— III —

IN THE DEAD OF THE NIGHT

The temptation was very great. But what would Father Anton say? What would Madame Garneau, with whom she lodged, think? To go out at this time of night! It was very late. It was long after midnight, because it was very long ago when she had heard some distant church clock strike twelve—and since then it had struck many times, the quarters, the half hours, only she had lost count.

Marie-Louise drew her cloak a little more closely around her, as she leaned on the casement of her open window—and then remained quite still and motionless again.

Irrelevantly it seemed, her thoughts turned on Hector, the concierge. How very blue Hector's eyes were, and how very red his hair, and altogether how very droll a figure he made with his absurd self-importance; and how fat his wife was, whom he so ridiculously called Mi-mi! And then that conversation between the concierge and his wife in Jean's salon early that morning, at which she had been present, began to run through her mind.

"Tiens!" Hector had said to his wife. "But will she not make the thrifty wife for some lucky fellow, our little Louise Bern, here—eh? She is already waiting an hour in the mornings to be let in. An hour, mind you, ma belle Mi-mi—and we who think we rise so early! It is a lesson that! Would you have her standing out in the cold? Why not a key that she may come in and do her work?"

"But Monsieur Jean," madame had objected mildly, "might be angry if he knew."

"Monsieur Jean," Hector had replied fatuously, and folding his arms with an air, "is very well content to leave such matters to me. I do not pester Monsieur Jean with details. On the night after the reception, even in the exceedingly bad humour in which I found him, when I told him that I had thought the matter over, and that the work was too hard, and that you were wasting away—you see, ma Mi-mi, how I lie for you—and that I had decided—'decided' was the word I used—that I must have some one in the mornings to help with the work, did he not say: 'But assuredly, Hector, assuredly; whatever you think is right. I depend upon you, mon ami.' And does that not show that we understand each other, Monsieur Jean and I—eh?"

"It was Father Anton, not you, whose idea it was," madame had corrected with conscientious earnestness. "It was Father Anton, that evening after we had returned from the Bois and before you had seen Monsieur Jean, who suggested it, and spoke of Louise here. And that was not what Monsieur Jean said, for I was listening outside the door. He said you were a red-headed buffoon, and to go to the devil and not bother him."

"And what then?" Hector, though slightly disconcerted, had rejoined with acerbity. "Your tongue is forever clacking! Do I ever recount an event but that you must put in your word? But that is not the point. It is Father Anton who says Louise is an honest girl and to be trusted—and that is enough!"

It was not so irrelevant after all. She was twisting the key in her fingers now. The key to Jean's house in the Rue Vanitaire. How still the night was! It seemed so strange that in so great a city where there were such multitudes of people it could be so still. It was almost as still as that other night when she had sat at her window in Bernay-sur-Mer, that night when the bon Dieu had made her see that for Jean's sake their ways lay so very wide apart. She was glad, very glad that the bon Dieu had helped her then to put nothing in Jean's way, because Jean had done so very much more even than any one had dreamed of.

But it was so strange, so strange! To hear everybody talking about Jean—on the streets—little snatches of conversation—even here amongst the very poor—even Madame Garneau, who that afternoon had stopped in the scrubbing of the floor, and, waving the scrubbing brush excitedly to point the words, must needs tell her, Marie-Louise, all about the great Laparde! How proud they all were of Jean, because Jean had brought such honour upon their beloved France! But it was so strange, so strange—that they did not know—that they did not know that, oh, for so many, many years it had been just Jean and Marie-Louise, and glad, glad days, with the blue sky above, and the strong arms upon the oars—and—and that she loved Jean, that all her life she had loved him, that all her life until she should come to die she would love Jean. It was strange that all these people did not know, because it seemed that she knew nothing else, because it seemed to be the only thing in all the world. But it was good that they did not know, because otherwise she could not even be here as she was, she could not even be Louise Bern for a little while, and be near Jean, and see the work that she loved because it was Jean's work, and because—and because those marvellous figures that he fashioned seemed somehow now to mean everything that there was in life for her, as though her own life were wrapped up In them, given in exchange for them, as though indeed she were a very part of them, and they were of her blood and flesh.

She pressed her hands very tightly together over the key, and then opened them and let the key lay in her palm to look at it in the moonlight. She had seen so little in the studio, so very little! In the three mornings she had been there, there had always been Madame Mi-mi to fuss around her, to instruct her in her work, or, failing that as an excuse—to gossip. And if it were not madame, then it was Hector—and often it was both. And she had so wanted to be alone there—it was not very much to ask, that—just to be alone there for a little time with Jean's things around her, to be very quiet, to be alone.

