The Beloved Traitor (Mystery Classic). Frank L. Packard
"And why not?" said Jean. "Since it is you."
"Me!"—she looked at him in a prettily bewildered way.
"But, yes," said Jean, holding the figure off at arm's length. "See, it is a beacon—the welcome of the fisherman home from the sea. And are you not that, Marie-Louise, and will you not stand on the shore at evening and hold out your arms for me as I pull home in the boat? Are you not the beacon, Marie-Louise—for me?"
Her hand stole over one of his and pressed it, but it was a moment before she spoke.
"I will pray to the bon Dieu to make me that, Jean—always," she said softly.
He drew her close to him.
"It is the luck of Jean Laparde!" he whispered tenderly.
They sat for a little time in silence—then Jean sprang sharply to his feet.
"Ma foi, Marie-Louise!" he called out in sudden consternation, glancing at the sun. "I did not know we had been here so long." He picked up the little clay figure hastily, placed it in the basket, threw his coat, that was on the ground, over it, and, swinging the basket to the crook of his arm, held out his hand to Marie-Louise. "Come, petite, we will hurry back."
It was not far across the fields and down the little rise to the road that paralleled the beach; and in some five minutes, walking quickly, they came out upon the road itself by the turn near the rough wooden bridge that crossed the creek halfway between the eastern headland and the white, clustering cottages of Bernay-sur-Mer. But here, for all their hurry, they paused suddenly of one accord, looking at each other questioningly, as voices reached them from the direction of the bridge which, still hidden from their view, was just around the bend of the road ahead.
*****
"But, my dear"—it was a man speaking, his tone a sort of tolerant protest—"I am sure it is just the place we have been looking for. It is quiet here."
"Quiet!"—it was a woman's voice this time, in a wealth of irony. "It is stagnation! There isn't a single thing alive here—even the sea is dead! It is enough to give one the blues for the rest of one's life! And the accommodations at that unspeakable tavern are absolutely appalling. I can't imagine what you are dreaming of to want to stay another minute! I'm quite sure there are lots of other places that will furnish all the rest and quiet required, and where, at the same time, we can at least be comfortable. Anyway, I'm not going to stay here!"
"But, Myrna, you—"
"There is some one coming," said the girl.
*****
Jean and Marie-Louise were walking forward again.
"What are they saying, Jean?" asked Marie-Louise.
Jean shook his head.
"I do not know," he answered. "It is English. See! There they are!"
An elderly, well-dressed man, grey-haired, clean-shaven, a little stout, with a wholesomely good-natured, ruddy face, was leaning against the railing of the bridge; and beside him, digging at the planks with the tip of her parasol, stood a girl in dainty white, her head bent forward, her face hidden under the wide brim of a picture hat.
Jean's eyes, attracted as by a magnet, passed over the man and fixed upon the girl. At Nice, at Monte Carlo, so they said, one saw many such as she; but Bernay-sur-Mer was neither Nice nor Monte Carlo, and he had never seen a woman gowned like that before. 'Cré nom, what exquisite harmony of line and poise! If she would but look up! Bon Dieu, but it would be a desecration of the picture if she were not gloriously pretty!
The gentleman, nodding pleasantly, greeted them as they approached.
"Good afternoon!" he said smilingly, in French.
The girl had raised her head, grey eyes sweeping Marie-Louise with well bred indifference—and Jean was staring at her.
"Bon jour, m'sieu!"—he spoke mechanically, lifted his cap mechanically.
His eyes had not left the girl's face. He could not take his eyes from her face. It was a wonderful face, a beautiful face, and something in it thrilled him and bade him feast his eyes upon it to drink in its beauty. And, his head thrown back exposing the bare rugged neck, the broad, sturdy shoulders unconsciously squared a little, the fine, dark eyes wide with admiration and a strange, keen appraisement, the splendid physique, the strength, the power and vigour of young manhood outstanding in face and form, he gazed at her. And her eyes, from Marie-Louise, met his, and from them faded their expression of indifference, and into them came something Jean could not define, only that as the blood rushed suddenly unbidden to his face and he felt it hot upon his cheeks, he saw the colour ebb from hers to a queer whiteness—and then her hat hid her face again—and he had passed by.
It was as though his veins were running fire. He glanced at Marie-Louise. Shyly diffident in the presence of strangers, her head was lowered. She had seen nothing. Seen nothing! Seen what? He did not know. His blood was tingling, his brain was confusion.
He walked on, hurrying unconsciously.
It was Marie-Louise who spoke.
"They are of the grand monde," she said in a sort of wondering excitement, when they were out of ear-shot.
"Yes," said Jean absently.
"And English or American."
"Yes," said Jean.
"But the rich people do not come to Bernay-sur-Mer where there is no amusement for them," she submitted with a puzzled air. "I wonder what they are going to do here?"
Jean's eyes were on the road. He did not raise them.
"Who knows!" said Jean Laparde.
IV
Strangers within the Gates
"Until to-morrow"—the words kept echoing in Jean's ears, as he hurried now on his way back to the Bas Rhône. "Until to-morrow"—Marie-Louise had called to him, as he had left the house on the bluff after taking her home. Well, what was there unusual in that! Though he went often, he did not go to see Marie-Louise every evening, and it was not the first time she had ever said it. Why should he be vaguely conscious of a sort of relief that she had said "until to-morrow" on this particular occasion? It was a very strange way to feel—but then his mind was in the most curiously jumbled state! That meeting at the bridge of less than half an hour ago obsessed him. Where had they come from, these strangers? How long were they going to stay? Or, perhaps—an unaccountable dismay suddenly seized him—perhaps they had already gone! But Papa Fregeau, of course, would know all that—therefore, naturally, he was impatient to reach the Bas Rhône and Papa Fregeau.
The empty basket on his arm, for Marie-Louise had taken the beacon and he had forgotten all about Papa Fregeau's fish, Jean paused as he reached the bridge. It was here that look had passed between them. He would never forget that. It meant nothing—he was not a fool—it could mean nothing. It was only a look, only an instant in which those grey eyes had met his—but he would never forget it!
He hurried on again.
Perhaps he had imagined that expression, that flash, that spark, that something that was impellingly magnetic in those grey eyes. No, he had not imagined it; he had felt it, known it, sensed it. In that one instant something had passed between them that in all his life he would never forget—it had left him like a man adrift on a shoreless sea with the startling wonder of it. She was of the grand monde—Marie-Louise had said it. And he was a fisherman. She could have no interest in a fisherman; and what interest could a fisherman—bah, it was pitifully laughable! But it was not laughable! If he could only define that look! It was as if—bon Dieu, what was it!—as if she were a woman and he were a man. Yes; it was that! It was only for a moment, by now she would have