Some one was coming! She strained her eyes across the _atelier_,

holding them for an instant, fascinated, upon the portieres. No, no;

surely she had been mistaken! It could have been only fancy, and--a

low cry came from her lips. The front door had closed; there were

footsteps in the hall, a number of them it seemed; and--and that was

Jean's voice!

"The salon, messieurs, if you please!"

They were coming! They were entering the salon! What could she do?

She could not get away or escape! There was no way to get out! They

were already in the salon! She looked wildly, helplessly around

her--and then, with a little gasp that mingled relief and trepidation,

her eyes fixed on the door of the models' dressing room. She began to

steal toward it, holding her breath. How terribly her heart pounded!

She could not go very fast, because then she would make a noise and

they would hear her. And that was Jean's voice again, this time from

the salon itself, from just on the other side of the portieres, it

seemed.

"The _atelier_ will serve us better than this polished floor,

messieurs."

Oh, if she could only reach the dressing room in time! How hoarse

Jean's voice seemed to be! She was nearly there now--nearly there! If

only the _bon Dieu_ would help her! It was only a step more--just one!

Now--now she was there! She slipped into the little place that was

hardly any bigger than a large closet, and drew the door shut behind

her, as the portieres were swished apart and the rings on the pole

clattered with a terrifying noise. And then she found that she was

very weak, and that her knees were trembling as though they would give

way beneath her.

It was very dark. She dared not move for fear she might knock into

something and make a noise. She told herself that she must stand very

still. She could hear them out in the _atelier_ now in a muffled sort

of a way; they were walking around and around, and it sounded as though

they were moving things about. And then she seemed to go cold with

fear again, and a sense of dismay surged upon her. The "_Fille du

Regiment_" was uncovered! She had had no time, even if she had thought

of it, to replace the covering. What would Jean do? Would he think it

was an accident, that the wrapping had been carelessly done, would he

blame Hector, or--would he think some one had been there, that some one

was perhaps there now, and--and suppose he should come to the dressing

room door, and open it, and--and find her there!

She was frightened now, terribly afraid--more afraid than she had ever

been in her life before. If Jean should find her there, what would he

think of her? The blood rushed in a fierce crimson tide to her face.

She would rather die than that! But it was not only herself, it was

not only that--there was Jean. She had no right to obtrude herself

into his life and to disturb it. But surely--surely the _bon Dieu_

would keep him away from the door! She had been very foolish and very

wicked ever to have come, ever to have risked so much, only the

temptation had been so great, and her heart had pleaded so hard;

but--but if only no harm should come of it all this time, she would

promise that--that she would not come there any more like this at night.

Perhaps he had not seen it! Perhaps he had not noticed it! And yet it

was not just moonlight out there any more, and the _atelier_ was

lighted now, for she could see the tiny rays as they filtered in under

the door where it did not fit well over the threshold. She listened

intently, almost expecting to hear Jean cry out about the covering of

the "_Fille du Regiment_," but they still seemed to be moving around a

great deal, and the voices were indistinguishable, and she could

understand nothing of what they were saying, except only a name that

she caught because it was repeated several times--the name of Paul

Valmain. It seemed somehow to be familiar. Yes; she remembered. He

was one of Jean's friends of the _grand monde_, the man that Father

Anton had pointed out beside Monsieur and Mademoiselle Bliss in that

group with Jean on the night of the great reception.

It seemed as though hours were passing as she stood there. It seemed

to grow unbearably hot in that small, dark place; it seemed even that

it was hard to breathe. Perhaps it was her fear that was suffocating

her! She unfastened the black velvet cloak and let it hang more

loosely, wide apart, upon her shoulders--and held her hand agitatedly

upon her bare throat, that was now exposed by the low-necked blouse.

Would they never go! And what were they doing there? It was very

strange! They seemed to keep on tramping and even running around, and

there was no sound of voices now--only a most peculiar sound that made

her think of Papa Fregeau when he stood in the kitchen of the Bas Rhone

and sharpened his carving knife on his long bone-handled steel.

Then all grew suddenly quiet--and the quiet was as suddenly broken by a

voice, loud enough and distinct enough for her to hear.

"It is nothing! But a touch, monsieur--continue!"

Marie-Louise's eyes widened, and slowly her form grew rigid and tense,

and her hand at her throat slipped away and caught at the neck of her

blouse, and in a spasmodic clutch tore it wider apart. That voice--she

did not know whose it was--but there was no mistaking the cold, sullen

fury in it. And the tramping of feet had begun again--and that sound

again, the rasp of steel, was hideous now, bringing her a sickening

dread.

It was as though for a moment she were too stunned to move. They were

fighting out there in Jean's _atelier_--with--with swords. And

perhaps--perhaps it was Jean who was fighting. And if--if he should

be--no, no!--she dare not even let the thought take form in her mind.

But she must see--somehow, she must see! How dark it was, and how

those sounds brought terror now! She could not stand there and--and

think; she must see that at least it was not Jean, or else--or else she

would scream out in her agony of suspense.

She groped out with her hand for the door. She could open it very

silently, just a little way--they would be too occupied to notice it.

Her hand trembled as it fell upon the knob. She pushed the door open a

crack, an inch. There seemed to burst in upon her, in upon the

contrasting utter darkness, a blinding light that dazzled her so that

she could see nothing; and to burst in upon her a horrible riot of

noise--heavy, panting gasps for breath, the quick shuffle of feet upon

the floor, the grating, the ring, the metallic grinding of rapier

blades.

In terror, she pushed the door open another inch--and held it rigidly,

as, suddenly, her heart seemed to stop its beat. There came a gurgling

moan--then--then an instant's deathlike silence--and then, with a wild

cry, she flung the door wide open, and, as it crashed back against the

wall, she stumbled out into the _atelier_.

She could see now, but it was as though it were not herself at all who

looked around the room, for her brain seemed suddenly to be acting in

an impersonal, numbed, apathetic way. She could see everything very

clearly, but it was as though some one else, not she, were seeing it.

She stretched out her arms before her like one who was blind to feel

her way, and started across the _atelier_. She should have run, she

should have run so fast, so fast, something within her told her she

should run, but her limbs seemed scarcely able to support her

weight--she could only stumble across the _atelier_ with her arms

stretched out. That was not Jean who stood in the centre of the room

holding a rapier in his hand, it was Paul Valmain. And the man who

stood beside Paul Valmain was not Jean. And there were two other men,

but neither of them was Jean. But they held a silent, grey-faced,

unconscious form in their arms that they were lowering to the

floor--and that was Jean. And they looked at her as she came, looked

at her in so strange and startled a way; and Paul Valmain took a step

toward her, and cried out, and drew suddenly back--and then--and then

she was on her knees, and Jean's head was gathered into her arms, and

he was so white, so terribly white, and he made no sound--and--and--

"Jean! Jean!"--she was crying his name passionately, piteously, crying

it over and over again. "Jean! Jean!"

And he made no answer--only lay there white and still. And then some

one took her arm and tried to draw her away--and some one spoke to her.

"Mademoiselle must permit me," the voice said gravely. "I am the

doctor."

They took Jean from her, and the man who had said he was the doctor

bent over Jean--and, still on her knees, she watched them. Why should

they take him from her--now? It could do no one any harm now that she

should have Jean, when Jean did not know, when perhaps--she lifted her

head quickly, lifted it far back until the white throat and bosom lay

bare; until the pure, glorious face, with its wonderful contour, its

divinely beautiful lips, tense with outraged grief, looked full into

another face that was thrust suddenly before her. It was Paul Valmain

who had done this, and he dared to come and stand over her now, and

hold in his hand the--why did she not scream out---the blade was red!

"Look! Look!"--his face ashen, Paul Valmain was pointing to the

unwrapped figure of the "_Fille du Regiment_." "The face--the lips!"

he whispered hoarsely. "The lips--it is you who are his model! It was

you--last night! That hat! That cloak! My God!" he cried out, and

the rapier, falling from his hand, clattered upon the floor. "My God,

what have I done!"

-- VI --

"JEAN MUST NOT KNOW"

Jean's model! Even in that moment, when it seemed that all else was

extraneous, that nothing mattered save that white face, that still form

on the floor, the thought brought a strange, troubled amazement--but it

was gone almost instantly, as her mind, still refusing to centre on

anything but the one great fear that perhaps Jean might die, carried

her swiftly back to what was passing around her. She looked again at

the doctor as he knelt on the floor and worked with deft fingers over

Jean, and something in those grey hairs, in that kindly face, even if

it were so grave now, gave her a little courage--surely, surely he

would not let Jean die; she looked at the man who, too, was kneeling

beside Jean--but he meant nothing to her, she could only wonder why he

was there; she looked at Paul Valmain--and shuddered. It was Paul

Valmain who had done this, who perhaps had killed Jean--and he was

still staring at her in such a fixed, horrible, fascinated way. She

rose quickly to her feet, clenching her hands.

And then the doctor, raising his head suddenly, was speaking in quiet

tones:

"I need hardly say that if Monsieur Laparde recovers, we are in honour

pledged to secrecy, messieurs. Monsieur Vinailles and I will carry

Monsieur Laparde upstairs to his bed, so that clatter-tongued concierge

and his wife will know nothing of this--and to-morrow, if they are told

that Monsieur Laparde has met with an accident it will be enough.

Monsieur Vinailles and I will attend to everything here; and I would

suggest, Monsieur Valmain, that you and Monsieur LeFair withdraw at

once. I will send you a report in half an hour."

Paul Valmain shook his head.

"No," he said, in a low, shaken voice. "LeFair will go--I remain

here." He pointed suddenly to Marie-Louise. "I must speak to

her--alone. Go, LeFair--wait for me at my rooms."

Marie-Louise drew hurriedly back.

"No, no!" she exclaimed sharply. The man filled her with abhorrence;

and now, besides, he was trying to keep her away from Jean--and

nothing, nothing in all the world would make her leave Jean's side now.

But no one seemed to be paying any attention to her--not even Paul

Valmain any more, who had turned away, and, whispering as he went, was

walking rapidly into the salon with the man they had called LeFair.

The doctor had slipped his wrist through the handle of his black bag to

leave his hands free, and he and the other man were lifting Jean up in

their arms--and then, numbly, as they carried him from the room, she

followed.

She saw nothing now only Jean's face, so ghastly in pallor, with its

closed eyes, and with the black hair tumbling over his forehead. It

brought a greater fear upon her; but she kept telling herself that she

must be brave, for perhaps they would let her help them when they got

upstairs, perhaps there would be something that she could do.

They went on through the salon, and out into the hall, and began to

mount the stairs--and then some one, hurrying from the direction of the

front door, caught her arm.

"Wait, mademoiselle, wait!" a voice said hoarsely. "Wait--I must speak

to you!"

It was Paul Valmain again. She pushed him violently away from her,

and, without looking back at him, went on after the others.

On the landing at the head of the stairs, they halted for a moment to

open a door, and then for the first time the doctor appeared to notice

that she had been following.

