Chapter XI: Book II: Two Years Later (6)

"And so, you see, Marie-Louise," completed Jean to himself, in whimsical wistfulness, "and so, you see, Marie-Louise, that Jean Laparde is dead."

-- XII --

AT THE "GATEWAY"

What confusion, what noise, what bewilderment--tugs pulling and snorting as they warped the great liner into her berth; orders shouted; the cries of passengers leaning from the upper decks to the knot of people gathered on the pier below; and, distant, like the muffled roll of a drum, the roar from the city streets!

Marie-Louise clasped at her little bundle of clothing timidly. For hours she had stood there on the crowded steerage deck; for hours she had strained her eyes toward the land, and then at the mighty city unfolding itself as the liner steamed up the harbour. And she had gazed long, too, at that majestic, towering figure on the little island that had evoked such strange emotions from all these people around her--a figure whose fame must be very great, for of these, who could not read or write, who were ignorant and poor, who came from so many, many lands, none, it seemed, even to the little children, but knew and reached out their arms to it, some laughing in hysteria, and some with tears, but all with the one word upon their lips that neither dialect nor tongue confused--liberty!

It was that they had come for, these Czechs of Moravia, these Croatians, these Slovenes from the Austrian provinces of Carinthia and Styria, these Lithuanians and Magyars; it was that, too, that had brought these Jews from a score of lands where the blessed cross that Father Anton had taught her to adore symbolised neither love nor rest for them. How many stories of oppression, and cruelty, and hopelessness had she listened to on the voyage from such as she could understand? It was not the dream of money alone that brought them; it was because, they had told her over and over again, that here they had heard was the land of freedom, that here they could work with no tyranny to rob them of their toil or of their souls, that here they were to know happiness because here was liberty.

How they laughed, and talked, and sobbed, and whispered around her now! How they crowded, and pushed, and swayed in their excitement! How eager some were, how dazed and frightened were others! What a riot of colour and strange dress the women and the men wore! How they clung to their bundles, as instinctively she clung to hers!

What did it mean, that word--liberty? She too, had come for liberty. She, too, had fled from her native country; she, too, had fled to seek freedom from the scenes and memories that were there. That day when she had gone so blindly to the _Gare St. Lazare_ and a train had taken her to Havre, that day when she had no thought of any definite place to go save that she must first of all leave Paris and then go far away, it had seemed like an answer to her perplexity when, in Havre, she had seen the sign in the window of the steamship office about the ship sailing for America from there. And she had bought a ticket; and then--and then that night, here, here on the ship, Jean had come to her.

Her lips quivered suddenly, and her eyes filled with tears. None, none but the _bon Dieu_ and herself knew how near she had come that night to yielding to her love; none else knew how through that brave, splendid act of Jean's her love had seemed suddenly a thousand-fold greater, making it that much the harder to deny, as it pleaded with her to answer the cry of her soul. Oh, it had been so hard, so hard before to let Jean go, to send him from her--but that night when she had turned from him here upon the deck it had been as though she were walking out into some cold, dread place of eternal darkness, where there was no life, no living thing, and all was utter desolation. Why--why had she done it? She had asked herself that a thousand times in the days since then, in the nights when she had lain sleepless in her bunk; and yet, even while she asked, the answer was always present, always there, repeating itself over and over again--Jean had not realised what he was doing, Jean had not realised what he was doing. It was like Jean, so like the big, brave Jean of the old days to give his all on the impulse of the moment, and never a thought to what it might mean in the afterwards. That was why she had sent him away that night--that was why. She would not have been strong enough to have done it for any other cause. She had only been strong because of the bitter regret, the misery that would have come when he began to realise, even with a few hours of the hardships of the steerage, what he had lost--he who would have come from comfort, from refinement to where even soap and water were luxuries; to food that he could not eat, dealt out of huge kettles into dinner pails; to where there was little light and the air was foul; to where like cattle in a pen they slept two hundred in a compartment; to where, instead of servants at his beck and call, there was cold, brutal contempt--and oftentimes a curse; to where, even to her, who had not known the luxuries of Jean's life, it had brought dismay! Yes; in a day of this, even in a few hours of it, with its terrific contrast, he would have known, and--and his love, great as it must have been to have prompted his impulse to the sacrifice that he had tried to make, would not be strong enough to compensate for what he had lost, to make him happy. And so--and so she had sent him back. And the _bon Dieu_ had been very good to her to give her the strength to do it, for she had been right, and she had known Jean better than he knew himself. She had been right; it had been only impulse, stronger than himself for the moment, that had brought him to her, only impulse--for he had gone back. She had not seen him since that night, not even a glimpse of him amongst the passengers on what little of those decks above that she could see, though she had looked whenever, safe from observation herself amongst a crowd of the steerage passengers, she had ventured out on deck. She would have liked to have asked about him, but who was there to ask? To the steerage the life of the great ship was as a thing apart; no news, nothing came to the steerage--sufficient to the steerage was the babel of its own hundred-tongues.

