Part 37 (2/2)

”That there must be something in common between us--and to bring us both together before the special inquiry board,” he answered mechanically--and because he could not spread his hands apart, he laid them, still trembling with the fury that had been upon him, both together on her shoulder, and drew her to him.

It terrified her, the sight of those manacles on his wrists. Why--why were they there? What were they going to do with him? What was this inquiry--was it to send him to prison?

”Jean, what is it?” she whispered piteously. ”What does it mean? What are they going to do with you?”

”I do not know,” he said, and smiled at her. ”I only know that for a little while at least you are here with me again.”

”Jean--answer me!” she cried out in her fear.

”But I do not know what they will do,” he said again. ”I am a stowaway. They caught me that night on the s.h.i.+p when I was trying to find some place to sleep--and, _pardieu_, they were not too gentle until one or two were hurt!--and then they made me work my pa.s.sage in the stokehole.”

It seemed so hard to think! Some wonder, that was a glorious wonder, was in her heart.

”You--you did not go back, Jean; I--I thought you had gone back, Jean”--it was as though she were telling, in a low, whispering way, some great, glad, joyous thing to herself. And then there came a sudden whiteness to her face, but her head was lifted bravely until her eyes met his. ”Jean, tell them!” she said steadily. ”You must tell them now who you are. Tell them, Jean, and they will let you go.”

”Tell them now!” Jean cried--and shook his head, and drew his shoulders back. ”Tell them--_now_! Did I tell them that night, Marie-Louise?

Look!”--he thrust out his handcuffed wrists before him. ”Is this not proof, Marie-Louise, that I will never tell them, that I will never go back--alone? If the world is ever to hear of Jean Laparde again, it will be because he has won back the only thing he has to live for--you--you, Marie-Louise, my little Marie-Louise. I told them my name was Jacques Legault--and Jacques Legault I will always be until you have made Jean Laparde live again, until--until--you are his wife--as in G.o.d's sight you have been, Marie-Louise, since we were little children, as in G.o.d's sight you were when I swore that oath to Gaston as he died, as in G.o.d's sight you have been though I was a traitor to that oath. Look, Marie-Louise! Look at these things again, these irons on my wrists, are they not proof that there is nothing now, that I will have nothing, that I will know nothing but your love? Ah, Marie-Louise, once you said that I belonged to France, and you bade me go alone and work; and I forgot France, and love, and there was only Jean Laparde, and I forgot the G.o.d that gave the gift--but now, Marie-Louise, look up into my face and answer, shall I work this time for France and you and love, or shall I never work again?

Marie-Louise, see”--his voice broke in its pa.s.sionate pleading--”they are coming! Marie-Louise, do you not know now that there is only you--only you, Marie-Louise--for always?”

She did not answer. They were taking Jean, and taking her somewhere now. She walked almost blindly. Jean had not gone back that night, and--and those things on his wrists were proof that--that he would never go back. Proof that, whatever might happen now, whatever he was going now to face, whatever they might do with him, the choice he had made that night was made for all his life; that she, even if she would, could not alter it now--proof that his love was so great and wonderful and strong and big that nothing could bend or break or shatter it--proof it was a love so pure that it had risen in sacrifice so high as to make a glory of the years when he had forgotten it! Yes; she knew now! Her heart, and her soul, and the _bon Dieu_ told her so!

What was it he had said that night on the s.h.i.+p--that even in those years she had been his inspiration? Yes; she knew that, too, for she had seen it, and others had seen it. It was true! And he had said that he would never work again--never do that great, wondrous work of his again--alone--without her--never return to it--without her. And he had said that the _grand monde_ that once had taken her place in his life, the _grand monde_ in which she could have no part, was of the past now--the past to which he would never return--no matter what she did or said now--to which he would never return.

They were in a corridor; and from the corridor they entered a room, where there were three men seated in a row at desks. These men began to talk amongst themselves; but it was only when an interpreter, who was also present, put questions to Jean that she could understand anything.

”To love G.o.d and be never afraid”--she tried to think of that again, tried to say it over and over. But she _was_ afraid. There was terror; and, besides terror, there was that new wonder in her soul--and, mingling, they brought confusion upon her, and at first even the words in her own tongue conveyed no meaning, and possessed for her only an unnatural sense of familiarity. And then, in s.n.a.t.c.hes, she began to catch the drift of what was going on around her--a stowaway in any case was almost invariably deported ... undesirable for other reasons ... murderous a.s.sault upon one of the crew when he was discovered ... his outburst of fury and threat of attack upon the officers only a few moments ago ... medical examination ... stab wound in side barely healed ... a vicious character....

The wound! The wound in Jean's side! She had forgotten that! It brought a sharp cry to her lips, that caused them all to turn and look at her. But she did not care. What if they looked! She was looking at Jean--looking at the gaunt, white, haggard-faced giant, who smiled and shrugged his shoulders to every question that was put to him. His wound--barely healed! What must those days and nights of torturing, brutal work in the stokehole of that s.h.i.+p have meant to him--and she had thought so pitiful a thing as an hour of the coa.r.s.e food, the paltry misery of the steerage, would have made him falter and regret!

They kept on questioning him--but she was not listening now. Her soul was whispering to her: ”It is Jean; it is Jean; Jean that you love; Jean that you have loved all your life, all your life, who has done this for you. It is Jean who has lived through black hours where only a courage and a heroic love, so splendid and so true that it will last while life will last, has kept him from the single word, the single act that could so easily have brought back to him again everything in the world--save you.” Her eyes were filling with tears. It was Jean--Jean--Jean--who had done this for her. Jean who stood there with irons upon his wrists--for her. Jean who had--

”Who is this woman?” the interpreter demanded abruptly of Jean. ”Is she any relation to you?”

There was no answer--save only in Jean's eyes, as he turned and looked at her.

”Tell him, Marie-Louise,” Jean's eyes seemed to say. ”Tell him, Marie-Louise, for it is you who must answer now--for always.”

”You, then,” the interpreter asked, addressing her. ”Are you any relation to this man?”

She felt her face grow very white.

”You must tell the truth,” the interpreter cautioned sharply. ”It is evident on the face of it, from what happened out there in the hall, that there is something between you. Tell the truth for your own sake.

This man is to be deported, and he will not be allowed to come back.

Do you understand that? If he is any relation to you, say so--unless you want to be separated. Well?”

Separated! Marie-Louise raised her head a little--and looked at Jean--and at the interpreter--and at the officers.

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