Part 6 (1/2)

”But, my dear”--it was a man speaking, his tone a sort of tolerant protest--”I am sure it is just the place we have been looking for. It is quiet here.”

”Quiet!”--it was a woman's voice this time, in a wealth of irony. ”It is stagnation! There isn't a single thing alive here--even the sea is dead! It is enough to give one the blues for the rest of one's life!

And the accommodations at that unspeakable tavern are absolutely appalling. I can't imagine what you are dreaming of to want to stay another minute! I'm quite sure there are lots of other places that will furnish all the rest and quiet required, and where, at the same time, we can at least be comfortable. Anyway, I'm not going to stay here!”

”But, Myrna, you--”

”There is some one coming,” said the girl.

Jean and Marie-Louise were walking forward again.

”What are they saying, Jean?” asked Marie-Louise.

Jean shook his head.

”I do not know,” he answered. ”It is English. See! There they are!”

An elderly, well-dressed man, grey-haired, clean-shaven, a little stout, with a wholesomely good-natured, ruddy face, was leaning against the railing of the bridge; and beside him, digging at the planks with the tip of her parasol, stood a girl in dainty white, her head bent forward, her face hidden under the wide brim of a picture hat.

Jean's eyes, attracted as by a magnet, pa.s.sed over the man and fixed upon the girl. At Nice, at Monte Carlo, so they said, one saw many such as she; but Bernay-sur-Mer was neither Nice nor Monte Carlo, and he had never seen a woman gowned like that before. _'Cre nom_, what exquisite harmony of line and poise! If she would but look up! _Bon Dieu_, but it would be a desecration of the picture if she were not gloriously pretty!

The gentleman, nodding pleasantly, greeted them as they approached.

”Good afternoon!” he said smilingly, in French.

The girl had raised her head, grey eyes sweeping Marie-Louise with well bred indifference--and Jean was staring at her.

”_Bon jour, m'sieu_!”--he spoke mechanically, lifted his cap mechanically.

His eyes had not left the girl's face. He could not take his eyes from her face. It was a wonderful face, a beautiful face, and something in it thrilled him and bade him feast his eyes upon it to drink in its beauty. And, his head thrown back exposing the bare rugged neck, the broad, st.u.r.dy shoulders unconsciously squared a little, the fine, dark eyes wide with admiration and a strange, keen apprais.e.m.e.nt, the splendid physique, the strength, the power and vigour of young manhood outstanding in face and form, he gazed at her. And her eyes, from Marie-Louise, met his, and from them faded their expression of indifference, and into them came something Jean could not define, only that as the blood rushed suddenly unbidden to his face and he felt it hot upon his cheeks, he saw the colour ebb from hers to a queer whiteness--and then her hat hid her face again--and he had pa.s.sed by.

It was as though his veins were running fire. He glanced at Marie-Louise. Shyly diffident in the presence of strangers, her head was lowered. She had seen nothing. Seen nothing! Seen what? He did not know. His blood was tingling, his brain was confusion.

He walked on, hurrying unconsciously.

It was Marie-Louise who spoke.

”They are of the _grand monde_,” she said in a sort of wondering excitement, when they were out of ear-shot.

”Yes,” said Jean absently.

”And English or American.”

”Yes,” said Jean.

”But the rich people do not come to Bernay-sur-Mer where there is no amus.e.m.e.nt for them,” she submitted with a puzzled air. ”I wonder what they are going to do here?”

Jean's eyes were on the road. He did not raise them.

”Who knows!” said Jean Laparde.