Part 34 (1/2)
Only one thing stood out, sharp-lined, clear, absolute, irrevocable in itself--he must go to Marie-Louise paying the price. For, apart from all else, apart from the certainty that if he went to her as the great Laparde she would only bid him return again, not in bitterness but in her splendid self-abnegation, apart from this--how else could he make her believe him? He, a man who once had forsworn his oath; he, who once, in her stead, had chosen in ghastly selfishness the fame, the position, the place that were now his--how else could he make her believe him? How else, unless he flung them from him, when once for these very things, a traitor to his manhood and to her, he had turned his back upon her, could she believe that now he held them as naught compared to her; how else could she believe that in his soul and heart, dominant, supreme, lived now only a love for her, greater than it had ever been because it was chastened now, a love near like to her own great wondrous love that she had offered him--and he had spurned? How else--unless to-night the great Laparde should die, and in his place should live again the Jean Laparde she once had known, the humble fisherman of Bernay-sur-Mer? The fisherman of Bernay-sur-Mer! Yes, that was it! It seemed to crystallise suddenly, sharply, into definite, tangible form, the shadowy, nebulous plan that, from the moment his decision had been made as he had stood and watched her there below him on the steerage deck, had been seeking for expression in his mind. The fisherman of Bernay-sur-Mer! None would recognise in the fisherman of Bernay-sur-Mer the Jean Laparde that the world knew--none save her!
He was before the door of his luxurious deck-suite, and in feverish excitement now he flung it open, closed and locked it behind him, switched on the lights, and ran through the sitting-room into the bedroom beyond. Here, where there had been confusion, his things thrown everywhere when he had dressed for dinner and the dance, all was now in order, and his two steamer trunks were neatly stowed away--the steward's work--beneath the bra.s.s bed. He dropped on his knees, and hurriedly dragged one out--the one that Myrna Bliss had chosen for him that day when they had gone to Ma.r.s.eilles from Bernay-sur-Mer. If only Hector had not disturbed it! _Bon Dieu_, if Hector had not meddled with it! He wrenched up the lid. It was Marie-Louise who had thrust that fisherman's suit into his arms that day when she had told him he was free! What was it she had said? Yes, yes! ”Promise me, Jean, that you will keep these with you always, and that sometimes in your great world you will look at them and remember--that they too belong to France.” And he had laid them in the bottom of the trunk; and, because he had not forgotten so soon, when Hector, whom he had found already installed at the studio, had unpacked for him on his first arrival in Paris, he had told Hector always to leave them there, never to take them out--but after that he had forgotten. He lifted out the tray, and began to remove the clothing that lay beneath it. It was Hector who had packed the trunk for the journey, and--with an exultant cry, he straightened up, the old, worn, heavy boots, the coa.r.s.e socks still tucked into their tops, in his hands.
He put these down, and reached into the trunk again. Yes, they were all here--the cap; the woollen s.h.i.+rt; the rough suit, crumpled, white-spotted with the old salt stains of the sea.
And then for a moment he stood and looked at them--and looked about the cabin--and for a moment fear came. As a blow that staggered him there fell upon him the full significance of their glaring contrast with the rich fittings of the stateroom-de-luxe about him. They seemed to mock at him, these garments, and jeeringly bid him put them back again into the trunk--as he _had_ done once before. What hideously insincere jest did he imagine he was playing with himself, they sneered at him! What had he to do with toil, and poverty, and hards.h.i.+p, with the life these things stood for--he who knew the palaces of kings, he who had luxury, he who had fame, he who had all that he had ever longed for, he who had everything that money, that position, that authority could procure, he who had but to rub the lamp and demand of the world his will?
”No, no!” he cried out suddenly aloud--and, with a quick, impulsive movement, tore off his ulster and threw it on the bed. It was Marie-Louise now--Marie-Louise! Once she had given her all for him.
It was Marie-Louise, wonderful, beautiful, pitiful, the saddest soul in all the world, out there alone on the steerage deck!
And then he stood still again, hesitant, listening. Some one was knocking on the cabin door. And now the door was tried--the knock repeated. Disturbed, uncertain, he still hesitated--then, stepping into the sitting-room, he closed the connecting door between it and the bedroom, and unlocked and opened the door to the deck.
It was Henry Bliss.
”Ah, you're here, Jean!” the other exclaimed, with what was obviously an attempt at unconcern, as he stepped into the cabin. ”I've been looking for you all over the s.h.i.+p. What are you doing up here in your room alone, with all this gaiety going on below? Eh--what's the matter?”
Jean stared at Henry Bliss a little sullenly. Since the other had come, was there--it remained only to get rid of him as soon as possible.
”There is nothing the matter,” he said shortly--and shrugged his shoulders.
Henry Bliss frowned, and rubbed his hand over his chin nervously.
”Confound it, Jean!” he burst out abruptly. ”I know better! You and Myrna have been having another--er--another misunderstanding. In fact, she--that is, I discovered it a few moments ago. I”--he glanced about him as though to make sure they were alone, and caught Jean's arm confidentially--”I spoke to her very seriously, very seriously about it. I--I am sure it is nothing. It is only that you take these things very much to heart, Jean, while she laughs at them.”
