Part 5 (2/2)
”Wait!” he said almost harshly. ”Wait! Wait! Wait!”
”_Jean_!”--it was a hurt little cry.
He did not hear her. There was something at the base of that statue of his dreams that always troubled him, that the people always pointed at as they gazed; but he had never been able to make out what it was there at the base of the statue. It was very strange that he was never able to see that, when he could see the figure of the woman with the wonderful face so plainly!
He worked on and on. There were neither hours nor minutes--the afternoon deepened. There was no creek, no Marie-Louise, no Bernay-sur-Mer, nothing--only those dreams and the little clay figure in his hands.
And then Marie-Louise, her face a little white, timidly touched his arm.
”Jean!” she said hesitantly.
Her voice roused him. It seemed as though he was awakened from a sleep. He brushed the hair back from his eyes, and looked around.
”_Mon Dieu_,” he said, ”but that was, strange!” And then he smiled, still a little dazed, and lifted around the clay figure for her to see.
”I do not know if it is finished,” he said, staring at it; ”but perhaps I could do no better with it even if I worked longer.”
Marie-Louise's eyes, puzzled, anxious, on Jean's face, s.h.i.+fted to the little clay figure--and their expression changed instantly.
”But, Jean!” she cried, clasping her hands. ”But, Jean, that is not a _poupee_ you have made there. It--it will never do at all! Ninon Lachance would break the arms off at the first minute, and it is too _charmante_ for that. Oh, but, Jean, it--it is _adorable_!”
Jean was inspecting the figure in a curiously abstracted way, as though he had never seen it before, turning his head now to this side, now to that, and turning the clay around and around in his hands to examine it from all angles, while a heightened colour crept into his face and dyed his cheeks. It was a small figure, hardly a foot and a half in height--the figure of a fisherwoman, barefooted, in short skirts, the clothes as though windswept clinging close around her limbs, her arms stretched out as to the sea. He laughed a little unnaturally.
”Well, then, since it will not do for Ninon Lachance, and you like it, Marie-Louise,” he said a little self-consciously; ”it is for you.”
”For me--Jean? Really for me?” she asked happily.
”And why not?” said Jean. ”Since it _is_ you.”
”Me!”--she looked at him in a prettily bewildered way.
”But, yes,” said Jean, holding the figure off at arm's length. ”See, it is a beacon--the welcome of the fisherman home from the sea. And are you not that, Marie-Louise, and will you not stand on the sh.o.r.e at evening and hold out your arms for me as I pull home in the boat? Are you not the beacon, Marie-Louise--for me?”
Her hand stole over one of his and pressed it, but it was a moment before she spoke.
”I will pray to the _bon Dieu_ to make me that, Jean--always,” she said softly.
He drew her close to him.
”It is the luck of Jean Laparde!” he whispered tenderly.
They sat for a little time in silence--then Jean sprang sharply to his feet.
”_Ma foi_, Marie-Louise!” he called out in sudden consternation, glancing at the sun. ”I did not know we had been here so long.” He picked up the little clay figure hastily, placed it in the basket, threw his coat, that was on the ground, over it, and, swinging the basket to the crook of his arm, held out his hand to Marie-Louise.
”Come, _pet.i.te_, we will hurry back.”
It was not far across the fields and down the little rise to the road that paralleled the beach; and in some five minutes, walking quickly, they came out upon the road itself by the turn near the rough wooden bridge that crossed the creek halfway between the eastern headland and the white, cl.u.s.tering cottages of Bernay-sur-Mer. But here, for all their hurry, they paused suddenly of one accord, looking at each other questioningly, as voices reached them from the direction of the bridge which, still hidden from their view, was just around the bend of the road ahead.
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