Part 10 (2/2)

”... Peyre on the _Histoire Generale des Beaux-Arts_, Monsieur le Cure, I recommend it to you heartily. It is a most comprehensive little volume, embracing in a condensed form the story of the arts from the time of the Egyptians down to the present day, and--”

Myrna, in spite of herself, laughed outright, at which both men turned their heads. Her father, incorrigible, was at it again; and, once started, there was no stopping him. Poor Father Anton! For the rest of the way he would listen to art!

”Did I not tell you to beware, Father Anton?” she cried out in comical despair--and waved them to go on again.

She had no desire to listen to art, its relation to nature, its relation to science, its relation to civilisation, nor, above all, to a dissertation on the modern school. She had heard it all before; and, if it had not pa.s.sed as quickly through one ear as it had come into the other, her head, she was quite sure, would have driven her to distraction. Besides, it was much more important to think about something else--no, not what she had been thinking about a moment ago; but, for instance, to be practical, about this menage whose wheels, without knowing whether they were oiled or not, she had impulsively set in motion. Would the cottage be at all habitable? Would this Marie-Louise be at all suitable? Would Marie-Louise and Nanette get along together? Nanette was insanely jealous of Jules--nothing but the fact that Jules was with them would have induced Nanette, to whom Paris was the beginning and the end of all things, to have come on such a trip. Yes, there was a very great deal to think about--now that it occurred to her! Myrna fell into a brown study, quite oblivious to her surroundings.

When she joined her father and the cure again, they had stopped at the edge of the little wood on the headland, and a cottage, almost as prettily vine-covered as Father Anton's, lay before them.

”Well, Myrna,” her father called, with a smile, ”I must say your plunge in the dark looks propitious so far.”

”No, no! Not a plunge in the dark!” protested Father Anton quickly, his eyes full of expectant pleasure on Myrna. ”That is not fair, Monsieur Bliss! It was on my recommendation, was it not, mademoiselle?

And now--eh?--what does mademoiselle think of it?”

It was like the imaginative conception of some painter. The cottage, green with climbing vines, spotlessly white where the vines were spa.r.s.e, nestled in the trees--in front, as far as the eye could reach, the glorious, deep, unfathomable blue of the Mediterranean; nearer, the splash of surf, like myriad fountains, on the headland's rugged point; while a tiny fringe of beach, just peeping from under the edge of the cliff at the far side of the cottage, glistened as though full of diamonds in the sunlight.

”Father Anton--you are a dear!” Myrna cried impetuously.

Her eyes roved delightedly here and there. There was a little trellis with flowers over the back door--that little outhouse would do splendidly as a garage. And then the front door opened, and her eyes fixed on a girl's figure on the threshold--and somehow the figure was familiar.

”Who is that, Father Anton?” she demanded.

”But it is Marie-Louise--who else?” smiled the priest. ”I will call her.”

”No,” said Myrna; ”we will go in.”

Of course! How absurd! She recognised the girl now. It was the girl who had pa.s.sed them on the bridge--Myrna's sunbonnet swung a little abstractedly again--with Jean Laparde.

Father Anton bustled forward.

”Marie-Louise,” he said, as they reached the door, ”this is the lady and gentleman who are to take the house, and--”

”Oh, but I think we have seen each other before,” interposed Myrna graciously. ”Was it not you, Marie-Louise, who pa.s.sed us on the bridge yesterday afternoon?”

Marie-Louise's dark eyes, deep, fearless, met the grey ones--and dropped modestly.

”Yes, mademoiselle,” she said.

”Certainly!” said Henry Bliss pleasantly. ”I remember you too, and--ah!” With a sudden step, quite forgetting the amenities due his daughter, he brushed by her into the room, and stooped over the clay figure of the beacon. He picked it up, looked at it in a sort of startled incredulity, as though he could not believe his eyes; then, setting it down, went to the window, threw up the shade for better light, and returned to the clay figure. And then, after a moment, he began to mutter excitedly. ”Yes--undoubtedly--of the flower of the French school--Demaurais, Lestrange, Pitot--eh?--which?

And--yes--here--within a day or so--it is quite fres.h.!.+” He rushed back to the doorway to Father Anton. ”Who has been in the village recently?”--his words were coming with a rush, he had the priest by the shoulders and was unconsciously shaking him. ”Was it a man with long black hair over his coat collar and a beak nose? Was it a little short man who always jerks his head as he talks? Or was it a big fellow, very fat, and, yes, if it were Pitot he would probably be drunk?

Quick! Which one was it?”

Father Anton, jaw dropped, dumb with amazement, could only shake his head. This American! Had he gone suddenly mad?

”Good heavens, dad, what is the matter?” Myrna cried out.

He paid no attention to her.

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