Part 17 (1/2)
It seemed to Marie-Louise that she was very cold, that somehow she could not move. There were three figures out there on the road walking along. It was very strange that so ordinary a thing as that should be taking place. She seemed to be numbed, to be waiting somehow for a return to consciousness. Was that consciousness that was returning now, was that it--this dull, monotonous pain? And that great choking in her heart--what was that? She was standing erect, and words were quivering on her lips.
”There is no place in his new life for Marie-Louise.”
She was staring out before her; but the road, and, beyond it, the white beach, and, beyond that again, the blue of the sea with the great golden shaft of light from the setting sun upon it was gone--and there was only nothingness. Only her lips moved.
”There is no place--in his new life--for Marie-Louise.”
-- X --
A DAUGHTER OF FRANCE
How still the house was! Only once during the night had Marie-Louise heard a sound as she had sat, dressed, by the window in the little attic room. And that sound had been the whir of an automobile rus.h.i.+ng by on the road--it had been Jean returning from Ma.r.s.eilles. That was while it was very dark, very long ago--now it was daylight again, and the sun was streaming into the room.
The chaste, sweet face was tired and weary and aged a little; but on the lips, sensitive, delicate, making even more beautiful their contour, was a brave, resolute little smile, as her eyes rested on the small white bed, neatly made, unslept in. It was over now, the fight that had been so hard and so cruel to fight; and she needed only the courage to go on to the end.
Over and over again, all through the night, she had thought it out.
She loved Jean. She loved Jean so much! She had trembled once when she had tried to think how much, and the thought had come so quickly, before she could arrest it, that she loved Jean as much as she loved G.o.d--and then she had prayed the _bon Dieu_ not to be angry with her for the sin, for she had not meant to think such thoughts as that.
It was true what they had said when they had pa.s.sed by on the road yesterday evening. There was no place in his new life for her. A hundred little things all through the week had shown her that, only, until yesterday evening when Monsieur Bliss had spoken, she had not understood what they meant--Nanette, that first day, when Jean had come to lunch with mademoiselle and monsieur; the curious, side-long glances that the villagers gave her now; a strange, embarra.s.sed reserve in Father Anton, when the good cure had spoken to her lately; that wide, vast gulf that lay between the world mademoiselle lived in, the world that Jean was going to, and her own world. They had all seen it--except herself. And she had not understood because she had not allowed herself to think what it might mean, what she knew now it meant--that she must lose Jean.
To let Jean go out of her life because France had claimed him--that was what her soul had whispered to her all through the night. A Daughter of France, her Uncle Gaston had called her proudly--it was Jean who had told her what her uncle had said--that he had taught her to love G.o.d and be never afraid. But she was afraid now, she had been afraid all through the night, for it seemed as if there were no more happiness, as though a great pain that would never go away again had come to her.
France had claimed Jean. He was to be a famous man. Did they not all talk of his glorious future? It was different with Jean--years ago even she had known that. She herself had told him he was different from the fishermen of Bernay-sur-Mer. Jean was born to the life that he was going to. Was he not even now taking his place amongst these great strangers as though he had been accustomed to do so always? And she, if she should try to do it, they would laugh at her, and she would bring ridicule upon Jean, and she could not do what Jean could do. She was a peasant girl whom mademoiselle scolded about going without shoes and stockings.
And Jean must surely have seen these things, too. But Jean, though he had heedlessly hurt her so when he had given away again the little beacon, would never speak to her of this, because this was a much greater thing which was to change all their lives. It was she who must speak to Jean, it was she who must tell him that she understood that the great future which lay before him must not be harmed; that she must not hold him back; that she must not stand in his way; that she would only hurt him in that dazzling, bewildering world that would disdain a fishergirl; that it was France, not she, who came first.
The night had brought her that. It was only the courage she needed now to act upon it.
She stood up, looking through the window--and the great dark eyes filled with a blinding mist.
”Jean! Jean!” she said brokenly aloud.
A little while she stood there, and then walked slowly across the room to the bed. And as once she had knelt there before, she dropped again upon her knees beside it. And now the smile came bravely again. They were wrong. It was not true. There was a place in his life for her--something that she could do now. There was one way in which her love could still help Jean in the wonderful life that had come to him.
The dark head bent to the coverlet.
”_Mon Pere_,” she whispered, ”make me that--Jean's beacon now.”
And after a time she rose, and bathed her face, and fastened the black coils of hair that had become unloosed, and, as she heard Nanette stirring below, went quietly downstairs.
She must see Jean. They were going away to-day, mademoiselle and monsieur, and Nanette and Jules; and Jean was to follow them in a few days. She had heard mademoiselle and her father discussing it at their supper last evening. She must see Jean now before the others went, so--so that everybody would understand.
She stole out of the house, gained the road and started to run along it toward the village. Jean would be up long ago, all his life he had risen hours before this, and she would be back by the time mademoiselle and monsieur were up and needed her. She stopped suddenly, and in quick dismay glanced down at her bare feet. She had forgotten to put on her shoes and stockings. Suppose mademoiselle should see her returning like that!
And then Marie-Louise shook her head slowly, and went on again. It was not right to disobey, but it could not matter very much now, for mademoiselle was going away in the afternoon. And besides she could run much faster without them, and--the tears came with a rush to her eyes--they seemed all at once to mean so much, those shoes and stockings. It--it was the shoes and stockings and all they meant that was taking her out of Jean's life. She understood it all so well now.
She brushed the tears a little angrily from her eyes. She must not do that. To go to Jean and cry! Far better not to go at all!
Afterwards, when they were gone, these Americans, and when Jean was gone, and she was alone and only the _bon Dieu_ to see, then perhaps the tears would be too strong for her. But now she must talk very bravely to Jean, and not make it harder for him; for, no matter what happened or what was to come, Jean, too, in his love, would feel the parting.
She understood Jean better now, too. The night had made so many things much clearer. Had he not confessed that he was not always happy as a fisherman in Bernay-sur-Mer? And must it not have been just this, this greatness within him, that had made him discontented? And now that it had come true, a far greater thing than he could have dreamed of, changing his whole life, must it not for the time have made him forget everything else? It had not killed his love for her, it had not done that--but this thing must be first before either of their loves.