— IV —
STRANGERS WITHIN THE GATES
"Until to-morrow"—the words kept echoing in Jean's ears, as he hurried now on his way back to the Bas Rhône. "Until to-morrow"—Marie-Louise had called to him, as he had left the house on the bluff after taking her home. Well, what was there unusual in that! Though he went often, he did not go to see Marie-Louise every evening, and it was not the first time she had ever said it. Why should he be vaguely conscious of a sort of relief that she had said "until to-morrow" on this particular occasion? It was a very strange way to feel—but then his mind was in the most curiously jumbled state! That meeting at the bridge of less than half an hour ago obsessed him. Where had they come from, these strangers? How long were they going to stay? Or, perhaps—an unaccountable dismay suddenly seized him—perhaps they had already gone! But Papa Fregeau, of course, would know all that—therefore, naturally, he was impatient to reach the Bas Rhône and Papa Fregeau.
The empty basket on his arm, for Marie-Louise had taken the beacon and he had forgotten all about Papa Fregeau's fish, Jean paused as he reached the bridge. It was here that look had passed between them. He would never forget that. It meant nothing—he was not a fool—it could mean nothing. It was only a look, only an instant in which those grey eyes had met his—but he would never forget it!
He hurried on again.
Perhaps he had imagined that expression, that flash, that spark, that something that was impellingly magnetic in those grey eyes. No, he had not imagined it; he had felt it, known it, sensed it. In that one instant something had passed between them that in all his life he would never forget—it had left him like a man adrift on a shoreless sea with the startling wonder of it. She was of the grand monde—Marie-Louise had said it. And he was a fisherman. She could have no interest in a fisherman; and what interest could a fisherman—bah, it was pitifully laughable! But it was not laughable! If he could only define that look! It was as if—bon Dieu, what was it!—as if she were a woman and he were a man. Yes; it was that! It was only for a moment, by now she would have forgotten it; but for that moment it had been that. Only, whereas she would have forgotten, with him it remained. It was curious—her form was even more like that dream statue than was Marie-Louise's. If by any chance she should already have gone! The thought, recurring, brought once more that twinge of dismay. Was it strange that he should want to see her again! True, she would never look at him like that a second time, she had been off her guard for that little instant when there had been no grand monde and no fisherman, but she was still the same beautiful woman, glorious in form and face—and the allurement of her presence was like some rare, exquisite fragrance stealing upon the senses, enslaving them.
And now, as he approached the little village, and passed the first cottage, with the Bas Rhône in sight beyond, he found himself eagerly searching the beach, the single street for sign of her. But there was no sign. Everything about the village was as it always was every early evening in Bernay-sur-Mer, when it was summer and the light held late. Strewn out along the beach, the men were at work upon their boats and nets; the children played about the doorways; through the open doors one could see the women busy over the evening meal—nothing else! And surely there would have been some stir of excitement if the strangers were still there, at least amongst the children—it was an event, that, to Bernay-sur-Mer. They had gone then, evidently!
Jean's eyes lifted from a fruitless sweep of the beach to fix on the figure of Papa Fregeau emerging on the run from the Bas Rhône.
"The fish, Jean! The fish!" the fat little man called out breathlessly.