The Belovéd Traitor

by Frank L. Packard

The dark head bent to the coverlet.

"Mon Père," she whispered, "make me that—Jean's beacon now."

And after a time she rose, and bathed her face, and fastened the black coils of hair that had become unloosed, and, as she heard Nanette stirring below, went quietly downstairs.

She must see Jean. They were going away to-day, mademoiselle and monsieur, and Nanette and Jules; and Jean was to follow them in a few days. She had heard mademoiselle and her father discussing it at their supper last evening. She must see Jean now before the others went, so—so that everybody would understand.

She stole out of the house, gained the road and started to run along it toward the village. Jean would be up long ago, all his life he had risen hours before this, and she would be back by the time mademoiselle and monsieur were up and needed her. She stopped suddenly, and in quick dismay glanced down at her bare feet. She had forgotten to put on her shoes and stockings. Suppose mademoiselle should see her returning like that!

And then Marie-Louise shook her head slowly, and went on again. It was not right to disobey, but it could not matter very much now, for mademoiselle was going away in the afternoon. And besides she could run much faster without them, and—the tears came with a rush to her eyes—they seemed all at once to mean so much, those shoes and stockings. It—it was the shoes and stockings and all they meant that was taking her out of Jean's life. She understood it all so well now.

She brushed the tears a little angrily from her eyes. She must not do that. To go to Jean and cry! Far better not to go at all! Afterwards, when they were gone, these Americans, and when Jean was gone, and she was alone and only the bon Dieu to see, then perhaps the tears would be too strong for her. But now she must talk very bravely to Jean, and not make it harder for him; for, no matter what happened or what was to come, Jean, too, in his love, would feel the parting.

She understood Jean better now, too. The night had made so many things much clearer. Had he not confessed that he was not always happy as a fisherman in Bernay-sur-Mer? And must it not have been just this, this greatness within him, that had made him discontented? And now that it had come true, a far greater thing than he could have dreamed of, changing his whole life, must it not for the time have made him forget everything else? It had not killed his love for her, it had not done that—but this thing must be first before either of their loves. Afterwards, perhaps, it might kill his love—afterwards, yes, afterwards it might do that. She tried to smile a little. It was what she was going now to bring about—afterwards it must kill his love. It was the only way. And that would come surely, very surely—his giving away of the beacon, so lightly forgetting what he told her it had meant, taught her that. If he went now, if she bade him go now, it was not for a little time—it was for always.

She was running, very fast, breathlessly—as though she were trying to outrun her thoughts. It was coming again, the same bitter fight that she had fought out through the darkness, through all those long hours alone—but she must not let it come, that sadness, that yearning that tried to make her falter and hold back. The way was very plain. If she loved Jean, if she really loved him, she must not let that love do anything but what would help him in his new, great life—she must cling to that. It would not be love if she did anything else; it would only mean that she loved herself more than she loved Jean.

"To be never afraid"—Uncle Gaston had taught her that, and the words were on her lips now—"To be never afraid."