Why should she not go now? It was not a sin that she would commit. It was only that if Father Anton knew, or Madame Garneau knew they would not understand—but they would never know. No one would ever know. Jean would be upstairs asleep; and Hector and his wife would be downstairs in bed. That statue, that wonderful statue of the girl with the drum, would be more wonderful than ever with the bright moonlight pouring in upon it through that great glass roof of the atelier. She had seen so little of it, because when she was there it was always wrapped up in damp cloths; she had seen it only when that absurd Hector had exhibited it to her with a patronising air as though he had modelled it himself, making use of a flood of technical expressions of which she did not understand a word, and of whose meaning she was quite sure he was equally ignorant, but having heard the words around the studio repeated them like a parrot. She had seen so little of it, when her soul cried out to see so much. It haunted her, that statue—why, she did not know. It was before her always—in her dreams, which were always dreams of the salon and the atelier, the figure with the drum always stood out above everything else, even though everything else, even though the very smallest things and details there were so dear and intimate too. Was it a sin to go and stand and look, when her heart was so full of the longing that it would not be denied? Who was there to say, "you went to Jean's studio at two o'clock in the morning," when, in the quiet and the stillness there, there would be only herself, and that great figure with the drum, and the bon Dieu, who made Jean do such wondrous things, to know?

She turned from the window and tiptoed across the little room, and took the little black velvet turban with its white cockade, that Father Anton had given her, down from where it hung upon a nail on the wall, and fastened her cloak tightly about her for fear that it might brush against something and make a noise, and stole then to the door, and out into the hallway, and to the front door of the tenement. Yes, she would go—but no one must know—only herself, and that great figure with the drum, and—and the bon Dieu, who would understand.

And so she went out into the night, and across the city, and to the Rue Vanitaire, and to Jean's studio; and all the way her heart was beating quickly, and she was a little frightened, and avoided the people that she met, for no one must know—and even at the last, when the goal was reached, and she stood before the house and saw that it was dark in all the windows, and she had only to enter, there came even then a little added thrill of fear. The street, she had thought, was deserted, and suddenly, as she stood there, it—it seemed as though some one hiding across the street had stepped out of concealment, and as suddenly had disappeared again. She caught her breath, and stood for a long tense moment gazing in that direction. And then at last she smiled a little tremulously. It—it was only a shadow. Yes, she was quite sure now that it was only a shadow—she could see the flickering of the street lamp on the wall of the building, where she had thought she had seen something else. It was very foolish of her to be like this. She had never been afraid in Bernay-sur-Mer—only everything here was so strange—and it was very late—and—and she was going into Jean's studio—and no one must know. And then she mounted the steps very cautiously, and unlocked the door and closed it softly—and in another moment, slipping across the hall, past the foot of the stairs that led to Jean's sleeping apartments above, she had entered the salon and shut the door behind her.

It was quite dark here, too dark almost to distinguish anything—the only light was a tiny, truant moonbeam that strayed in from the atelier between the portières of the archway. It was in there—the great figure with the drum! But she would not go there for a moment yet. It was here, too, that Jean was present in everything about her. It was here that his friends, those that he cared for now, the people of the grand monde came to see Jean. She could not see the things around her, but they were very clearly pictured in her mind—the beautiful rugs, so soft and silky to the touch, that hung from the walls; the queer, spindly furniture, that did not seem made for use at all, that she had been afraid to touch at first for fear it would break, it looked so fragile; the dark, glossy floor, like a mirror, that she had polished only that morning; the—her thoughts were suddenly, disturbingly, flying off at a tangent.

That morning! It brought a quick twinge of pain to Marie-Louise's heart. The salon had been—had been—oh, she did not know how to describe it—only Madame Mi-mi had said it was often like that, that Jean led the gay life, and why not, since he had the sous to pay and was rich? There had been broken glasses, and confusion, and callous ruin of things that were priceless, and cards strewn over the floor—and—and somehow she had not been able to keep her eyes from being wet all the time she had been cleaning up the room. It—it made her heart very heavy, and very sorrowful. And yet, too, in a way, she could understand—because she understood Jean. Long, long ago she had been afraid—afraid of his success for him, even while she had prayed for it. If Jean had only a mother, only some one whose love would hold him back. If he were married—if he had a wife—it would change all this sort of life that he led now. Yes; if he were married! She could think of that quite calmly, in a perfectly impersonal way. Why should she not? Some day Jean would marry—marry some one out of this new world in which she had no part, which to her was so very strange and foreign and hard to understand; but which to Jean was so natural, and which, henceforth, could be the only life he would know. Yes; she could think of his marrying quite calmly. And why not? She had no longer part in that—she had passed out of Jean's life long ago, that day in Bernay-sur-Mer. Perhaps it would be Mademoiselle Bliss—Hector had hinted at it and winked prodigiously. She found her hand clenching very hard at her side. It seemed very, very strange, and it was very, very curious that, while she could think quite calmly of Jean marrying some one because it would be very good for Jean to marry, a pang came and her heart rebelled when the "some one," instead of being vague and general and indefinite, became a particular "some one" that was very definite and was not vague at all!