She brushed the tears angrily from her eyes. She should be glad and thankful that she had not been unfair to Jean, that she had not taken advantage of that moment of impulse to so tremendous a sacrifice; she should be glad, not sorrowful--and yet it was not easy to be glad when the pain in the heart was always there, and there was loneliness that would not let her spirits be gay or bright. Liberty! What did it mean, that word--liberty? She had left her native land to seek it--and what she had found so far could only make the memories keener, add to them, and bring a greater sadness.

About her every one was talking, some boisterously, some whose cheeks were wet, some who swore valiantly, some as though they prayed; but all eager, all expectant, all with that word "liberty" continuously upon their lips. It meant that, throughout all the remote places of Europe, in the mountains, in the valleys, in the plains, in the towns and villages of countries she had never heard of before, this great new land of America was known, and meant--liberty.

She wondered if it could be true, if this could be a land of magic that transformed all bitterness and misery into sunshine and song. She wondered if the dreams of all these strange creatures who had come from so many different worlds to this one because its name was liberty would find their dreams realised--if there might not be for some a cruel awakening that would be more than they could bear. This woman who stood beside her, old before her prime, who was very dirty, who was so queerly dressed, who crooned incessantly to the child in her arms--what dreams was she dreaming, what hopes had she, what was it that this new land was to bring to her? And then a great, tender wave of pity swept Marie-Louise. They had been standing there so long! And how drawn and weary the woman's face was, and how her arms must ache!

"Give me the baby for a little while," she said--and placed her bundle at her feet, and took the child in her arms.

And now the confusion around her and about the ship increased. They had come alongside an enormous shed; and, though she could not see, she was sure from the noise and commotion that the rich passengers were getting off. But it was well that she could not see. She was glad of that. Jean would be amongst them, and she could not have helped looking, and--and to have watched him go and know that it was for the last time, would have been but to torture herself beyond her strength.

She was very tired, for still they were kept standing there for so long, long a time, until her arms too ached, and the child grew leaden in its weight. Then the woman took the baby back again, and said something that Marie-Louise could not understand--but the touch of the brown hand as it patted gratefully on her arm brought a quick mist to her eyes, because it was human, a human touch, and out of all the strangeness around her, out of her loneliness it seemed so priceless a thing to win.

And then there came harsh, strident commands, and the press around her, carrying her with it, began to surge forward; and presently she found herself inside the shed on the pier--and then it was like the deck of the ship again, for she stood and waited so long and so interminably. Why did they still have to wait? It could not be here that one must be examined before one could go out into those streets whose rumble and noise was louder now! Some one on board, a man who knew a few words of French, who had made the voyage before, had told her that every one must be examined; only he had said it was in a vast hall where there were two big American flags that hung out over it from the gallery, and that men sat at high desks at the end of long rows of benches, and that one was towed to it in droll-looking barges that had two decks and were all closed in like arks. So it could not be here--that place! And then, more attentive to the details about her, she remembered the _octroi_ when she had entered Paris from Bernay-sur-Mer. One's things too must be examined--and she opened her bundle until one of the men with uniforms should have come and looked at it.

After that, she waited again; and then she was carried forward once more with the movement of those about her; and, passing out of the shed, was crowded onto a barge such as the one that the man on the ship had described to her.

And then here again they waited; for all these people could not get on one barge, even though it held so many and was so closely packed--and there were other barges to be filled. She could not see very much, for she was in the centre of the crowd on the barge's upper deck, and could only occasionally obtain a glimpse through the little windows that were in rows on each side--but, at last, she could tell by the motion that they had started.

There did not seem to be quite so much talking, or chattering, or confusion now. It was as though, hanging over all these people, had come a subdued sense of disquiet and trepidation, the sense of some ordeal to be faced, vaguely grasped, save that it loomed ominously, an unknown, perhaps impassable barrier erected against the fulfilment of their hopes; and men and women alike were nervously beginning to handle the white cards with the big red figures on them, which every one had attached to his or her clothing.

Marie-Louise found herself involuntarily doing the same--staring at the little punch-holes along the bottom edge of the card that the doctor on the ship had put there, one for each day. And there was her name written there at the top--"Marie-Louise Bernier." And underneath it, "Paris"--for she had given that as her last residence, because in this new country none was to know that she had come from Bernay-sur-Mer. For who could tell what these people here might not do? They might write to Bernay-sur-Mer, and then all her efforts would have been in vain, for some one in Bernay-sur-Mer would write to Father Anton, and--the card dropped from her fingers, and dangled by its string from the button of her blouse.

The hot, scalding tears were in her eyes again. Memories! Always memories!

On the faces of those around her, so many of them anxious now, was written the question that lips in so many different languages were whispering to each other.

"Will they let me in? What will they do? Will they let me in? Will they let me in?"

Liberty--for them! Yes, they would go in, as she would go in--and some of them, perhaps many of them, would find what they had sought. But she--even here in this strange country, where she could understand no single word that was spoken, where, surely, now that Jean was gone again, there would be nothing, no familiar scenes to come to her to revive those memories--could she find liberty in some day learning to forget?

