The Beloved Traitor Part 20

"Jean?" repeated Father Anton, startled. "Jean?" He looked at her closely. Could it be that? And then, with a little gasp, as he seemed to read the truth in her eyes: "It--it is Jean then, Marie-Louise, who has brought you to Paris?"

"Yes," she answered, in a low voice.

The cure's face grew very grave.

"You have heard from him?"

She shook her head.

"I have never heard from Jean since the day he left Bernay-sur-Mer"--she was plucking with her fingers at the skirt of the priest's _soutane_.

There was a long silence, broken at last by the old priest's deep sigh.

"You still love Jean, my child?" he asked gently.

"I have always loved him," she said simply.

Father Anton fumbled with his spectacles. His heart had grown very heavy. It seemed that the cruelest, saddest thing in the world had happened.

"Tell me about him!" she demanded eagerly. "You see him every day, father."

"I have not seen Jean in many months," he replied sadly.

"Not seen him!" she echoed in consternation. "But he is here--in Paris--isn't he?"

"Yes; he is here," the cure said slowly. "But Paris is a big place, and--and even old friends sometimes do not meet often."

"But tell me about him!" she persisted. "He has become a great man--a very great, great man?"

"Yes," said Father Anton gravely, "he has become a great man--the greatest perhaps in all of France." Then suddenly, laying his hands on Marie-Louise's shoulders: "Marie-Louise, what is in your heart? Why have you come here?"

"But I have told you, and you know," she said. "To see Jean."

The cure's hands tightened upon her shoulders. What was he to say to her? How was he to tell her of the danger she in her innocence would never guess, that lay so cold and ominous a thing upon his own heart?

How was he to put into words his fear of Jean for this pure soul that was at his knees? As wide as the world was the distance that lay now between Marie-Louise and Jean--but it was not that, not even that Jean was openly attentive to Myrna Bliss--that was only a little thing.

Jean was not the Jean of Bernay-sur-Mer. The man was glutted now with power and wealth. And swaying him was not the love of art that might have lifted him to a loftier plane, it was the prost.i.tution of that divine, G.o.d-given genius for the l.u.s.t of fame. And for fame he had exchanged his soul. What was there sacred to Jean now? It was a life closely approximating that of a roue that Jean lived. And for Marie-Louise, with her love a weapon that might so easily be turned against her, to come in touch with--no, no; it was not to be thought of!

"Marie-Louise," he said hoa.r.s.ely, "you must go back. You do not understand. Jean is very different now--he is not the Jean--"

"I know," she interposed, with a catch in her voice. "I know--better than you think I know. It is you who do not understand. He is of the _grand monde_, I understand that; and I--I am what I am, and it must be always so. But I love him, father. Is it wrong that I should love him? I will never speak to him, and he shall never know that I am here; but I must see him, and see his work, and--and--oh, don't you understand?"

"And after that?" asked the old priest sorrowfully.

"What does it matter--after that?" she said tensely. "I do not know."

"No, Marie-Louise," he said earnestly, "no, my child, no good can come of it. You must go back to Bernay-sur-Mer."

She drew away from him, staring at him a little wildly.

"But do you not understand?" she cried out with a sudden rush of pa.s.sion. "But do you not understand that it is stronger than I--that I could not stay in Bernay-sur-Mer because I was always thinking, thinking--that I could not go back there now any more than I could stay there before? I must do this! I will do it! Nothing shall stop me!

And if you will not help me, then--"

Father Anton drew her gently back against his knees. Yes; he was beginning to understand--that the problem was not to be settled so easily as by the mere expedient of telling Marie-Louise she must go back to Bernay-sur-Mer. Those small clenched hands, those tight lips were eloquent of finality. It became simply a matter of accepting a fact. He might insist a dozen times that she should go. It would be useless. She would not go! The old priest's brows furrowed in anxiety. This love for Jean was still first in the girl's heart.

Words, arguments, were of no avail against the longing that was supreme with her, that had brought her on the long journey across all France.

But her love was the love that pictured the frank, strong, simple fisherman of Bernay-sur-Mer. If she should see Jean as he really was!

If she should see for herself the change in him, the abandon of his life; and, too, see the glittering circles in which he moved! The first would dispel her love for him; the second would show her in any case the utter futility of it. As long as she held this love, that he had hoped and prayed she had forgotten, it spoiled her life. It could only bring her misery, unhappiness and sorrow. It would hurt cruelly, this disenchantment; but it would save her, this poor child, whom he loved as he would have loved a daughter of his own. Yes; if she should see Jean as he really was, see him intimately enough to realise the truth of the life he was leading! But how could that be brought about--and at the same time protect her and keep her _safe_?

She rose slowly to her feet, and stood before him, her hands still tightly shut at her sides.

"I was so sure, so sure that you would help me!" she said miserably.

