Book 2 — BOOK II: TWO YEARS LATER (continued 4)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She felt her face grow very white.

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

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

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

"Marie-Louise!"

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

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

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

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

— XIII —

DAWN

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

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

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

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

"To-day—to-day—to-day we shall reach France—reach France—reach France!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Marie-Louise," he whispered tenderly. "Your lips, ma bien-aimée!"

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

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

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

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

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

And then Jean spoke again.

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

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

Her hands tightened about him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Look!" he said suddenly.

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

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

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

There were glad words on Jean's lips:

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

— XIV —

THE STATUE OF DREAMS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes—well, then! Well, then! But make haste!" Bidelot dragged at the skirt of Father Anton's soutane, and led the way from the apartment, exclaiming as he went. Then, as they reached the street, he caught Father Anton's arm and shook it almost as he would a refractory child's. "Now, then! Now, then—tell me!"

"But be calm, Monsieur Bidelot; I pray you to be calm!" expostulated Father Anton gently. "See"—stepping out—"I will tell you as we walk along. Well, then—listen! One night, a little over four months ago, Hector came to my rooms in such excitement that I thought he was ill. He told me that Jean had come back. Like you, I could not believe it. I hurried there—I ran. It was true! It was Jean—not like the Jean that went away; but like the Jean when you first saw him, the Jean of Bernay-sur-Mer. And with him was—ah, but what amazement!—was my little Marie-Louise—no, Jean's Marie-Louise, for I married them there that night, and—"

"But," interrupted Bidelot, gesticulating with his hat, for he had forgotten to put it on, "but, still I do not understand! Over four months ago! And since then? Where has he been since then?"

"He has been working there at the studio in secret," Father Anton answered.

"Working! Ah! Let us hurry—faster then!" urged Bidelot eagerly. "But why has he gone away? Why did he not wait? But to-morrow—eh—to-morrow, he will be back to-morrow?"

"No," said Father Anton slowly. "I do not think Jean will come back any more to Paris."

"Monsieur le Curé," spluttered Bidelot, halting suddenly in the middle of the street, "what is the matter with you? Enough of these riddles! Jean not come any more to Paris! I can understand nothing!"

"But you would understand," said Father Anton patiently, "if only you would let me tell you. See now, listen—it is the story as Jean told it to me that night"—and, as he took old Bidelot's arm, and they walked on again, Father Anton, smiling sometimes radiantly, fumbling sometimes with his spectacles, told of the old days in Bernay-sur-Mer, of Marie-Louise, of how she came to Paris, of how Jean "died" that night at sea, and of how they came to France again. And they were at the studio and mounting the steps, as Father Anton ended.

"And so," he said, "and so, that night I married Jean and Marie-Louise. And what days after that! If you could but have seen Jean in the joy of his work, and Marie-Louise there beside him! And I must needs go to Bernay-sur-Mer to buy back Marie-Louise's house without her knowing it, and see to the building of an atelier to be added to it. And—it is there they went this morning—to live."

And Bidelot was very quiet now, and his eyes were wet.

"I understand," he said, as Father Anton opened the door with a key. "But"—shaking his head a little—"even in Bernay-sur-Mer Jean will be famous, and the world will follow to Bernay-sur-Mer."

"That is perhaps true, and it would be a sad thing if it were otherwise," said Father Anton, with his rare, grave smile, "for there is a pride that is pure, and a joy like no other joy in the tribute that is paid to one for work well done. And if the world follows to Bernay-sur-Mer, it can be only to the life that it will find there, the life in which Marie-Louise has her glad place, a life that the world, as you speak of it, will never mould or change."

They passed in across the hall, and entered the salon, and walked down its length to the portières that hid the atelier from view—but here Bidelot paused.

"Wait!" he said. "Tell me one thing more. Why has Jean stayed here in Paris to work in secret like this for all these months since he came back?"

"I think you will find the answer here," said Father Anton—and, reaching out his hand, drew the portières quietly apart.

And Bidelot, with a low, sudden cry, stepped forward into the atelier—and after that stood still, and neither spoke nor moved.

Two life-sized figures were before him—a woman, and a man. And the woman, a fishergirl, stood as on a perilous, wave-swept ledge, and leaning forward was stretching out her hands; and at her feet, from storm-lashed waters that swirled around him, rose the head and shoulders of the man, one hand clasped in both of hers, the fingers of the other clawing into the crevice of the rock, the muscles of the bare arm, where the shirt had been torn away, standing out like whip-cords as he drew himself to safety. And as Bidelot gazed, the studio, the surroundings, all were gone. Alone those figures—as in some mighty power that was supreme, that knew naught but itself, but in itself knew all of triumph, of defeat, of struggle, of glory, of undying love, of victory, that knew the sadness and the joys of life, its empty things and its immortal truth! And in the wind-wrapt, wave-wet clothes that clung about the fishergirl, disclosing in pure, chaste beauty the strong young limbs and form, in the torn and bleeding shoulders of the man, buffeted, near spent, there seemed to fall upon the studio the darkness of blackened skies, to come the roar of waters in turbulent unrest, the play of lightning, the roll of thunder, now ominous, now dying muttering away—and all was storm and battle and dismay and death. And then, as sunshine breaking through the clouds—a glad and perfect triumph—victory! It was in the woman's face that was rigidly set with high, unfaltering courage, yet softened as by some divine touch with a wondrous tenderness until the beautiful lips, as they panted in the struggle, smiled, and the brave, fearless eyes held trust and love; it was in the man's face, shining like some radiant glory from out the drawn and haggard features, as though the physical evidence of the torture and pain of one who had been near to death were lost in the joy and wonder of life regained—is though his soul were in his face.

It was long before Bidelot spoke.

"There are no words," he said. "It is what I dreamed and hoped that I might see."

"It is Marie-Louise—his wife," said Father Anton softly. "It is his statue of dreams, with the base at last that he could never see before."

There were tears upon old Bidelot's cheeks.

"I understand," he said. "It is Jean himself." He moved closer to the figures, and stood silent again. "It is a priceless thing," he said presently. "It is not himself alone; it is the womanhood of France, pure in her courage and her love, immortal in her sacrifice, that is the inspiration, the life, the anchorage, the guiding star, the hope of France itself! Ah, my friend"—the grizzled head was high, the eyes were shining with pride and a glad excitement—"I speak for this for France. All must see it—the France as yet unborn, the children when we are dead and gone who shall serve their country better for the masterpiece of Jean Laparde and the story that it tells. I go to-night! I go to-night to Bernay-sur-Mer to Jean—to speak for this for France!"

Father Anton made no answer; but he stooped and from the pedestal of the group removed the cloths that, as though they had fallen in a careless heap when the figures had been uncovered, were bedded around it. He was smiling through misty eyes, as he stood up again.

"It was the message that I had for you," he said. "Read!"

And Bidelot, bending forward, read the words that were carved there in the clay:

TO FRANCE—FROM JEAN LAPARDE

THE END