"_Pardon_, mademoiselle," he said a little brusquely. "If mademoiselle

will be good enough to wait below!"

They were trying to keep her from Jean again. Every one tried to keep

her from Jean. She clenched her hands passionately. But now--now they

should not keep her away any longer.

"No!" she cried out fiercely. "You shall not send me away! I will not

go--I will not!"

He stared at her for an instant, then shrugged his shoulders.

"Very well, mademoiselle. It is perhaps your privilege. I have not

time to question it. But since you remain, perhaps you will be good

enough to help us."

"Yes!" she said eagerly. "Oh, yes! Tell me what to do."

"Water!" he said tersely. "A basin--cloths!"

With a quick nod of understanding, she ran ahead of them through the

door, and hurried on down the hall. She had never been there in Jean's

apartment before, but Madame Mi-mi had not been loath to tell her all

about it--and so it was not strange to her, and there was something to

do now and that seemed to relieve the dull pain that had been torturing

her brain, and she could remember again every little detail that Madame

Mi-mi had described. The sitting-room, the dressing-room, the bedroom,

the dining-room, and from the dining-room into the kitchen--it was a

complete menage, though Jean used it so little, save to sleep there,

and for his _dejeuners_ which Madame Mi-mi prepared. She procured the

basin, filled it, and hurried back with it--going through the rooms

this time instead of the corridor--to where in the bedroom they had

placed Jean upon the bed. And then there were the cloths--a sheet

would serve best for bandages, and that was kept in the linen closet,

where too there were clean towels, Madame Mi-mi had said. She could

think very clearly now, and she could be much more brave because there

was something to do. She flew to the closet, tore a sheet into strips,

gathered up some towels, and returned with them again to the bedroom.

The doctor glanced at her approvingly.

"Thank you, mademoiselle," he said, in a much more kindly tone. "That

will be all for the present."

But if they were more kindly, his words, they were too a sort of

dismissal. She did not know what to do for a moment; and then she went

slowly to the foot of the bed and knelt down--she would be out of their

way there, and ready in an instant if the doctor called again. She

would have given so much to help him in the intimate way this Monsieur

Vinailles was helping, to hold Jean, to touch Jean, but--but they

seemed so occupied, both of them, and--and she must not interfere. She

could only watch, while the agony of suspense crept upon her again;

watch the grey-haired man, in his shirt sleeves now, working so

quickly, so silently--and then suddenly she turned away her head, and

her heart sank with dread. It was so terrible a wound that she had

caught sight of in Jean's side, as the doctor straightened up for an

instant! It--it did not seem that any one could live with--with that.

And Jean lay so still, so motionless, and in his unconsciousness seemed

so much like--like dead. She shivered a little, and fought back the

tears, and tried resolutely to think of something else--of anything--of

how beautifully Madame Mi-mi had told her Jean's rooms here were

furnished.

She forced herself to look around her. Yes, yes, it was as Madame

Mi-mi had said--the carpet seemed to shine as though it were of silk;

and the bed was very large and made of brass, which was something she

had never seen before; and in all the rooms, as she had passed through

them, she had been conscious that everything was very magnificent, just

as the salon downstairs was very magnificent. And here on that big,

carved dresser were wonderful candlesticks like those Father Anton used

to have at the altar in Bernay-sur-Mer, only these were perhaps real

silver, just as Father Anton had said that some day, when the parish

grew very rich, theirs would be instead of only looking like it,

and--she turned quickly back again toward the bed. Monsieur Vinailles

and the doctor were speaking.

"But what would you have!" Monsieur Vinailles was exclaiming in a low

voice. "I know no more than you what it was about--and neither does

LeFair. We tried to bring about an understanding, LeFair and I, before

we called for you, or at least get them to consent to a delay in which

their tempers might cool; but neither Valmain nor Jean would listen to

us. Not a word! If LeFair and I would not act for them, they would

get some one else. _Voila tout_! What would you have!"

"H'm!" returned the doctor gruffly. "Well, then, Vinailles, as I shall

not need you any more for the moment, I think you had better go and

tell Monsieur Bliss what has happened."

"_Sacre_--no!" ejaculated Vinailles. "I prefer some one else should do

that! And besides, I do not think that he has returned to Paris yet."

"Then Mademoiselle Bliss," insisted the doctor quietly. "It is all

one! They are Jean's family, as it were, are they not--eh? And then

is not Mademoiselle Bliss as good as his fiancee? Well? I consider

that she, or Monsieur Bliss, or both of them, should know."

"You mean," said Vinailles, in a startled tone, "that Jean is--"

"I mean nothing!" answered the doctor bluntly. "He is a long time

unconscious, and he is not responding well to stimulants, that is all.

On the other hand, you need not unnecessarily alarm any one; if I get

him through the next hour or so, and no septic complications set in

later on, we'll have him on his feet in a few days. If you take Jean's

car you should be back in fifteen or twenty minutes. Go at once,

Vinailles."

"Very well," Vinailles agreed a little reluctantly--and left the room.

What did the doctor mean? Marie-Louise crept timidly around to the

opposite side of the bed where she could watch his face, and where she

could see Jean's face too. What did the doctor mean? If--if

everything went right, Jean would be well in a few days, but--but he

was in danger now. She questioned the grave face piteously with her

eyes--but received no response. The doctor was bending over Jean, and

did not look up.

The minutes passed, ten, fifteen perhaps, as she knelt there--and then

it seemed that she could not endure it any longer, and that all her

self-restraint was at an end.

"Jean!" she whispered--and because they were stronger than she, and

because she could keep them back no longer, the tears came in a flood,

and she reached out and caught Jean's hand that was outstretched on the

bed, and held it between both her own, and buried her face between her

own two arms.

She felt the doctor's hand laid gently on her shoulder.

"Do not give way, mademoiselle," he said soothingly. "Courage! We

shall win, I promise you."

She grew quieter after a little while--and again she tried to think.

They had sent for Mademoiselle Bliss, and very soon mademoiselle would

be here. It was the mademoiselle who had spoken to her so sharply that

day because she had not put on her shoes and stockings.... Hector had

said that Mademoiselle Bliss and Jean were to marry ... and--and that

was what the doctor had just said to Monsieur Vinailles ... and--and so

it was true. And what then? What--if Mademoiselle Bliss found her

here? She would do Mademoiselle Bliss no harm to stay here! Her hands

closed tighter over the one in her grasp. How cold Jean's hand was!

What would she do--what would she do? She did not want to go, it

seemed so hard to go, and it was so little to ask, so little out of all

her life, just to stay there and kneel beside Jean and hold his hand,

and--she raised her head, quickly, suddenly. The hand in hers twitched

a little, there came a half moan, half gasp, and then Jean's voice,

mumbling, wandering, reached her.

"Gaston, see, we are back! Put your arms around my neck, _mon brave_,

and I will lift you up, and--" The words grew thick upon his tongue,

lost their coherence, and died away. And then he began to speak again,

and Marie-Louise leaned closer to catch the words. "See, it is a

beacon--and it is for you, Marie-Louise, because it is you ... _sacre

nom_, why do you say that? ... I can make a thousand ... has it not

those lips that I could fashion even in the dark ... a thousand, I tell

you ... how--not another, when--"

"_Tiens_!" exclaimed the doctor briskly. "That is good! He is

regaining consciousness now, and--heh!--but what is the matter,

mademoiselle?"

With a startled little cry, Marie-Louise was on her feet. She was

vaguely conscious that, while they seemed to call up all her life, all

the old life of Bernay-sur-Mer, her life and Jean's when they had been

together, Jean's words too held some strange relation to something that

had just happened here that night, some strange, puzzling, bewildering

significance--and that then all this seemed swept away from her on the

instant before a still greater significance in the doctor's words.

What had the doctor said--that Jean was returning to consciousness! It

brought joy and gladness and hope surging over her; but it brought too

something cruel and hard and cold, as though a sentence had been

pronounced upon her. She must go now, whether she wanted to or not.

Jean must not see her. It was not Mademoiselle Bliss she had to

consider now--it was Jean. He must not see her--he must not even know

that she had been there. He must not, he must not see her--he must not

know! And then a sort of panic fear seized her, and she ran around the

bed to the doctor's side.

"Monsieur, monsieur, I must go!" she cried agitatedly. "And he must

not know--he must not know that I--that--that any one has been here.

Monsieur, will--will you promise that?"

"But, mademoiselle!"--he looked at her in amazement. "But,

mademoiselle, I--"

She caught his hands wildly, and dropped upon her knees.

"See, monsieur, see, I beg it of you!" she pleaded almost hysterically.

"It is not much to ask--that you will not tell. Promise me, monsieur,

promise me! Why should he know, why should any one know? I have done

no harm! And it--it is for his sake that I ask it. Monsieur,

monsieur, you will promise!"

"I see no reason now why I should say anything," he answered gravely;

"but if I promise it must be with a reservation. I will promise you,

mademoiselle, that unless circumstances leave me no choice I will say

nothing." Then, quickly, as he leaned toward the bed: "But if he is

not to see you, you must go at once!"

"Yes!" she breathed. "Yes! You are good, monsieur--you are very, very

good. And--and Monsieur Vinailles, and Mademoiselle Bliss, if Monsieur

Vinailles should have told her--you will not let them tell Jean any one

was here?"

"I will speak to them," he said quietly. "But go then, mademoiselle,

immediately!"

"And--and, monsieur"--her voice breaking--"Jean will not--not die?"

"No, mademoiselle, he will not die, I think I can promise that now

without any reservation," he replied with a smile. "But, _ma foi_, if

he is not to know--eh!"

She stole a half frightened, half wistful glance toward the bed--then

ran from the room and out into the hall.

"He must not know! He must not know!"--she kept saying that to

herself; repeating it again and again, as she went slowly down the

stairs. It seemed as though those were the words that summed up her

life, that she had been saying them in her soul ever since the day

those strangers had come to Bernay-sur-Mer. "Jean must not know!"

She halted suddenly on the lower step, and her face whitened a little.

Paul Valmain was standing in the doorway of the salon. He was still

here then, this Paul Valmain, the man who--who had tried to kill Jean!

"Mademoiselle!" he cried out. "See, I am still waiting! I must speak

to you--here--in the salon--in the _atelier_ for a moment!"

It seemed that she must run from him, that she abhorred him--and

yet--and yet--"Jean must not know!" She must get Paul Valmain to

promise too--Paul Valmain, and that other man who had been with him.

"Mademoiselle!" he said again. "I--"

"Yes," she said--and stepped past him through the salon door.

-- VII --

MEA CULPA

The man frightened her. He had caught her arm the moment she had

entered the salon, and had hurried her roughly across the room and into

the _atelier_; and, besides, his face was ghastly it was so colourless,

and it kept twitching, and his eyes burned with such an unnatural light.

"My arm, monsieur!" she cried out. "You are hurting me!"

