The Beloved Traitor Part 37

Marie-Louise found herself involuntarily doing the same--staring at the little punch-holes along the bottom edge of the card that the doctor on the s.h.i.+p had put there, one for each day. And there was her name written there at the top--"Marie-Louise Bernier." And underneath it, "Paris"--for she had given that as her last residence, because in this new country none was to know that she had come from Bernay-sur-Mer.

For who could tell what these people here might not do? They might write to Bernay-sur-Mer, and then all her efforts would have been in vain, for some one in Bernay-sur-Mer would write to Father Anton, and--the card dropped from her fingers, and dangled by its string from the b.u.t.ton of her blouse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her eyes came back to the inspector at the head of her own line, and she watched him eagerly, as he kept writing all the time he talked to the man who stood in front of him. It would be her turn in a moment.

What was he doing? What was he saying? And then, as she watched, the man in front of the inspector swung a large, ungainly valise to his shoulder, and pa.s.sed behind the desk, and crossed the open s.p.a.ce beyond, and went down the stairs.

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

It was only that this moment seemed so big with finality--the threshold between the future and the past.

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

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

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

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

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

"_Jean! Jean! Jean!_"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But I do not know what they will do," he said again. "I am a stowaway. They caught me that night on the s.h.i.+p 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 pa.s.sage 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 G.o.d's sight you have been, Marie-Louise, since we were little children, as in G.o.d's sight you were when I swore that oath to Gaston as he died, as in G.o.d'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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.sionate 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 s.h.i.+p--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 G.o.d 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 s.n.a.t.c.hes, 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 a.s.sault 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 s.h.i.+p have meant to him--and she had thought so pitiful a thing as an hour of the coa.r.s.e 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.