Marie-Louise sighed a little. She did not understand. Everything was so hard to understand. She sighed again—and then, walking slowly across the room, she parted the portières and stepped into the atelier.

Here, for an instant, she stood hesitant, just inside the archway, looking about her. How bright the moonlight was, and how it poured in and bathed everything in its soft luminous glow, except that, strangely, there seemed to be a shadow on the white-wrapt statue of the girl that puzzled her for a moment—ah, yes, it was the door of the dressing-room, the room where Hector said the models prepared for their poses, that was wide open and kept the moonlight from the statue. She moved forward, closed the door quietly, and went then and uncovered the clay figure and stood before it. She could look her fill now—yet it seemed that she could never do that, for her craving and her longing were insatiable. All other things in this life of Jean's, in this life of hers that she was living for a little while, filled her with dismay and confusion; but this, this work of Jean's, this figure before her was real, it seemed somehow to bring her closer to her own world, to those things she could understand. She did not know why—only that it was so, and that it was perhaps because of that the girl with the drum had been haunting her so constantly.

She sat down at last on the little platform that served Jean to stand upon for his work. It thrilled her, made her pulse leap, this strong, magnificent figure of womanhood, this torn and tattered soldier-girl; and one sensed and felt and lived, it seemed, the battle-wrack around the figure; one saw, it seemed, the stern, set-faced, shot-thinned ranks that followed to the beating of the drum; one listened to catch the tramp of feet, the hoarse cheers, the roar of guns. It seemed to be the call of France, the call to victory and glory, or to death perhaps, but to dishonour never; it seemed to breathe the love of country that was beyond all thought of self, fearful of no odds; it seemed to mean that in the heart of France itself lived the courage that had never measured sacrifice; it seemed as though those clay lips parted, and above the din of conflict, of battle and of strife she could hear the voice ring out in deathless words: "Forward—for France!"

But it was not only that alone that held her enthralled. It was the face, with the moonlight full upon it now. It was beautiful, it was glorious—but there was something more. There was something in the face that seemed to stir a memory, a world of memories within her. There was something familiar in the face—there seemed to be something there that she recognised and yet could not define. She had seen that face all her life—all her life. It belonged to every one that she had ever known in Bernay-sur-Mer—and yet it belonged to no one at all that she could name. But then—it was not finished yet. Perhaps when it was finished she would know. It would be finished now in a few days more, Hector had said; and he had said, too, that it would be the greatest work Jean had ever done.

If she could only watch it until it was finished! If she could only do that—afterwards she would go away. It was only for a little while that she had come to Paris—only for a little while. If she could do that! If she could come to-morrow night, and the nights after that until it was all finished, just as she had come to-night! Yes, yes—yes! Yes, she would come! She would watch it grow, and watch so eagerly and so tensely the face that was so well-known yet so elusive now!

"La Fille du Régiment!" Her hands cupping her chin, she sat there as motionless, as silent as the statue itself; sat there absorbed, unconscious of the passing time. It was strange the face should be familiar! It was strange that there, too, had been something familiar in the face of that figure in the park that Father Anton had taken her to see, in the face of every other figure that the curé had pointed out to her as Jean's work! She had gone back to look at them alone; but they, although they were finished, had not answered her question, had not told her who they were. But this one, this one was almost telling her now—there was only to come a touch, just a touch from Jean's hand—that would perhaps be there when she came to-morrow night—and then she would know.

And so she sat there, and the hours passed, and the moonlight faded, and the grey of dawn crept into the room—and Marie-Louise roused herself with a start. And at first dismay was upon her. It was morning—too late to go home! And then she shook her head, and smiled happily—happily, because she had spent glad and happy hours, and there was no need to be dismayed. Presently, she would go about her work—to which she had come early, that was all. And at her lodging, Madame Garneau would find the bed made because it was always made before she left there in the morning, before Madame Garneau was up.