The Belovéd Traitor

by Frank L. Packard

The flush faded from his face, and a whiteness came, and upon his forehead oozed out a bead of moisture—and, as the seconds passed, he hung there almost limply, swaying a little in the agony that was upon him. And then slowly the paper that was in his hands was torn across, and the pieces fluttered to the floor, and the great head rose proud in kingship on the broad shoulders—the kingship of himself, the kingship of Jean Laparde.

Ay, they were waiting for him—but there was another beside who was waiting too! He looked at the torn pieces of paper on the floor—and his laugh rang suddenly clear and buoyant through the cabin. Once he had sold his soul for such as that; but to-night, in spite of these devil's tempters that sought to shake his resolution—there was his answer! There was his answer—the answer that had come to him through the fog and mist as through a veil rent suddenly asunder, the answer that was in Marie-Louise's outstretched arms, the answer that was in her banishment from the friends and the France she loved, in the bitter wrong that he had done, in her love that now he knew for its priceless worth! There in that torn paper was his answer!

And he laughed again—and as he laughed, he ran to the door and locked it for the second time. There would be no more of that, no more interruption, no more of those tempter thoughts, no more of them! And, for the moment, no more thought even of Marie-Louise. He had need to centre all his attention upon his immediate acts now, for he must be very careful what he did. And he had little time—had not Henry Bliss said that in half an hour he would return with Myrna?

He ran back into the bedroom, tore off his coat, vest and shirt; and, catching up his toilet-case, hurried into the bathroom. Here, he clipped off his beard and shaved it close—then quickly, a sort of tense, keyed-up excitement constantly growing upon him, he returned once more to the bedroom, and, stripping off the remainder of his clothes, began to put on the fisherman's suit. How heavy and stiff the boots felt upon his feet, how rough and coarse the socks were against his skin—and yet how their familiarity thrilled him! He swung his arms, wondering and laughing at the free play of his muscles in the loose shirt, and memories and thoughts began to press upon him—but he checked them almost instantly, for there was no time now for that.

He finished dressing hastily. He must leave no clue behind him that would occasion even a suspicion that he had not carried out the purpose that the world, and essentially those on board the ship, must be made to believe was the last act of Jean Laparde. Amongst a thousand, amongst the conglomerate races that cluttered the ship's steerage, where even amongst themselves few knew each other, where difference in language precluded all but the most scattered and superficial acquaintanceship, none would recognise Jean Laparde in the rough-garbed fisherman—provided always that no search was instituted, provided always that there should be no incentive in the mind of any one to search, provided always that it was accepted as a fact—that Jean Laparde was dead! He could not hope perhaps, between now and the time they reached New York, or, at least, on landing, to escape the attention of the ship's officers or the shore officials; but with Jean Laparde a suicide in the mist and fog of that Atlantic night, he would be no more to them than one as rough and ignorant and poor as those others in the steerage—no more than a stowaway.

Jean dropped down on his knees again beside the trunk, and began to replace the articles he had been obliged to remove in order to get at the fisherman's suit. Nothing—not a sign of anything approaching disorder must appear. They would look through everything—Myrna and her father! He shrugged his shoulders whimsically. The visit of Henry Bliss to the cabin, the other's knowledge of the quarrel with Myrna, the other's concern over his, Jean's, moodiness, was, after all, not to be regretted! It would have its significance for Henry Bliss!

He pushed the trunk back beside its mate under the bed. Money now! A sudden, sharp exclamation, almost of dismay, escaped him. He had little or no money—a few French notes, sufficient for his needs on board ship only. Monsieur Bliss had said more was unnecessary—that he could make drafts through the other's banking connections in New York as he needed them. He searched through the clothes he had taken off, found his pocketbook, opened it, and counted the contents—five twenty-franc notes, a ten-franc gold piece, some silver—that was all! Less than twenty-five dollars in American money! Well, if it was all—it was all! It could not be helped! He shoved the pocketbook philosophically into his pocket; and, gathering up the clothes he had worn, tied them into a bundle. There remained only the heavy ulster.

He looked slowly, critically about him; and, satisfied that he had overlooked nothing, walked swiftly into the sitting-room, seated himself at the writing desk, and, from one of its pigeon-holes, pulled out a sheet of the ship's notepaper. He hesitated a moment thoughtfully—then picked up a pen.

"Je m'ennui de tout—I am tired of it all," he wrote. He balanced the pen in his fingers, and stared at the words cynically. What a commotion it would cause! What food for excitement, for the hysteria of those who cared nothing save for the self-importance it brought them in being so intimately connected with so famous a tragedy as to have been on the same ship where it occurred! They would remember what he had eaten for dinner that night, and quarrel over who had last seen him; and they would envelope themselves with an air of pained and morbid gloom—and cling to the gloom tenaciously because they delighted in it! What an event! And out of them all, with the exception of Henry Bliss, there was none who—ah, yes! Ironically, as the grim humour of it struck him, a smile curled Jean's lips. The stewards who had looked after him would care very much! That one might die, if one wished, was all very well; but to be inconsiderate enough to jump overboard without leaving the douceurs of the voyage behind, could be construed as nothing less than a personal affront! He reached suddenly into his pocket, the irony of the thought lost in a flash of inspiration, and pulled out his pocketbook. It was the one crowning touch required to stamp as a fact, beyond a peradventure of doubt, the conviction that he had made away with himself. He could ill spare any of the money; but he could much less afford to ignore anything that would lend colour to his plan and so minimise the risk of discovery! He opened the pocketbook again, took from it three of the twenty-franc notes, tucked these into his pocket, and laid the pocketbook with the balance of the money inside of it down upon the desk. It was not a fitting amount, doubtless—but there was his pocketbook and all there was in it! What more could any one give? He took up his pen, and finished his note. "Please divide what is in my pocketbook amongst my stewards. Adieu! Jean."

He folded the note, placed it in an envelope, sealed it, addressed it to Henry Bliss, and, carrying it with him, returned to the bedroom and pinned it securely to the sleeve of his ulster. Then, taking up both the ulster and the bundle he had made of the clothes in which he had been dressed that evening, and leaving the lights turned on, he went to the outer cabin door, opened it cautiously, and peered out. Here, on the upper deck, there was no one in sight. He opened the door wide, marked the spot where the light, flooding from the room, lay across the ship's rail; then, stepping out on the deck, he closed the door softly behind him.