it is the _bon Dieu_ who lets
you do them, and that you will grow proud, Jean, and lose all the best
out of your life because you will even forget that once those clothes
hanging there"--she pointed toward the rough fisherman's suit--"were
yours."
It was strange to hear Marie-Louise talking so! He did not entirely
understand. Something was bewildering him. She was telling him that
he must think no more of her, that it was finished. And there was no
scene. And she did not reproach him. And there were no tears. And it
did not seem as though it were quite real. He had pictured quite
another kind of scene, where there would be passion and angry words.
And there was nothing of that--only Marie-Louise, like a grown-up
Marie-Louise, like a mother almost, speaking so gravely and anxiously
to him of things one would not expect Marie-Louise to know anything
about.
She turned from him impulsively; and from the peg took down the cap and
the rough suit, and from the floor gathered up the heavy boots with the
coarse socks tucked into their tops--and, as he watched her in
amazement, she thrust them suddenly into his arms.
"Promise me, Jean," she said in the same low way, "that you will keep
these with you always, and that sometimes in your great world you will
look at them and remember--that they, too, belong to France"--and then
suddenly her voice broke, and she had run from the room.
She was gone. Jean's eyes, from the doorway, shifted to the clothes
that cluttered up his arms--and for a long time he did not move. Then
one hand lifted slowly, and in a dazed sort of way brushed the hair
back from his eyes. It was a strange thing, that--to take these things
with him to remember--what was it she had said?--to remember that they,
too, belonged to France.
"_Mon Dieu_!" he whispered--and, with a queer lift of his shoulders,
turned mechanically to the trunk beside him. "_Mon Dieu_!" he
whispered again--and now there was a twisted little smile of pain upon
his lips as understanding came, and almost reverently he laid the
things in the bottom of the trunk.
-- XI --
THE PENDULUM
How many miles had they come? Jean did not know. It had been far--but
far along a road of golden dreams, where time and distance mattered
only because they were so quickly passed.
It was Myrna Bliss who had suggested it because, had she not said? she
wanted to have a little talk with him alone before she left for Paris
that afternoon--and they would walk out along the road before her
father started, and the automobile would pick her up on the way.
And so they had come, and so she had talked and he had
listened--feasting his eyes upon the superb, alluring figure that
swung, so splendidly supreme, along beside him. She had told him of
Paris--Paris, the City Beautiful--of the great city that was the glory
of France, of its magnificent boulevards, its statues, its arches, its
wonderful architecture, its wealth of art garnered from the ages, its
happy mirth, its gaiety, its richness and its life, the life that would
now be his. And he had listened, rapt, absorbed, fascinated, as though
to some entrancing melody, now martial, now in softer strain, that
stirred his pulse as it carried him beyond himself, and unfettered his
imagination until it swept, free as a bird in air, into the land of
dreams, that knew a fierce, ecstatic echo in his soul--the melody of
her voice.
But now there had come a jarring note into that melody; and a sudden,
swift emotion, that mingled dismay, a passionate longing, a panic sense
of impotency, was upon him. The quick throb of the motor was sounding
from down the road behind them. Monsieur Bliss was coming now. In a
moment she would be gone.
She had heard it, too, for she ceased speaking abruptly, and, halting,
turned to face him.
"Isn't it too bad, Jean?" she cried disappointedly. "And I had hardly
begun to tell you about it! But then, never mind, the rest of it all
you will see for yourself in a few more days, when you get to Paris."
In a moment she would be gone! What was it that held him back--that
had always held him back before? He was strong enough--strong enough
to crush her to him, to cover that gloriously beautiful face with his
kisses, to bathe his face in the fragrance of her hair, to feel her
heart, the throb, the pulse, the life of her body against his own!
What was it that, strong as he was, was stronger than he?
"It--it is good-bye," he said, in a low, tense way.