It did not seem so now, for it seemed as though all her strength, her resistance had gone out from her that night in her struggle to send Jean away, and that it had not come back again. Why--oh, why had the _bon Dieu_ sent Jean upon that ship? It had been so cruelly hard before! It did not change anything that he was in the same country, for he would not stay long, and the country was so many times bigger than France that they were utterly separated, but it was making it so hard to be brave now---so much harder--so much harder! And then suddenly she lifted her head proudly, even though the lips would still quiver, and though the lashes of her eyes were still wet. What was it, that old and simple faith, that her Uncle Gaston in his rugged, honest way had taught her? Yes, the words came back, and they came now like a benediction to send her on her way with hope and comfort--"to love God and be never afraid."

She kept repeating that to herself all the rest of the way--until she was leaving the barge again, and, with the hundreds of her fellow-passengers, still so curious a sight to her in their many costumes, began to file in through the doorway of a huge building that was red-roofed and had towers. And here, once inside, they went very slowly at first, for they must pass between railings one at a time, while the doctors looked at each in turn. This frightened her a little, but they did nothing more to her than to stamp her card; and then, after that, there was a big, broad staircase--and then, as she climbed to the top, the vast hall was before her, with its many rows of benches, and its two great flags hanging out from the balcony, that the man had told her about.

What a buzz of noise--so many voices; the constant, shuffling tread of feet; the cry of an infant; the stir and movement of such a crowd of people! And the sounds, floating upward, seemed to form themselves into a strange, humming echo that was forever swirling around and around at the roof of the hall over the gallery. It bewildered her. A man in uniform--there were so many men in uniform!--spoke to her. She did not understand; but somehow, nevertheless, she found herself seated on one of the long benches that ran nearly the whole length of the hall.

For a little while she remained quiet, staring down at her bundle that she had placed upon the floor. And then, as her confusion and bewilderment gradually passed away, she began to look around her. She had never imagined that any hall could be so big--it was bigger even than that place with the marble staircase where she had seen the great reception to Jean. How many hundreds would it hold? Still the people who had been with her on the ship kept coming up the stairs, and still the benches were not nearly filled!

She turned and looked in the other direction, to where, quite close to her, for she was almost at the head of the line, an officer sat at a high desk, with one of the passengers standing before him. And there were many of these desks, each with an officer seated at it, just as many as there were rows of benches, for there was one at the head of every line; and behind these there was an open space beneath the gallery; and against the wall of the building there were some little railed-off enclosures; and doors that were constantly opening and shutting, one of which, at least, seemed to lead into a corridor; and, too, there was another wide stairway, down which some of those who had come with her were already passing.

Her eyes came back to the inspector at the head of her own line, and she watched him eagerly, as he kept writing all the time he talked to the man who stood in front of him. It would be her turn in a moment. What was he doing? What was he saying? And then, as she watched, the man in front of the inspector swung a large, ungainly valise to his shoulder, and passed behind the desk, and crossed the open space beyond, and went down the stairs.

There was only one more now before her--another man. Her heart began to pound rapidly. She was not afraid of the inspector at the desk; she was not afraid that he would refuse to let her through--why should she be? It was not that--it was only that the moment had come now when she was to go out into this new land, and face new conditions where even the language was unknown to her, and--and begin her life over again. It was only that this moment seemed so big with finality--the threshold between the future and the past.

It was her turn now. Mechanically she took up her bundle, and stepped to the desk. "To love God and be never afraid"--she was saying that to herself again.

"Your name?" demanded the inspector. He spoke in French, in quick appreciation of her nationality.

"Marie-Louise Bernier," she answered in a low voice, her eyes on the bundle in her arms.

"Your age? And"--he added kindly--"do not be nervous."

She raised her eyes to smile gratefully back at him--and then, with a cry that rang and rang again through the immense hall and stilled all else to silence, she flung herself madly past the desk, and ran across the open space behind it.

"_Jean! Jean! Jean!_"

A figure, grimy, dirty, disreputable, whose hands were manacled, rose, with an answering cry, from within one of the railed-off enclosures.

"Jean! Jean!"--she had reached him now, and was sobbing, clinging to him. "Jean--you--here! These things on your wrists! And your face is so white, Jean! Jean, Jean, what does it mean? Jean--"

And then she was conscious of a rush of men, and hands were upon her trying to tear her away--and then, with a strength that was greater, that seemed to mock at the strength of all these hands that snatched at her, she was whirled off her feet, and Jean, towering there in all his great might, snarling like some beast at bay, was between her and the others.

"_Let her alone_!"--Jean's steel-locked wrists and clenched hands were raised above his head. "Let her alone!"--his voice was hoarse, low with a murderous fury. "I'll kill, do you understand--with these"--he shook the steel bracelets on his wrists--"I'll kill--the first man--that tries to take her away!"

Before the white, livid face, the passion in the mighty, quivering form, they fell back instinctively; and for an instant that tense, bated silence fell again upon the hall--and then a child cried peevishly--and then a voice spoke authoritatively.

