Book 1 — BOOK I: BERNAY-SUR-MER (continued 3)

"Come!" he called.

Papa Fregeau stuck in his head.

"Pardon, Monsieur Jean"—it was "monsieur" now—"it is Mademoiselle Bliss who is alone in the café below. Will Monsieur Jean see her for a moment before he goes out?"

"In an instant," Jean answered quickly. "Tell mademoiselle that I will be there in an instant."

Papa Fregeau hesitated, stared about the room, and stared at Jean, his fat cheeks grotesquely expanded—and his arms rose suddenly in a gesture of profound helplessness.

"Mon Dieu!" he muttered heavily. "Is it possible that it is our little Jean there—ah, pardon"—he stammered—"Monsieur Jean"—and made a hasty exit from the room, as though utterly confounded at his own temerity.

But Jean, following his reply, had paid no further attention to Papa Fregeau. He had learned to knot the long, flowing tie that Myrna had chosen as part of his dress, for she had said, had she not, that it was the tie the artists wore in Paris? He knotted it now with extra care, put on his coat, snatched up his hat, and ran downstairs to the café below.

She was waiting for him back by the little comptoir where he had stood that evening when she had first spoken to him. She had been like a glorious vision that had burst suddenly upon him that evening—she was a thousand times more glorious now, for her smile was eager with an intimacy that promised—what did it promise? He did not know. It was there—and her eyes were shining, and the white throat was divinely beautiful—and the thrill of her presence quickened the beat of his heart.

Her laugh rang through the room, silver-toned.

"Jean," she cried merrily, "you are harder to see these days than a prime minister! What do you mean, sir? Have you deserted us?"

"Ma foi!" protested Jean, a little anxiously. "Mademoiselle does not mean that! Was I not at lunch with her to-day, and yesterday, and the day before that?"

"Yes, and all day at the work, and every evening in Marseilles"—she manufactured a dainty pout through her smile. "And even now that I have snatched a little moment, I must not keep you for they are waiting for you outside."

"Let them wait!" said Jean tensely.

"Oh, no; we mustn't do that," she said laughingly, shaking her head. "So listen, Jean. I have come to tell you that—can you guess what? That you are not going to Paris with us after all."

"Not going to Paris!"—Jean gazed at her bewilderedly, as he repeated the words.

"With us—silly boy!" she smiled teasingly. "Are you disappointed?"

She teased, and mocked, and delighted him, and fired his blood by amazing and elusive turns. He could not cope with her yet.

"But mademoiselle knows," he blundered. "I—I do not understand. It is a great disappointment."

"Then it mustn't be!" she declared brightly. "For it is my idea, and if you are not pleased with it, it is I who will be terribly disappointed. It is just a little while ago that father and I arranged the plans. We are to go to-morrow direct to Paris, and as soon as we get there—now listen very attentively, Jean!—we are going to pick out an atelier for you and fit it up. And you are not to come until we send you word that everything is ready. And the day you arrive I shall be hostess at the studio at a reception to which all Paris will be invited. Everybody that is worth while will come, and your entrée will be a triumph. Now, Jean, will that not be splendid?"

She was smiling at him, vivacious, flushed with excitement. Splendid—yes, it would be splendid! An entrée to Paris like that! It was the first tangible glimpse of reality out of the chaotic blaze of luring, golden dreams.

"It—it is too good of mademoiselle!" he stammered excitedly.

Low, musical, her laugh rippled through the room again, as she looked at him. The man was magnificent—the head, the shoulders, the splendid strength, the mobile, changing lights and shadows in his face like a child who had not yet learned to mask its emotions, and all this coupled with the deliciously picturesque background of the discovery of his art, would make him the rage in Paris. Paris would literally go wild over him! And she? Well, he would be still more a new sensation than ever—and perhaps, who knew?—but the man was too easily aroused—and then there was the possibility that her father, that Bidelot and the others had overrated him, that he would be but the phenomenon of the moment, only to sink after a while into uninteresting mediocrity—she would see. But for the present at least Paris would echo and re-echo with the name of Jean Laparde. Her eyebrows arched demurely, innocently. There was something else she had to say to Jean. She had never spoken to him of Marie-Louise—naturally. But she must speak now. Marie-Louise, a peasant girl, a bare-footed fisherwoman, in Paris as Jean's fiancée was perfectly impossible!

"Jean," she said ingenuously, "you know we took the cottage without much formality as far as any definite length of time was concerned. Of course we expected to stay longer, and if all this had not happened we certainly should have done so. So, do you think, when we speak to Marie-Louise about going, that she would be perfectly satisfied with a month's rent? I told father I would ask you."

Jean's face clouded.

"You have not told Marie-Louise then that you are going to-morrow?" he asked slowly.

"How could we—when we did not know ourselves until a little while ago?" she answered.

"No; that is so," he said. Then, with a short, conscious laugh: "I have not spoken to Marie-Louise myself."

