— IX —

FORKED ROADS

It was the room Myrna Bliss had occupied. Mother Fregeau had insisted; Jacques Fregeau had implored. It was fitting that the best at the Bas Rhône should be Jean's. The little back room that had been his for ten years was quite impossible. It was different now. It would be but to make him ridiculous—what with all these grand strangers that were around him! And besides, merveille du bon Dieu, was he not now himself the greatest of the great ones!

In through the window the late afternoon sun played over the faded wallpaper of the chambre de luxe; from without there was the hum of voices, exclamations of amazement, cries of delight and admiration, the curious composite sound of a gathered, eager crowd. And Jean, well back from the sill that he might not be seen, glanced outside, it was his—his! The work that he had done during the past week in the atelier they had made for him in the barn behind the Bas Rhône! It was finished! Monsieur Bidelot was exhibiting it now to Bernay-sur-Mer. The great Academician was standing in the tonneau of the automobile and holding it up for every one to look at—the fisherman with his boat and net in clay. Ah, they understood that, the people of Bernay-sur-Mer! But they understood only that it was magnificent because Bidelot and Monsieur Bliss and the great men who had come amongst them told them that it was magnificent.

For years he had made the poupées, and they had seen nothing—and he had seen nothing. But now they knew because they were told; and now he knew because his soul, his brain was ablaze with the knowledge of creative power, because what had gone before was nothing, because what was to come would sweep the past, that little thing that Bidelot in his emotion cried over, into insignificance.

He drew back, his head high; his outflung arms, hands clenched, stretched heavenward. These strangers, these great critics had said it, and it was so! The name of Jean Laparde would never die!

He stripped off the long sculptor's apron that covered him from neck to knees, and held it out at arm's length, gazing first at it and then at the rough fisherman's clothes that hung, where Mother Fregeau had placed them, on the end peg on the wall—a little apart, significantly it seemed, whether by accident or design, from the new clothes that had come from Marseilles. And then he laughed out suddenly in a quick, exalted way, and tossed the apron on the bed. It was all changed, that! He was through with the fisherman's dress, he was through with Bernay-sur-Mer! To-night he was to dine with Bidelot and a score of others in Marseilles, and after that in a few days it would be—Paris.

He undressed hurriedly, and began to dress again in a clean suit—but a little slowly now, none too deftly. They were still strange to him these clothes; but then everything was strange. The people around him were strange. At times he felt awkward, constrained in their presence—and at times he could laugh down at them as from a superior height. Ay, he could laugh—they were at his feet! Only—he frowned heavily—he could not laugh at Myrna Bliss. He was not master there! And yet she, somehow, did not erect the barrier. It was himself that did that—because he could not forget that behind the roguish smile in the grey eyes might lurk the thought that, after all, he was only a fisherman.

A fisherman! They were cheering now outside. His hands shut tightly. A fisherman! He was no longer a fisherman! He was Jean Laparde, a sculptor of France, a man before whom lay a path of glory, a man whom the nation would acclaim, a man of whose future all stood in envy! They had told him that, these men whom France had already honoured, these men who had accepted him as more than their equal. But there was no need for them to tell him—he knew it in his soul. None, no man, the world itself, could hold back now the genius of Jean Laparde!

Paris! He was pacing the room now, his eyes afire. To-morrow or the next day, when the Blisses had made their plans, Paris and fame was his. What a life it was that now opened out before him! A place amongst the highest, the world to resound with the name of Jean Laparde—and those grey eyes, that bronze hair, that glorious beauty of the American—God! he would immortalise her in clay, in bronze, in marble.

Ay, they might well cheer while the chance was theirs, these people of Bernay-sur-Mer! To-morrow or the next day he would be saying good-bye to them, and—he stood suddenly still—and good-bye, too, to Marie-Louise. The thought put a damper upon his spirits; his brows gathered in deep furrows of impatient perplexity.

He had not seen much of Marie-Louise in the last week—he had seen her scarcely at all. Only twice—when she with many others had stood in the doorway to watch his work. She had smiled at him then, as though it were her work, too, as though it were a joint proprietorship—but she had gone before he could speak to her. And at the cottage, when he had been there at the invitation of Myrna or her father, Marie-Louise, strangely enough, now that he thought of it, was never to be seen.

