— IX —

MYRNA'S STRATEGY

"Two months—three months in America! And to be married there!" ejaculated Henry Bliss, as he stared at his daughter in utter bewilderment.

Myrna, from the depths of her father's favourite lounging chair, which she had appropriated on entering the library after dinner that evening, nodded her head in a quite matter-of-fact way.

"Isn't this rather—rather sudden?" inquired Henry Bliss, mustering a facetious irony to his rescue.

"Oh, no!" said Myrna demurely. "I decided upon it almost a week ago."

"Oh, you did!"—a wry smile flickered on her father's lips. "A week ago, eh? And what does Jean say?"

"Jean doesn't say anything," replied Myrna complacently. "He doesn't know anything about it—it wasn't necessary until the time came. I haven't said anything to any one—until now."

"Well, upon my soul!" exclaimed her father. "You are beginning early with your future husband, Myrna! So then, we are both to be twisted around your finger—eh? I shall have to speak to Jean—warn him. For myself, of course, it's quite hopeless, I've given it up years ago; but as for Jean, that's quite another matter—it's all in starting right, with a firm hand, you know!" His eyes twinkled. "I'll have a little confidential talk with Jean."

"Don't be ridiculous, father!" she laughed. She rose from her chair. "Well, that's settled; and now I—"

"Eh—what? Settled! Nothing is settled! What's settled?" he spluttered anxiously.

"That we are going to America, of course," said Myrna sweetly. "You, and Jean, and I."

"Now, see here, Myrna," protested her father, with what he meant for severity, "a trip to America is all very well, but it isn't the sort of thing one decides on the spur of the moment."

"Of course it isn't!"—Myrna's eyebrows went up archly. "Didn't I tell you that I have been arranging it for a whole week? I was only waiting for cable replies to some of my letters before speaking to you, and—"

"And of course as you have not overlooked minor details, I suppose we sail sometime next week!" her father interrupted with mild sarcasm.

"No," said Myrna placidly. "From Havre, the day after to-morrow, by the Lorraine."

Henry Bliss sat down weakly in a chair. He removed his cigar from his lips, and made one or two helpless passes with it in the air.

"Impossible!" he finally exploded. "Absolutely impossible! Utterly out of the question!"

"I don't see why," observed Myrna, quite undisturbed.

"You don't see why? No, of course, you don't see why"—Henry Bliss was still waving his cigar. "Well, I can't run away at a moment's notice, can I? Good heavens! The day after to-morrow! There's a thousand and one affairs that would have to be attended to before I could even think of it!"

"Which, of course, isn't true at all"—Myrna's laugh rippled merrily through the room. "There are perhaps a dozen social engagements, and two or three other affairs for which you will have to send 'regrets,' and"—she perched herself cosily on the arm of her father's chair—"and your secretary will do that for you. In fact, I told him he was to do it to-morrow morning."

"You—what? Well, I'll be damned!" gasped Henry Bliss.

"Father!"

"Well, it was excusable!" muttered Henry Bliss. "I—I am half inclined to repeat it."

Myrna's arm slipped around her father's neck. He was quite manageable, of course—but still he had to be managed. For, if what had come within so narrow a margin of being a tragedy with a fatal ending had forced her hand and forced the inevitable, as it were, upon her, she could at least see to it that the adjustment of the new order of things was of her own arranging. It was inevitable that she would marry Jean, she had decided that long ago; it was only the "day" itself which, until all this had introduced a new factor into her plans, had been at all vague in her mind. But with Paul Valmain eliminated, and her quarrel with Jean made up as he had lain there dangerously hurt that night of the duel, everything had taken on a totally different aspect. Perhaps she had yielded a little weakly under sick-bed influences, but however that might be, she was now Jean's fiancée, though it was not publicly announced; as, coming upon the heels of Jean's mysterious accident and Paul Valmain's sudden departure from Paris, it would to a certainty have caused talk and gossip, which for very good reasons she was most anxious to avoid; for, a wheel within a wheel, if talk went too far the truth might come out, and the truth at all hazards was the one thing that Jean must not know. This was one reason why, almost from the moment that she had grasped the situation that night in Jean's studio, she had determined to get Jean away from Paris the instant he was able to go. But there was a still stronger and more potent reason. The marriage of Jean Laparde, the world-famous sculptor, and Myrna Bliss, heiress to millions, a society leader in both Paris and New York, was not an affair to be consummated in a moment, nor to have its preparations go unmarked. It would be the most brilliant function that society had ever known on either side of the water—to that she had quite definitely made up her mind! But all that would take time; and meanwhile, more to be feared than any talk, was the possibility of Jean seeing Marie-Louise—and the possibility, or rather, perhaps, the opportunity that would be afforded to Marie-Louise herself, whom she, Myrna, was by no means inclined to trust! She was quite convinced that Jean had not seen the girl since he had left Bernay-sur-Mer, that to a certain extent the girl had told the truth, but that made it all the more imperative that he should not see her now; for if, though unconsciously so, Marie-Louise was so intimate a part of his life that the girl took form constantly in his work, it would be, to put it mildly, just as well if they did not meet—until after Jean was married. After that—well, after that, she was quite capable of looking after a husband! In the meantime she would take good care that the possibility of such a contretemps was entirely obviated by going to America, spending the few months necessary for the marriage preparations there, months in which Jean would be the recipient of even greater honours than Paris had accorded him, be married, and—well, that was all! It was very simple! What this impertinent little peasant girl had attempted once, even if Father Anton did intend to take her back to Bernay-sur-Mer, she was quite capable of attempting again—if she had the chance!