"Of course you haven't!" she returned quickly, "And you have been wise."

"Wise?"—Jean looked at her, puzzled.

"Marie-Louise is not blind," said Myrna quietly. "It is far better that she should have seen things for herself—and she could not help seeing them during the last week."

"You mean?" Jean began—and stopped.

"You know what I mean, Jean," she said gravely. "That she must have seen what everybody else sees—what you see yourself. That if she ever had any idea of going to Paris with you, it is quite out of the question. It is different now—everything is changed. You are not a fisherman any longer; you have a great place to take in the world that she cannot take beside you. A week in Paris and, even if neither of you see it now, you would both see it only too bitterly and clearly then. For both your sakes it is better settled now."

Jean was staring across the room to where, outside, the crowd was packed densely in the road. Had he not thought of just those things that she had been saying? Had he not thought of them all week? They were true; but still there was Marie-Louise who—what was that? They were cheering him there outside—it made his blood tingle, he felt the mad elation of it, his soul seemed to leap out to meet the acclaim!

"But that is not all, Jean"—she was speaking again. "There is another thing, something you owe to—oh, how shall I say it?—to your country, and—" She stopped suddenly and caught his arm. "Listen!" she breathed. "Listen!"

It was Bidelot, the great Academician, his voice raised in impassioned words. Through the window they could see him standing, bare-headed, in the automobile.

"... Bernay-sur-Mer will evermore live in the hearts of Frenchmen—you have given to France the immortal name of Jean Laparde."

Her hands, both of them now, were clasped tightly on his arm.

"Jean!" she whispered. "Jean!"

"Mon Dieu!"—the words came hoarsely from Jean's throat. They were cheering again. He moved, like iron impelled to the magnet, across the room. He looked at Myrna. He had never seen her eyes so bright.

"It is only the beginning, Jean"—she seemed half hysterical herself. "But in Paris, Jean—in Paris you shall see!"

They were at the door, and suddenly she flung it wide open. There was a roar of voices. She was smiling at him from the doorway. They were shouting his name. They rushed at him, and, lifting him shoulder high, carried him to the automobile. Fame—was this only a taste of it? No more than that? In Paris—what was it he should see in Paris? They were shouting again. It was like some fiery draught that his soul was drinking in. He craved it with a lust that was passionate, all-possessing. He cried out to those around him. He did not know what he said. And then Bidelot was speaking to him, and the automobile was whirling down the road, followed by the shouts of all Bernay-sur-Mer.

All Bernay-sur-Mer? No; not all. For as the car flashed by, halfway between the little bridge and the eastern headland, the fringe of bushes by the roadside parted, a dark head lifted, and Marie-Louise gazed after it. It was all so strange, and she could not quite understand. Once, twice before, on other evenings, she had watched the car pass. They were all of the great world those men with Jean in the car; of the great world of which she knew nothing, only that the village spoke of the strangers with awe. And now Jean was one of them—and they seemed so proud of him, so proud to make him one of themselves, these great men. And she was proud of him, too, oh, so proud and glad and happy—only back of it all was a little chill of dread and fear, and she could not quite understand. She had smiled at Jean from the edge of the crowd that was clustered around the door of the barn those days when he had been working at the clay—and then she had stolen away and cried so bitterly. She did not know why she had done that. If only some one would tell her what it all meant! Was it because Jean was going away for a little time? The dark eyes widened slowly. Was it only for a little time? She had not talked to Jean since that morning on the beach, and that was so long, long ago. It wasn't Jean's fault, though, nearly so much as hers. She had really tried to evade him. No, not to evade Jean; but to evade the others out of the shyness and diffidence for the great strangers who were now constantly around him. Would there be always these strangers around him?

She drew herself up suddenly, her small hands fiercely clenched. She hated these strangers! That was it! They were always coming between Jean and herself! They were always there! They made of Jean a different man; they made him one of themselves, and in doing that they were snatching him away from her, taking him across what seemed like some vast gulf that she could not traverse herself. She hated this Monsieur American, and this mademoiselle; and she hated the day they had come, for it had all begun that day. The red burned angrily in her cheeks, the lithe form quivered in a quick rush of passion—and then, instantly penitent, with a little sob, she flung herself down upon the grass.

No; she did not hate them! What had she said! The bon Dieu would be very angry with her for that. And they had been very kind and good to her, this monsieur and this mademoiselle. And to hate all the others was to commit a sin, for were they not there because Jean—she raised her head quickly, parting the bushes again, as she caught the sound of steps and voices from the road.

It was Monsieur Bliss speaking in French to Father Anton, who walked between Monsieur Bliss and mademoiselle.

"Why should he not work here? Why should he go to Paris? What a question, my dear Monsieur le Curé! It is because here is nothing; because in Paris there is everything. It is there that he will study the great works of famous sculptors; it is there that he will have models and facilities for his work; it is there that he will have inspiration from the art around him; it is there that, with his genius, he will sift and choose, profiting from the different schools even as he creates a new one for himself; and it is there that the leading men of France will unite with the social world to make the name of Jean Laparde known and honoured wherever art is known."