He would have to speak to her, of course, about going away; but what chance, with the whirl he had been in, had he had to do it? She would know that he was going to Paris, for everybody knew it—but he would have to speak to her himself about it before he went. And what was he to say? Certainly, he loved Marie-Louise—but the great chance of his life was before him. What was he to say to her? He would go to Paris for a time, make this great name for himself, and then afterwards—what?

He refused to tolerate the question. He had refused to tolerate it all week. It was enough for the present that he was going for a time to Paris. Marie-Louise was sensible enough not to make a scene. She could see readily enough that he must go and that she must stay. How, for instance, could she associate with women of fashion and society like Myrna Bliss, who would be the women of the new world that must necessarily form part of his life hereafter. What was he thinking of? Was it the "afterwards" again? Was he not coming back to Marie-Louise? Was he choosing now between his art and Marie-Louise? No; he was not—he would not! That was an issue for the future. It would work itself out. Why should he plague himself about it!

He loved Marie-Louise, of course; but it would have been easier now if there had been nothing between them. He could not go to Marie-Louise and say: Marie-Louise, I love you; but it is finished—you can see that the grand monde would make a very great difference between Jean Laparde, the great sculptor, and Marie-Louise the fisherwoman of Bernay-sur-Mer. No; he could not say that, but—sacré nom!—was he back to the everlasting "afterwards" again, when he refused so resolutely to go beyond the present? Was it not enough that he was simply going to Paris for a time—a matter that would seem natural enough to her, and of which she would be glad because great things had come to him? He would talk to her like that—that would be enough—Marie-Louise was a sensible girl. One could not say to her that it would be better to finish everything, he would never say that to Marie-Louise—but if, par example, he and Marie-Louise had never talked of the marriage there would be nothing now to trouble him. And—he swung around sharply as a knock sounded on the door.

"Come!" he called.

Papa Fregeau stuck in his head.

"Pardon, Monsieur Jean"—it was "monsieur" now—"it is Mademoiselle Bliss who is alone in the café below. Will Monsieur Jean see her for a moment before he goes out?"

"In an instant," Jean answered quickly. "Tell mademoiselle that I will be there in an instant."

Papa Fregeau hesitated, stared about the room, and stared at Jean, his fat cheeks grotesquely expanded—and his arms rose suddenly in a gesture of profound helplessness.

"Mon Dieu!" he muttered heavily. "Is it possible that it is our little Jean there—ah, pardon"—he stammered—"Monsieur Jean"—and made a hasty exit from the room, as though utterly confounded at his own temerity.

But Jean, following his reply, had paid no further attention to Papa Fregeau. He had learned to knot the long, flowing tie that Myrna had chosen as part of his dress, for she had said, had she not, that it was the tie the artists wore in Paris? He knotted it now with extra care, put on his coat, snatched up his hat, and ran downstairs to the café below.

She was waiting for him back by the little comptoir where he had stood that evening when she had first spoken to him. She had been like a glorious vision that had burst suddenly upon him that evening—she was a thousand times more glorious now, for her smile was eager with an intimacy that promised—what did it promise? He did not know. It was there—and her eyes were shining, and the white throat was divinely beautiful—and the thrill of her presence quickened the beat of his heart.

Her laugh rang through the room, silver-toned.

"Jean," she cried merrily, "you are harder to see these days than a prime minister! What do you mean, sir? Have you deserted us?"

"Ma foi!" protested Jean, a little anxiously. "Mademoiselle does not mean that! Was I not at lunch with her to-day, and yesterday, and the day before that?"

"Yes, and all day at the work, and every evening in Marseilles"—she manufactured a dainty pout through her smile. "And even now that I have snatched a little moment, I must not keep you for they are waiting for you outside."

"Let them wait!" said Jean tensely.

"Oh, no; we mustn't do that," she said laughingly, shaking her head. "So listen, Jean. I have come to tell you that—can you guess what? That you are not going to Paris with us after all."

"Not going to Paris!"—Jean gazed at her bewilderedly, as he repeated the words.

"With us—silly boy!" she smiled teasingly. "Are you disappointed?"

She teased, and mocked, and delighted him, and fired his blood by amazing and elusive turns. He could not cope with her yet.

"But mademoiselle knows," he blundered. "I—I do not understand. It is a great disappointment."

"Then it mustn't be!" she declared brightly. "For it is my idea, and if you are not pleased with it, it is I who will be terribly disappointed. It is just a little while ago that father and I arranged the plans. We are to go to-morrow direct to Paris, and as soon as we get there—now listen very attentively, Jean!—we are going to pick out an atelier for you and fit it up. And you are not to come until we send you word that everything is ready. And the day you arrive I shall be hostess at the studio at a reception to which all Paris will be invited. Everybody that is worth while will come, and your entrée will be a triumph. Now, Jean, will that not be splendid?"

