She was walking again now, for she had reached the village. Some one called to her from a cottage door, and she called back cheerfully as she passed on to the Bas Rhône, where Papa Fregeau was standing in the doorway.
"Tiens, petite!" the fat little proprietor cried heartily. "But it is good to see our little Marie-Louise! You do not come often these days. They make you work too hard, those Americans, perhaps? But to-day they are going—eh? Wait, I will call Lucille."
"Good morning, Jacques," she answered. "Yes; it is to-day that they are going, so do not call Mother Fregeau, for there is a great deal to do at the house and I must hurry back."
"Ah!" observed Papa Fregeau. "You have come then with a message?"
"Yes," she said hurriedly; "for Jean. Do you know where he is?"
"But, là, là!" chuckled Papa Fregeau. "But, yes; he is upstairs in his room. But wait—I must tell you. I have just helped him carry it up. It is a very grand American affair, and he is like a child with it. It arrived from Marseilles last night after he had gone."
"What did?" inquired Marie-Louise patiently.
"What did!" ejaculated Papa Fregeau. "But did I not tell you? The American trunk, pardieu! that he is to go away with, and—" The fat little man grew suddenly confused. "Tiens!" he stammered. "He is upstairs in his room, Marie-Louise. I am an old fool—eh—an old fool!"—and he waddled away.
Why should it have hurt a little more because Jacques Fregeau had said Jean was going away? And why should Jacques Fregeau have been able to read it in her eyes? She was not so brave perhaps as she had thought. And her heart was pounding now very quickly and so hard that it brought pain, as she went up the stairs.
"Mon Père"—her lips were whispering the same prayer over again—"make me that—Jean's beacon now."