He laughed at her in a hollow way, and only tightened his hold, as he

pulled her in front of the clay figure of the "_Fille du Regiment_."

"Stand so!" he burst out. "With your head--so! As you were when you

came from that dressing room! So--so!"--he pushed her chin up, and

grasped her by the shoulders.

"Monsieur!" she cried out again, and struggled to free herself.

"Monsieur, what are you doing?"

"Wait, I tell you!" he almost shouted.

Frightened before, she was terrified now, and besides she hated the man

with all her strength, and her soul shrank from him because it was he

who had so nearly killed Jean; but she had come to plead with him, she

must not forget that, only--only he was acting so strangely. And then

suddenly, startling her, she remembered that it was he who had said she

was Jean's model. That was why he was staring so wildly first at her

and then at the face of the girl with the drum, and back at her again,

and then at the clay figure.

"It is so!" he said hoarsely. "It is so! But wait--wait!" His hands

dropped from her shoulders, and he ran from one figure to another about

the studio, pausing before each one to gaze at it fixedly and intently.

"The lips--always the lips--always your lips--the wonderful,

inscrutable lips that all France is forever raving about!"--the words

came in sharp, broken snatches. "Never the face in its entirety, but

always the lips--and always with the lips some additional feature, the

forehead, or the poise, or the eyes--always you!"

At first she followed the man with her eyes in a sort of incredulous,

fearsome wonder; and then slowly, seemingly without volition of her

own, drawn to it as by a magnet, she turned to face and stare at the

figure of the "_Fille du Regiment_." Was it true, could it be true

that it was she, her lips that Jean had made there in those lips of

clay? Was that what that strange sense of familiarity had meant, and

which she had not understood? No, no--Jean had forgotten, forgotten

long ago! It was not true, it was not possible! And yet--and yet they

_were_ her lips--her eyes would not lie to her. And this then was what

had seemed to give a significance, that she could not explain at the

time, to those words of Jean's of a little while ago. This man Paul

Valmain had said she was Jean's model before she went upstairs, and

then Jean had talked about the beacon. "It is a beacon--and it is for

you, Marie-Louise, because it is you ... has it not those lips that I

could fashion even in the dark?" he had said. She had not been able to

connect the two things then; but now--now she knew. Jean's model--all

through those two years she had been Jean's model! And yet how could

it be possible! The very thought seemed to leave her abashed--it--it

seemed as though she were committing a sacrilege to let herself imagine

that she, who was only Marie-Louise Bernier, a fishergirl of

Bernay-sur-Mer, was the model for Jean's beautiful work that made all

the great people of France so proud to call him one of themselves! It

was not strange that she had failed to understand what that sense of

familiarity in the clay faces had meant--she would never, never have

dared to think of such a thing by herself--and it would have been so

far away, that thought, that of itself it would never have come. Why

was she suddenly so weak now, as though a wondrous joy, so great that

it overwhelmed her, was surging upon her--and why was that cold fear,

that seemed to tell the joy that it was trespassing where it had no

place, stirring within her? What did this thing mean for her--that

those lips of clay were hers! It brought so much, so many different

emotions, and each of them was so overpowering in itself, and they all

came crowding so upon her at once, that it seemed she must cry out in

her cruel bewilderment.

And then Paul Valmain was standing before her again.

"So!"--he flung out his arms. "So--it is out at last, the secret! He

has kept you well under cover, mademoiselle!"

The words came to her with a shock, rousing her from her thoughts. He

did not understand. He must not think that Jean knew; because that was

why she was there now--to tell him that Jean must not know.

"No!" she said quickly. "No, no, monsieur! And, oh, monsieur, you

must not let--let Jean know that I was here to-night. It--it is some

mistake about--about the model, monsieur. He has not seen me since he

has been in Paris, and--"

"What!" he broke in harshly. "You deny that you have been coming here?"

"Only last night, monsieur," she said eagerly. "Only last night for

the first time."

"It is well that you admit at least that!" he jeered, in a sort of

furious irony. "I congratulate you, mademoiselle! My profound

respects! In a single visit then you have accomplished wonders, even

with so beautiful a face and figure! You have made Jean Laparde famous

all over the world; and you have made me perhaps--a murderer!"

She stared at him wide-eyed. What did he mean?

"But, monsieur--monsieur--I swear it to you!" she stammered. "It was

only last night for the first time."

He laughed mirthlessly, and shrugged his shoulders.

"As you will, mademoiselle! A night or a thousand spent with Monsieur

Laparde, it is all one to me! It is your own affair! But"--his voice

rose suddenly in uncontrollable passion--"but, _sacre nom de Dieu_,

there is something that is my affair! That cloak! That hat! Where

did you get them?" He was clutching with one hand at the garment,

pulling at it with vicious twitches to emphasise his words.

She drew back from him, the blood hot and burning in her cheeks. A

night or a thousand with Jean! He thought--he thought--_that_! And he

talked of her hat and cloak! What did they matter, what did anything

matter, except that--that shameful thought of his that stabbed at her,

and, with its sudden pain, brought a horrible giddiness and a horrible

ringing in her ears?

"Answer me!" he cried fiercely. "Why are you wearing those things now?

Where did you get them? Why were you masquerading last night in that

hat and cloak, that belong to Mademoiselle Bliss, when I saw you enter

here?"

"Mademoiselle Bliss!"--she could only repeat the words numbly. "It is

her hat and coat?" The room seemed to swim around her. She put her

hands to her eyes. A new terror was creeping upon her. The hat and

cloak belonged to Mademoiselle Bliss! Vaguely, dimly, understanding

began to come. He had thought that she was Mademoiselle Bliss, and

because of that--no, no! The _bon Dieu_ would not let her suffer that

too! It was so terrible--everything was so terrible this night--there

could not be anything more, for it was already beyond what she could

bear. She stretched out her hands to him imploringly. "It--it is not

because you thought that I was Mademoiselle Bliss"--she was pleading

piteously for a denial--"that--that you--that it is because of me you

fought with Jean, and that Jean is--is--"

"Are you trying to play with me?" he rasped out savagely. "What else

but that? You were here all night last night. Yes, I thought you were

Mademoiselle Bliss! Yes, it was because of that I would have killed

Monsieur Laparde! Is that plain enough, mademoiselle? And now will

you answer me? Where did you get those things, and for what hellish

reason were you wearing them? Answer me, I tell you!" He caught her,

and shook her violently. "Answer me!" he fumed.

"Yes, answer him!" came a mocking voice suddenly from the archway of

the salon.

With a cry, Marie-Louise tore herself away--and, swaying, stared wildly

across the room. It was mademoiselle! It was Mademoiselle Bliss

standing there between the portieres!

A low laugh rippled through the _atelier_--unmusically, because it held

a jarring, ominous note; and then Myrna Bliss was speaking again.

"Monsieur Vinailles told me that some girl here had made quite a _coup

de theatre_," she said calmly--too calmly to be natural. She fixed her

grey eyes, narrowed a little now, on Marie-Louise. "I had no idea that

it was _you_. How astounding!" She swung toward Paul Valmain. "Yes;

Monsieur Valmain, I have been listening behind the portieres. From the

hall door, when I entered the house with Monsieur Vinailles a few

moments ago, I caught sight of mademoiselle and yourself across the

salon, thanks to the half open portieres; and--mademoiselle, there,

will perhaps understand this better than you--in spite of my anxiety

for Jean, I sent Monsieur Vinailles upstairs alone. Do I make it

plain, Monsieur Valmain, that I overheard your last remarks?"

Marie-Louise glanced distractedly from one to the other. Mademoiselle

Bliss was smiling--only it was a very strange smile. Why was she

smiling like that? And Monsieur Valmain's face was twitching again,

only it seemed that, where there had been anger before, there was now a

curious mingling of confusion and passionate eagerness.

"Then," he said, and took a step forward, "then--"

"Then," Myrna Bliss interrupted evenly, and came slowly across the

_atelier_, "then, of course, I understand everything, Monsieur Valmain.

And I suppose I should feel flattered that you should take it upon

yourself to avenge"--her voice was rising now, and the grey eyes were

flashing dangerously--"to avenge my honour! How like a knight of old,

Monsieur Valmain! How heroic! I have heard that Monsieur Valmain is

one of the finest swordsmen in France; I have never heard that Monsieur

Laparde was an adept at the art, but that, indeed, he was almost

ignorant of it, and--"

"Mademoiselle!" he exclaimed hoarsely. "Mademoiselle--Myrna! You have

no right to say that! It is not true!" He drew himself up, clenching

his hands. "By God, not even you shall say that to me, to Paul

Valmain! I offered--no, I insisted that we should fight with pistols.

Laparde would not hear of it--they would make too much noise."

"Ah--a noise!" she said colourlessly. "And what then, Monsieur

Valmain? Have you any other excuse for what you have done?"

"You know why I did it, if you have been listening!" he cried out.

"You know why! You know that it was because I loved you--that I love

you! That my soul was in hell with what I believed to be true!"

It seemed to Marie-Louise that she was living through some terrible,

horrible dream. She reached out behind her, groping for the modelling

platform, and sank down upon it. Mademoiselle's laugh was echoing

through the room again, and there was something--something so menacing

in it that it made her shudder.

"Love!"--Myrna Bliss was quivering with passion, as she stepped

fiercely toward Paul Valmain. "Love! If I were a man, I would kill

you for that kind of love! I would kill you! You beast! You dared to

think--to think that I had come here in the middle of the night alone,

to--to spend the night here! You dared to think that of me!

That--that I was--"

"Myrna! Mademoiselle!"--his hands went out to her. His face was

ghastly white. "Wait! For God's sake--wait! You do not understand!"

He whirled around and pointed to Marie-Louise. "Look at her! Look!

It is your cloak--your hat! It was dark across the street. She was

wearing your hat and cloak!"

"I heard you say all that before!" she retorted instantly. "I do not

care what she was wearing! I do not care what she looked like! You

dared to think that it was me! You dared to hold me as little better

than a woman of the streets! You dared to do that--you despicable

hound!" Her fingers were opening and shutting spasmodically. "I hate

you! I loathe you! I would strangle you for it, if I were strong

enough!"

He shrank back from her, his lips working.

"You are merciless!" he said in a choked way. "You--you do not

understand. You--you do not understand what helped to make me--to--why

I came to be there last night. It was the key of that door there, the

key of the door to the salon, the afternoon after the reception."

Myrna Bliss appeared to control herself with an effort.

"The key!"--there was well-simulated bewilderment in the quick, angry

exclamation.

"When we came in," he said hurriedly. "Laparde, who was acting

strangely, had just unlocked the door, and he was still holding the key

in his hand without knowing it."

It was a moment before she spoke--while her eyes swept him scornfully

from head to foot.