"But," said Father Anton anxiously, "but he will come back—to Marie-Louise."

Henry Bliss's hand fell sympathetically upon the old priest's shoulder, as he shook his head.

"I do not know," he said soberly. "Who can tell? It depends upon Jean—and Marie-Louise. Frankly, I do not think he will come back, for there is always the danger that the greater he becomes the greater will become the distance between them—and Jean will unquestionably become a national figure. But it is a vastly different thing with him than it is with her. It is innate in him to take that place gracefully, even as his genius is innate in him. To her, I am afraid, it would be an impossible and an impracticable life. It is likely she would be miserable to begin with and feel herself a drag upon him, for, we must admit, she could not, as we say in America, hold up her end in his new life. It is one of those tragedies of life, isn't it, that we cannot shape one way or the other? It is something they alone must work out. It is not a little matter, this future of Jean's. France has claimed Jean, Monsieur le Curé, and it may well be, as Myrna here said a moment ago, there is no place in his new life for Marie-Louise. I—"

They had passed on.

It seemed to Marie-Louise that she was very cold, that somehow she could not move. There were three figures out there on the road walking along. It was very strange that so ordinary a thing as that should be taking place. She seemed to be numbed, to be waiting somehow for a return to consciousness. Was that consciousness that was returning now, was that it—this dull, monotonous pain? And that great choking in her heart—what was that? She was standing erect, and words were quivering on her lips.

"There is no place in his new life for Marie-Louise."

She was staring out before her; but the road, and, beyond it, the white beach, and, beyond that again, the blue of the sea with the great golden shaft of light from the setting sun upon it was gone—and there was only nothingness. Only her lips moved.

"There is no place—in his new life—for Marie-Louise."

— X —

A DAUGHTER OF FRANCE

How still the house was! Only once during the night had Marie-Louise heard a sound as she had sat, dressed, by the window in the little attic room. And that sound had been the whir of an automobile rushing by on the road—it had been Jean returning from Marseilles. That was while it was very dark, very long ago—now it was daylight again, and the sun was streaming into the room.

The chaste, sweet face was tired and weary and aged a little; but on the lips, sensitive, delicate, making even more beautiful their contour, was a brave, resolute little smile, as her eyes rested on the small white bed, neatly made, unslept in. It was over now, the fight that had been so hard and so cruel to fight; and she needed only the courage to go on to the end.

Over and over again, all through the night, she had thought it out. She loved Jean. She loved Jean so much! She had trembled once when she had tried to think how much, and the thought had come so quickly, before she could arrest it, that she loved Jean as much as she loved God—and then she had prayed the bon Dieu not to be angry with her for the sin, for she had not meant to think such thoughts as that.

It was true what they had said when they had passed by on the road yesterday evening. There was no place in his new life for her. A hundred little things all through the week had shown her that, only, until yesterday evening when Monsieur Bliss had spoken, she had not understood what they meant—Nanette, that first day, when Jean had come to lunch with mademoiselle and monsieur; the curious, side-long glances that the villagers gave her now; a strange, embarrassed reserve in Father Anton, when the good curé had spoken to her lately; that wide, vast gulf that lay between the world mademoiselle lived in, the world that Jean was going to, and her own world. They had all seen it—except herself. And she had not understood because she had not allowed herself to think what it might mean, what she knew now it meant—that she must lose Jean.

To let Jean go out of her life because France had claimed him—that was what her soul had whispered to her all through the night. A Daughter of France, her Uncle Gaston had called her proudly—it was Jean who had told her what her uncle had said—that he had taught her to love God and be never afraid. But she was afraid now, she had been afraid all through the night, for it seemed as if there were no more happiness, as though a great pain that would never go away again had come to her.

France had claimed Jean. He was to be a famous man. Did they not all talk of his glorious future? It was different with Jean—years ago even she had known that. She herself had told him he was different from the fishermen of Bernay-sur-Mer. Jean was born to the life that he was going to. Was he not even now taking his place amongst these great strangers as though he had been accustomed to do so always? And she, if she should try to do it, they would laugh at her, and she would bring ridicule upon Jean, and she could not do what Jean could do. She was a peasant girl whom mademoiselle scolded about going without shoes and stockings.

And Jean must surely have seen these things, too. But Jean, though he had heedlessly hurt her so when he had given away again the little beacon, would never speak to her of this, because this was a much greater thing which was to change all their lives. It was she who must speak to Jean, it was she who must tell him that she understood that the great future which lay before him must not be harmed; that she must not hold him back; that she must not stand in his way; that she would only hurt him in that dazzling, bewildering world that would disdain a fishergirl; that it was France, not she, who came first.

The night had brought her that. It was only the courage she needed now to act upon it.

She stood up, looking through the window—and the great dark eyes filled with a blinding mist.