She felt the passion that was possessing him--he read it in the
startled glance of the grey eyes before they were veiled; in the ivory
of the perfect throat grown colourful with the mounting red; in the
parted lips before the teasing, merry smile was forced there, as she
stepped back a little away from him. She knew! She knew, as he knew,
that his soul was aflame--and it was she, not he, who dammed back the
tide of his passion with that "something" that was so powerful an ally
of hers, so readily, so always at her instant command. She knew, as he
knew, that his soul was aflame--and yet she had not repulsed him. What
did it mean? That she _cared_! But why did she laugh so lightly now,
why was she so perfectly self-possessed? What did it mean? That she
was playing with him!
"How absurd, Jean!" she laughed gaily. "Of course, it isn't
'good-bye'; that is"--she glanced at him demurely--"that is, unless
you've changed your mind about coming to Paris." Then, impulsively
eager: "But you haven't done that, have you? And you want to come more
than ever now after what I have told you, don't you? And, Jean"--she
came suddenly close to him again, and her face, its demureness gone,
was puckered up in very earnest little wrinkles--"there isn't anything,
you won't let anything keep you from coming--will you?"
Keep him from Paris--from her! Why had she asked that? He laughed out
boisterously, harshly. It was very near now, that accursed automobile!
Monsieur Bliss was calling out to them. Keep him from--Paris! He
could only laugh out again wildly, as he looked at her.
"Jean!"--it was a quick, hurried exclamation, not all composure now,
and her eyes were hidden, and her face was turned away. "Jean, good
gracious, don't you hear father calling to you? Look, here he is!"
Jean swept his hand across his eyes. It was the madness upon him.
Yes, here was Monsieur Bliss beside him, and she and her father were
both talking at once. It was Paris! Always Paris that they talked of!
In a week, in ten days, he would be there. And then they had both
shaken hands with him, the grey eyes had smiled into his for an
instant, and she had sprung from him into the automobile. It was a
daze. They had gone. He was standing in the road watching them. She
was fluttering a scarf at him, as she leaned far over the back of the
car--her voice, full-throated, was throbbing in his ears.
"_An revoir_, Jean! _Au revoir_--till Paris!"
The car disappeared over the brow of a little hill, came into sight
again as it topped the opposite rise, became a blur and then a tiny
dot, scarcely discernible, far on along the road. And still he stood
there.
It was gone at last. He turned then, and started back along the road
toward Bernay-sur-Mer; now walking slowly, now suddenly changing his
pace to a quick, impulsive stride. His eyes were on the road before
him, but he saw nothing. Her voice was ringing in his ears again, and
again he was living in that golden land of dreams--with her.
Paris! The City Beautiful! Paris--where he should know fame and
power, where his genius should kindle a flame of enthusiasm that would
spread throughout all France! Paris--where men should do him honour!
Paris--where riches were! Paris--where she was!
His brain reeled with it. It was not wild imagining. A power, a
mighty power, the power that made him master of his art lived and
breathed in every fibre of his being. He needed no tongue of others
now to tell him that this power was his; the knowledge of it was in his
soul until he knew, knew as he knew that he had being and existence,
that the work of Jean Laparde would stand magnificent and supreme
before the eyes of the world. He saw himself the centre, the leader of
a glittering entourage. Fame! Men of the highest ranks should envy
him--the gamins of Paris should know his name. He threw back his head
on his great shoulders. Conceit, all this? No; it was stupendous--but
it was not conceit. He knew--his soul knew it. He was more sure of
himself now than even those great critics of France had been sure.
They had seen nothing--he had not begun. A year, two years in Paris,
the tools to work with, the models of flesh and blood at his
command--and, ah, God, what would he not do! They should see, they
should see then! And they should stand and wonder, as they had not
wondered before--at Jean Laparde!
He laughed suddenly aloud. Father Anton had preached a sermon once in
the little church, he remembered it now--that fame was an empty thing.
An empty thing! He laughed again. It was the simplicity of the good
cure, who believed such things because, _pardieu_! the cure was a
gentle soul and knew no better. What should Father Anton, who never
went anywhere, into whose life came nothing but the little daily
affairs of the fisherfolk in Bernay-sur-Mer, who could never have had
any experience in the things outside the life of the village that
turned everlastingly like a wheel in its grooves, know of fame? It was
not the fault of Father Anton that he talked so, for he got those
things out of his books, and, having no reason out of his own knowledge
of life to know any better, believed them!