She did not understand what was said; but she was clinging to Jean again, and the crowd of men in uniform were going away, leaving only one or two near them.

"What was it? What did he say?" she asked wildly.

"That there must be something in common between us--and to bring us both together before the special inquiry board," he answered mechanically--and because he could not spread his hands apart, he laid them, still trembling with the fury that had been upon him, both together on her shoulder, and drew her to him.

It terrified her, the sight of those manacles on his wrists. Why--why were they there? What were they going to do with him? What was this inquiry--was it to send him to prison?

"Jean, what is it?" she whispered piteously. "What does it mean? What are they going to do with you?"

"I do not know," he said, and smiled at her. "I only know that for a little while at least you are here with me again."

"Jean--answer me!" she cried out in her fear.

"But I do not know what they will do," he said again. "I am a stowaway. They caught me that night on the ship when I was trying to find some place to sleep--and, _pardieu_, they were not too gentle until one or two were hurt!--and then they made me work my passage in the stokehole."

It seemed so hard to think! Some wonder, that was a glorious wonder, was in her heart.

"You--you did not go back, Jean; I--I thought you had gone back, Jean"--it was as though she were telling, in a low, whispering way, some great, glad, joyous thing to herself. And then there came a sudden whiteness to her face, but her head was lifted bravely until her eyes met his. "Jean, tell them!" she said steadily. "You must tell them now who you are. Tell them, Jean, and they will let you go."

"Tell them now!" Jean cried--and shook his head, and drew his shoulders back. "Tell them--_now_! Did I tell them that night, Marie-Louise? Look!"--he thrust out his handcuffed wrists before him. "Is this not proof, Marie-Louise, that I will never tell them, that I will never go back--alone? If the world is ever to hear of Jean Laparde again, it will be because he has won back the only thing he has to live for--you--you, Marie-Louise, my little Marie-Louise. I told them my name was Jacques Legault--and Jacques Legault I will always be until you have made Jean Laparde live again, until--until--you are his wife--as in God's sight you have been, Marie-Louise, since we were little children, as in God's sight you were when I swore that oath to Gaston as he died, as in God's sight you have been though I was a traitor to that oath. Look, Marie-Louise! Look at these things again, these irons on my wrists, are they not proof that there is nothing now, that I will have nothing, that I will know nothing but your love? Ah, Marie-Louise, once you said that I belonged to France, and you bade me go alone and work; and I forgot France, and love, and there was only Jean Laparde, and I forgot the God that gave the gift--but now, Marie-Louise, look up into my face and answer, shall I work this time for France and you and love, or shall I never work again? Marie-Louise, see"--his voice broke in its passionate pleading--"they are coming! Marie-Louise, do you not know now that there is only you--only you, Marie-Louise--for always?"

She did not answer. They were taking Jean, and taking her somewhere now. She walked almost blindly. Jean had not gone back that night, and--and those things on his wrists were proof that--that he would never go back. Proof that, whatever might happen now, whatever he was going now to face, whatever they might do with him, the choice he had made that night was made for all his life; that she, even if she would, could not alter it now--proof that his love was so great and wonderful and strong and big that nothing could bend or break or shatter it--proof it was a love so pure that it had risen in sacrifice so high as to make a glory of the years when he had forgotten it! Yes; she knew now! Her heart, and her soul, and the _bon Dieu_ told her so! What was it he had said that night on the ship--that even in those years she had been his inspiration? Yes; she knew that, too, for she had seen it, and others had seen it. It was true! And he had said that he would never work again--never do that great, wondrous work of his again--alone--without her--never return to it--without her. And he had said that the _grand monde_ that once had taken her place in his life, the _grand monde_ in which she could have no part, was of the past now--the past to which he would never return--no matter what she did or said now--to which he would never return.

They were in a corridor; and from the corridor they entered a room, where there were three men seated in a row at desks. These men began to talk amongst themselves; but it was only when an interpreter, who was also present, put questions to Jean that she could understand anything.

"To love God and be never afraid"--she tried to think of that again, tried to say it over and over. But she _was_ afraid. There was terror; and, besides terror, there was that new wonder in her soul--and, mingling, they brought confusion upon her, and at first even the words in her own tongue conveyed no meaning, and possessed for her only an unnatural sense of familiarity. And then, in snatches, she began to catch the drift of what was going on around her--a stowaway in any case was almost invariably deported ... undesirable for other reasons ... murderous assault upon one of the crew when he was discovered ... his outburst of fury and threat of attack upon the officers only a few moments ago ... medical examination ... stab wound in side barely healed ... a vicious character....

The wound! The wound in Jean's side! She had forgotten that! It brought a sharp cry to her lips, that caused them all to turn and look at her. But she did not care. What if they looked! She was looking at Jean--looking at the gaunt, white, haggard-faced giant, who smiled and shrugged his shoulders to every question that was put to him. His wound--barely healed! What must those days and nights of torturing, brutal work in the stokehole of that ship have meant to him--and she had thought so pitiful a thing as an hour of the coarse food, the paltry misery of the steerage, would have made him falter and regret!