"Jean! Jean!" she said brokenly aloud.

A little while she stood there, and then walked slowly across the room to the bed. And as once she had knelt there before, she dropped again upon her knees beside it. And now the smile came bravely again. They were wrong. It was not true. There was a place in his life for her—something that she could do now. There was one way in which her love could still help Jean in the wonderful life that had come to him.

The dark head bent to the coverlet.

"Mon Père," she whispered, "make me that—Jean's beacon now."

And after a time she rose, and bathed her face, and fastened the black coils of hair that had become unloosed, and, as she heard Nanette stirring below, went quietly downstairs.

She must see Jean. They were going away to-day, mademoiselle and monsieur, and Nanette and Jules; and Jean was to follow them in a few days. She had heard mademoiselle and her father discussing it at their supper last evening. She must see Jean now before the others went, so—so that everybody would understand.

She stole out of the house, gained the road and started to run along it toward the village. Jean would be up long ago, all his life he had risen hours before this, and she would be back by the time mademoiselle and monsieur were up and needed her. She stopped suddenly, and in quick dismay glanced down at her bare feet. She had forgotten to put on her shoes and stockings. Suppose mademoiselle should see her returning like that!

And then Marie-Louise shook her head slowly, and went on again. It was not right to disobey, but it could not matter very much now, for mademoiselle was going away in the afternoon. And besides she could run much faster without them, and—the tears came with a rush to her eyes—they seemed all at once to mean so much, those shoes and stockings. It—it was the shoes and stockings and all they meant that was taking her out of Jean's life. She understood it all so well now.

She brushed the tears a little angrily from her eyes. She must not do that. To go to Jean and cry! Far better not to go at all! Afterwards, when they were gone, these Americans, and when Jean was gone, and she was alone and only the bon Dieu to see, then perhaps the tears would be too strong for her. But now she must talk very bravely to Jean, and not make it harder for him; for, no matter what happened or what was to come, Jean, too, in his love, would feel the parting.

She understood Jean better now, too. The night had made so many things much clearer. Had he not confessed that he was not always happy as a fisherman in Bernay-sur-Mer? And must it not have been just this, this greatness within him, that had made him discontented? And now that it had come true, a far greater thing than he could have dreamed of, changing his whole life, must it not for the time have made him forget everything else? It had not killed his love for her, it had not done that—but this thing must be first before either of their loves. Afterwards, perhaps, it might kill his love—afterwards, yes, afterwards it might do that. She tried to smile a little. It was what she was going now to bring about—afterwards it must kill his love. It was the only way. And that would come surely, very surely—his giving away of the beacon, so lightly forgetting what he told her it had meant, taught her that. If he went now, if she bade him go now, it was not for a little time—it was for always.

She was running, very fast, breathlessly—as though she were trying to outrun her thoughts. It was coming again, the same bitter fight that she had fought out through the darkness, through all those long hours alone—but she must not let it come, that sadness, that yearning that tried to make her falter and hold back. The way was very plain. If she loved Jean, if she really loved him, she must not let that love do anything but what would help him in his new, great life—she must cling to that. It would not be love if she did anything else; it would only mean that she loved herself more than she loved Jean.

"To be never afraid"—Uncle Gaston had taught her that, and the words were on her lips now—"To be never afraid."

She was walking again now, for she had reached the village. Some one called to her from a cottage door, and she called back cheerfully as she passed on to the Bas Rhône, where Papa Fregeau was standing in the doorway.

"Tiens, petite!" the fat little proprietor cried heartily. "But it is good to see our little Marie-Louise! You do not come often these days. They make you work too hard, those Americans, perhaps? But to-day they are going—eh? Wait, I will call Lucille."

"Good morning, Jacques," she answered. "Yes; it is to-day that they are going, so do not call Mother Fregeau, for there is a great deal to do at the house and I must hurry back."

"Ah!" observed Papa Fregeau. "You have come then with a message?"

"Yes," she said hurriedly; "for Jean. Do you know where he is?"

"But, là, là!" chuckled Papa Fregeau. "But, yes; he is upstairs in his room. But wait—I must tell you. I have just helped him carry it up. It is a very grand American affair, and he is like a child with it. It arrived from Marseilles last night after he had gone."

"What did?" inquired Marie-Louise patiently.

"What did!" ejaculated Papa Fregeau. "But did I not tell you? The American trunk, pardieu! that he is to go away with, and—" The fat little man grew suddenly confused. "Tiens!" he stammered. "He is upstairs in his room, Marie-Louise. I am an old fool—eh—an old fool!"—and he waddled away.

Why should it have hurt a little more because Jacques Fregeau had said Jean was going away? And why should Jacques Fregeau have been able to read it in her eyes? She was not so brave perhaps as she had thought. And her heart was pounding now very quickly and so hard that it brought pain, as she went up the stairs.

"Mon Père"—her lips were whispering the same prayer over again—"make me that—Jean's beacon now."

