The Belovéd Traitor

by Frank L. Packard

It was Myrna Bliss who had suggested it because, had she not said? she wanted to have a little talk with him alone before she left for Paris that afternoon—and they would walk out along the road before her father started, and the automobile would pick her up on the way.

And so they had come, and so she had talked and he had listened—feasting his eyes upon the superb, alluring figure that swung, so splendidly supreme, along beside him. She had told him of Paris—Paris, the City Beautiful—of the great city that was the glory of France, of its magnificent boulevards, its statues, its arches, its wonderful architecture, its wealth of art garnered from the ages, its happy mirth, its gaiety, its richness and its life, the life that would now be his. And he had listened, rapt, absorbed, fascinated, as though to some entrancing melody, now martial, now in softer strain, that stirred his pulse as it carried him beyond himself, and unfettered his imagination until it swept, free as a bird in air, into the land of dreams, that knew a fierce, ecstatic echo in his soul—the melody of her voice.

But now there had come a jarring note into that melody; and a sudden, swift emotion, that mingled dismay, a passionate longing, a panic sense of impotency, was upon him. The quick throb of the motor was sounding from down the road behind them. Monsieur Bliss was coming now. In a moment she would be gone.

She had heard it, too, for she ceased speaking abruptly, and, halting, turned to face him.

"Isn't it too bad, Jean?" she cried disappointedly. "And I had hardly begun to tell you about it! But then, never mind, the rest of it all you will see for yourself in a few more days, when you get to Paris."

In a moment she would be gone! What was it that held him back—that had always held him back before? He was strong enough—strong enough to crush her to him, to cover that gloriously beautiful face with his kisses, to bathe his face in the fragrance of her hair, to feel her heart, the throb, the pulse, the life of her body against his own! What was it that, strong as he was, was stronger than he?

"It—it is good-bye," he said, in a low, tense way.

She felt the passion that was possessing him—he read it in the startled glance of the grey eyes before they were veiled; in the ivory of the perfect throat grown colourful with the mounting red; in the parted lips before the teasing, merry smile was forced there, as she stepped back a little away from him. She knew! She knew, as he knew, that his soul was aflame—and it was she, not he, who dammed back the tide of his passion with that "something" that was so powerful an ally of hers, so readily, so always at her instant command. She knew, as he knew, that his soul was aflame—and yet she had not repulsed him. What did it mean? That she cared! But why did she laugh so lightly now, why was she so perfectly self-possessed? What did it mean? That she was playing with him!

"How absurd, Jean!" she laughed gaily. "Of course, it isn't 'good-bye'; that is"—she glanced at him demurely—"that is, unless you've changed your mind about coming to Paris." Then, impulsively eager: "But you haven't done that, have you? And you want to come more than ever now after what I have told you, don't you? And, Jean"—she came suddenly close to him again, and her face, its demureness gone, was puckered up in very earnest little wrinkles—"there isn't anything, you won't let anything keep you from coming—will you?"

Keep him from Paris—from her! Why had she asked that? He laughed out boisterously, harshly. It was very near now, that accursed automobile! Monsieur Bliss was calling out to them. Keep him from—Paris! He could only laugh out again wildly, as he looked at her.