And then, in pleading abandon, she flung out her arms to him. "Oh, won't you, Father Anton, won't you? Won't you try to understand? It can do no harm, only--only it is all my life--just to see him, to be near him for a little while, to know that it has all been a wonderful thing for him--and he will never know, I will not let him know."

The cure's hands clasped and unclasped nervously.

"Would you promise that, Marie-Louise? That you would not speak to him, that you would not let him know you were here in Paris?"

She answered him almost pa.s.sionately, in hurt pride.

"Oh, how little you understand!" she cried. "Do you think that my love is like that? Do you think that for anything in the world I would force myself into his life? Do you think that is why I came? Yes; I will promise that!"

"Well, well," said Father Anton soothingly, "we will see. But first--eh?--a little supper? You are tired, my little Marie-Louise, and hungry after the long journey. Come now, you will help me! We will make a little omelette, and boil the coffee, and pretend that we are in Bernay-sur-Mer--eh?"

He began to bustle around the room, setting out bread and cheese from the cupboard, and putting the coffee-pot upon the stove--and presently they sat down to the simple meal.

Marie-Louise ate very little; and finally, when she pushed her plate away, the tears were in her eyes again.

"I cannot eat any more," she said. "I--oh, Father Anton, you said that you would see. You meant that--that you _would_ help me, didn't you?"

It was plain, it was very plain that nothing would distract her for a moment! Father Anton sighed again, and got up from his chair, and began to pace the room. He had been turning a plan over and over in his mind while he had watched her so anxiously during the meal. It was strange how readily it had come to him, that plan! A monitor within whispered the suggestion that perhaps it had come readily because it was deception! The cure pa.s.sed his hand in a troubled way back and forth through his white hair. He had seen little of Jean--it was perhaps because he reminded Jean of Bernay-sur-Mer and the past that Jean was anxious to forget, that Jean had gradually come, in manner more than words, to intimate that the old friends.h.i.+p was distasteful.

But if latterly he had seen little of Jean, at least when he had first come to Paris his visits to the studio had been frequent enough to enable him to form an intimate acquaintance with Hector, the red-haired concierge of Jean's studio and apartment, and with madame, Hector's wife. Nor had he permitted this intimacy to wane. He could not forget that he had loved Jean, and through these good people he still kept his interest alive. It was but a few days ago that Hector had complained that the work was too much for his wife alone, that after some nights at the studio with a gay company the morning presented a debacle to clear up that was a day's work in itself. It was too much for her; and they came often, those nights.

Father Anton glanced at Marie-Louise. She was still watching him, a sort of pitiful, eager expectancy in her face. His eyes fell to the floor, as he continued to pace up and down. It could be arranged.

Jean rose very late. Marie-Louise could go early in the mornings to tidy up the studio and the _atelier_. He could tell Hector she was a charge of his, an honest girl to be trusted, who would do the work for a few francs; and Hector in turn could obtain Jean's consent.

Marie-Louise would see for herself the life Jean led--and, besides, Hector and his wife were not tongue-tied! But it was a terribly cruel thing to do! The old priest's hands clasped and unclasped again in genuine distress. It was terribly cruel! But it was little Marie-Louise, whom he loved so tenderly, whose future was at stake. It must not always be as it was to-day--sadness and hopelessness for the brave young heart that should be so full of joy and life.

He halted before Marie-Louise. Yes, it was the right thing to do; there was no other way; she must be disillusioned; she should see Jean's life at the studio; and to-night at the great reception she should see Jean himself. Only his heart was very heavy--it was so hard a thing to do.

"Listen, Marie-Louise," he said abruptly. "I will help you, but it is on the condition to which you have agreed--that Jean is in no way to know that you are here. I will arrange with his concierge that very early in the mornings, before Jean is up and when n.o.body is there, you shall have the care of his studio and _atelier_, so you will be able to see all you want to of his work; and to the concierge you are simply a charge of mine who is in need of the few francs you will earn."

"Oh, Father Anton, how good you are!"--she had jumped up joyfully from her chair, and was in his arms again. "But I do not want the money. I have plenty--from my house, you know."

"But if you took no money, they would not understand why you would work," explained Father Anton hurriedly. The depth of his duplicity was very great! The gentle soul of Father Anton was conscience stricken at her grat.i.tude, her innocence. If he had not gone so far he would retreat. She was crying in his arms. Never before had he known what it was not to be able to look another in the eyes. He was glad that Marie-Louise's head was hidden on his shoulder for he could not have looked at her. Father Anton felt himself a criminal. It was not a role that lay lightly upon him.

"And Jean himself," she whispered. "When shall I see Jean?"

Father Anton coughed nervously.

"There--there is a reception to-night," he said hesitantly. He coughed again. "For Jean. You might see him there perhaps--from the gallery.

I--I have a card."