And then she was knocking at the door.

For an instant she hesitated, as his voice called to her to enter; then she opened the door and stepped inside. It was Jean, this great fine figure of a man, who turned so quickly toward her; but it was already the Jean of the world where they wore shoes and stockings, and his clothes were like the clothes of Monsieur Bliss. They made him very handsome, very grand; only somehow they made it seem that her errand was useless now, that she had come too late, that Jean was already gone.

Her eyes met his, smiled—and, from his face, strayed about the room. It was very fine that American trunk, but not very large. It was like one that mademoiselle had, that she called a steamer trunk, and carried on the automobile—and the trunk was empty, and the tray was on the floor beside it.

"Marie-Louise!" he cried—and then, a little awkwardly, he caught her hands. "But—but what has brought you here, Marie-Louise?"

"To see you, Jean," she told him simply.

For a moment he stared at her uneasily. Was this then to be the scene that he had dreaded, that he had been putting off? And then he laughed a little unnaturally.

"Ah, did you think, then, Marie-Louise, that I had forgotten you? You must not think that! Only, mon Dieu, what with Bidelot, and the critics, and Marseilles, and the work all day at the new design, what could I do? But Bidelot and the rest have returned to Paris, and mademoiselle and monsieur go to-day; and this afternoon I was going to find you and tell you about the great plans they have all made for me."

"Yes; I know, Jean," she answered. "And that is what I have come for—to have a little talk about you and me."

"About my going away, you mean?" he said, infusing a lightness into his voice. "But you must not feel sad about that, Marie-Louise. You would not have me lose a chance like that! And it is only for a little while, until I have learned what, they say, Paris will teach me. I shall do great things in Paris, Marie-Louise—and then I shall come back."

She shook her head slowly.

"Jean," she said very quietly, "it is about your coming back that I want to speak to you. I have thought it all out last night. It is not for a little while. When you go it is for always. You can never come back."

"Never come back! Ah, is it that then that is troubling you?" he said eagerly. "You mean that you would not mind my going for a little while, only you think it is for more than that?"

"You do not understand, Jean"—it seemed as though she must cry out in wild abandon, as though the tears must come and fill her eyes, as though she were not brave at all. Would not the bon Dieu help her now! She drew her hands away from him, and turned from him for an instant. "You can never come back, Jean; you can never come back to the old life. You will go on and on, further and further away from it, making a great name for yourself, and your friends will be all like the grand monde who have been here, and I know that I cannot go into that life, too—I understand that all so well. And—and so, Jean, I have come to tell you that you are free."

"Free!" he cried—and gazed at her in stupefaction. The colour came and went from his face. He had not thought of this from her! And yet it was what he had said in his soul—if only there were nothing between Marie-Louise and himself! It was as if a weight had been lifted from him—only replacing the weight was a miserable pricking of conscience. "Free! What are you saying?"

And now the dark eyes were bright and deep and unfaltering—and suddenly she drew her form erect, and her head was thrown proudly back.

"Free, Jean, because you must not think any more of me; because you are to be a great man in your country and it is your duty to go, for France has called you, and France is first; because"—her voice, quivering, yet triumphant, was ringing through the room—"because I give you to France, Jean! You do not belong to me now—you belong to France!"

For a moment he did not speak. There seemed a thousand emotions, soul-born, surging upon him. Her words thrilled him; it was over; there was relief; it was done. She had gone where he had not dared to go in his thoughts—to the end. He would never come back, she said. He was free. But he could not have her think that he could let her go like that!

"No, no, Marie-Louise!" he burst out. "Do you think that even if I belonged to France, even if all my life were changed, that I could ever forget you, that I could forget Bernay-sur-Mer, and all the people and my life here?"

"Yes," she said, "you will forget."

"Never!" he asserted fiercely.

"Jean"—her voice was low again—"it is the bon Dieu last night who has made me understand. I do not know what is in the new world that you are going to, only that you will be one of the greatest and perhaps one of the richest men in France. And I understand you better, Jean, I think, than you understand yourself. This fame and power will mean more to you than anything else, and it will grow and grow and grow, Jean. And, oh, Jean, I am afraid you will forget that it is not you at all who does these great things but that it is the bon Dieu who lets you do them, and that you will grow proud, Jean, and lose all the best out of your life because you will even forget that once those clothes hanging there"—she pointed toward the rough fisherman's suit—"were yours."

It was strange to hear Marie-Louise talking so! He did not entirely understand. Something was bewildering him. She was telling him that he must think no more of her, that it was finished. And there was no scene. And she did not reproach him. And there were no tears. And it did not seem as though it were quite real. He had pictured quite another kind of scene, where there would be passion and angry words. And there was nothing of that—only Marie-Louise, like a grown-up Marie-Louise, like a mother almost, speaking so gravely and anxiously to him of things one would not expect Marie-Louise to know anything about.

