The Beloved Traitor (Mystery Classic). Frank L. Packard
white gate; and, at the end of the garden, a little cottage, smaller than any, where none were large, in Bernay-sur-Mer, and which was white in colour, too, if one might hazard a guess for the vines that grew over it, covering it, submerging it, clothing it in a clinging mass of green, until only the little stubby chimney peeked shyly out from the centre of the slanting roof.
"Yes," said Jean; "and there is Father Anton himself."
A bare-headed, silver-haired form in rusty black soutane, a watering pot in hand, was bending over a bed of dahlias; but at the sound of their approach the priest put down the watering pot, and came hurriedly toward them to the gate.
"Ah, Jean, my son!" he cried out heartily—and bowed with old-fashioned courtliness to Jean's companion. "I heard there were strangers in Bernay-sur-Mer, mademoiselle; but that they had gone on again. You are very welcome. Won't you come in?"
She leaned upon the gate, smiling—and shook her head.
"No, thank you, Monsieur le Curé. I must not stay long, or my father will be wondering what could have become of me. The truth is, that I—we are in trouble, and Jean here has brought me to you."
"Trouble!" exclaimed Father Anton anxiously, and his face grew suddenly grave.
She shook her head again, and laughed.
"Oh, it is not serious! You see—but I must introduce myself. I am Myrna Bliss. My father is Henry Bliss—I wonder if you have ever heard of him? We have lived for years and years in Paris."
Father Anton was genuinely embarrassed.
"I—I am afraid I never have," he admitted.
"Oh, well," she cried gaily, "you mustn't feel badly about it. His is entirely a reflected glory—that is what I tell him. Art! Everything is art with him, painting, sculpture, literature; and, as he can do neither one nor the other himself, he endows a school for this, or a société for that, and money exists for only one reason—the advancement of art. And since he calls Paris the home of art, we live in Paris. But now I am prattling like a school girl"—she laughed infectiously.
The curé's old face wrinkled into smiles.
"It is very interesting, mademoiselle," he said. "And here in Bernay-sur-Mer I fear we know too little of such things." He reached across the fence and laid his hand affectionately on Jean's shoulder. "But it is not quite all our fault, is it, Jean? The sous come hard with the fishing, and we do not have much time for anything outside our own little world. I should greatly like to talk with monsieur, your father. Is it possible that you are to stay a little while here?"
"If we do"—the girl's face was a picture of roguish merriment—"you will not be able to escape him, I promise you, Monsieur le Curé—so beware! But that is our trouble. My father is on what he calls a little holiday—it is really that he needs rest and quiet. For a man of his age, what with his own affairs and his 'art,' he is far too active. Very well. Bernay-sur-Mer is ideal, only—except—Monsieur le Curé, I am sure, will understand—except the Bas Rhône."
"Ah, the Bas Rhône!" said Father Anton. "It is that, then—the Bas Rhône?"
"Exactly!" she smiled. "And so Jean has brought me to you to suggest something else for us."
Father Anton joined his finger tips thoughtfully.
"Yes; I see," he said. "My good friends, the Fregeaus, would do all in their power for you, they are most excellent people; but, yes—h'm—I see. It is a café much more than an inn, and for a café it answers very well; and, after all, it is not their fault that there are not proper accommodations for guests. Yes; I am afraid the accommodations must be very inadequate. But you see, mademoiselle"—Father Anton's voice had a quaint, gentle note of pleading—"we are quite off the main road, and it is rare that a stranger stops in Bernay-sur-Mer, and since they are poor they could not afford, even if they had the money, to make an investment that would bring no return. But something else—h'm! Truly, mademoiselle, I do not know—there is certainly no other place to board."
"Well, a little furnished cottage then," she suggested. "I have my own maid, and, if there were some one else to help a little, nothing would suit us better. Now, Monsieur le Curé, you are not going to be so heartless as to tell me there are no cottages either!"
For a moment Father Anton did not answer—then his face broke suddenly into smiles.
"But, no, mademoiselle," he declared quickly, nodding his head delightedly at Jean, "I shall tell you nothing of the sort. One might say it was almost providential. Nothing could be better! And the finest cottage in Bernay-sur-Mer, too! Mademoiselle and her father will be charmed with it—and all day I have been worrying about what to do with Marie-Louise. Would it not be just the thing, Jean?"
"Ma foi!" gasped Jean in surprise, staring from one to the other. "The house on the bluff?"
"And what else?" said Father Anton enthusiastically. "Listen, mademoiselle; I will explain to you. It is the house out there on the headland, where Gaston Bernier lived with his niece, Marie-Louise. Three days ago in the great storm le pauvre Gaston was hurt, and that night he died. Marie-Louise can no longer live there alone—it is not right for a young girl. I thought to bring her here to live with me and my old housekeeper; but now she can rent the house to you, and can help with the work for she is a very good cook."
"Father Anton, you are a treasure!" cried Myrna Bliss vivaciously. "We will take the house. And the rent? Would, say, two hundred francs a month be right?"
"Two hundred francs?" repeated Father Anton incredulously, his eyes widening.
"Yes; and another hundred for Marie-Louise."
Three hundred francs! It was not a large sum of money—it was a fortune! Father Anton, in his years of ministry at Bernay-sur-Mer, could not remember ever having seen a sum like that all at one time; also, it was out of all proportion to what he would have thought Marie-Louise should demand. The good curé's face was a picture with its mingled emotions—he was torn between a desire that this good fortune should come to Marie-Louise, and a fear in his honest heart that he should be privy to the crime of extortion!
Myrna Bliss laughed at him merrily.
"Then that is settled!" she announced. "Three hundred francs. There is nothing more to be said. The only question is, will Marie-Louise let us have the house?"
"Mademoiselle," said the old priest, his eyes twinkling, "may I say it?—you are charming! As for the arrangements, have no fear. I would go this evening, only I have some sick to visit. But very early in the morning I will see Marie-Louise, and by the time mademoiselle and her father have had breakfast the house will be at their disposal."
She reached her hand across the gate to thank Father Anton and bid the curé good evening—but Jean no longer heard a word. His mind seemed to be clashing discordantly; his thoughts in dissension, in open hostility one to another. She was to live in the house on the bluff. Marie-Louise was to stay there, too. One moment he saw no objection to the plan; the next moment, for a thousand vague, fragmentary reasons, that in their entire thousand would not form a single concrete whole that he could grasp, he did not like it at all.
He answered Father Anton's "au revoir" mechanically, as they started back for the Bas Rhône. She was in a hurry now, all life, all excitement—half running.
"Did I not tell you, Jean, that I would find just what I wanted?" she called out in gay spirits.
She had told him nothing of the sort.
"Yes," said Jean.
They reached the Bas Rhône, and there, in the doorway, she turned.
"I must find my father, and tell him," she said. There was a smile, a flash of the grey eyes, a glint from the bronze-crowned head, a quick little impetuous pressure on his arm, a laugh soft and musical as the rippling of a brook; and then: "Until to-morrow, Jean."
And she was gone.
Until to-morrow! The words were strangely familiar. Papa Fregeau was hurrying through