Part 39 (1/2)
He could just see her face now in the growing light--see the eyes s.h.i.+ne through a mist of happy tears, see those perfect lips quiver in their smile, as she shook her head.
”But you shall see!” he told her eagerly. ”A little while in Paris--ah, Marie-Louise, that is a secret that I have for you!--a little while there, and then you shall see! And all France shall see--and France shall tell you that it is so! Ah, Marie-Louise, perhaps some day they will forget Jean Laparde; but France shall always remember one who is worthier far, and in that one see its hope, its inspiration and its glory, for France shall never forget--Marie-Louise!”
She had slipped from his arms. Her face was full of wonder, and upon it fell the soft glow of light that now was tinging the eastern sky.
How pure, how brave, how beautiful she was! How love shone in the eyes that were like Heaven's stars; how the soft light seemed to caress her face and rejoice in the radiant happiness that was there, a happiness that even her wondering bewilderment for the moment seemed to enhance!
How the strong, young form swung free and lithesome to the lifting deck, and found a wondrous joy in its own glorious virility!
”Jean, what do you mean?” she said breathlessly.
”You shall know!” he laughed, and laughed because there was only joy and gladness in all the world--in the waves that tumbled and frolicked and played, and tossed their white manes at each other and the s.h.i.+p; in the breeze that sang merrily its way along on its busy errand into the great everywhere; in the vibrant throb of the mighty s.h.i.+p, in that spokesman's voice--for it was to be to-day--to-day! ”You shall know, Marie-Louise--to-night, when Father Anton is there to hear, and has blessed us, and made Marie-Louise my little wife! And then that little while in Paris that you will understand--and then--_home_! Ah, Marie-Louise, can you not see it now--the blue water, blue with the wonderful colour that only G.o.d can make, and the white beach where we played when we were little children, and the boats, Marie-Louise, and the brave, true, loyal friends! Home, Marie-Louise, home, home, home--to Bernay-sur-Mer! Ah, is not G.o.d good? We shall go home, _ma bien-aimee_--and there we shall live, and there I shall work for you, and France, and love, and there old Bidelot and those who really love the things we do shall come at times to make us proud and happy! Ah, it will be a _grand monde_, Marie-Louise, a _grand monde_ of wealth and riches, and a very proud _grand monde_, careful of those who shall have the entree there--for it shall be a _grand monde_ where you, my little Marie-Louise, are queen, a _grand monde_ of love and happiness.”
Purple and golden and pink and crimson was the east--and over the horizon rim rose the sun. And it mounted higher, and the dawn was gone, and the day had come.
”Look!” he said suddenly.
And a cry rose to Marie-Louise's lips; and her eyes grew dim and misty again until she could no longer see.
”It is the land! It is France!” she whispered.
It was light now, men and women were moving about the steerage deck, he could no longer hold her in his arms; but, standing there at the s.h.i.+p's side, her hand was tightly clasped in his.
There were glad words on Jean's lips:
”It is France, Marie-Louise--and home.”
-- XIV --
THE STATUE OF DREAMS
Four months had pa.s.sed. The spring had come. France mourned for Jean Laparde. Old Bidelot shook his grizzled head, and pushed away, with a curiously reproachful motion of his hand, the ma.s.s of sketches and designs that lay upon the desk before him. If France grieved for the loss of one of her most brilliant sons, the great critic of France grieved besides for the loss of a personal friend that he had loved.
Of these compet.i.tive designs that he had been appointed to judge for the statue with which France was to commemorate Jean Laparde--none would do! Not one! Not one, but was so far from the genius of Jean's own work that there seemed something mocking and incongruous in the thought that it should aspire to perpetuate and typify the work of the master-sculptor who was gone! Not one would do--and meanwhile they besieged him, those who had submitted their designs, to cast Jean's mantle upon them! They came at all hours; they waited interminably on his door-step for him to return; they b.u.t.tonholed him on the streets and in the cafes to urge their claims and to explain the allegory of their conceptions, lest some subtle beauty in their work might have escaped his eye! One would not think they would do that--eh? That it was not dignified? No? Well--there was the mantle of Jean Laparde!
”_Mon Dieu_!” sighed Bidelot heavily--and suddenly raised his head at a timid knocking upon the door. Here was another of them then, no doubt!
He had been wrong to let his servant take the afternoon, and leave his apartment so unguarded that his very door was at their mercy! ”Well, come!” he called out, querulously--but the next instant he had risen, and was smiling, as he extended his hand. It was Father Anton. ”Ah, Father Anton!” he cried. ”This is a pleasure! This is a pleasure indeed! I do not often see you these days! As a matter of fact--let me see--not since Monsieur Bliss went away to America, and the evenings at his house were at an end.”
”That is so,” agreed Father Anton. ”But then, I have been very busy; and besides, for a little while, I was in Bernay-sur-Mer.”
”_Tiens_! So! But, tell me, what is the news from Monsieur Bliss?
When will he return?”
”I do not know,” Father Anton replied. ”He has said nothing about it in his letters; but I have a letter to write him to-day, that may perhaps bring him back at once.”
”Then write it, my dear Father Anton--write it, by all means!” Bidelot burst out with a vehemence that, if exaggerated, was at least sincere, as he waved his hand helplessly toward the desk. ”I am in despair! I have been on the point of writing Monsieur Bliss myself.”
Father Anton's eyes followed the direction of the gesture, and fixed interrogatively on the desk.
”The compet.i.tive designs,” explained Bidelot. ”None are worthy! It is tragic!”
But now Father Anton smiled, and shook his head, and laid his hand on Bidelot's arm.