She turned from him impulsively; and from the peg took down the cap and the rough suit, and from the floor gathered up the heavy boots with the coarse socks tucked into their tops—and, as he watched her in amazement, she thrust them suddenly into his arms.

"Promise me, Jean," she said in the same low way, "that you will keep these with you always, and that sometimes in your great world you will look at them and remember—that they, too, belong to France"—and then suddenly her voice broke, and she had run from the room.

She was gone. Jean's eyes, from the doorway, shifted to the clothes that cluttered up his arms—and for a long time he did not move. Then one hand lifted slowly, and in a dazed sort of way brushed the hair back from his eyes. It was a strange thing, that—to take these things with him to remember—what was it she had said?—to remember that they, too, belonged to France.

"Mon Dieu!" he whispered—and, with a queer lift of his shoulders, turned mechanically to the trunk beside him. "Mon Dieu!" he whispered again—and now there was a twisted little smile of pain upon his lips as understanding came, and almost reverently he laid the things in the bottom of the trunk.

— XI —

THE PENDULUM

How many miles had they come? Jean did not know. It had been far—but far along a road of golden dreams, where time and distance mattered only because they were so quickly passed.

It was Myrna Bliss who had suggested it because, had she not said? she wanted to have a little talk with him alone before she left for Paris that afternoon—and they would walk out along the road before her father started, and the automobile would pick her up on the way.

And so they had come, and so she had talked and he had listened—feasting his eyes upon the superb, alluring figure that swung, so splendidly supreme, along beside him. She had told him of Paris—Paris, the City Beautiful—of the great city that was the glory of France, of its magnificent boulevards, its statues, its arches, its wonderful architecture, its wealth of art garnered from the ages, its happy mirth, its gaiety, its richness and its life, the life that would now be his. And he had listened, rapt, absorbed, fascinated, as though to some entrancing melody, now martial, now in softer strain, that stirred his pulse as it carried him beyond himself, and unfettered his imagination until it swept, free as a bird in air, into the land of dreams, that knew a fierce, ecstatic echo in his soul—the melody of her voice.

But now there had come a jarring note into that melody; and a sudden, swift emotion, that mingled dismay, a passionate longing, a panic sense of impotency, was upon him. The quick throb of the motor was sounding from down the road behind them. Monsieur Bliss was coming now. In a moment she would be gone.

She had heard it, too, for she ceased speaking abruptly, and, halting, turned to face him.

"Isn't it too bad, Jean?" she cried disappointedly. "And I had hardly begun to tell you about it! But then, never mind, the rest of it all you will see for yourself in a few more days, when you get to Paris."

In a moment she would be gone! What was it that held him back—that had always held him back before? He was strong enough—strong enough to crush her to him, to cover that gloriously beautiful face with his kisses, to bathe his face in the fragrance of her hair, to feel her heart, the throb, the pulse, the life of her body against his own! What was it that, strong as he was, was stronger than he?

"It—it is good-bye," he said, in a low, tense way.

She felt the passion that was possessing him—he read it in the startled glance of the grey eyes before they were veiled; in the ivory of the perfect throat grown colourful with the mounting red; in the parted lips before the teasing, merry smile was forced there, as she stepped back a little away from him. She knew! She knew, as he knew, that his soul was aflame—and it was she, not he, who dammed back the tide of his passion with that "something" that was so powerful an ally of hers, so readily, so always at her instant command. She knew, as he knew, that his soul was aflame—and yet she had not repulsed him. What did it mean? That she cared! But why did she laugh so lightly now, why was she so perfectly self-possessed? What did it mean? That she was playing with him!

"How absurd, Jean!" she laughed gaily. "Of course, it isn't 'good-bye'; that is"—she glanced at him demurely—"that is, unless you've changed your mind about coming to Paris." Then, impulsively eager: "But you haven't done that, have you? And you want to come more than ever now after what I have told you, don't you? And, Jean"—she came suddenly close to him again, and her face, its demureness gone, was puckered up in very earnest little wrinkles—"there isn't anything, you won't let anything keep you from coming—will you?"

Keep him from Paris—from her! Why had she asked that? He laughed out boisterously, harshly. It was very near now, that accursed automobile! Monsieur Bliss was calling out to them. Keep him from—Paris! He could only laugh out again wildly, as he looked at her.

"Jean!"—it was a quick, hurried exclamation, not all composure now, and her eyes were hidden, and her face was turned away. "Jean, good gracious, don't you hear father calling to you? Look, here he is!"

Jean swept his hand across his eyes. It was the madness upon him. Yes, here was Monsieur Bliss beside him, and she and her father were both talking at once. It was Paris! Always Paris that they talked of! In a week, in ten days, he would be there. And then they had both shaken hands with him, the grey eyes had smiled into his for an instant, and she had sprung from him into the automobile. It was a daze. They had gone. He was standing in the road watching them. She was fluttering a scarf at him, as she leaned far over the back of the car—her voice, full-throated, was throbbing in his ears.

