"Jean!" she whispered—and her hand stole into Father Anton's. "Jean!"
And he was not changed—only that short, pointed beard, that seemed to add a something, that made him more imposing. It was Jean, the same Jean—only there was a grace, an ease, a command, a kingship in his poise as he stood there, and—yes—yes—they came—one after the other—the men, the women—and bowed before him.
"Do you remember Monsieur and Mademoiselle Bliss?" Father Anton said gently. "See—they are there beside Jean. And that tall man to whom they are talking is a very famous statesman for one so young. His name is Paul Valmain."
They did not interest her. There was only Jean. And she could not look long enough at him. There was music playing somewhere, softly, very softly, scarcely audible above the sound of so many voices all talking at once, voices that ascended in a subdued roar like the sound of a shell that one held to one's ear. She tried to think, and she could not. Afterwards she would think. Now she could only look.
Father Anton touched her arm. Was it already time to go? No, no—not yet! Not yet—for a little while! She had come so far, so long a way just for this—to see Jean.
"It is the President of the Republic coming, Marie-Louise—see! Listen!"
There was tumult about her. Those in the gallery around her were clapping their hands, waving their handkerchiefs; and the music she had heard playing so softly crashed suddenly into the strains of that song of glory, immortal, undying, that was cradled in the very soul of France itself—the Marseillaise. And as it fired the blood, that melody, martial, stirring, that men had died for, ay, and women, too, the outburst around her rose to hysterical heat, and thunders of applause rolled and reverberated through the room that was bigger than any room she had ever seen or dreamed of. And they were calling Jean's name again—and the President, the great President was there with Jean.
"Jean Laparde! Jean Laparde! Vive Jean Laparde!"
She could not see any more. Her eyes were blinded with tears now, and they were proud tears, and they were glad tears, and they were wondering tears that she could not comprehend herself. Jean's beacon! Had the bon Dieu permitted her to be that in a little way, given it to her to have helped just a little, to have had just a little share in bringing Jean to this great moment, this wonderful triumph? Jean's beacon! How vividly that scene of the years ago came back, when she had told Jean he did not belong to her—and reliving that scene, here in the presence of its great fulfilment, she spoke aloud unconsciously.
"It is true! He does not belong to me. He belongs to France!"