The Belovéd Traitor

by Frank L. Packard

Marie-Louise found herself involuntarily doing the same—staring at the little punch-holes along the bottom edge of the card that the doctor on the ship had put there, one for each day. And there was her name written there at the top—"Marie-Louise Bernier." And underneath it, "Paris"—for she had given that as her last residence, because in this new country none was to know that she had come from Bernay-sur-Mer. For who could tell what these people here might not do? They might write to Bernay-sur-Mer, and then all her efforts would have been in vain, for some one in Bernay-sur-Mer would write to Father Anton, and—the card dropped from her fingers, and dangled by its string from the button of her blouse.

The hot, scalding tears were in her eyes again. Memories! Always memories!

On the faces of those around her, so many of them anxious now, was written the question that lips in so many different languages were whispering to each other.

"Will they let me in? What will they do? Will they let me in? Will they let me in?"

Liberty—for them! Yes, they would go in, as she would go in—and some of them, perhaps many of them, would find what they had sought. But she—even here in this strange country, where she could understand no single word that was spoken, where, surely, now that Jean was gone again, there would be nothing, no familiar scenes to come to her to revive those memories—could she find liberty in some day learning to forget?

It did not seem so now, for it seemed as though all her strength, her resistance had gone out from her that night in her struggle to send Jean away, and that it had not come back again. Why—oh, why had the bon Dieu sent Jean upon that ship? It had been so cruelly hard before! It did not change anything that he was in the same country, for he would not stay long, and the country was so many times bigger than France that they were utterly separated, but it was making it so hard to be brave now—-so much harder—so much harder! And then suddenly she lifted her head proudly, even though the lips would still quiver, and though the lashes of her eyes were still wet. What was it, that old and simple faith, that her Uncle Gaston in his rugged, honest way had taught her? Yes, the words came back, and they came now like a benediction to send her on her way with hope and comfort—"to love God and be never afraid."

She kept repeating that to herself all the rest of the way—until she was leaving the barge again, and, with the hundreds of her fellow-passengers, still so curious a sight to her in their many costumes, began to file in through the doorway of a huge building that was red-roofed and had towers. And here, once inside, they went very slowly at first, for they must pass between railings one at a time, while the doctors looked at each in turn. This frightened her a little, but they did nothing more to her than to stamp her card; and then, after that, there was a big, broad staircase—and then, as she climbed to the top, the vast hall was before her, with its many rows of benches, and its two great flags hanging out from the balcony, that the man had told her about.

What a buzz of noise—so many voices; the constant, shuffling tread of feet; the cry of an infant; the stir and movement of such a crowd of people! And the sounds, floating upward, seemed to form themselves into a strange, humming echo that was forever swirling around and around at the roof of the hall over the gallery. It bewildered her. A man in uniform—there were so many men in uniform!—spoke to her. She did not understand; but somehow, nevertheless, she found herself seated on one of the long benches that ran nearly the whole length of the hall.

For a little while she remained quiet, staring down at her bundle that she had placed upon the floor. And then, as her confusion and bewilderment gradually passed away, she began to look around her. She had never imagined that any hall could be so big—it was bigger even than that place with the marble staircase where she had seen the great reception to Jean. How many hundreds would it hold? Still the people who had been with her on the ship kept coming up the stairs, and still the benches were not nearly filled!

She turned and looked in the other direction, to where, quite close to her, for she was almost at the head of the line, an officer sat at a high desk, with one of the passengers standing before him. And there were many of these desks, each with an officer seated at it, just as many as there were rows of benches, for there was one at the head of every line; and behind these there was an open space beneath the gallery; and against the wall of the building there were some little railed-off enclosures; and doors that were constantly opening and shutting, one of which, at least, seemed to lead into a corridor; and, too, there was another wide stairway, down which some of those who had come with her were already passing.