The Belovéd Traitor

by Frank L. Packard

They were trying to keep her from Jean again. Every one tried to keep her from Jean. She clenched her hands passionately. But now—now they should not keep her away any longer.

"No!" she cried out fiercely. "You shall not send me away! I will not go—I will not!"

He stared at her for an instant, then shrugged his shoulders.

"Very well, mademoiselle. It is perhaps your privilege. I have not time to question it. But since you remain, perhaps you will be good enough to help us."

"Yes!" she said eagerly. "Oh, yes! Tell me what to do."

"Water!" he said tersely. "A basin—cloths!"

With a quick nod of understanding, she ran ahead of them through the door, and hurried on down the hall. She had never been there in Jean's apartment before, but Madame Mi-mi had not been loath to tell her all about it—and so it was not strange to her, and there was something to do now and that seemed to relieve the dull pain that had been torturing her brain, and she could remember again every little detail that Madame Mi-mi had described. The sitting-room, the dressing-room, the bedroom, the dining-room, and from the dining-room into the kitchen—it was a complete menage, though Jean used it so little, save to sleep there, and for his déjeuners which Madame Mi-mi prepared. She procured the basin, filled it, and hurried back with it—going through the rooms this time instead of the corridor—to where in the bedroom they had placed Jean upon the bed. And then there were the cloths—a sheet would serve best for bandages, and that was kept in the linen closet, where too there were clean towels, Madame Mi-mi had said. She could think very clearly now, and she could be much more brave because there was something to do. She flew to the closet, tore a sheet into strips, gathered up some towels, and returned with them again to the bedroom.

The doctor glanced at her approvingly.

"Thank you, mademoiselle," he said, in a much more kindly tone. "That will be all for the present."

But if they were more kindly, his words, they were too a sort of dismissal. She did not know what to do for a moment; and then she went slowly to the foot of the bed and knelt down—she would be out of their way there, and ready in an instant if the doctor called again. She would have given so much to help him in the intimate way this Monsieur Vinailles was helping, to hold Jean, to touch Jean, but—but they seemed so occupied, both of them, and—and she must not interfere. She could only watch, while the agony of suspense crept upon her again; watch the grey-haired man, in his shirt sleeves now, working so quickly, so silently—and then suddenly she turned away her head, and her heart sank with dread. It was so terrible a wound that she had caught sight of in Jean's side, as the doctor straightened up for an instant! It—it did not seem that any one could live with—with that. And Jean lay so still, so motionless, and in his unconsciousness seemed so much like—like dead. She shivered a little, and fought back the tears, and tried resolutely to think of something else—of anything—of how beautifully Madame Mi-mi had told her Jean's rooms here were furnished.