Part 32 (1/2)

It is a surprise--eh? But--eh!--what is the matter?” He stared at the three--at Henry Bliss, who was evidencing palpable confusion; at Myrna, who seemed suddenly to have lost her colour; at Father Anton, who had tears trickling down his face, and acted as though he were gazing at a ghost.

”It--it is Jean!” faltered Father Anton nervously, the letter fluttering from his hand to the floor.

”But, yes, of course, it is Jean! Who else?” Jean laughed--and stepped forward mechanically to pick up the paper. ”Permit me. I--”

A dainty satin-slippered toe was covering the letter. Myrna was smiling reprovingly.

”It is quite time enough for you to be gallant, Jean, when you can do so without the danger of reopening your wound!” she said sweetly.

”Have you not been told often enough that you are not to stoop down like that? Father Anton is much better able than you to pick it up!”

”Yes, yes,” said Father Anton hurriedly, reaching for the paper and tucking it into the breast of his _soutane_. ”Yes, you--you must be careful of yourself, Jean.”

”Nonsense!” declared Jean. ”I am perfectly recovered!” He stared at the three in turn again for a moment. ”But--but perhaps I am intruding--_de trop_?”

”Not at all!” Myrna answered composedly. ”It is a matter that concerns only father and Monsieur le Cure; and they”--she glanced brightly at her father--”I am sure, will be only too glad to get away to father's den where they can discuss it by themselves.”

”Yes--er--yes, of course,” coughed Henry Bliss. ”It's--er--good to see you out again, Jean, my boy.” Then jocularly, in an attempt to disguise his self-consciousness: ”Come along, Father Anton”--he caught the other's arm, and led the cure out of the room--”there are perhaps others who prefer to be by themselves.”

A slightly puzzled expression on his face, Jean watched them out of sight across the hall; then turned inquiringly to Myrna.

Myrna's shoulders lifted daintily.

”If it isn't one thing, it's another,” she said, as though the subject bored her. ”There has always been something or other ever since father started that fund of his; and the cure trots to father with everything.

This time, it seems that one of Father Anton's protegees has run away from him; and, as you saw, the cure is beside himself.” Again the shoulders lifted ”But you, Jean”--infusing a sudden note of perturbed anxiety into her voice--”are you sure you were wise in coming out to-night? What brought you?”

And then Jean threw back his head, and laughed, and closed the door--and caught her in his arms.

”_Mon Dieu_!” he cried, holding her close to him, and trying to kiss the suddenly averted face. ”Do you ask what brought me? Well, then, I will tell you! Did you not say that you would come this afternoon, and did you not promise that we would settle about our marriage? And you did not come, and all the afternoon I was waiting, and now”--his face fell a little, as she slipped away from him--”and now that I am here you run away from me.”

”You are too impulsive, Jean! You are destruction on gowns!” she laughed, and backed merrily away from him to sink down gracefully in a chair.

”Gowns!” he echoed, a sudden flush of anger coming to his cheeks, as he followed her. ”What does it matter, a gown, when--”

”Now, don't be cross!” she commanded teasingly; and, gaily regal, extended her hand. ”See, here is my hand to kiss.”

He hesitated; and then, as, a little sullenly, he bent and touched her fingers with his lips, she laughed again. She loved to excite and watch moods in Jean--as now for instance, when the tall, strong figure was drawn up haughtily, and the emotions, that he would never learn to hide, were so apparent in his face, as he bit his lips and pulled at his short, pointed beard. Jean was as readable as a book at all times, and always would be--which was not a bad trait for a husband to possess! And this was Jean Laparde, the man of genius, unquestionably at that moment the most famous man in France! She smiled at him through half veiled eyes. To be Madame Laparde! Socially, it meant an incomparable triumph; intimately, it meant--well, at least, it was obvious enough that the marriage need hold no terror of tyranny in store for her! Jean, for all his greatness, and save for his occasional pa.s.sionate outbursts, was as plastic as his own clay. Her eyelids lifted, and in the grey eyes was laughter.

”Well, and why the brown study? What are you thinking about?” she demanded pertly.

”I was thinking of Paul Valmain,” he answered abruptly.

”Paul Valmain!” she repeated--and sat suddenly upright in her chair.

”Yes,” said Jean, a little bitterly. ”That he would have small reason to be jealous, even now that we are engaged.”

”Don't be absurd!” she retorted sharply.

Jean shrugged his shoulders.