She was smiling at him, vivacious, flushed with excitement. Splendid—yes, it would be splendid! An entrée to Paris like that! It was the first tangible glimpse of reality out of the chaotic blaze of luring, golden dreams.

"It—it is too good of mademoiselle!" he stammered excitedly.

Low, musical, her laugh rippled through the room again, as she looked at him. The man was magnificent—the head, the shoulders, the splendid strength, the mobile, changing lights and shadows in his face like a child who had not yet learned to mask its emotions, and all this coupled with the deliciously picturesque background of the discovery of his art, would make him the rage in Paris. Paris would literally go wild over him! And she? Well, he would be still more a new sensation than ever—and perhaps, who knew?—but the man was too easily aroused—and then there was the possibility that her father, that Bidelot and the others had overrated him, that he would be but the phenomenon of the moment, only to sink after a while into uninteresting mediocrity—she would see. But for the present at least Paris would echo and re-echo with the name of Jean Laparde. Her eyebrows arched demurely, innocently. There was something else she had to say to Jean. She had never spoken to him of Marie-Louise—naturally. But she must speak now. Marie-Louise, a peasant girl, a bare-footed fisherwoman, in Paris as Jean's fiancée was perfectly impossible!

"Jean," she said ingenuously, "you know we took the cottage without much formality as far as any definite length of time was concerned. Of course we expected to stay longer, and if all this had not happened we certainly should have done so. So, do you think, when we speak to Marie-Louise about going, that she would be perfectly satisfied with a month's rent? I told father I would ask you."

Jean's face clouded.

"You have not told Marie-Louise then that you are going to-morrow?" he asked slowly.

"How could we—when we did not know ourselves until a little while ago?" she answered.

"No; that is so," he said. Then, with a short, conscious laugh: "I have not spoken to Marie-Louise myself."

"Of course you haven't!" she returned quickly, "And you have been wise."

"Wise?"—Jean looked at her, puzzled.

"Marie-Louise is not blind," said Myrna quietly. "It is far better that she should have seen things for herself—and she could not help seeing them during the last week."

"You mean?" Jean began—and stopped.

"You know what I mean, Jean," she said gravely. "That she must have seen what everybody else sees—what you see yourself. That if she ever had any idea of going to Paris with you, it is quite out of the question. It is different now—everything is changed. You are not a fisherman any longer; you have a great place to take in the world that she cannot take beside you. A week in Paris and, even if neither of you see it now, you would both see it only too bitterly and clearly then. For both your sakes it is better settled now."

Jean was staring across the room to where, outside, the crowd was packed densely in the road. Had he not thought of just those things that she had been saying? Had he not thought of them all week? They were true; but still there was Marie-Louise who—what was that? They were cheering him there outside—it made his blood tingle, he felt the mad elation of it, his soul seemed to leap out to meet the acclaim!

"But that is not all, Jean"—she was speaking again. "There is another thing, something you owe to—oh, how shall I say it?—to your country, and—" She stopped suddenly and caught his arm. "Listen!" she breathed. "Listen!"

It was Bidelot, the great Academician, his voice raised in impassioned words. Through the window they could see him standing, bare-headed, in the automobile.

"... Bernay-sur-Mer will evermore live in the hearts of Frenchmen—you have given to France the immortal name of Jean Laparde."

Her hands, both of them now, were clasped tightly on his arm.

"Jean!" she whispered. "Jean!"

"Mon Dieu!"—the words came hoarsely from Jean's throat. They were cheering again. He moved, like iron impelled to the magnet, across the room. He looked at Myrna. He had never seen her eyes so bright.

"It is only the beginning, Jean"—she seemed half hysterical herself. "But in Paris, Jean—in Paris you shall see!"

They were at the door, and suddenly she flung it wide open. There was a roar of voices. She was smiling at him from the doorway. They were shouting his name. They rushed at him, and, lifting him shoulder high, carried him to the automobile. Fame—was this only a taste of it? No more than that? In Paris—what was it he should see in Paris? They were shouting again. It was like some fiery draught that his soul was drinking in. He craved it with a lust that was passionate, all-possessing. He cried out to those around him. He did not know what he said. And then Bidelot was speaking to him, and the automobile was whirling down the road, followed by the shouts of all Bernay-sur-Mer.

