The Belovéd Traitor

by Frank L. Packard

He refused to tolerate the question. He had refused to tolerate it all week. It was enough for the present that he was going for a time to Paris. Marie-Louise was sensible enough not to make a scene. She could see readily enough that he must go and that she must stay. How, for instance, could she associate with women of fashion and society like Myrna Bliss, who would be the women of the new world that must necessarily form part of his life hereafter. What was he thinking of? Was it the "afterwards" again? Was he not coming back to Marie-Louise? Was he choosing now between his art and Marie-Louise? No; he was not—he would not! That was an issue for the future. It would work itself out. Why should he plague himself about it!

He loved Marie-Louise, of course; but it would have been easier now if there had been nothing between them. He could not go to Marie-Louise and say: Marie-Louise, I love you; but it is finished—you can see that the grand monde would make a very great difference between Jean Laparde, the great sculptor, and Marie-Louise the fisherwoman of Bernay-sur-Mer. No; he could not say that, but—sacré nom!—was he back to the everlasting "afterwards" again, when he refused so resolutely to go beyond the present? Was it not enough that he was simply going to Paris for a time—a matter that would seem natural enough to her, and of which she would be glad because great things had come to him? He would talk to her like that—that would be enough—Marie-Louise was a sensible girl. One could not say to her that it would be better to finish everything, he would never say that to Marie-Louise—but if, par example, he and Marie-Louise had never talked of the marriage there would be nothing now to trouble him. And—he swung around sharply as a knock sounded on the door.

"Come!" he called.

Papa Fregeau stuck in his head.

"Pardon, Monsieur Jean"—it was "monsieur" now—"it is Mademoiselle Bliss who is alone in the café below. Will Monsieur Jean see her for a moment before he goes out?"

"In an instant," Jean answered quickly. "Tell mademoiselle that I will be there in an instant."

Papa Fregeau hesitated, stared about the room, and stared at Jean, his fat cheeks grotesquely expanded—and his arms rose suddenly in a gesture of profound helplessness.

"Mon Dieu!" he muttered heavily. "Is it possible that it is our little Jean there—ah, pardon"—he stammered—"Monsieur Jean"—and made a hasty exit from the room, as though utterly confounded at his own temerity.

But Jean, following his reply, had paid no further attention to Papa Fregeau. He had learned to knot the long, flowing tie that Myrna had chosen as part of his dress, for she had said, had she not, that it was the tie the artists wore in Paris? He knotted it now with extra care, put on his coat, snatched up his hat, and ran downstairs to the café below.

She was waiting for him back by the little comptoir where he had stood that evening when she had first spoken to him. She had been like a glorious vision that had burst suddenly upon him that evening—she was a thousand times more glorious now, for her smile was eager with an intimacy that promised—what did it promise? He did not know. It was there—and her eyes were shining, and the white throat was divinely beautiful—and the thrill of her presence quickened the beat of his heart.