"An revoir, Jean! Au revoir—till Paris!"

The car disappeared over the brow of a little hill, came into sight again as it topped the opposite rise, became a blur and then a tiny dot, scarcely discernible, far on along the road. And still he stood there.

It was gone at last. He turned then, and started back along the road toward Bernay-sur-Mer; now walking slowly, now suddenly changing his pace to a quick, impulsive stride. His eyes were on the road before him, but he saw nothing. Her voice was ringing in his ears again, and again he was living in that golden land of dreams—with her.

Paris! The City Beautiful! Paris—where he should know fame and power, where his genius should kindle a flame of enthusiasm that would spread throughout all France! Paris—where men should do him honour! Paris—where riches were! Paris—where she was!

His brain reeled with it. It was not wild imagining. A power, a mighty power, the power that made him master of his art lived and breathed in every fibre of his being. He needed no tongue of others now to tell him that this power was his; the knowledge of it was in his soul until he knew, knew as he knew that he had being and existence, that the work of Jean Laparde would stand magnificent and supreme before the eyes of the world. He saw himself the centre, the leader of a glittering entourage. Fame! Men of the highest ranks should envy him—the gamins of Paris should know his name. He threw back his head on his great shoulders. Conceit, all this? No; it was stupendous—but it was not conceit. He knew—his soul knew it. He was more sure of himself now than even those great critics of France had been sure. They had seen nothing—he had not begun. A year, two years in Paris, the tools to work with, the models of flesh and blood at his command—and, ah, God, what would he not do! They should see, they should see then! And they should stand and wonder, as they had not wondered before—at Jean Laparde!

He laughed suddenly aloud. Father Anton had preached a sermon once in the little church, he remembered it now—that fame was an empty thing. An empty thing! He laughed again. It was the simplicity of the good curé, who believed such things because, pardieu! the curé was a gentle soul and knew no better. What should Father Anton, who never went anywhere, into whose life came nothing but the little daily affairs of the fisherfolk in Bernay-sur-Mer, who could never have had any experience in the things outside the life of the village that turned everlastingly like a wheel in its grooves, know of fame? It was not the fault of Father Anton that he talked so, for he got those things out of his books, and, having no reason out of his own knowledge of life to know any better, believed them!

Jean shrugged his shoulders. One felt sorry for Father Anton! Perhaps once in two years the curé journeyed as far as Marseilles—and the few miles was a great event! What could one expect Father Anton to discover for himself out of life?

Fame—an empty thing! Poor Father Anton, who, because he believed it, so earnestly preached it to Papa Fregeau and Pierre Lachance who never went even as far as Marseilles, and who therefore in turn were very content to believe it, too! An empty thing? It was everything!

He drew in his breath sharply; his hand was feverishly tossing back the hair from his forehead. It was everything! It was wealth, it was power, it was might, it was greatness. It was real; it brought things to the very senses one possessed, things that one could see and hear and touch and taste and smell. They were real—real, those things! It brought money that bought all things; it brought position, honour and command, a name amongst the great names of France; it thrilled the soul and fired the blood; it was limitless, boundless, without horizon. It brought all things beyond the dreams that one could dream, the plaudits of his fellow-men, the wild-flung shouts of acclamation from hoarse-throated multitudes; it brought riches; it brought affluence; and it brought—love.

Love! Ay, it would bring love! It would bring him that more than it would bring him any other thing. He knew now what had held him back from crushing that maddeningly alluring form in his arms, from giving free rein to the passion that was his, from giving him the mastery of her. It was that same thing that Marie-Louise sensed between herself and what she called the grand monde. He, too, had not yet bridged the gulf. He had not yet been able to look into those grey eyes of the beautiful American and forget, deep in his soul, that she was different, that he had been Jean Laparde the poor fisherman and not always Jean Laparde the great sculptor. Was she playing with him? What did it matter? The day would come when she would not play! She would be his—and this fame, that was so empty a thing, would give her to him. If for no other thing than that he would go to Paris. She would be his—as all the world would be his! His! That is what fame would bring him! Would she play with him then in his greatness!

Paris! Paris! It lay before him, a glittering, entrancing vista; it held out its arms to him, and beckoned him; it heaped honour and glory and riches upon him; it gave him—-her!

His hands were clenched at his sides, and the skin over the knuckles, tight-drawn, showed white; his stride was rapid, fierce; he was breathing quickly; his face was flushed; his eyes were burning. Paris, his art that would bring him fame, the fame that would bring him her—nor heaven nor hell would hold him back!

And then suddenly in the middle of the road he stopped, and his hand tore at his collar as though it choked him. Subconsciously he had seen stretching out before him the sparkling blue of the quiet sea, the headland, the little strip of beach where he and Gaston used to keep the boats, a blur of white where the house on the bluff showed through the trees—he had come that far on his way back. Subconsciously, in a meaningless way, he had seen this; but now it was blotted from him in a flash, and in its place came a scene that, though imaginary, was vivid, real, actual, where before reality itself had meant nothing.