All Bernay-sur-Mer? No; not all. For as the car flashed by, halfway between the little bridge and the eastern headland, the fringe of bushes by the roadside parted, a dark head lifted, and Marie-Louise gazed after it. It was all so strange, and she could not quite understand. Once, twice before, on other evenings, she had watched the car pass. They were all of the great world those men with Jean in the car; of the great world of which she knew nothing, only that the village spoke of the strangers with awe. And now Jean was one of them—and they seemed so proud of him, so proud to make him one of themselves, these great men. And she was proud of him, too, oh, so proud and glad and happy—only back of it all was a little chill of dread and fear, and she could not quite understand. She had smiled at Jean from the edge of the crowd that was clustered around the door of the barn those days when he had been working at the clay—and then she had stolen away and cried so bitterly. She did not know why she had done that. If only some one would tell her what it all meant! Was it because Jean was going away for a little time? The dark eyes widened slowly. Was it only for a little time? She had not talked to Jean since that morning on the beach, and that was so long, long ago. It wasn't Jean's fault, though, nearly so much as hers. She had really tried to evade him. No, not to evade Jean; but to evade the others out of the shyness and diffidence for the great strangers who were now constantly around him. Would there be always these strangers around him?

She drew herself up suddenly, her small hands fiercely clenched. She hated these strangers! That was it! They were always coming between Jean and herself! They were always there! They made of Jean a different man; they made him one of themselves, and in doing that they were snatching him away from her, taking him across what seemed like some vast gulf that she could not traverse herself. She hated this Monsieur American, and this mademoiselle; and she hated the day they had come, for it had all begun that day. The red burned angrily in her cheeks, the lithe form quivered in a quick rush of passion—and then, instantly penitent, with a little sob, she flung herself down upon the grass.

No; she did not hate them! What had she said! The bon Dieu would be very angry with her for that. And they had been very kind and good to her, this monsieur and this mademoiselle. And to hate all the others was to commit a sin, for were they not there because Jean—she raised her head quickly, parting the bushes again, as she caught the sound of steps and voices from the road.

It was Monsieur Bliss speaking in French to Father Anton, who walked between Monsieur Bliss and mademoiselle.

"Why should he not work here? Why should he go to Paris? What a question, my dear Monsieur le Curé! It is because here is nothing; because in Paris there is everything. It is there that he will study the great works of famous sculptors; it is there that he will have models and facilities for his work; it is there that he will have inspiration from the art around him; it is there that, with his genius, he will sift and choose, profiting from the different schools even as he creates a new one for himself; and it is there that the leading men of France will unite with the social world to make the name of Jean Laparde known and honoured wherever art is known."

"But," said Father Anton anxiously, "but he will come back—to Marie-Louise."

Henry Bliss's hand fell sympathetically upon the old priest's shoulder, as he shook his head.

"I do not know," he said soberly. "Who can tell? It depends upon Jean—and Marie-Louise. Frankly, I do not think he will come back, for there is always the danger that the greater he becomes the greater will become the distance between them—and Jean will unquestionably become a national figure. But it is a vastly different thing with him than it is with her. It is innate in him to take that place gracefully, even as his genius is innate in him. To her, I am afraid, it would be an impossible and an impracticable life. It is likely she would be miserable to begin with and feel herself a drag upon him, for, we must admit, she could not, as we say in America, hold up her end in his new life. It is one of those tragedies of life, isn't it, that we cannot shape one way or the other? It is something they alone must work out. It is not a little matter, this future of Jean's. France has claimed Jean, Monsieur le Curé, and it may well be, as Myrna here said a moment ago, there is no place in his new life for Marie-Louise. I—"

They had passed on.

It seemed to Marie-Louise that she was very cold, that somehow she could not move. There were three figures out there on the road walking along. It was very strange that so ordinary a thing as that should be taking place. She seemed to be numbed, to be waiting somehow for a return to consciousness. Was that consciousness that was returning now, was that it—this dull, monotonous pain? And that great choking in her heart—what was that? She was standing erect, and words were quivering on her lips.

"There is no place in his new life for Marie-Louise."

She was staring out before her; but the road, and, beyond it, the white beach, and, beyond that again, the blue of the sea with the great golden shaft of light from the setting sun upon it was gone—and there was only nothingness. Only her lips moved.

"There is no place—in his new life—for Marie-Louise."