"I wish Jean had killed you!"--her lips were just parted over her

clenched teeth. "So--you have the temerity to add another insult to

the first! That Jean and I were together in a locked room! I remember

the key now. And so Jean was acting strangely! It was to be a little

surprise party for Jean--was it not? Is it strange if he were

surprised then? When he heard all of you coming, laughing and talking

and tramping up the stairs, he ran to the door to open it, and I

remember now that the key fell out of the lock and to the floor, and

that he picked it up. How amazing that perhaps he held it in his hand,

Monsieur Valmain! And do you imagine, Monsieur Valmain, that it was an

opportune time for me, who not only knew you were coming, but who had

arranged the affair, to indulge in the amours that your vilely fertile

mind--"

"Stop, mademoiselle!" he cried wildly. "I was mad--mad with my love

for you. I understand too well now! I understood that I had made a

terrible mistake, _miserable_ that I am, when this girl, when it was

too late, came out of that dressing room there, when--when Laparde had

fallen. I am a fool, a blind, senseless fool; but--but, mademoiselle,

it was my love--you will forgive, you--"

"Besides a fool, you are a coward!" she said pitilessly. "But you do

not understand everything yet--and you shall have no further chance to

warp and twist things to suit your perverted fancy, Monsieur Valmain.

I think I could quite easily tell you where this girl, in whom you

imagine you have discovered Jean's model, obtained those clothes--and

if she will not tell you, I will. And then you will leave here, and

you will take pains, Monsieur Valmain, that we do not meet again. Do

you hear that? I tell you again that I hate you, that I loathe you,

and that if I were a man I would know how to make you answer for it!"

She stepped quickly to Marie-Louise's side. "Look up at me!" she

ordered curtly. "This man says that hat and cloak are mine, and it is

true--they were mine. Tell him where you got them!"

Marie-Louise did not move, except that she clasped her hands together a

little more tightly in her lap. She could not tell; for suddenly she

thought of Father Anton, and a sense of loyalty to Father Anton

insisted that she should not tell. If mademoiselle knew, as

mademoiselle said, that was another matter, and she could not change

that now; but to tell it herself--no, she could not do that, for that

was to admit that the good cure was in the secret of her presence in

Paris, and after that it would be known almost surely that he had

arranged with Hector and Madame Mi-mi for her to come there to the

_atelier_.

"Well?" prompted Myrna Bliss, sharply.

Marie-Louise shook her head.

Myrna Bliss stamped her foot angrily.

"Are you stupid enough to imagine that you are protecting Father Anton?

I promise you I shall have a word with that gentleman in the morning!

And since you could have got that hat and cloak nowhere else, tell

Monsieur Valmain that Father Anton gave them to you, and have done with

it!"

Marie-Louise looked up. Mademoiselle had said it, and--and Father

Anton certainly would not deny it.

"Yes," she said under her breath. "Father Anton gave them to me."

"Well, why didn't you say so at first?" snapped Myrna. She turned

again furiously on Paul Valmain. "You hear, Monsieur Valmain! You are

well acquainted with Father Anton. Go to him, if you have any doubts.

You have only to know now how Father Anton obtained them"--her words

were curling, biting, stinging like a whiplash in their bitter scorn.

"Well, listen! I and a few of my friends have become _charitable_

since father established his fund. It is contagious, Monsieur Valmain!

We, too, give bounteously to Father Anton for distribution amongst the

poor--we give our discarded garments! I sent him that hat and cloak in

a bundle with some other things, a few days ago. Is it quite plain,

Monsieur Valmain? Are you satisfied? Well, then"--she swung an

outstretched arm toward the door--"go!"

"But, mademoiselle--_pour l'amour de Dieu_!" he protested brokenly.

"Do you not see that I am in agony, in torment for what I have done,

that--"

"Go!" she raged--and stamped with her foot upon the floor again.

For a moment he stood lurching a little on his feet, as though he had

been struck a blow; and then, white-faced, he drew himself up and bowed

to her.

"As you will, mademoiselle!" he said in a low voice, and walked past

her toward the door.

Myrna Bliss turned to watch him--and halfway across the room halted him.

"Wait!"--she pointed to the rapiers lying on the floor. "Take those

things with you! And one word more, Monsieur Valmain! I do not intend

to pose in Paris in the abandoned role you were so quick to cast me

for. You perhaps understand that! I do not propose that anything

shall be known of what has happened here to-night. I shall see to it

that nothing is said by the others, but a word of this from you,

Monsieur Valmain, or from Monsieur LeFair, who Monsieur Vinailles tells

me was acting as your second, and--"

"Mademoiselle might have spared me that!" he said monotonously--and,

picking up the rapiers, walked on through the salon and out into the

hall.

In a sort of miserably fascinated way Marie-Louise had followed him

with her eyes. She heard the outer door close behind him--and then

mechanically she rose to her feet, as Myrna Bliss came and stood before

her.

"So"--Myrna's voice was quivering, tense with passion--"so it remained

for Monsieur Valmain to discover the secret of the wonderful,

beautiful, entrancing model! Monsieur Valmain is right, of course. I

knew it at once, the moment I heard him say so. I was not very clever,

I suppose, or I should have seen it for myself long ago; only--you

quite understand this of course--I had forgotten, utterly forgotten,

that you even existed! But it seems that Jean could not live without

his little peasant; nor the little peasant without Jean! It is

perfectly comprehensible now why there should have been such secrecy

about his model. And so you have been living with Jean, have you, ever

since he came to Paris? The naive, innocent little _ingenue_ of

Bernay-sur-Mer!"

And then Marie-Louise lifted her head high again, and, while the hot

flushes came and swept her face, the great dark eyes held steadily on

the grey ones that were hard and cold like steel. It was not

mademoiselle of the _grand monde_ before her any more; it was a woman

whose tongue was making a sacrilege of all that was holy and cherished

in her life, making a hideous mockery of her love that was so sacred

and pure to her, making it a foul thing, smirching it, defiling it--it

was not Mademoiselle Bliss of another world than hers whom she

approached with diffidence and awe; it was a woman taunting her with a

shame from which her soul recoiled, and there came surging upon her,

born of the primitive, elemental life that had been hers, the days upon

the oars, the nights of rugged battling with the storms, a fury that

was physical in its cry for expression.

"It is not true! It is not true!" she panted--and, her hands clenched

tightly, raised as though to strike, she took a quick step forward.

Startled, Myrna Bliss involuntarily sprang back--but the next instant

she was laughing threateningly.

"You little spitfire!" she exclaimed angrily. "And so it is not true!

Look at that statue behind you, look at any in this room, at any Jean

has ever done since he has been in Paris, and--oh, yes, I see it quite

plainly myself, now that I have been shown--it is you, you everywhere!

And you have the brazenness, the impudence to say that you have not

been living with Jean, that you have not been coming here at all hours

of the night for the last two years--as you have to-night--as you did

last night! Bah, you pitiful little hypocrite, would any one believe

you?"

"Yes, they would believe me!" Marie-Louise cried passionately. "And

_you_ will believe me! I will make you believe me! I will make you!

I will make you! I--" Her voice broke suddenly, and with a half sob

she dropped her hands to her sides. Her fury had gone and in its place

had come only a desperate earnestness to make mademoiselle believe.

She had been thinking of herself alone--and there was Jean! If

mademoiselle would not believe her, the shame would be Jean's too, and

the guilt that mademoiselle imagined would be Jean's guilt too. And

even if she must tell all about Father Anton bringing her to Hector and

Madame Mi-mi, she must make mademoiselle believe. "Mademoiselle"--she

was pleading now, her voice choking as she spoke--"mademoiselle,

see--listen! You must--you must believe! It is true, every word I

have said is true! And it is true that I love Jean, and that that is

why I came, but--but Jean has never seen me since that day he left

Bernay-sur-Mer. See, mademoiselle--listen! It is only a few days

since I came to Paris--see, mademoiselle, even this hat and cloak

proves it. I did not know that it was cold, that one needed such

things in Paris, and I had nothing except just the clothes I had worn

in Bernay-sur-Mer, and the night I came I went to Father Anton and he

gave the hat and cloak to me--but I did not know, mademoiselle, that

they had been yours. I wanted to see Jean again, not to let him know

that I was here, but only to see him, only to see his work. It was two

years, mademoiselle, two years--and Father Anton understood, only he

made me promise, mademoiselle, that I would not speak to Jean, that I

would not let Jean know that I was here. Listen--listen,

mademoiselle!" Marie-Louise's hands were raised again--but

entreatingly now. "It was only to see Jean again, and see his work,

and then I was going away. For nothing, for nothing in the world would

I let Jean know that I had come. And so--and so, mademoiselle, so

Father Anton arranged with Hector that I should do the work about the

salon and the _atelier_, but very early in the mornings before Jean was

up; and then because I came so early Hector gave me the key--and last

night--oh, mademoiselle, mademoiselle, can you not understand?--I came

here, and--and I came again to-night. See, mademoiselle--it is so easy

to believe! You do believe! Father Anton will tell you that it is all

true, and that I have been in Bernay-sur-Mer all this time.

Mademoiselle, mademoiselle--you do believe!"

Myrna Bliss was staring at Marie-Louise in startled amazement.

"You mean--you mean," she said, in a low, tense way; "you mean that

Jean knows nothing of this--that he does not know that you are even in

Paris, that he has not seen you since he left Bernay-sur-Mer?"

"But, yes; yes, yes, yes, mademoiselle, it is so, all that--it is so!"

Marie-Louise answered feverishly. "And--and he must not know now,

mademoiselle--he must not know now."

And then Myrna Bliss smiled ironically.

"I will see to that!" she said grimly. "You need have no fear on that

score, if what you say is true!" She turned abruptly from

Marie-Louise, walked straight to the "_Fille du Regiment_," and gazed

at it for a moment. Then, scarcely aloud: "'The womanhood of France,'

he had said ... 'The model in his heart.'" And so Jean did not know!

Well, if that were so, she would take very good care that he never did

know! It seemed incredible, but the girl's sincerity was not to be

denied. She laughed out sharply, and wheeled back upon Marie-Louise.

"Well, and what now?" she said coldly; and then, thrusting quickly:

"Are you aware that I am to marry Monsieur Laparde?"

Marie-Louise's face blanched.

"Yes," she said faintly.

"And so"--the scathing tones were back in Myrna's voice--"and so you

were just playing with fire! Well, are you satisfied with what you

have done? If Jean Laparde lives it will be no thanks to you; if he

dies it will be you who--"

Marie-Louise put out her hands as though to ward off a blow. She was

swaying upon her feet.

"Not that--not that, mademoiselle!"--she could scarcely force the words

to her lips. "Do not say it, mademoiselle! I know that it is

true--God in his infinite pity, have pity on me!--but do not say it! I

will go away, mademoiselle--I will go away--for always. I will wait

only to know that--that Jean is well, for the _bon Dieu_ will not let

him die--and then--and then I will go--and then I--" A great sob shook

her frame, and covering her face with her hands she sank down again

upon the modelling platform.