Jean shrugged his shoulders. One felt sorry for Father Anton! Perhaps
once in two years the cure journeyed as far as Marseilles--and the few
miles was a great event! What could one expect Father Anton to
discover for himself out of life?
Fame--an empty thing! Poor Father Anton, who, because he believed it,
so earnestly preached it to Papa Fregeau and Pierre Lachance who never
went even as far as Marseilles, and who therefore in turn were very
content to believe it, too! An empty thing? It was _everything_!
He drew in his breath sharply; his hand was feverishly tossing back the
hair from his forehead. It was everything! It was wealth, it was
power, it was might, it was greatness. It was real; it brought things
to the very senses one possessed, things that one could see and hear
and touch and taste and smell. They were real--real, those things! It
brought money that bought all things; it brought position, honour and
command, a name amongst the great names of France; it thrilled the soul
and fired the blood; it was limitless, boundless, without horizon. It
brought all things beyond the dreams that one could dream, the plaudits
of his fellow-men, the wild-flung shouts of acclamation from
hoarse-throated multitudes; it brought riches; it brought affluence;
and it brought--love.
Love! Ay, it would bring love! It would bring him that more than it
would bring him any other thing. He knew now what had held him back
from crushing that maddeningly alluring form in his arms, from giving
free rein to the passion that was his, from giving him the mastery of
her. It was that same thing that Marie-Louise sensed between herself
and what she called the _grand monde_. He, too, had not yet bridged
the gulf. He had not yet been able to look into those grey eyes of the
beautiful American and forget, deep in his soul, that she was
different, that he had been Jean Laparde the poor fisherman and not
always Jean Laparde the great sculptor. Was she playing with him?
What did it matter? The day would come when she would not _play_! She
would be his--and this fame, that was so empty a thing, would give her
to him. If for no other thing than that he would go to Paris. She
would be his--as all the world would be his! His! That is what fame
would bring him! Would she play with him then in his greatness!
Paris! Paris! It lay before him, a glittering, entrancing vista; it
held out its arms to him, and beckoned him; it heaped honour and glory
and riches upon him; it gave him---her!
His hands were clenched at his sides, and the skin over the knuckles,
tight-drawn, showed white; his stride was rapid, fierce; he was
breathing quickly; his face was flushed; his eyes were burning. Paris,
his art that would bring him fame, the fame that would bring him
her--nor heaven nor hell would hold him back!
And then suddenly in the middle of the road he stopped, and his hand
tore at his collar as though it choked him. Subconsciously he had seen
stretching out before him the sparkling blue of the quiet sea, the
headland, the little strip of beach where he and Gaston used to keep
the boats, a blur of white where the house on the bluff showed through
the trees--he had come that far on his way back. Subconsciously, in a
meaningless way, he had seen this; but now it was blotted from him in a
flash, and in its place came a scene that, though imaginary, was vivid,
real, actual, where before reality itself had meant nothing.
It was black, intensely black, and the wild howling of the wind was in
his ears. The rain was lashing at his face, and all along the beach
echoed the terrific boom and roar of the surf. And now there came the
crash of thunder, and quick upon its heels the heavens opening in
darting, zigzag tongue-flames, lurid, magnificent, awesome, as the
lightning flashes leapt across the sky. And he was standing on that
little strip of beach, and far out across the waters, shrouded in a
white smother of spume and spray, the figure of Marie-Louise stood
outlined on the edge of the Perigeau Reef. And now he was crossing
that stretch between them, and living again the physical agony that had
been his; and now he was in the water, clinging to the gunwale of the
boat, and in all the wild abandon of the storm her lips and his were
pressed together in that long kiss that seemed to span all life and all
eternity.
