The Beloved Traitor Part 12

"Nanette, mademoiselle? But I do not know who Nanette is."

"My maid," said Myrna tersely.

"Yes, mademoiselle"--Marie-Louise, with a quick nod, was running from the room. "At once, mademoiselle--as soon as I have put on my shoes and stockings."

Myrna tossed her sunbonnet on a chair, and walked over to the table to inspect the little clay figure. For ten minutes she stood in front of it, now frowning, now with unconscious admiration the dominant expression upon her face, now with puzzled bewilderment in her eyes.

Of the technique of any art she not only knew nothing, but secretly held it in contempt; but she could not have been her father's daughter to have lacked a sense of appreciation for the beautiful. At the end of the ten minutes she picked up her sunbonnet again, and walked slowly out of the house.

At the headland's point, two hundred yards away, she sat down upon the rocks. She could not seem to get that little clay figure out of her head now. It was amazing how it took form before her eyes as realistically as though it were still in front of her! What a wonderful charm and appeal there was in it! She could see that for herself, even if her father had not grown so excited over it. "The greatest sculptor in France"--well, perhaps that was a little exaggerated! But her father was nevertheless acknowledged to be a critic second to none in the world of art, and he was far too chary of his reputation to sacrifice it on a myth. Certainly then, there was at least a promise in the man's work. What did her father mean to do? He had not rushed off that way for nothing. It was really charming, that little figure. She would get Jean to let her have it, buy it from him.

Imagine possessing the first piece of his work, if the man ever amounted to anything!

She threw a stone out into the water, watched it splash, watched the spray of the breaking waves on what seemed like a reef away out to one side of the headland, and watched a boat coming sh.o.r.eward from out beyond the reef again. There was a disturbed little gathering of her brows. But suppose she did buy it, the thing would crumble to pieces in a few days, and--stupid! Of course! Had she not been often in those dirty _ateliers_ that were always in a mess with their clay and their plaster? One could send it to Ma.r.s.eilles to have a cast made; and, afterwards, the cast could be sent home to Paris.

What was her father going to do with this "discovery" of his, as he called it? Discovery--_his_! A little thrill ran through her. It was not his discovery--it was _hers_! It was she who had discovered Jean Laparde--in that one look. The man's soul, a great smouldering volcano of emotion, was in his face, his eyes. It was amazing that this had happened; amazing almost beyond credence that, hidden in the little village, a fisherman, untaught, unconscious even of his own power, had produced a piece of work that had aroused her father, one of the great art critics in France, to such a pitch of elated excitement--but somehow it was not in the least bit amazing that it was _Jean Laparde_ who had done it!

Her eyes fixed again on the boat, that was well in now between the reef and the headland; and, with a sudden little gasp, she rose quickly to her feet--it was Jean Laparde himself. What splendid width of shoulder, what strength, and ease, and a.s.surance in the sweep of the oars that bent the blades backward from swirling little eddies, that lifted the heavy boat to send it bounding forward as though it were a feather-weight. It was Jean Laparde--the fiance of Marie-Louise!

It was to the front at last, that thought! It had been dominant from the moment Marie-Louise had uttered the words, only she had attempted to ignore it, lose it in the other phases of this bewildering morning.

But it was out now! Well, what of it? It was an impossible situation this that she had created, was it not? There was no use in denying even to herself that the man had aroused in her--what should she call it?--a desire to cultivate him a little, since he would be so new, so fresh, so quite different. And Marie-Louise was at the moment now actually in her employ as--one could not call her a servant, it was Marie-Louise's own house, and she was only there to help for a little while at the cure's request--but still--the colour burned red in Myrna's cheeks.

The next instant, she smiled a little. What a simpleton she was! What on earth did it matter! What could it possibly matter! Good heavens, she wasn't going to take this Jean Laparde away from Marie-Louise!

_She_ wasn't going to marry him! There wasn't the slightest reason in the world why, just when the man turned out to be an embryonic genius and promised to prove really interesting, she should change her att.i.tude toward him--and, anyway, it was almost a foregone conclusion that her father now would monopolise Jean Laparde morning, noon and night.

She glanced at the boat--and started abruptly for the house. To remain there would have been almost too obviously--a meeting. Jean had evidently not gone to the village at all with the other boats--she supposed there were other boats since the cure had spoken of them--but had come directly in from wherever he had been fis.h.i.+ng.

She reached the house and through the window watched Jean send the boat sweeping up to the beach, leap from it, and, seemingly without exertion, pull it higher over the sand. He turned then, searching the house with his eyes; and suddenly placed his hands trumpet-fas.h.i.+on to his lips.

"Marie-Louise! Ho, Marie-Louise!" she heard him shout, as he came running up the cliff path from the beach.

Virile in movement, a striking figure, there seemed all of command, something heroic even in the rugged strength, something absolutely undauntable about the man. And then she laughed merrily to herself, as she stepped to the door. What a change! Who would have believed it!

