The Belovéd Traitor

by Frank L. Packard

It seemed as though hours were passing as she stood there. It seemed to grow unbearably hot in that small, dark place; it seemed even that it was hard to breathe. Perhaps it was her fear that was suffocating her! She unfastened the black velvet cloak and let it hang more loosely, wide apart, upon her shoulders—and held her hand agitatedly upon her bare throat, that was now exposed by the low-necked blouse. Would they never go! And what were they doing there? It was very strange! They seemed to keep on tramping and even running around, and there was no sound of voices now—only a most peculiar sound that made her think of Papa Fregeau when he stood in the kitchen of the Bas Rhône and sharpened his carving knife on his long bone-handled steel.

Then all grew suddenly quiet—and the quiet was as suddenly broken by a voice, loud enough and distinct enough for her to hear.

"It is nothing! But a touch, monsieur—continue!"

Marie-Louise's eyes widened, and slowly her form grew rigid and tense, and her hand at her throat slipped away and caught at the neck of her blouse, and in a spasmodic clutch tore it wider apart. That voice—she did not know whose it was—but there was no mistaking the cold, sullen fury in it. And the tramping of feet had begun again—and that sound again, the rasp of steel, was hideous now, bringing her a sickening dread.

It was as though for a moment she were too stunned to move. They were fighting out there in Jean's atelier—with—with swords. And perhaps—perhaps it was Jean who was fighting. And if—if he should be—no, no!—she dare not even let the thought take form in her mind. But she must see—somehow, she must see! How dark it was, and how those sounds brought terror now! She could not stand there and—and think; she must see that at least it was not Jean, or else—or else she would scream out in her agony of suspense.

She groped out with her hand for the door. She could open it very silently, just a little way—they would be too occupied to notice it. Her hand trembled as it fell upon the knob. She pushed the door open a crack, an inch. There seemed to burst in upon her, in upon the contrasting utter darkness, a blinding light that dazzled her so that she could see nothing; and to burst in upon her a horrible riot of noise—heavy, panting gasps for breath, the quick shuffle of feet upon the floor, the grating, the ring, the metallic grinding of rapier blades.

In terror, she pushed the door open another inch—and held it rigidly, as, suddenly, her heart seemed to stop its beat. There came a gurgling moan—then—then an instant's deathlike silence—and then, with a wild cry, she flung the door wide open, and, as it crashed back against the wall, she stumbled out into the atelier.

She could see now, but it was as though it were not herself at all who looked around the room, for her brain seemed suddenly to be acting in an impersonal, numbed, apathetic way. She could see everything very clearly, but it was as though some one else, not she, were seeing it. She stretched out her arms before her like one who was blind to feel her way, and started across the atelier. She should have run, she should have run so fast, so fast, something within her told her she should run, but her limbs seemed scarcely able to support her weight—she could only stumble across the atelier with her arms stretched out. That was not Jean who stood in the centre of the room holding a rapier in his hand, it was Paul Valmain. And the man who stood beside Paul Valmain was not Jean. And there were two other men, but neither of them was Jean. But they held a silent, grey-faced, unconscious form in their arms that they were lowering to the floor—and that was Jean. And they looked at her as she came, looked at her in so strange and startled a way; and Paul Valmain took a step toward her, and cried out, and drew suddenly back—and then—and then she was on her knees, and Jean's head was gathered into her arms, and he was so white, so terribly white, and he made no sound—and—and—

"Jean! Jean!"—she was crying his name passionately, piteously, crying it over and over again. "Jean! Jean!"

And he made no answer—only lay there white and still. And then some one took her arm and tried to draw her away—and some one spoke to her.