She was conscious that Mademoiselle Bliss was standing there, that the

grey eyes were fixed upon her; and then that from the salon some one

called to mademoiselle--but she did not hear mademoiselle go, only when

she looked up again she was alone in the atelier. And it was very kind

of mademoiselle to go so softly, and to say no more.

She rose slowly to her feet, and passed through the atelier, and

through the salon, and out into the hall, and to the stairs--and paused

there to listen with pitiful eagerness. But there was no sound from

above--there was only the voice of her soul that kept whispering so

cruelly, "it is you ... it is you ... it is you ... it is not Paul

Valmain who has done this ... it is you ... it is you."

And there at the foot of the stairs she knelt down for a moment; then

rose, and crossed the hall slowly to the door, and opened it--and

walked blindly out.

-- VIII --

FLIGHT

Madame Garneau's hair straggled untidily about her head, her hands were

red, calloused, inclined indeed to be grimy, she had passed even that

poets'-consolation-prize age of forty, and she had no figure; but

Madame Garneau was possessed of a heart. She pushed open the door of

Marie-Louise's room, and dangled in her hand a yellow paper bag that

was grease specked on the bottom.

"_Voila_, my little lodger!" she cried gaily. "I have this for you,

and you will never guess what it is; and, besides, I have something

else--a message for you from Father Anton. Now which will you have

first?"

Marie-Louise, from her chair by the window, rose quickly to her feet,

with a little exclamation of pleased surprise.

Madame Garneau immediately pushed her back into the chair.

"But you are to remain quiet--eh, _ma petite_!" She wagged her finger

severely in front of Marie-Louise's nose. "Now sit still, or you shall

have neither one nor the other!"

"What nonsense!" laughed Marie-Louise, as she stood up once more. "I

am quite well again--and I am even to go out this morning."

The paper bag banged belligerently on Madame Garneau's hip, as she

placed her arms akimbo.

"You are to go out! And who said you are to go out?"

"But, who else--the doctor," Marie-Louise answered with a smile.

"Ah, the doctor!" sniffed Madame Garneau disdainfully. "I have my

opinion of doctors! In two or three days it will be time enough!" She

wagged her forefinger again, and held up the bag. "Eh, _bien_--can you

guess?"

"Never!" admitted Marie-Louise, shaking her head prettily.

"Cream-puffs!" announced Madame Garneau triumphantly. It was perhaps

the most indigestible edible with which she could have outraged a diet

list, but in that quarter of Paris, where _sous_ were scarce,

cream-puffs were the delicacy _par excellence_, and therefore a

delicacy for all occasions, rare enough in any event, when they could

be obtained. And besides, as Madame Garneau had said, she had her

opinion of doctors--Madame Garneau, even if unconsciously so, was

consistent! "Cream-puffs, _ma petite_! From the _patisserie_ around

the corner--I sent the gamin, who brought the message from Father

Anton, for them. And now what do you say?"

Marie-Louise had neither heart nor appetite for cream-puffs, but she

must needs peek excitedly in through the top of the bag, and thank

Madame Garneau effusively, while she protested earnestly at the

extravagance.

"It is nothing!" declared Madame Garneau, her honest face flushed with

pleasure. She placed the bag on the foot of the bed. "It is

nothing--_ma foi_! And now about Father Anton. He was to have come

this afternoon, eh?"

"Yes," said Marie-Louise.

"Well, then," said Madame Garneau, "he is not coming."

"Not coming!"

"It is his poor!" Madame Garneau exclaimed tartly. "Your Father Anton

has no sense! I would teach him a lesson if I had anything to do with

him! Fancy! The idea! And at his age! He will kill himself! The

gamin's mother was sick, and Father Anton must sit up the night, and

stay there all this day! And it is not once, but all the time he does

that! Bah, I have no patience with him! His heart is too soft! It is

well for his poor that I am not Father Anton!" There was finality in

the shrug of Madame Garneau's shoulders. She glanced at Marie-Louise,

and then her eyes fell upon the paper bag. "Oh, I forgot to tell you!"

she said anxiously. "There is a cream-puff gone from the

quarter-dozen. I gave one to the gamin, he made such eyes at the bag."

She tucked in a refractory wisp of hair that was straying over her ear.

"Well, then, as I was saying, he is not coming this afternoon, but he

will come this evening; and he said you were not to worry at all,

because what he was talking to you about yesterday--whatever that

is!--is all arranged."

All arranged! It came as a sudden shock. Marie-Louise turned her head

quickly away, and, with her back to Madame Garneau, stood looking out

of the window. All arranged! Then what should she do--what should she

do? She put her hands wearily to her eyes.

"_Mais, la, la_!" soothed Madame Garneau. "You must not be

disappointed. It is only for a few hours. He will come this evening."

Marie-Louise forced a laugh.

"But I am not disappointed," she answered. "I do not mind at all."

She was still staring down into the street. If Madame Garneau would

only go so that she could think what to do, and--no! She knew what she

must do, she had thought it all out before; it was only that the moment

when she must act upon her decision was thrust so suddenly upon her.

"Oh, Madame Garneau, I was almost forgetting!" she cried--and, turning

from the window, ran to the dilapidated and wobbly bureau, pulled open

a drawer, and took out her purse. "It is a week since I have paid for

my room--a week to-day, isn't it?"

Madame Garneau promptly retreated toward the door.

"_Mais, non_! _Mais, non_!" she protested. "When one is sick, one

does not earn the _sous_! Next week, the week after, when you are at

work again, you shall--"

Marie-Louise laughingly caught Madame Garneau's hand, and began to

count the franc pieces into it; while Madame Garneau, still protesting,

kept up her retreat for the door.

"There!"--Marie-Louise triumphantly closed the other's fingers over the

money.

"But, no!" Madame Garneau expostulated vigorously. "But I will not

hear of it! What do you imagine! I--"

And then Marie-Louise pushed the other playfully through the door, and

closed the door, and placed her back against it, and laughed as she

heard Madame Garneau grumbling outside and finally go grumbling

away--but the laugh was all for Madame Garneau. When she could no

longer hear Madame Garneau, she clasped her hands tightly to her bosom,

and caught her breath. That was done! She had both paid and got

Madame Garneau from the room.

She stood still by the door, her shoulders drooped; her hands dropped

to her sides, and her fingers began to pluck nervously at the folds of

her dress, as she stared unseeingly before her. Father Anton had it

all arranged--the words brought so much, meant so much, and seemed to

embody in themselves all that had happened in the week that had passed

since the night when Jean and Monsieur Valmain had fought in the

studio. She had wandered blindly and like one dazed all the rest of

that night through the streets of Paris; and it must only have been the

_bon Dieu_ who had led her at last to where, lying unconscious on the

floor outside the door of his room, Father Anton had found her in the

morning. And then--how good they had all been to her!--Father Anton,

and Madame Garneau, and Doctor Maurier, the grey-haired, kindly doctor

who had been with Jean that night, and who would take not a _sou_ for

his visits to her, but only fill the room with sunshine through his

good news of Jean.

She remembered that she had asked Father Anton for Jean's doctor

because then she would always have word of Jean--and she remembered

Father Anton's dismay at the request. "But, Marie-Louise," Father

Anton had said anxiously, "you do not know what you are asking! He is

the most famous man in Paris, and--" "And he will come," she had told

Father Anton. And she had been right, for Doctor Maurier had come; and

so each day she had had news of Jean, and now Jean was so well that he

was walking about the studio again.

But most of all how good Father Anton had been! She had told him

all--everything--and he had not been angry with her; though she knew,

from little things he had said inadvertently, that Mademoiselle Bliss

had been very angry with him. Dear old Father Anton! He had tried to

take all the blame upon himself, because he said he had been

deceitful--though she could not understand that, no matter how hard he

tried to make her believe it, for he had only helped her to see Jean

and to be near Jean, and that was what she herself had pleaded with him

to do.

And then, as she had grown stronger and had begun to talk of going

away, Father Anton had agreed with her, but he had insisted that she

should go back to Bernay-sur-Mer. And he had become so earnest and

determined that it must be Bernay-sur-Mer, and because she knew that it

was his love for her that made him so anxious about her future, she

could not bring herself to tell him what she really meant to do, what,

in the long hours through the nights as she had lain awake, she had

made up her mind to do--to go somewhere, she did not know where, but

somewhere far away where there would be nothing to remind her of

Jean--not that she could forget, no matter where she went, but that

scenes and associations, as they had done in the past two years, might

not again prove too strong for her. And so, rather than pain Father

Anton by an absolute refusal, or the admission that even he was to go

out of her life, she had told him only that she did not want to go back

to Bernay-sur-Mer, that her house was sold, and that every one there

would think it very strange that she had gone away like that only to

return again so soon.

But he was not to be shaken in his determination. "Ah, even if that

were true," Father Anton had said to her only yesterday, "nevertheless,

my little Marie-Louise, it is the thing you must do. I cannot let you

do anything else; and in a little while--who knows!--you will be very

happy there again. But it is not true, for there is a way that I have

been thinking about as I came here. As for the house, it is as well

that it is sold; you have the money, and besides it is much better that

you should not live there alone--you will live for a while with those

honest Fregeaus, who will be overjoyed. And as for the rest--see,

Marie-Louise, this is what we will do! I will speak to Monsieur Bliss

and tell him that I wish to go back for a little visit, and we will go

together--and the good people of Bernay-sur-Mer will not think it

strange at all then, for I will tell them that you have been with me

here in Paris, and that it is I who have persuaded you that it is best

for you to go back and live in Bernay-sur-Mer. _Tiens_, could anything

be better? And I will speak to Monsieur Bliss at once."

She knew quite well what was in Father Anton's mind. If she were in

Bernay-sur-Mer he would feel that she was quite safe, that no harm

could come to her; and he had mentioned, so innocently as he believed,

Amide Dubois once or twice, and he was perhaps imagining that some day

she would marry there. But he did not understand! She shook her head

slowly; and then, suddenly rousing herself, she walked across the room

to the little bureau, and took out her things, and laid them upon the

bed, and began to make them up into a little bundle--the same bundle

she had carried with her from Bernay-sur-Mer. He did not understand!

It was all arranged! Father Anton had seen Monsieur Bliss then--and

perhaps it would be to-morrow, or maybe even to-night that Father Anton

would want her to go with him. But she could not go back to

Bernay-sur-Mer! For nothing in the world would she go back there! If

there were no other reasons, there was one that alone made it

impossible--some day Jean might return there himself for a visit. And

she must go somewhere where there was no possibility that she and Jean

should ever see each other--and she must go now while she had the

chance. There was nothing to keep her any longer; she was quite well

and strong again, and she knew that Jean was getting well, and--and she

had seen Jean and his work, and she could picture his splendid life

stretching out before him in which even his marriage with Mademoiselle

Bliss, who was very rich and of the _grand monde_, would help to make

him even greater, and--and so there remained nothing more to hold her

there. It was very wonderful that it should be her lips that Jean had

fashioned--unconsciously, as Father Anton said--into his clay. It was

very wonderful! It was something that the _bon Dieu_ had given her to

make her glad; to make the sadness and remorse for the tragedy she had

brought about less terrible; to make her know that, after all, her

share in Jean's career had not just ended with that day, so long ago in

Bernay-sur-Mer, when she had given him to France.

