Part 16 (1/2)
”In an instant,” Jean answered quickly. ”Tell mademoiselle that I will be there in an instant.”
Papa Fregeau hesitated, stared about the room, and stared at Jean, his fat cheeks grotesquely expanded--and his arms rose suddenly in a gesture of profound helplessness.
”_Mon Dieu_!” he muttered heavily. ”Is it possible that it is our little Jean there--ah, _pardon_”--he stammered--”_Monsieur_ Jean”--and made a hasty exit from the room, as though utterly confounded at his own temerity.
But Jean, following his reply, had paid no further attention to Papa Fregeau. He had learned to knot the long, flowing tie that Myrna had chosen as part of his dress, for she had said, had she not, that it was the tie the artists wore in Paris? He knotted it now with extra care, put on his coat, s.n.a.t.c.hed up his hat, and ran downstairs to the cafe below.
She was waiting for him back by the little _comptoir_ where he had stood that evening when she had first spoken to him. She had been like a glorious vision that had burst suddenly upon him that evening--she was a thousand times more glorious now, for her smile was eager with an intimacy that promised--what did it promise? He did not know. It was there--and her eyes were s.h.i.+ning, and the white throat was divinely beautiful--and the thrill of her presence quickened the beat of his heart.
Her laugh rang through the room, silver-toned.
”Jean,” she cried merrily, ”you are harder to see these days than a prime minister! What do you mean, sir? Have you deserted us?”
”_Ma foi_!” protested Jean, a little anxiously. ”Mademoiselle does not mean that! Was I not at lunch with her to-day, and yesterday, and the day before that?”
”Yes, and all day at the work, and every evening in Ma.r.s.eilles”--she manufactured a dainty pout through her smile. ”And even now that I have s.n.a.t.c.hed a little moment, I must not keep you for they are waiting for you outside.”
”Let them wait!” said Jean tensely.
”Oh, no; we mustn't do that,” she said laughingly, shaking her head.
”So listen, Jean. I have come to tell you that--can you guess what?
That you are not going to Paris with us after all.”
”Not going to Paris!”--Jean gazed at her bewilderedly, as he repeated the words.
”With _us_--silly boy!” she smiled teasingly. ”Are you disappointed?”
She teased, and mocked, and delighted him, and fired his blood by amazing and elusive turns. He could not cope with her yet.
”But mademoiselle knows,” he blundered. ”I--I do not understand. It is a great disappointment.”
”Then it mustn't be!” she declared brightly. ”For it is my idea, and if you are not pleased with it, it is I who will be terribly disappointed. It is just a little while ago that father and I arranged the plans. We are to go to-morrow direct to Paris, and as soon as we get there--now listen very attentively, Jean!--we are going to pick out an _atelier_ for you and fit it up. And you are not to come until we send you word that everything is ready. And the day you arrive I shall be hostess at the studio at a reception to which all Paris will be invited. Everybody that is worth while will come, and your entree will be a triumph. Now, Jean, will that not be splendid?”
She was smiling at him, vivacious, flushed with excitement.
Splendid--yes, it would be splendid! An entree to Paris like that! It was the first tangible glimpse of reality out of the chaotic blaze of luring, golden dreams.
”It--it is too good of mademoiselle!” he stammered excitedly.
Low, musical, her laugh rippled through the room again, as she looked at him. The man was magnificent--the head, the shoulders, the splendid strength, the mobile, changing lights and shadows in his face like a child who had not yet learned to mask its emotions, and all this coupled with the deliciously picturesque background of the discovery of his art, would make him the rage in Paris. Paris would literally go wild over him! And she? Well, he would be still more a new sensation than ever--and perhaps, who knew?--but the man was too easily aroused--and then there was the possibility that her father, that Bidelot and the others had overrated him, that he would be but the phenomenon of the moment, only to sink after a while into uninteresting mediocrity--she would see. But for the present at least Paris would echo and re-echo with the name of Jean Laparde. Her eyebrows arched demurely, innocently. There was something else she had to say to Jean.
She had never spoken to him of Marie-Louise--naturally. But she must speak now. Marie-Louise, a peasant girl, a bare-footed fisherwoman, in Paris as Jean's fiancee was perfectly impossible!
”Jean,” she said ingenuously, ”you know we took the cottage without much formality as far as any definite length of time was concerned. Of course we expected to stay longer, and if all this had not happened we certainly should have done so. So, do you think, when we speak to Marie-Louise about going, that she would be perfectly satisfied with a month's rent? I told father I would ask you.”
Jean's face clouded.
”You have not told Marie-Louise then that you are going to-morrow?” he asked slowly.
”How could we--when we did not know ourselves until a little while ago?” she answered.