Jean, at sight of her, had stopped as though he had been struck, self-consciousness mocked at the air of command, and through the brown tan of his face crept the red.

"Oh, it is you, Jean!" she exclaimed.

Mechanically he reached up for his cap.

"I--I did not think that mademoiselle had got here yet," he said, the dark eyes in their steady gaze disconcertingly at variance with his stammering speech.

"We've been here ages," she told him quickly. "But the others have gone back again. Marie-Louise has gone to help Nanette with the things. And my father rushed off with that delightful old cure of yours to look for you."

"Rushed off to look for me?" echoed Jean in astonishment. "But I told Jacques Fregeau to tell you that I would come here as soon--"

"Yes, of course, to look for you--but not for the purpose you imagine!"

she broke in smiling, and shook her head reproachfully at him. "Jean, do you know that I am quite angry with you! Come here!" She led the way into the house. "Now!"--pointing to the clay figure on the table.

"Is not that your work?"

"But, yes, mademoiselle"--there was only a cursory glance at the beacon; his eyes were on this fresh, glorious, wonderful woman, whose white dress of some marvellous texture draped about her with such exquisite, dainty grace ... and the throat was bare, and full, and white as ivory is white ... that glint of bronze that was always playing over the ma.s.sive coils of hair ... the playful severity in the pursed lips ... it was intoxication, it was fire ... he had been drunk with it all the night, all that morning in the boat while he had fished.

"Then why did you not tell me about it last night?" she demanded.

With a start, he shrugged his shoulders--and perplexity came.

"But it is nothing--that," he said slowly. "What was there to tell, mademoiselle?"

"Nothing!" She stared at him in amazement. "Do you really mean to say that you think it is--nothing?"

"But, of course!" he said simply.

And then suddenly she smiled, and shook her head at him again.

"Did I not tell you last night, Jean, that you were less like a fisherman than any man I had ever seen?"

"Yes; mademoiselle said that." Was there a word of hers that he had forgotten!

"Very well, then," she began magisterially, "since you think nothing of that little statue, I will tell you what I think. It is so much more than 'nothing' that I am going to buy it from you. It is"--her voice changed suddenly, soft in abandon, full in admiration--"oh, Jean, it is superb, magnificent; it is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen; and--and I think I want it more than I have ever wanted anything before."

She had come closer to him, touched him, her hand was on his sleeve, her cheeks were flushed. That look--G.o.d, was he mad?--that _same_ look was in her eyes again. Yes, he was mad--with a madness that bade him sweep her into his arms and crush her there in all her alluring beauty.

He was white--he felt the blood leave his face. She wanted that--wanted that bit of clay that _he_ had made!

"It is not for sale, mademoiselle," he said hoa.r.s.ely; "it is yours."

"No, no, Jean!" she cried. "You do not understand. It is worth--oh, I do not know how much--ever so much money. Father will be able to tell us. It is on account of this that he rushed off to try and find you.

He is terribly excited about it."

His hand at his side was clenched; his arm was rigid--he dared not move it for fear she might draw her hand away--it would not come often, a touch of intimacy like that. What did it matter about her father!

What did anything matter--but that fiery tide that was whipping through his veins.

"It is good of monsieur, it is good of mademoiselle to praise it," he muttered.

"But it is not good of us!" she a.s.serted earnestly. "Really, I must try to make you understand, Jean. I can't take it under false pretences, you know--you might hate me for it afterwards. I am sure you would. My father says it is a wonderful piece of work--that you are a great artist."

"I?" said Jean--and suddenly in a sweep of pa.s.sion laughed a little fiercely. "Impossible! But it is enough that mademoiselle, for some reason that I cannot understand, thinks so much of it. It is hers."

"And I tell you that it is not impossible!" she insisted seriously.

"Listen, Jean"--her hand closed a little tighter on his arm. "Suppose that I took it, accepted it, and some day you should find that it had become a tremendously famous thing--what then?"

"It would still be unworthy of mademoiselle," he answered, in a low tone.

With a little gasp, she drew back a step and looked at him--but it was the grey eyes that dropped, and for a moment to Jean, unconscious of his own tense poise, the rapt burning in his eyes, she seemed all glorious with that play of colour now that was even in the pulsing throat. But the next instant she was smiling radiantly.

"Thank you, Jean," she said navely. "I will take it very gladly, and I will always keep it. Father will have a cast of it made at once, and--" she stopped suddenly, turning quickly toward the door.

"Listen!" she said. "That's the motor, isn't it? Marie-Louise must have met it on the road."

An automobile had come to a stop by the side of the house; and, a moment later, a girl's voice, high-pitched in sarcasm, reached them.

"_Ma foi_! Fancy! She owns the house! What an aristocrat! No doubt she will expect mademoiselle and monsieur to invite her to table with them next! Oh, _la, la_, but you have lots to learn, _ma pet.i.te paysanne_!"

"Oh, let her alone, Nanette!" exclaimed a man's voice sharply. "She has done nothing but answer your own questions, except"--with a laugh--"that she has ridden on the front seat!"