The Belovéd Traitor

by Frank L. Packard

He took off his spectacles, polished them abstractedly on the sleeve of his soutane, replaced them, and picked up a book. He opened the book, turned a few pages without looking at them, and with a little sigh laid the book upon his knees. It was only in strict privacy that he permitted himself an indulgence in regrets and the somewhat doubtful solace of retrospection. And now he opened the stove door. It always seemed that in the glowing coals and the little spurts of flames one could picture so much more clearly the blue of the Mediterranean, the sunny skies, the clean white cottages of Bernay-sur-Mer, the boats dotting the sea and beach, and Papa Fregeau standing in the doorway of the Bas Rhône, and Pierre Lachance trudging along the street with a great pile of nets slung over his shoulders.

Father Anton shook his head slowly. It was very strange, the workings of Providence. He had always thought to die in Bernay-sur-Mer. And now already he had been in Paris a year! But the sacrifice was very little, it mattered nothing at all, and if he had longings and dreams of the days that were gone, he was still very happy here and should be thankful to God for the wonderful work that had been given him to do; only he remembered his dismay that morning, when, unannounced, the bishop had come to Bernay-sur-Mer and had told him word had been received from Paris that Monsieur Bliss, the millionaire American, would give the enormous sum of five hundred thousand francs a year to be distributed amongst the poor of Paris on the condition that he, Father Anton, would undertake its distribution. And he remembered how the bishop had explained that it had been suggested to Monsieur Bliss that perhaps he, Father Anton, would not care to leave Bernay-sur-Mer and his people there, and that there were others, younger men, nearer at hand, who, under the guidance and direction of the ecclesiastical authorities, would willingly and gladly undertake the work. And, above all else, he remembered what monsignor had told him had been the reply of Monsieur Bliss: "No; it isn't because Father Anton is a clergyman that I want him, it's because he's the man I've been looking for," that most astounding American had said. "There isn't any creed, or religion, or sect, or anything like that in this—or any supervision. What I'm after is practical results, and nothing else. I just want a piece of bread to go where it is needed, and no questions asked. I've always had the idea, but I didn't have the man. I've got him now. Father Anton might not care to leave Bernay-sur-Mer—eh? H'm! There's five hundred thousand francs a year at his disposal for the poor of Paris—ask him if he thinks he can do any good with it?"

And so he had come to Paris. It was magnificent that—the generosity of Monsieur Bliss! And Monsieur Bliss was amazing! He had found a most beautiful little apartment, most beautifully furnished, in a very fashionable part of the city, and with two servants already installed, awaiting him. Imagine! It was impossible! How could one reach the poor unless one lived amongst them? And to maintain an establishment when—Father Anton sighed again—when even the enormous sum of five hundred thousand francs was all too little!

He glanced around the room. Even as it was, his quarters must seem ostentatious compared with the poverty about him—the Widow Migneault, for example, in the rear room of the troisième étage above him. But what could one do? There was no arguing with those Americans! They had insisted on furnishing the place to their own satisfaction.

Father Anton's eyes returned to the glowing coals in the stove. He was very happy because his work was the work that he, too, had dreamed of; but one could not help thinking sometimes of Bernay-sur-Mer, and all the lifelong friends, and the people who were so close to his heart. And if he loved to picture them in his mind, and if there was perhaps a little ache at the thought that he had left them, he was none the less thankful to the bon Dieu that he could do so much now with what was left of his life.

What were they all doing in Bernay-sur-Mer to-night? What was Marie-Louise doing? It was two months now since she had written him. She did not write as often as she used to write. He shook his head sadly. She had had her sorrow, poor Marie-Louise! What a boundless store of love there was in that brave little heart! If only it would be given to some worthy young fellow now—Father Anton wrinkled his brows in deep thought, as though he would decide the matter on the spot—say, Amidé Dubois, who was a fine, honest lad; they would both be very happy, and Marie-Louise would forget the sooner. Yes, certainly, Amidé Dubois would do admirably.

A clatter of hoofs, the rattle of wheels over the cobble stones on the street, and the sudden cessation of both in front of the house, broke in on the curé's musings. He rose slowly from his chair, and, going to the window, peered out. His curiosity was rewarded only to the extent of seeing a fiacre driving away again. It was rather strange, that! Fiacres were not in the habit of stopping before any house in that section of Paris. It would be some one for him then undoubtedly. Monsieur Bliss, perhaps. No; not Monsieur Bliss, for was there not the grand reception to-night that the Société des Beaux-Arts was tendering to Jean Laparde, and for which Monsieur Bliss had sent him a card, but to which he was not going. It was to be a great affair at which the President of the Republic was to be present, and a rusty soutane would be not a little out of place there—and besides, the Jean of Bernay-sur-Mer and the Jean of Paris were not the same. Perhaps one should not let such thoughts come—but it was true.

Father Anton listened. Yes; he had been right. Some one was knocking at the door now.

"Yes—come!" he called, and hurried hospitably across the room, as the door opened—and stopped in stunned amazement—and ran forward again, holding out his arms. "Marie-Louise!" he cried.

Half laughing, half crying, she was in his arms; her own around his neck.