She tied the bundle neatly. She was ready to go now, and she picked it

up, took a step toward the door--and, holding the bundle in her hand,

paused hesitantly. She could not go like that--Father Anton would be

in a state of frenzy over her. She--she could write him a little note.

Yes; she would do that. She set the bundle down, and hurriedly untied

it. She remembered that when she had written down Father Anton's

address before leaving Bernay-sur-Mer she had put the pencil in the

pocket of her apron. Yes; here it was, but--she looked around her in

sudden anxiety--there was nothing, no paper to write on. Her eyes

rested upon the bed. Madame Garneau's cream-puffs! She picked up the

bag, tore a piece from it, and, taking it to the window sill, wrote a

few hurried sentences. It was just to say that she could never go to

Bernay-sur-Mer; just to say that she was going away, very far away

somewhere, and that he must not be sad about her, or try to find her

for she did not know where she was going herself; just to say that she

loved him, and that he had been so good, so very, very good to her, and

that she would pray always to the _bon Dieu_ for him.

There was a mist in her eyes as she folded the yellow, grease-spotted

paper--she could buy an envelope and a stamp and mail it to Father

Anton. She took up her bundle again, and went to the door; and, making

sure that Madame Garneau was not in sight, hurried out of the house to

the street. Here, she ran until she had turned the first corner and

could no longer be seen from the house, then walked quietly along.

Blocks away, she stepped into a little store.

"Monsieur," she said to the man who served her with her envelope and

stamp, "monsieur, will you be kind enough to tell me the way to the

railway station?"

"To which one, mademoiselle?" he inquired politely. "The _Gare de

l'Est, the Gare du Nord, the Gare St. Lazare_, the--"

She had not thought that there might be more than one, but one would

take her away equally as well as another--it made no difference. Only

he would think it very strange that she did not know which one she

wanted.

"The _Gare St. Lazare_, if you please, monsieur," she ventured

quickly--and thanked him when he had told her, and went out on the

street again.

--IX--

MYRNA'S STRATEGY

"Two months--three months in America! And to be married there!"

ejaculated Henry Bliss, as he stared at his daughter in utter

bewilderment.

Myrna, from the depths of her father's favourite lounging chair, which

she had appropriated on entering the library after dinner that evening,

nodded her head in a quite matter-of-fact way.

"Isn't this rather--rather sudden?" inquired Henry Bliss, mustering a

facetious irony to his rescue.

"Oh, no!" said Myrna demurely. "I decided upon it almost a week ago."

"Oh, you did!"--a wry smile flickered on her father's lips. "A week

ago, eh? And what does Jean say?"

"Jean doesn't say anything," replied Myrna complacently. "He doesn't

know anything about it--it wasn't necessary until the time came. I

haven't said anything to any one--until now."

"Well, upon my soul!" exclaimed her father. "You are beginning early

with your future husband, Myrna! So then, we are both to be twisted

around your finger--eh? I shall have to speak to Jean--warn him. For

myself, of course, it's quite hopeless, I've given it up years ago; but

as for Jean, that's quite another matter--it's all in starting right,

with a firm hand, you know!" His eyes twinkled. "I'll have a little

confidential talk with Jean."

"Don't be ridiculous, father!" she laughed. She rose from her chair.

"Well, that's settled; and now I--"

"Eh--what? Settled! Nothing is settled! What's settled?" he

spluttered anxiously.

"That we are going to America, of course," said Myrna sweetly. "You,

and Jean, and I."

"Now, see here, Myrna," protested her father, with what he meant for

severity, "a trip to America is all very well, but it isn't the sort of

thing one decides on the spur of the moment."

"Of course it isn't!"--Myrna's eyebrows went up archly. "Didn't I tell

you that I have been arranging it for a whole week? I was only waiting

for cable replies to some of my letters before speaking to you, and--"

"And of course as you have not overlooked minor details, I suppose we

sail sometime next week!" her father interrupted with mild sarcasm.

"No," said Myrna placidly. "From Havre, the day after to-morrow, by

the _Lorraine_."

Henry Bliss sat down weakly in a chair. He removed his cigar from his

lips, and made one or two helpless passes with it in the air.

"Impossible!" he finally exploded. "Absolutely impossible! Utterly

out of the question!"

"I don't see why," observed Myrna, quite undisturbed.

"You don't see why? No, of course, you don't see why"--Henry Bliss was

still waving his cigar. "Well, I can't run away at a moment's notice,

can I? Good heavens! The day after to-morrow! There's a thousand and

one affairs that would have to be attended to before I could even think

of it!"

"Which, of course, isn't true at all"--Myrna's laugh rippled merrily

through the room. "There are perhaps a dozen social engagements, and

two or three other affairs for which you will have to send 'regrets,'

and"--she perched herself cosily on the arm of her father's chair--"and

your secretary will do that for you. In fact, I told him he was to do

it to-morrow morning."

"You--_what_? Well, I'll be damned!" gasped Henry Bliss.

"Father!"

"Well, it was excusable!" muttered Henry Bliss. "I--I am half inclined

to repeat it."

Myrna's arm slipped around her father's neck. He was quite manageable,

of course--but still he had to be managed. For, if what had come

within so narrow a margin of being a tragedy with a fatal ending had

forced her hand and forced the inevitable, as it were, upon her, she

could at least see to it that the adjustment of the new order of things

was of her own arranging. It was inevitable that she would marry Jean,

she had decided that long ago; it was only the "day" itself which,

until all this had introduced a new factor into her plans, had been at

all vague in her mind. But with Paul Valmain eliminated, and her

quarrel with Jean made up as he had lain there dangerously hurt that

night of the duel, everything had taken on a totally different aspect.

Perhaps she had yielded a little weakly under sick-bed influences, but

however that might be, she was now Jean's fiancee, though it was not

publicly announced; as, coming upon the heels of Jean's mysterious

accident and Paul Valmain's sudden departure from Paris, it would to a

certainty have caused talk and gossip, which for very good reasons she

was most anxious to avoid; for, a wheel within a wheel, if talk went

too far the truth might come out, and the truth at all hazards was the

one thing that Jean must not know. This was one reason why, almost

from the moment that she had grasped the situation that night in Jean's

studio, she had determined to get Jean away from Paris the instant he

was able to go. But there was a still stronger and more potent reason.

The marriage of Jean Laparde, the world-famous sculptor, and Myrna

Bliss, heiress to millions, a society leader in both Paris and New

York, was not an affair to be consummated in a moment, nor to have its

preparations go unmarked. It would be the most brilliant function that

society had ever known on either side of the water--to that she had

quite definitely made up her mind! But all that would take time; and

meanwhile, more to be feared than any talk, was the possibility of Jean

seeing Marie-Louise--and the possibility, or rather, perhaps, the

opportunity that would be afforded to Marie-Louise herself, whom she,

Myrna, was by no means inclined to trust! She was quite convinced that

Jean had not seen the girl since he had left Bernay-sur-Mer, that to a

certain extent the girl had told the truth, but that made it all the

more imperative that he should not see her now; for if, though

unconsciously so, Marie-Louise was so intimate a part of his life that

the girl took form constantly in his work, it would be, to put it

mildly, just as well if they did not meet--until after Jean was

married. After that--well, after that, she was quite capable of

looking after a _husband_! In the meantime she would take good care

that the possibility of such a contretemps was entirely obviated by

going to America, spending the few months necessary for the marriage

preparations there, months in which Jean would be the recipient of even

greater honours than Paris had accorded him, be married, and--well,

that was all! It was very simple! What this impertinent little

peasant girl had attempted once, even if Father Anton did intend to

take her back to Bernay-sur-Mer, she was quite capable of attempting

again--if she had the chance!

Myrna nestled her arm snugly around her father's neck, and held up two

daintily extended fingers before his eyes.

"Now, listen, father," she said, puckering up her forehead prettily.

"Now I am going to be very serious. There are two very good reasons

why we will go. First, now that Jean is able to be up again, a sea

trip is the one thing above all others that he needs. Doctor Maurier

prescribes it."

"Insists on it, I suppose!" observed Henry Bliss dryly.

"He will," said Myrna, laughing, "if I ask him to."

"H'm!" commented Henry Bliss, the wrinkles around his eyes beginning to

nest into a smile. "Well--and the other reason?"

"The other one," said Myrna, and laid her head down against her

father's cheek; "the other one is--I must whisper it--now, listen--is

because I've set my heart on it, and I want to go."

"Which settles it!" groaned Henry Bliss, with mock lugubriousness.

"Well"--he got up from his chair, and brushed vigorously at the cigar

ash which, incident to Myrna's embrace, bedecked his waistcoat--"well,

I'll see what Jean says about it."

"Why, of course!" agreed Myrna innocently. "It all depends upon Jean.

We'll leave it that way, father."

Henry Bliss looked at her, gasped once--and grinned in spite of himself.

"There isn't any other trifling matter you'd like to call my attention

to this evening, is there?" he hazarded, pinching his daughter's cheek

playfully. "Because, if there is, I'm--" He paused, as a footman

coughed discreetly from the doorway. "Well?" he demanded.

"It is Monsieur le Cure, Monsieur Bliss," said the man.

"Show him in," instructed Henry Bliss--and, as the man retired, glanced

quickly at his daughter. "I hope, Myrna, that--"

"That we've made up our differences!" she supplied, with sudden

impatience. "That I quite understand that the gentle old soul in an

endeavour to set the world right meant well, and was actuated by the

loftiest of motives! Oh, yes, I think Father Anton and I understand

each other perfectly, and--"

"Monsieur le Cure!" announced the footman.

Myrna calmly turned her back--but only to whirl suddenly around again,

as, with a sharp exclamation, her father stepped quickly toward the

door.

"Good heavens, my dear man, what is the matter with you?" Henry Bliss

cried out in consternation.

Father Anton's white hair was unbrushed; he was unshaved; and his face

already haggard, his eyes already deep-set and blue-circled from his

twenty-four hours of bedside vigil, now bore added and unmistakable

signs of violent mental agitation and distraction. His hand, that held

a piece of torn yellow paper, trembled as though with the ague.

"Ah, Monsieur Bliss--ah, _pardon_, mademoiselle!" he stammered, and

attempted a bow. "I--I have run very fast--and--I--I--"

"Is anything the matter?" inquired Myrna coolly, joining the two at the

door.

Father Anton looked at her piteously.

"She is gone!" he said, his lips quivering.

"Gone!" repeated Henry Bliss bewilderedly. "Who is gone?"