As though spellbound, a whiteness creeping into his face, Jean stood
tense and motionless there in the road. Why had this come now--he had
never let it come in the week that was past. Why should it have come
now, like floodgates opened against his will, to overwhelm him? Ah,
was it that? That little figure, that was just discernible, far off on
that beach, the little figure, bare-footed, that was sitting now on the
stem of his boat where it was drawn up on the sand, and whose face was
cupped in her hands, and who seemed to be staring so intently out
toward the Perigeau Reef! That was Marie-Louise there--Marie-Louise.
Was it the sight of her that had brought this thing upon him? And now
the scene was changed again. And it was against the window panes that
the rain lashed, and against the sashes that the wind tore, and the
lamp threw its light on the grey-grim face of old Gaston Bernier on the
bed.
Jean shivered a little. What was coming now? What was that? Gaston's
hand was upon his. He could hear Gaston's voice: "Jean, do you love
Marie-Louise?" And then Gaston was repeating the question, and
repeating it again: "Jean, do you love Marie-Louise?" And the old
rugged strength seemed back again in Gaston Bernier, as he, rose up in
bed, and his voice in a strange, stern note rang through the room:
"Swear it, Jean ... to a dying man and in God's presence ... swear that
you will..."
"God! My God!" Jean cried out aloud--and like a blind man feeling
before him, turned from the road, stumbled a little way through the
fields, and flung himself face down upon the grass.
There was torment and dismay upon him. His mind was in riot; his soul
bare and naked now before him. Paris! No; he must go instead to
Marie-Louise and tell her that he would stay in Bernay-sur-Mer, that
they would live their lives together, because they loved each other.
Yes; he loved Marie-Louise, not with the mad passion he had for this
American who bewitched him, but as he had loved her all the years since
they were children. He had told Gaston that, and it was true. It was
the act of a _miserable_ to go away! No; he would not go now. It was
true, all that he had told Marie-Louise, that she should stand on the
beach and hold out her arms to him in welcome when he pulled ashore
from the fishing, and that they would be always happy together. And
yet--and yet had not Marie-Louise herself said that he belonged to
France, and said herself that he must go for the great career that lay
before him, for the great work that he was to do?
He cried out aloud sharply, as though in hurt--and prone upon his face,
his hands outstretched before him, lay still for a little time.
It seemed to come insidiously, calling to him, luring him, wrestling,
fighting, battling with the soul of him--Paris! Here there was love,
but there, too, was love. One was calm; the other like the wild tumult
of the storm that in its might, primal, elemental, swept him blindly
forward. Paris--she would be there, she who held him in a spell, who
made him forget Marie-Louise. And there was fame and glory there,
honour and wealth--all, all, everything that the world could give. And
it was his, all his--he had only to reach out and take it. There, all
France would be at his feet. It made his brain swim with the mad
intoxication of it. It was as a man dying with thirst who sees afar
the water that is life to him. Here, he could never be contented now,
he could never be happy, and in a year, two years, Marie-Louise,
therefore, would be unhappy, too. But--but he could not go ... that
night that he had held Gaston Bernier's hand ... and there was
Marie-Louise that he loved ... Marie-Louise with the pure, fearless
face, the great eyes that were full of a world of things, of calm, of
trust, of tenderness and love, the lips, the wonderful lips that were
so divinely carved, the lips like which there were no others. And he
must choose now forever between Marie-Louise and--Paris. If he went,
he would never come back. He was honest with himself now. He knew
that. Marie-Louise knew that. He must choose now. Choose! Had he
not already decided that he would--that he would--_what_?
It began all over again, and after that again for a hundred times,
until the brain of the man was sick and weary, and the torment of it
had brought the moisture to his forehead and into his eyes a fevered,
hunted look--and still he lay there, and the hours went by. And after
a time, beneath the rim of the sea in the west, the sun sank down, and
the golden afterglow, soft and rich and warm, was as a gentle, parting
benediction upon the earth--and Jean's head was buried in his outflung
arms. And twilight came--and after that the evening--then darkness,
and the myriad, twinkling stars of a night, calm and serene, were
overhead--and it grew late.
And there came a soul-wrung cry from Jean, as he lifted a worn and
haggard face to the moonlight.
"What shall I do? What shall I do?"