”_Pardieu_!” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Jean ironically. ”That is so!”
”No, no!” said Henry Bliss, hurriedly and in confusion. ”No--I--that is not what I meant, Jean. Not at all what I meant! I mean that if she takes it lightly, it cannot--er--be so--er--”
”I know what you mean,” said Jean moodily. ”I have discovered it for myself.”
”Tut, tut!” protested Henry Bliss anxiously. ”This will never do at all, Jean! You must both make an effort to understand each other better. Myrna is very--er--high-spirited--very! You see that, of course, Jean--eh? Well? Tut, tut! That is all! You must not be too firm or--er--exacting with her at first. I have found--that is, I have not found that to be the most tactful way of handling her. Now slip on your overcoat, my boy, and we'll go down together.”
Again Jean shrugged his shoulders. Would it be necessary to open the door and bow even Henry Bliss out?
”No,” he said, with pointed finality; ”not now. I prefer to remain here for a little while--alone.”
Henry Bliss, perturbed and upset, coughed uneasily--and suddenly began to fumble through his pockets. His fingers encountering first a cigar, he took it out mechanically, and, as evidence of the composure he did not possess, bit off the end with deliberate care. Then he fumbled through his pockets again, and this time produced a marconigram. He tapped it playfully with one finger, and smiled engagingly at Jean.
”Well, well, I knew I had a panacea with me,” he said cheerily. ”This came by wireless half an hour ago; it's what sent me out on the hunt for you, and ran me into Myrna, and made me stumble on the lovers'
quarrel that I am sure will end just like all the rest of them--eh--my boy? Listen!”--unfolding the message. ”It is from a gentleman with whom I am well acquainted, who is very prominent in art circles in New York, stating that he has just learned that you are en route for America, and asking, on behalf of the leading New York societies, if you will accept a public reception on the steamer's arrival in New York. There you are, my boy! Think of that! I promise you that it will be something to eclipse anything you could imagine. We _do_ things in America--if I say it myself! It will be the triumph of your career. Bands, flags, bunting, cheers, the dock _en fete_--to say nothing of reporters”--he was laughing now, and patting Jean's arm excitedly. ”They'll show you, my boy, what they think of Jean Laparde in America! That's the kind of a welcome they're getting ready for you--it will be the greatest moment of your life! But here”--he stole an almost wistful glance at Jean, and stepping over to the writing desk at the side of the cabin, laid the marconigram down--”I'll just leave this here, and”--he coughed again, and moved tactfully to the door--”and you just kind of think about that instead of anything else, and--er--in about half an hour or so, I'll bring Myrna along up, and we'll talk it all over together--eh--my boy?”
He waved his hand genially, and, without waiting for a reply, went out.
For a moment Jean did not move; then his eyes, as though drawn irresistibly in that direction, s.h.i.+fted from the door that had closed on Henry Bliss to the marconigram lying on the desk--and abruptly he walked over and picked up the wireless message. He read it through laboriously, for his English still came hard to him--and read it again, more slowly, lingering over the words, muttering s.n.a.t.c.hes of the sentences aloud. ”... Shall spare no effort ... endeavour worthily to express our sentiments ... splendid genius of which France is so justly proud...”
And, holding it there in his hands, a dull flush came and spread itself over Jean's face. The triumph of his career, Henry Bliss had said--the greatest moment of his life! This great and wonderful America, of which he had heard so much, was waiting for him eagerly--waiting for him--Jean Laparde--Jean Laparde! This was to be his welcome to that New Land where all was on a scale so tremendous and magnificent. To his ears there came the mighty roar of thousands shouting again and again the name of Jean Laparde; before his eyes a sea of faces looked up into his from dense-lined streets as he drove along--and all, all in that vast mult.i.tude were cheering, waving, acclaiming Jean Laparde.
They were waiting for him there at the gateway to America, open-handed, royal in their hospitality, to pay him honour such as he had never known before. They were waiting for him there--for him--for Jean Laparde! They were waiting--
The flush faded from his face, and a whiteness came, and upon his forehead oozed out a bead of moisture--and, as the seconds pa.s.sed, he hung there almost limply, swaying a little in the agony that was upon him. And then slowly the paper that was in his hands was torn across, and the pieces fluttered to the floor, and the great head rose proud in kings.h.i.+p on the broad shoulders--the kings.h.i.+p of himself, the kings.h.i.+p of Jean Laparde.
Ay, they were waiting for him--but there was another beside who was waiting too! He looked at the torn pieces of paper on the floor--and his laugh rang suddenly clear and buoyant through the cabin. Once he had sold his soul for such as that; but to-night, in spite of these devil's tempters that sought to shake his resolution--there was his answer! There was his answer--the answer that had come to him through the fog and mist as through a veil rent suddenly asunder, the answer that was in Marie-Louise's outstretched arms, the answer that was in her banishment from the friends and the France she loved, in the bitter wrong that he had done, in her love that now he knew for its priceless worth! There in that torn paper was his answer!