She drew away from him, staring at him a little wildly.
"But do you not understand?" she cried out with a sudden rush of passion. "But do you not understand that it is stronger than I—that I could not stay in Bernay-sur-Mer because I was always thinking, thinking—that I could not go back there now any more than I could stay there before? I must do this! I will do it! Nothing shall stop me! And if you will not help me, then—"
Father Anton drew her gently back against his knees. Yes; he was beginning to understand—that the problem was not to be settled so easily as by the mere expedient of telling Marie-Louise she must go back to Bernay-sur-Mer. Those small clenched hands, those tight lips were eloquent of finality. It became simply a matter of accepting a fact. He might insist a dozen times that she should go. It would be useless. She would not go! The old priest's brows furrowed in anxiety. This love for Jean was still first in the girl's heart. Words, arguments, were of no avail against the longing that was supreme with her, that had brought her on the long journey across all France. But her love was the love that pictured the frank, strong, simple fisherman of Bernay-sur-Mer. If she should see Jean as he really was! If she should see for herself the change in him, the abandon of his life; and, too, see the glittering circles in which he moved! The first would dispel her love for him; the second would show her in any case the utter futility of it. As long as she held this love, that he had hoped and prayed she had forgotten, it spoiled her life. It could only bring her misery, unhappiness and sorrow. It would hurt cruelly, this disenchantment; but it would save her, this poor child, whom he loved as he would have loved a daughter of his own. Yes; if she should see Jean as he really was, see him intimately enough to realise the truth of the life he was leading! But how could that be brought about—and at the same time protect her and keep her safe?
She rose slowly to her feet, and stood before him, her hands still tightly shut at her sides.
"I was so sure, so sure that you would help me!" she said miserably. And then, in pleading abandon, she flung out her arms to him. "Oh, won't you, Father Anton, won't you? Won't you try to understand? It can do no harm, only—only it is all my life—just to see him, to be near him for a little while, to know that it has all been a wonderful thing for him—and he will never know, I will not let him know."
The curé's hands clasped and unclasped nervously.
"Would you promise that, Marie-Louise? That you would not speak to him, that you would not let him know you were here in Paris?"
She answered him almost passionately, in hurt pride.
"Oh, how little you understand!" she cried. "Do you think that my love is like that? Do you think that for anything in the world I would force myself into his life? Do you think that is why I came? Yes; I will promise that!"
"Well, well," said Father Anton soothingly, "we will see. But first—eh?—a little supper? You are tired, my little Marie-Louise, and hungry after the long journey. Come now, you will help me! We will make a little omelette, and boil the coffee, and pretend that we are in Bernay-sur-Mer—eh?"