They kept on questioning him--but she was not listening now. Her soul was whispering to her: "It is Jean; it is Jean; Jean that you love; Jean that you have loved all your life, all your life, who has done this for you. It is Jean who has lived through black hours where only a courage and a heroic love, so splendid and so true that it will last while life will last, has kept him from the single word, the single act that could so easily have brought back to him again everything in the world--save you." Her eyes were filling with tears. It was Jean--Jean--Jean--who had done this for her. Jean who stood there with irons upon his wrists--for her. Jean who had--

"Who is this woman?" the interpreter demanded abruptly of Jean. "Is she any relation to you?"

There was no answer--save only in Jean's eyes, as he turned and looked at her.

"Tell him, Marie-Louise," Jean's eyes seemed to say. "Tell him, Marie-Louise, for it is you who must answer now--for always."

"You, then," the interpreter asked, addressing her. "Are you any relation to this man?"

She felt her face grow very white.

"You must tell the truth," the interpreter cautioned sharply. "It is evident on the face of it, from what happened out there in the hall, that there is something between you. Tell the truth for your own sake. This man is to be deported, and he will not be allowed to come back. Do you understand that? If he is any relation to you, say so--unless you want to be separated. Well?"

Separated! Marie-Louise raised her head a little--and looked at Jean--and at the interpreter--and at the officers.

"I"--oh, it was true; true as life was true; true as love was true; true in God's sight, as Jean had said it was true; true because all through the years to come, through the sunshine and the storm and until death it would be true!--"I--I am his wife," she said.

"Marie-Louise!"

She heard Jean breathe her name, she heard the half sob upon his lips, she felt the cold steel of the handcuffs touch her wrist as his hand found and closed on hers--but she was looking only at the officers, hanging, her heart stilled in suspense, upon their every act, trying to read their faces where she could not understand their words. And then, involuntarily, because they told her nothing, because the seconds as they passed were as eternities, she flung out her hands to the interpreter.

"What are they saying? What are they saying?" she cried imploringly.

But it was Jean who answered--and his voice was lifted as though in song, radiant, triumphant, deathless.

"You are to be sent back to France, Marie-Louise, Marie-Louise--with me."

-- XIII --

DAWN

Strange noises! The myriad voices of the ship talking one to another--the creak and grind of girders and stringers; the grunting, faintly from far above, of the wooden superstructure; the whine and complaint of the deck-beams as the vessel lurched to the sea; the sibilant hiss and whir of the racing screws lifting from the water; the swift infuriated response of the unfettered engines, chattering angrily, as it were, in wrath for the scurvy trick played upon them; the eternal dull, moaning throb, throb, throb from everywhere, that seemed finally to absorb these voices unto itself and stand as spokesman for them all. Strange noises--a medley of pain, of travail, of strain, human almost in its outcry, seeking relief from unendurable effort and distress.

For days and days they had talked like that, and Jean had listened--listened through the watches of the day and night, listened through the hours of his own toil and pain, and the cursings of the raw-boned, wizened apparition that came and went through the murky gloom of the bunker, and croaked continually like some ill-omened thing for coal, coal, coal, lifting a brutal fist at times to enforce the words. But, too, as he had listened, through the plaint of this strange medley had come the lilt, underlying all, of another refrain that all these voices seemed to sing--a refrain that found a deeper echo in his own soul, that seemed to make the kin between him and these inanimate things the closer, a refrain of hope, a refrain in which lay immortal happiness.

"In five days ... in three days ... in one day more we shall reach France, France, France--and the end of strife--France--and the end of strife."

And now that refrain was changed again, and it made his heart leap, and he laughed out in pure joy, as he swept the great sweat beads from his forehead.

"To-day--to-day--_to-day_ we shall reach France--reach France--reach France!"

Over yonder through the murk of the dimly lighted bunker, through the swirling coal dust, another trimmer shovelled his barrow full of coal, and then the wheel _clacked, clacked_ over the steel deck plates, and steel rang against steel as the barrow was whipped over on its side to send its load tumbling down the chute to the boiler-room below--but Jean's own barrow lay idly for a moment beside the black, mountainous heap of coal, and his shovel hung idly in his hand.

"To-day--to-day! France, and the end of strife!"--how joyously the voices trilled in his ears! "France, and life to begin anew! France--and Marie-Louise! France, and--"

"You damned loafer!" snarled a voice beside him--and quick, with the words, a stinging blow fell upon Jean's face.

It was the raw-boned, wizened engineer--the man above all others who was responsible for his, Jean's, presence there in the bunker again on this return voyage to France--the man who had made of the voyage a living hell. Marie-Louise's money, her attempt to pay his passage back and save him from this had counted for nothing--against this man. Two trimmers had deserted almost on the hour of sailing--he, Jean, was lawful prey--a stowaway being deported--and there had been a vicious smirk of satisfaction on the man's face, reminiscent of Jean's unruliness that night on the outward voyage when he had been discovered, as the engineer had claimed him for one of the vacancies.

