Chapter IX: Book II: Two Years Later (4)

"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.