The Belovéd Traitor

by Frank L. Packard

And then Marie-Louise lifted her head high again, and, while the hot flushes came and swept her face, the great dark eyes held steadily on the grey ones that were hard and cold like steel. It was not mademoiselle of the grand monde before her any more; it was a woman whose tongue was making a sacrilege of all that was holy and cherished in her life, making a hideous mockery of her love that was so sacred and pure to her, making it a foul thing, smirching it, defiling it—it was not Mademoiselle Bliss of another world than hers whom she approached with diffidence and awe; it was a woman taunting her with a shame from which her soul recoiled, and there came surging upon her, born of the primitive, elemental life that had been hers, the days upon the oars, the nights of rugged battling with the storms, a fury that was physical in its cry for expression.

"It is not true! It is not true!" she panted—and, her hands clenched tightly, raised as though to strike, she took a quick step forward.

Startled, Myrna Bliss involuntarily sprang back—but the next instant she was laughing threateningly.

"You little spitfire!" she exclaimed angrily. "And so it is not true! Look at that statue behind you, look at any in this room, at any Jean has ever done since he has been in Paris, and—oh, yes, I see it quite plainly myself, now that I have been shown—it is you, you everywhere! And you have the brazenness, the impudence to say that you have not been living with Jean, that you have not been coming here at all hours of the night for the last two years—as you have to-night—as you did last night! Bah, you pitiful little hypocrite, would any one believe you?"

"Yes, they would believe me!" Marie-Louise cried passionately. "And you will believe me! I will make you believe me! I will make you! I will make you! I—" Her voice broke suddenly, and with a half sob she dropped her hands to her sides. Her fury had gone and in its place had come only a desperate earnestness to make mademoiselle believe. She had been thinking of herself alone—and there was Jean! If mademoiselle would not believe her, the shame would be Jean's too, and the guilt that mademoiselle imagined would be Jean's guilt too. And even if she must tell all about Father Anton bringing her to Hector and Madame Mi-mi, she must make mademoiselle believe. "Mademoiselle"—she was pleading now, her voice choking as she spoke—"mademoiselle, see—listen! You must—you must believe! It is true, every word I have said is true! And it is true that I love Jean, and that that is why I came, but—but Jean has never seen me since that day he left Bernay-sur-Mer. See, mademoiselle—listen! It is only a few days since I came to Paris—see, mademoiselle, even this hat and cloak proves it. I did not know that it was cold, that one needed such things in Paris, and I had nothing except just the clothes I had worn in Bernay-sur-Mer, and the night I came I went to Father Anton and he gave the hat and cloak to me—but I did not know, mademoiselle, that they had been yours. I wanted to see Jean again, not to let him know that I was here, but only to see him, only to see his work. It was two years, mademoiselle, two years—and Father Anton understood, only he made me promise, mademoiselle, that I would not speak to Jean, that I would not let Jean know that I was here. Listen—listen, mademoiselle!" Marie-Louise's hands were raised again—but entreatingly now. "It was only to see Jean again, and see his work, and then I was going away. For nothing, for nothing in the world would I let Jean know that I had come. And so—and so, mademoiselle, so Father Anton arranged with Hector that I should do the work about the salon and the atelier, but very early in the mornings before Jean was up; and then because I came so early Hector gave me the key—and last night—oh, mademoiselle, mademoiselle, can you not understand?—I came here, and—and I came again to-night. See, mademoiselle—it is so easy to believe! You do believe! Father Anton will tell you that it is all true, and that I have been in Bernay-sur-Mer all this time. Mademoiselle, mademoiselle—you do believe!"

Myrna Bliss was staring at Marie-Louise in startled amazement.

"You mean—you mean," she said, in a low, tense way; "you mean that Jean knows nothing of this—that he does not know that you are even in Paris, that he has not seen you since he left Bernay-sur-Mer?"

"But, yes; yes, yes, yes, mademoiselle, it is so, all that—it is so!" Marie-Louise answered feverishly. "And—and he must not know now, mademoiselle—he must not know now."

And then Myrna Bliss smiled ironically.

"I will see to that!" she said grimly. "You need have no fear on that score, if what you say is true!" She turned abruptly from Marie-Louise, walked straight to the "Fille du Régiment," and gazed at it for a moment. Then, scarcely aloud: "'The womanhood of France,' he had said ... 'The model in his heart.'" And so Jean did not know! Well, if that were so, she would take very good care that he never did know! It seemed incredible, but the girl's sincerity was not to be denied. She laughed out sharply, and wheeled back upon Marie-Louise. "Well, and what now?" she said coldly; and then, thrusting quickly: "Are you aware that I am to marry Monsieur Laparde?"