The shovel clanged on the steel plates of the deck as it dropped from Jean's hands. He whirled like a flash, and, grasping the engineer by the shoulders, lifted the other off his feet, and held him as powerless as in the clutch of an iron vise; held the other off at arms' length in his mighty strength to wriggle impotently; held the other there--and laughed out with that wondrous surge of joy that was upon him.

"I will not hurt you!" cried Jean--and laughed in a big, glad way. "I am too happy! See, I will not hurt you! I am too happy! Do you know what it is to be happy? To love everything--to have your heart singing, singing all the time! Ah, if you could but know! But, go now--for see, I will not hurt you! I am too happy!"--and laughing again, he released the man.

The engineer stood for an instant gazing at Jean. Happy! This great giant of a man, in torn clothes, the sweat rolling furrows down the grime-smeared face--this man, a stowaway on the voyage out--this man, deported from America--this man, forced to work here on the voyage back, who was to be treated, and had been treated like a dog--this man--_happy_! Happy! Was the man mad? The engineer, muttering in his amazement, wondering and dazed and awed at the strength that had made of him a puny thing, edged away, and disappeared in the gloom.

Two little incandescents burned yellow from the stanchions overhead--there was no other light. There was nothing but the choking swirl of the coal dust, the rasp of the shovels, the clack of the barrow wheels, the clang as they were dumped--and the voices that told of France, and life, and love, and joy again.

"To-day--to-day!"--how the words rang in his heart and soul and mind like some silver-throated clarion call!

To-day, when the shores of France should loom in sight, the last of all barriers between Marie-Louise and himself would be swept away forever. There, on Ellis Island, they had kept him and Marie-Louise apart; and here on the ship again, the same ship that had brought them out--"guests" of the company that was forced by the government to return them to France--they had seen each other little. For, though it had not been as on the outward voyage when he was held a prisoner and closely watched even when he was off duty, and though he was now at least as free as any of the crew, it had only been at odd moments snatched here and there, usually in the early morning hours while it was still dark and he had gone off watch to the steerage deck, and she had come up from below to meet him, that he had seen Marie-Louise--that was all, the very little when their souls cried out for so much, that they had been together.

But what did it matter now? To-day--to-day all that was to be ended! To-day--how his heart leaped, and his being thrilled at the thought!--to-day they were to be together for always, to-day was to know the fulfilment of their love.

And then, too, there was another joy--the joy of a new and beautiful thing that had come into his life. The joy, pure, without alloy, unsmirched by sordid aims--the joy of work. How it brought a feverish excitement, how his fingers tingled for the touch of clay, how he yearned to give expression to that with which his soul was now aflame, the statue of dreams, real before him now, that mighty picture, that splendid allegory that should tell his beloved France that Jean Laparde lived again--but lived a new Laparde, and, if the good God willed it so, worthy in a humble way of the great gift that was his, worthy in a glad, tender way of the love that, so steadfast and so true, so unselfish and so pure, had saved him from himself. Yes, it had come to him--come to him at last, the base of that statue that he had never been able to see before. It had come to him here in the gloom, and struggle, and sweat, and toil of this miserable coal bunker; come to him, leaving him to stand a chastened man before the picture that was held up, perfect in every detail, before his mind's eye for him to gaze upon, leaving him to tremble with emotion at the thought that he should give it to the world to see.

It was a secret yet from Marie-Louise--a secret that was to be told to-night. There were to be just they two--and--yes, Father Anton, who would be there to bless them--to know. No one else, least of all Monsieur and Mademoiselle Bliss, who would in that case come hurrying back from America. No one else to know that he lived until the dream statue was done. There was the dream statue to make, and then all France, and all the world, if it would, should know that Jean Laparde still lived; for then the world would understand why the Jean Laparde it knew--had died.

He filled his barrow, emptied it, and filled it again--and worked on--and, strangest sound of all, strange indeed for that dark, joyless place, as he worked, he sang.

Came at last, faintly, the four double strokes of the ship's bell. Eight bells--four o'clock in the morning--the watch was ended. Jean handed his barrow and shovel to his relief, and, mounting the succession of steep, iron-runged perpendicular ladders, climbed upward from the ship's black depths, and made his way to the steerage deck.

It was dark here--with the darkness before the dawn. A fresh wind was blowing, and he put on his jacket; and, leaning over the side, watched the racing waves, and laughed at the buoyant lift of the deck beneath his feet, and threw back his head to drink into his lungs for the first time in many hours the sweet, fresh, God-given air.

"Marie-Louise! To-day--Marie-Louise! Marie-Louise!" his heart was saying.

And presently she came along the deck, and her hand stole into his. It was too dark to see her face; but her hair, truant in the wind, swept his cheek, and close to him he could feel her heart beat against his own. And as he held her there, there came upon him, softly, like some sacred presence, moving the soul of him with an holy joy, the wonder of her, and the great, immeasurable, priceless worth of the love she had given him.

"Marie-Louise," he whispered tenderly. "Your lips, _ma bien-aimee_!"