"Our charming little Marie-Louise of Bernay-sur-Mer, of course! Who

else?"--Myrna laughed sharply. "Well, _mon cher_ Monsieur le Cure,

will you tell us how it happened? I had an idea you were very shortly

to return with her to Bernay-sur-Mer. It seems I was mistaken!"

"But I do not know how it happened!"--Father Anton shook his head

distractedly. "I was away last night and to-day. This evening when I

returned to my rooms I found this letter from her"--he stared at the

torn yellow paper in his hand, and the tears began to well into his

eyes. "She said that she was going away--that she could not go back to

Bernay-sur-Mer--that I was not to look for her--that she did not know

where she was going herself. I waited for nothing. I ran at once to

Madame Garneau's. Madame Garneau had seen nothing of Marie-Louise

since this morning. We looked in Marie-Louise's room. Her clothes

were gone. And then--and then I ran here to get help to find her."

"And so," said Myrna icily, "are we never to hear the last of her? The

trouble in the first place is of your own making, Father Anton--it is

unfortunate that others have to suffer for it! Well, what does it

mean? She did not want to go back to Bernay-sur-Mer--she has run away

from you--from everybody that could keep track of her. Why? That she

can go to Jean again without being found out?" She shrugged her

shoulders. "However, under the circumstances, if that is so, it will

do her little good, since Jean himself is going away to--"

"No, no!" Father Anton cried out brokenly. "You do not know

Marie-Louise! You do not know Marie-Louise to say that! She, more

than any one else, would not let Jean know. It is because her heart is

broken that she has gone. And it is true, I am to blame." The tears

were running down his cheeks; he held out his hands to them

imploringly. "She is not well--she is only just recovered from her

illness, my little Marie-Louise, and--and--" the words died away in a

sort of frightened sob, at a quick, warning touch upon his arm from

Myrna.

Steps came running across the hall--and the next moment Jean himself

was standing in the doorway.

"_Tiens_!" he cried out gaily. "It is the first time I have left the

studio. I would not let the man announce me. _Me voici_! Here I am!

It is a surprise--eh? But--eh!--what is the matter?" He stared at the

three--at Henry Bliss, who was evidencing palpable confusion; at Myrna,

who seemed suddenly to have lost her colour; at Father Anton, who had

tears trickling down his face, and acted as though he were gazing at a

ghost.

"It--it is Jean!" faltered Father Anton nervously, the letter

fluttering from his hand to the floor.

"But, yes, of course, it is Jean! Who else?" Jean laughed--and

stepped forward mechanically to pick up the paper. "Permit me. I--"

A dainty satin-slippered toe was covering the letter. Myrna was

smiling reprovingly.

"It is quite time enough for you to be gallant, Jean, when you can do

so without the danger of reopening your wound!" she said sweetly.

"Have you not been told often enough that you are not to stoop down

like that? Father Anton is much better able than you to pick it up!"

"Yes, yes," said Father Anton hurriedly, reaching for the paper and

tucking it into the breast of his _soutane_. "Yes, you--you must be

careful of yourself, Jean."

"Nonsense!" declared Jean. "I am perfectly recovered!" He stared at

the three in turn again for a moment. "But--but perhaps I am

intruding--_de trop_?"

"Not at all!" Myrna answered composedly. "It is a matter that concerns

only father and Monsieur le Cure; and they"--she glanced brightly at

her father--"I am sure, will be only too glad to get away to father's

den where they can discuss it by themselves."

"Yes--er--yes, of course," coughed Henry Bliss. "It's--er--good to see

you out again, Jean, my boy." Then jocularly, in an attempt to

disguise his self-consciousness: "Come along, Father Anton"--he caught

the other's arm, and led the cure out of the room--"there are perhaps

others who prefer to be by themselves."

A slightly puzzled expression on his face, Jean watched them out of

sight across the hall; then turned inquiringly to Myrna.

Myrna's shoulders lifted daintily.

"If it isn't one thing, it's another," she said, as though the subject

bored her. "There has always been something or other ever since father

started that fund of his; and the cure trots to father with everything.

This time, it seems that one of Father Anton's protegees has run away

from him; and, as you saw, the cure is beside himself." Again the

shoulders lifted "But you, Jean"--infusing a sudden note of perturbed

anxiety into her voice--"are you sure you were wise in coming out

to-night? What brought you?"

And then Jean threw back his head, and laughed, and closed the

door--and caught her in his arms.

"_Mon Dieu_!" he cried, holding her close to him, and trying to kiss

the suddenly averted face. "Do you ask what brought me? Well, then, I

will tell you! Did you not say that you would come this afternoon, and

did you not promise that we would settle about our marriage? And you

did not come, and all the afternoon I was waiting, and now"--his face

fell a little, as she slipped away from him--"and now that I am here

you run away from me."

"You are too impulsive, Jean! You are destruction on gowns!" she

laughed, and backed merrily away from him to sink down gracefully in a

chair.

"Gowns!" he echoed, a sudden flush of anger coming to his cheeks, as he

followed her. "What does it matter, a gown, when--"

"Now, don't be cross!" she commanded teasingly; and, gaily regal,

extended her hand. "See, here is my hand to kiss."

He hesitated; and then, as, a little sullenly, he bent and touched her

fingers with his lips, she laughed again. She loved to excite and

watch moods in Jean--as now for instance, when the tall, strong figure

was drawn up haughtily, and the emotions, that he would never learn to

hide, were so apparent in his face, as he bit his lips and pulled at

his short, pointed beard. Jean was as readable as a book at all times,

and always would be--which was not a bad trait for a husband to

possess! And this was Jean Laparde, the man of genius, unquestionably

at that moment the most famous man in France! She smiled at him

through half veiled eyes. To be Madame Laparde! Socially, it meant an

incomparable triumph; intimately, it meant--well, at least, it was

obvious enough that the marriage need hold no terror of tyranny in

store for her! Jean, for all his greatness, and save for his

occasional passionate outbursts, was as plastic as his own clay. Her

eyelids lifted, and in the grey eyes was laughter.

"Well, and why the brown study? What are you thinking about?" she

demanded pertly.

"I was thinking of Paul Valmain," he answered abruptly.

"Paul Valmain!" she repeated--and sat suddenly upright in her chair.

"Yes," said Jean, a little bitterly. "That he would have small reason

to be jealous, even now that we are engaged."

"Don't be absurd!" she retorted sharply.

Jean shrugged his shoulders.

"And speaking of Paul Valmain," he went on, a menacing note creeping

into his tones, "I have been talking to Hector again this afternoon

about that night--the night that Valmain said he saw you enter the

house."

She looked at him quickly. Surely, after what she had said to Hector,

Hector had not dared to speak of the girl to whom he had

given--reprehensibly, she had taken pains to make Hector understand--a

key to Jean's studio. She believed she had frightened Hector and

Madame Mi-mi too thoroughly for that, and yet--if he had!

"Well?"--serenely, as her eyebrows went up.

"Nothing! He knows nothing! He heard nothing!" Jean flung out

impatiently. "But Hector is a fool, and Valmain said he saw you go in."

"Well, was I there?" she inquired frigidly.

"No, you were not there--naturally!" he asserted with wrathful

finality. "But--I have been thinking--if it were some one else!"

"Ah!" Myrna's smile was cold, as she rose with a curiously ominous air

from her chair. "Ah! Some one else! Well, since you bring up the

subject again, do you imagine I am so stupid that such a possibility

has not also occurred to _me_? Your conscience seems to trouble you,

Monsieur Jean! If there was some one else--a woman in your rooms from

two o'clock at night until daylight--you should know better who it was,

I imagine, than either Hector or Madame Mi-mi! And since I am your

fiancee, Monsieur Jean--perhaps you will explain!"

"But, _sacre nom d'un diable_!" Jean shouted in angry amazement. "I

know of no woman!"

"If there was a woman there it is inconceivable that you should not

know it"--Myrna's voice was monotonous, relentless.

"But, I tell you--_no_!"--Jean's hands went up in the air, as he raged

in exasperation. "Do you understand, that I tell you--no? It is not

so! There was no woman there!"

"Well, then?"--still monotonously.

"Well, then?" Jean stormed furiously, clenching his fists, "it can be

nothing but that cursed Valmain and his damned jealousy! It can be

nothing but a lie, all of it, that he has made up! It is all a lie

then--nothing but a lie! And so I am not through with him! He will

answer for it! I am not through with him! It will not be with swords

this time--we will fight with pistols, and I will kill him! He thinks

he has no longer any reason to hide and stay away--but, _nom de Dieu_,

he will see! I promise you that! Vinailles told me that Valmain would

be back the day after to-morrow, and"--he laughed out harshly--"the day

after to-morrow--"

"You are going to America," said Myrna calmly.

Jean's clenched fist, raised, remained motionless in mid-air. He

stared at her open-mouthed.

"To--to America!" he gasped.

"To be married there," supplemented Myrna composedly.

"To be married there!"--he repeated the words in his bewilderment like

a parrot.

"And to receive an ovation, to be accorded a triumph such as you have

never dreamed of." Her laugh trilled out deliciously. "You will see

how they do things in America!"

He was still staring at her in dumfounded amazement.

"To America--to be married--a triumph!" he mumbled dazedly. "But--but

who--"

"I did," said Myrna, laughing at him again. "Did you not remind me

that I had promised to tell you about our marriage to-day? Well, we

are to be married in America. Are you not delighted?"

"But--but, yes! _Mon Dieu_! But--but, yes!" stammered Jean helplessly.

"Well, then," said Myrna, puckering up her brows in prettily affected

deliberation, "I think, Monsieur Jean, you may kiss me--once."

-- X --

THROUGH THE FOG

With an angry tightening of his lips, as he caught sight of Myrna still

the centre of the same masculine _entourage_, Jean turned from the

window where he had paused for an instant to glance into the ship's

main saloon, transformed for the moment into a ballroom, and resumed

his moody pacing up and down the deck. He pulled his ulster more

closely about him, for the night was cold, lighted a cigarette and

puffed at it irritably, as he was forced to acknowledge the, for the

most part effusive, salutes that his fellow passengers went out of

their way to accord him, as in couples and groups they constantly came

and went between the saloon and the deck. Then, after another turn or

two, he tossed away his cigarette with a vicious jerk, sought out the

most secluded portion of the deck--a recess near the ship's

funnels--and, appropriating a steamer chair, flung himself into it.

He had barely ensconced himself there, however, when, with a muttered

oath, he sat angrily upright in the chair again. Was there no place on

the cursed ship where he could be alone for five minutes with his own

thoughts? He had left the dance after a heated, if short, altercation

with Myrna, been annoyed by the advances of those on deck, and now two

women had elected to halt within earshot of him around the corner to

_discuss_ him!

"Well," murmured a voice sweetly, "have you met the famous Monsieur

Laparde yet?"

"No"--eagerly. "Have you?"

"No--not exactly, my dear"--patronisingly. "But I'll promise to

introduce you in the morning."

"Oh, _will_ you? How perfectly gorgeous! You _are_ a dear! But how

have you managed it? Tell me all about it! I'm simply dying to know

how you succeeded!"