It was black, intensely black, and the wild howling of the wind was in his ears. The rain was lashing at his face, and all along the beach echoed the terrific boom and roar of the surf. And now there came the crash of thunder, and quick upon its heels the heavens opening in darting, zigzag tongue-flames, lurid, magnificent, awesome, as the lightning flashes leapt across the sky. And he was standing on that little strip of beach, and far out across the waters, shrouded in a white smother of spume and spray, the figure of Marie-Louise stood outlined on the edge of the Perigeau Reef. And now he was crossing that stretch between them, and living again the physical agony that had been his; and now he was in the water, clinging to the gunwale of the boat, and in all the wild abandon of the storm her lips and his were pressed together in that long kiss that seemed to span all life and all eternity.

As though spellbound, a whiteness creeping into his face, Jean stood tense and motionless there in the road. Why had this come now—he had never let it come in the week that was past. Why should it have come now, like floodgates opened against his will, to overwhelm him? Ah, was it that? That little figure, that was just discernible, far off on that beach, the little figure, bare-footed, that was sitting now on the stem of his boat where it was drawn up on the sand, and whose face was cupped in her hands, and who seemed to be staring so intently out toward the Perigeau Reef! That was Marie-Louise there—Marie-Louise. Was it the sight of her that had brought this thing upon him? And now the scene was changed again. And it was against the window panes that the rain lashed, and against the sashes that the wind tore, and the lamp threw its light on the grey-grim face of old Gaston Bernier on the bed.

Jean shivered a little. What was coming now? What was that? Gaston's hand was upon his. He could hear Gaston's voice: "Jean, do you love Marie-Louise?" And then Gaston was repeating the question, and repeating it again: "Jean, do you love Marie-Louise?" And the old rugged strength seemed back again in Gaston Bernier, as he, rose up in bed, and his voice in a strange, stern note rang through the room: "Swear it, Jean ... to a dying man and in God's presence ... swear that you will..."

"God! My God!" Jean cried out aloud—and like a blind man feeling before him, turned from the road, stumbled a little way through the fields, and flung himself face down upon the grass.

There was torment and dismay upon him. His mind was in riot; his soul bare and naked now before him. Paris! No; he must go instead to Marie-Louise and tell her that he would stay in Bernay-sur-Mer, that they would live their lives together, because they loved each other. Yes; he loved Marie-Louise, not with the mad passion he had for this American who bewitched him, but as he had loved her all the years since they were children. He had told Gaston that, and it was true. It was the act of a misérable to go away! No; he would not go now. It was true, all that he had told Marie-Louise, that she should stand on the beach and hold out her arms to him in welcome when he pulled ashore from the fishing, and that they would be always happy together. And yet—and yet had not Marie-Louise herself said that he belonged to France, and said herself that he must go for the great career that lay before him, for the great work that he was to do?

He cried out aloud sharply, as though in hurt—and prone upon his face, his hands outstretched before him, lay still for a little time.

It seemed to come insidiously, calling to him, luring him, wrestling, fighting, battling with the soul of him—Paris! Here there was love, but there, too, was love. One was calm; the other like the wild tumult of the storm that in its might, primal, elemental, swept him blindly forward. Paris—she would be there, she who held him in a spell, who made him forget Marie-Louise. And there was fame and glory there, honour and wealth—all, all, everything that the world could give. And it was his, all his—he had only to reach out and take it. There, all France would be at his feet. It made his brain swim with the mad intoxication of it. It was as a man dying with thirst who sees afar the water that is life to him. Here, he could never be contented now, he could never be happy, and in a year, two years, Marie-Louise, therefore, would be unhappy, too. But—but he could not go ... that night that he had held Gaston Bernier's hand ... and there was Marie-Louise that he loved ... Marie-Louise with the pure, fearless face, the great eyes that were full of a world of things, of calm, of trust, of tenderness and love, the lips, the wonderful lips that were so divinely carved, the lips like which there were no others. And he must choose now forever between Marie-Louise and—Paris. If he went, he would never come back. He was honest with himself now. He knew that. Marie-Louise knew that. He must choose now. Choose! Had he not already decided that he would—that he would—what?

It began all over again, and after that again for a hundred times, until the brain of the man was sick and weary, and the torment of it had brought the moisture to his forehead and into his eyes a fevered, hunted look—and still he lay there, and the hours went by. And after a time, beneath the rim of the sea in the west, the sun sank down, and the golden afterglow, soft and rich and warm, was as a gentle, parting benediction upon the earth—and Jean's head was buried in his outflung arms. And twilight came—and after that the evening—then darkness, and the myriad, twinkling stars of a night, calm and serene, were overhead—and it grew late.

And there came a soul-wrung cry from Jean, as he lifted a worn and haggard face to the moonlight.

"What shall I do? What shall I do?"