And in the darkness she raised her face to his, and he kissed her--and suddenly he found his eyes were wet. Glad tears they were; and yet, too, a pledge between himself and God that he would hold her always as he held her now, her life and happiness his dearest trust--a pledge that in itself asked grace and pardon in contrite penitence for that pledge of other days that he had broken.

His arms were around her. God, the sorrow and the misery he had brought to her, who had so freely laid aside her own happiness that he--that he-- He drew her closer still.

"Marie-Louise, are you happy?" he cried out, and it was his soul that spoke, yearning, pleading fiercely for the assurance that meant all in life to him now, the assurance that alone could stand, radiant and thankful, where before, in keen, bitter pangs of remorse, had stood the memories of the past--of her betrayal. "Marie-Louise, are you happy?" he cried out again.

"I did not know that one could be so happy, Jean," she said softly--and her hand lifted to touch his face, and linger there, smoothing the hair back from his forehead.

They were silent for a little while in each other's arms--a deep peace, a quiet thankfulness in their hearts.

And then Jean spoke again.

"Look, Marie-Louise!" he said, and pointed out far over the waters to the horizon line ahead. "It is the dawn. _Our_ dawn, Marie-Louise. The dawn of the day when we shall be together always."

Grey it was in the east; faint and timorous streaks of light that seemed like skirmishers flung out in tentative attack upon the massed blackness of the night.

Her hands tightened about him.

"To-day! Oh, Jean! It is like a dream--like a wonderful dream that the _bon Dieu_ has brought to us."

He drew her head to his shoulder. Presently, when in the east that greyness should have grown pink and golden with awakening day, he would drink in the pure, glorious beauty of the sweet, chaste face, look into the dark, brave, tender eyes and read in her soul the happiness that God had restored to them; but now he could only hold her close and feel the lithe young form against his own, and feel her heart throb against his breast.

"A dream, little one, that shall always last," he said. "Ah, Marie-Louise, it is our dawn, our day, the beginning of a new life, _cherie_, where there shall be only love--our love, yours and mine, the love of old friends, of those we love, the love of work--ah, you shall see what that will be!" His voice thrilled suddenly. "You shall see, for now Bidelot shall have that 'touch' he asked for--for now I know! I know! It was you I modelled, Marie-Louise--your face, your form--and they were perfect, beautiful; but I was blind to what was most beautiful of all! I modelled only features--and I forgot the soul, for I had forgotten love, and I could not see the dearer things. I forgot the soul that should soften so tenderly and refine the courage and the resolution and the purity of that dear face of yours and make nobility divine. I forgot--"

"Jean!"--her fingers were laid tightly upon his lips. "Jean, you must not say such things! Jean, Jean, I am so far from that--so far from that!"

He could just see her face now in the growing light--see the eyes shine through a mist of happy tears, see those perfect lips quiver in their smile, as she shook her head.

"But you shall see!" he told her eagerly. "A little while in Paris--ah, Marie-Louise, that is a secret that I have for you!--a little while there, and then you shall see! And all France shall see--and France shall tell you that it is so! Ah, Marie-Louise, perhaps some day they will forget Jean Laparde; but France shall always remember one who is worthier far, and in that one see its hope, its inspiration and its glory, for France shall never forget--Marie-Louise!"

She had slipped from his arms. Her face was full of wonder, and upon it fell the soft glow of light that now was tinging the eastern sky. How pure, how brave, how beautiful she was! How love shone in the eyes that were like Heaven's stars; how the soft light seemed to caress her face and rejoice in the radiant happiness that was there, a happiness that even her wondering bewilderment for the moment seemed to enhance! How the strong, young form swung free and lithesome to the lifting deck, and found a wondrous joy in its own glorious virility!

"Jean, what do you mean?" she said breathlessly.

"You shall know!" he laughed, and laughed because there was only joy and gladness in all the world--in the waves that tumbled and frolicked and played, and tossed their white manes at each other and the ship; in the breeze that sang merrily its way along on its busy errand into the great everywhere; in the vibrant throb of the mighty ship, in that spokesman's voice--for it was to be to-day--to-day! "You shall know, Marie-Louise--to-night, when Father Anton is there to hear, and has blessed us, and made Marie-Louise my little wife! And then that little while in Paris that you will understand--and then--_home_! Ah, Marie-Louise, can you not see it now--the blue water, blue with the wonderful colour that only God can make, and the white beach where we played when we were little children, and the boats, Marie-Louise, and the brave, true, loyal friends! Home, Marie-Louise, home, home, home--to Bernay-sur-Mer! Ah, is not God good? We shall go home, _ma bien-aimee_--and there we shall live, and there I shall work for you, and France, and love, and there old Bidelot and those who really love the things we do shall come at times to make us proud and happy! Ah, it will be a _grand monde_, Marie-Louise, a _grand monde_ of wealth and riches, and a very proud _grand monde_, careful of those who shall have the entree there--for it shall be a _grand monde_ where you, my little Marie-Louise, are queen, a _grand monde_ of love and happiness."

Purple and golden and pink and crimson was the east--and over the horizon rim rose the sun. And it mounted higher, and the dawn was gone, and the day had come.