"It wasn't at all difficult"--in naive self-disparagement. "I met Mr.

Bliss. He's simply charming, and so unaffected! He is going to tell

me all about the art schools in Paris--of course, I'm terribly

interested! There are three in their party, you know--Mr. Bliss and

his daughter, and Monsieur Laparde."

"Do you think she's pretty? I don't see what all the men are raving

about! And did you notice her dress to-night--those black velvet

shoulder straps are actually startling!"

"Yes--_aren't_ they? I've heard so many remarks about them! But I

suppose she is pretty--in a way. It's being whispered around that she

is going to marry Monsieur Laparde. I wonder if it's true?"

"Huh!"--with a sniff. "Well, if it is true, Monsieur Laparde does not

do what I would do if I were a man in his place. It's simply

outrageous the way she carries on, if she's engaged. I wouldn't stand

it for a moment! She must have the wool pretty thoroughly pulled over

his eyes, if he imagines she is in love with him!"

"In love with his name, my dear"--in cooing amendment. "I don't

suppose she _does_ care for anything else. She doesn't appeal to me as

that kind of a woman. I'm sure I think just as you do about her. I

wouldn't care to trust her very far from what I've seen of her--she's

the sort that always strikes me as being capable of saying _anything_

behind one's back! She flirts mercilessly!"

"Yes; and fancy a man like Monsieur Laparde permitting himself to be

made ridiculous! Did you notice this morning, when everybody wanted to

walk, that the deck was utterly impassable with her court spreading

their chairs two or three deep all around her? Of course, one can't

_say_ anything! And all the time she had Monsieur Laparde trotting

back and forth like an overgrown errand boy, carrying books and wraps

and--"

"No, my dear, you are quite wrong there. She couldn't make a man like

Monsieur Laparde ridiculous--she could only make one feel sorry for

him."

"Well, anyway, it's quite evident that she--oh, isn't that Lord Mornely

just going inside? Gracious, I had no idea I was getting so cold! Do

come! I'm nearly perished! We'll catch our deaths out here!"

The arms of the steamer chair creaked as Jean's hands clenched upon

them. His face was crimson with passion. What right had these cursed

and _banale_ women to meddle in his affairs, and to discuss him? His

hands gripped harder on the chair and it creaked again. So, then, this

was the talk and gossip of the ship--and everybody knew it! If it were

idle talk he could have laughed at it, and gone and bowed before them

sardonically, and taken his revenge in their confusion; but it was

true, and it only made his fury the greater. They had but voiced his

own thoughts of five minutes ago, and his thoughts of yesterday, and of

the day before, and of the days before that, since almost from the

moment indeed that Myrna had promised to be his wife--the moment that

once, like a poor, deluded fool, he had thought would be counted the

greatest in his life! A hundred little things during his convalescence

had been like signposts of bitter disappointment. She cared nothing

for Jean Laparde the man; she was marrying Jean Laparde the

sculptor-genius, whose name was on every tongue! She did not know the

meaning of love! She loved only what his name might bring her. There

was no tenderness, no intimacy. She _put up_ with him--_sacre

nom_!--that was all! He had refused to believe it in those few days in

Paris. He had shut his eyes to it then. He could not shut his eyes to

it here on board ship--where everybody's eyes, even those damned cats'!

were open. And now she seemed to assume that, since he was her

property, her possession, and that the whole matter, as far as it

concerned her, was quite and entirely settled to her satisfaction, she

could devote herself to a new affair every half-hour, while he, he,

Jean Laparde, the great Laparde, looked on--and grinned!

He rose savagely from his chair, and, turning up the collar of his

ulster and pulling his cap far down over his eyes, went along to the

extreme end of the deck. Here, unprotected by the canvas

weather-cloths such as those along the ship's side that closed in the

promenade, sheltering the passengers from the damp, driving mist of a

North Atlantic fog, it was wet and uninviting enough to guarantee him

immunity from any intrusion. Below him, as he looked over the rail,

the steerage deck, dim, dismal, forbidding, was deserted save for a few

people, who, probably choosing the lesser of two evils, braving the

night in preference to sharing the fetid atmosphere below with many

hundred others, were huddled about in miserable discomfort. He stared

at this sight for a moment; then turned around, and leaned with his

back against the rail to face the gay, brilliantly-lighted scene far

down at the other end of the promenade deck. He watched this

sullenly--the extravagantly gowned women and their escorts coming and

going like hiving bees from the deck to the saloon ... clustering

around the entrance ... retailing the ship's gossip ... a breath of air

... a cigarette ... and back to the dance again. Who cared what the

night was like? Who cared if, far up above on the mighty liner's

bridge, oil-skinned figures peered out anxiously into the night? Who

cared or thought of those huddled forms on the steerage deck? Who

cared--the sea was smooth, and one could dance?

Jean dug his hands deep down into his pockets and closed them fiercely.

The long, hoarse-throated cry of the fog siren boomed out and vibrated

through the ship--and died away; and, sharp in contrast, came again the

calm, steady pulse and throb of the engines, and laughter, and the

dreamy, sobbing notes of a waltz.

And now a depression, utter and profound, a more grievous thing than

the fury that had preceded it, was settling upon him. It was not only

Myrna, the knowledge forced home upon him that he was but a vehicle for

her ambitions, that their marriage was to be a hollow thing, a form, a

husk covering the semblance of love--it was the sea! Until this trip

he had not seen it since he had left Bernay-sur-Mer. It held a

thousand memories. He had fought them back angrily, defiantly ever

since he had come on board--but they had been present almost from the

hour that the shores of the France he loved had faded from sight, and

at unexpected moments this thing and that had flashed suddenly upon

him, striking with quick, stabbing passes under his guard. But now,

his spirits at a low ebb, reckless of combating even poignant

memories--those memories were surging overwhelmingly upon him. It

seemed to mirror his life like some strange kaleidoscope, the sea that

he had always known; it seemed to stir something within him that was

soul-deep in his life--the smell of it in his nostrils, the feel of it

upon his cheeks was flinging wide apart now the floodgates of the past.

Living, vivid before him was the sparkling, wonderful blue of that

southern sea, fringed with the little white cottages of Bernay-sur-Mer

that had been his home; and beneath bare feet he felt again the smooth,

fine, yielding sand upon the beach where as a baby he had crawled,

where still a baby he had taken his first step, where as a man he had

struggled for his place among men and once had played a man's part.

The cheery voices of the fishermen as they launched their boats were in

his ears; they called to him; and laughed; and, because all were his

friends, twitted him good-naturedly, twitted him and teased him

about--about Marie-Louise. Marie-Louise! A low, sharp, involuntary

cry of pain rose to his lips. With a violent effort he tried to shake

himself free from his thoughts--but it was as though he were in the

grip of some strange, immutable power that held him bound and shackled,

while with lightning-like rapidity, whether he would or no, upon him

rushed the ever-changing scenes. The face of Madame Fregeau, his

foster-mother, coarse-featured perhaps, but beautiful because it was a

sweet and wholesome face, came before him; and her arms that were

rough, and red, and shapeless were around his neck in an old-time

embrace. She had loved him, the good Mother Fregeau! Came the faces

of Pierre Lachance, of Papa Fregeau, of little Ninon, of a score of

toddling mites clapping their hands in childish ecstasy over the clay

_poupees_ he had made for them--and all these had been his friends.

And all these were gone now, all were gone, and in their place

was--what? He raised his head. Hoarse-tongued, the siren cried again.

It seemed like the wail of a lost soul out-flung into the night, into

the vastness, calling, calling where there was none to answer--echoing

the loneliness that was filling his heart that night.

He had forgotten all these things in Paris; he had made himself

forget--and besides there had been Myrna. He had fought for her,

striven for her tempestuously, fiercely, as a prize that nor heaven nor

hell could hold back from him--and, ghastly in its mocking irony, it

was only when the prize was won that, like some wondrously beautiful,

iridescent bubble, glorious in its colours as the sunlight played upon

it, it burst and nothing but the dregs of it remained as he reached out

and grasped it in his hands. He had looked for the love, the passion

that he could give in return; he had found only a cold-blooded

strategical move on the checkerboard of social aspirations. He was not

blind any more--nor angry. It was only a profound and bitter

loneliness that he knew. It would be a dreary thing, that

marriage--and dreary years. Once, when he had no right, he had forced

his kisses upon her; he had no more inclination now to force from her

what should be so freely offered--and was withheld!

Who cared for Jean Laparde? Not Myrna! He had bought her as he had

sworn he would buy her, and his own words had come true--with fame. He

was the great Laparde! But who cared for _Jean_ Laparde? None that he

knew now! All that was in the past; all that was in the little village

on the Mediterranean shore in the days when he had made the clay

_poupees_ on the banks of the creek, and dreamed of that wondrous dream

statue that had been so real a thing to him--and now even that was

gone--and he was alone.

Ah, they were back again, those scenes of Bernay-sur-Mer! Whose face

was that? Gaston Bernier! Old Gaston! And what was this that he was

living again, that was so cruel in its realism? That night on the

Perigeau ... that night when old Gaston died ... that day when he had

made the beacon for Marie-Louise, the beacon with its arms outstretched

that--he covered his face suddenly with his hands. If he could only

strangle these thoughts--God, the loneliness and the pain they brought!

How the strains of that waltz seemed to sob out like some

broken-hearted, lost and wandering thing! He shivered a little. How

cold the night was, how wet and damp! How the engines throbbed,

throbbed, throbbed, and seemed to catch the tempo of the distant music,

and like muffled drums beat time to it as to a dirge!

His hands dropped to his sides. From far down the deck came Myrna's

rippling, silvery peal of laughter; and, through the group around her,

he caught the sparkle of the magnificent diamond necklace at her

throat, the white, fluffy wrap of fur thrown across her shoulders--and

heard her laugh again. And at her laugh, he turned bitterly around to

the rail to face the night as the ship drove into it, to let the wind

and the wet mist blow into his face, to look down on the steerage deck

below him. What a contrast! There, just beneath where he stood, in

the filmy light that shone out from an open alleyway, alone,

unsheltered, a pathetic figure in the drifting mist, her clothes damp

around her, a woman leaned with bowed head against the ship's side. A

wave of pity, but a pity that knew bitterness and irony, came upon him.

What would he read in the face of this poor immigrant if he could but

see it? Misery? She looked miserable enough! Loneliness? Was she

lonely, too? Was she as lonely as he? And then, as though in answer

to his thoughts, she turned suddenly, lifting her face, and with a

gesture of infinite yearning, of infinite longing, stretched out her

arms toward the land, toward France, so far behind.

He did not move. He uttered no sound. In that moment, as she made

that gesture, he was living only subconsciously. It was his beacon

with outstretched arms, with those pure, perfect lips, with that sweet,

gentle face, beautiful even with the pallor that was upon it. _It was

Marie-Louise_!