"Look!" he said suddenly.

And a cry rose to Marie-Louise's lips; and her eyes grew dim and misty again until she could no longer see.

"It is the land! It is France!" she whispered.

It was light now, men and women were moving about the steerage deck, he could no longer hold her in his arms; but, standing there at the ship's side, her hand was tightly clasped in his.

There were glad words on Jean's lips:

"It is France, Marie-Louise--and home."

-- XIV --

THE STATUE OF DREAMS

Four months had passed. The spring had come. France mourned for Jean Laparde. Old Bidelot shook his grizzled head, and pushed away, with a curiously reproachful motion of his hand, the mass of sketches and designs that lay upon the desk before him. If France grieved for the loss of one of her most brilliant sons, the great critic of France grieved besides for the loss of a personal friend that he had loved. Of these competitive designs that he had been appointed to judge for the statue with which France was to commemorate Jean Laparde--none would do! Not one! Not one, but was so far from the genius of Jean's own work that there seemed something mocking and incongruous in the thought that it should aspire to perpetuate and typify the work of the master-sculptor who was gone! Not one would do--and meanwhile they besieged him, those who had submitted their designs, to cast Jean's mantle upon them! They came at all hours; they waited interminably on his door-step for him to return; they buttonholed him on the streets and in the cafes to urge their claims and to explain the allegory of their conceptions, lest some subtle beauty in their work might have escaped his eye! One would not think they would do that--eh? That it was not dignified? No? Well--there was the mantle of Jean Laparde!

"_Mon Dieu_!" sighed Bidelot heavily--and suddenly raised his head at a timid knocking upon the door. Here was another of them then, no doubt! He had been wrong to let his servant take the afternoon, and leave his apartment so unguarded that his very door was at their mercy! "Well, come!" he called out, querulously--but the next instant he had risen, and was smiling, as he extended his hand. It was Father Anton. "Ah, Father Anton!" he cried. "This is a pleasure! This is a pleasure indeed! I do not often see you these days! As a matter of fact--let me see--not since Monsieur Bliss went away to America, and the evenings at his house were at an end."

"That is so," agreed Father Anton. "But then, I have been very busy; and besides, for a little while, I was in Bernay-sur-Mer."

"_Tiens_! So! But, tell me, what is the news from Monsieur Bliss? When will he return?"

"I do not know," Father Anton replied. "He has said nothing about it in his letters; but I have a letter to write him to-day, that may perhaps bring him back at once."

"Then write it, my dear Father Anton--write it, by all means!" Bidelot burst out with a vehemence that, if exaggerated, was at least sincere, as he waved his hand helplessly toward the desk. "I am in despair! I have been on the point of writing Monsieur Bliss myself."

Father Anton's eyes followed the direction of the gesture, and fixed interrogatively on the desk.

"The competitive designs," explained Bidelot. "None are worthy! It is tragic!"

But now Father Anton smiled, and shook his head, and laid his hand on Bidelot's arm.

"But Jean still lives," he said, in his gentle way. "Jean is not dead."

"It is the Church that speaks," old Bidelot answered. "I know what you mean. That is all very well, and it is also true in a material sense that men like Jean Laparde do not die; but what of the work that he had yet to do? What of that, Monsieur le Cure? Will you say that his work was finished? Then I, who went there every day, who knew so well, who looked for that final master-touch that was yet to come--I tell you, no! He had still his masterpiece before him! And then, with that achieved"--the caustic old critic's hand swept a dozen sketches from the desk to the floor--"bah, he would have no need of these in any case!--but with that achieved, then, I tell you then, that"--his hands dropped to his sides, and he shrugged his shoulders. "Ah, well, I had thought to see it before I died; and yet I, who am an old man, whose work is over, am still alive, and Jean Laparde is dead. Will you explain that, Monsieur le Cure?"

Father Anton's smile now was one of kindly amusement.

"But Jean is not dead," he said again. "It is to tell you that, that I have come."

"Hey!" cried Bidelot. He stared at Father Anton in startled and amazed incredulity. "Hey!" he cried hoarsely, and grasped with both hands at Father Anton's shoulders. "What is this you say? Are you mad, Monsieur le Cure? Not dead! You say that Jean Laparde is not dead! It is impossible! It is inconceivable!"

"And yet," said Father Anton, still smiling, "since I married him at the studio--eh? And since I am here now from him with a message for you!"

"Married! At the studio!" Old Bidelot gazed wildly around him. "My hat!" he ejaculated excitedly. "Where is my hat? I will go at once! At once! Jean--at the studio! It is not possible--but I will go!"

"Yes," Father Anton nodded, "we will go to the studio, for that is what Jean wanted you to do. But Jean himself is no longer there."

Old Bidelot, already halfway to the door, stopped abruptly and whirled around.

"Not there! Then--then what? He is not dead! He is married! He is at the studio! He is not at the studio! I do not understand! I understand nothing!"

"I will explain it all to you," Father Anton told him soothingly. "But let us go. It will take time to tell it, for it is a long story, and we can talk on the way."