Myrna nestled her arm snugly around her father's neck, and held up two daintily extended fingers before his eyes.

"Now, listen, father," she said, puckering up her forehead prettily. "Now I am going to be very serious. There are two very good reasons why we will go. First, now that Jean is able to be up again, a sea trip is the one thing above all others that he needs. Doctor Maurier prescribes it."

"Insists on it, I suppose!" observed Henry Bliss dryly.

"He will," said Myrna, laughing, "if I ask him to."

"H'm!" commented Henry Bliss, the wrinkles around his eyes beginning to nest into a smile. "Well—and the other reason?"

"The other one," said Myrna, and laid her head down against her father's cheek; "the other one is—I must whisper it—now, listen—is because I've set my heart on it, and I want to go."

"Which settles it!" groaned Henry Bliss, with mock lugubriousness. "Well"—he got up from his chair, and brushed vigorously at the cigar ash which, incident to Myrna's embrace, bedecked his waistcoat—"well, I'll see what Jean says about it."

"Why, of course!" agreed Myrna innocently. "It all depends upon Jean. We'll leave it that way, father."

Henry Bliss looked at her, gasped once—and grinned in spite of himself.

"There isn't any other trifling matter you'd like to call my attention to this evening, is there?" he hazarded, pinching his daughter's cheek playfully. "Because, if there is, I'm—" He paused, as a footman coughed discreetly from the doorway. "Well?" he demanded.

"It is Monsieur le Curé, Monsieur Bliss," said the man.

"Show him in," instructed Henry Bliss—and, as the man retired, glanced quickly at his daughter. "I hope, Myrna, that—"

"That we've made up our differences!" she supplied, with sudden impatience. "That I quite understand that the gentle old soul in an endeavour to set the world right meant well, and was actuated by the loftiest of motives! Oh, yes, I think Father Anton and I understand each other perfectly, and—"

"Monsieur le Curé!" announced the footman.

Myrna calmly turned her back—but only to whirl suddenly around again, as, with a sharp exclamation, her father stepped quickly toward the door.

"Good heavens, my dear man, what is the matter with you?" Henry Bliss cried out in consternation.

Father Anton's white hair was unbrushed; he was unshaved; and his face already haggard, his eyes already deep-set and blue-circled from his twenty-four hours of bedside vigil, now bore added and unmistakable signs of violent mental agitation and distraction. His hand, that held a piece of torn yellow paper, trembled as though with the ague.

"Ah, Monsieur Bliss—ah, pardon, mademoiselle!" he stammered, and attempted a bow. "I—I have run very fast—and—I—I—"

"Is anything the matter?" inquired Myrna coolly, joining the two at the door.

Father Anton looked at her piteously.

"She is gone!" he said, his lips quivering.

"Gone!" repeated Henry Bliss bewilderedly. "Who is gone?"

"Our charming little Marie-Louise of Bernay-sur-Mer, of course! Who else?"—Myrna laughed sharply. "Well, mon cher Monsieur le Curé, will you tell us how it happened? I had an idea you were very shortly to return with her to Bernay-sur-Mer. It seems I was mistaken!"

"But I do not know how it happened!"—Father Anton shook his head distractedly. "I was away last night and to-day. This evening when I returned to my rooms I found this letter from her"—he stared at the torn yellow paper in his hand, and the tears began to well into his eyes. "She said that she was going away—that she could not go back to Bernay-sur-Mer—that I was not to look for her—that she did not know where she was going herself. I waited for nothing. I ran at once to Madame Garneau's. Madame Garneau had seen nothing of Marie-Louise since this morning. We looked in Marie-Louise's room. Her clothes were gone. And then—and then I ran here to get help to find her."

"And so," said Myrna icily, "are we never to hear the last of her? The trouble in the first place is of your own making, Father Anton—it is unfortunate that others have to suffer for it! Well, what does it mean? She did not want to go back to Bernay-sur-Mer—she has run away from you—from everybody that could keep track of her. Why? That she can go to Jean again without being found out?" She shrugged her shoulders. "However, under the circumstances, if that is so, it will do her little good, since Jean himself is going away to—"

"No, no!" Father Anton cried out brokenly. "You do not know Marie-Louise! You do not know Marie-Louise to say that! She, more than any one else, would not let Jean know. It is because her heart is broken that she has gone. And it is true, I am to blame." The tears were running down his cheeks; he held out his hands to them imploringly. "She is not well—she is only just recovered from her illness, my little Marie-Louise, and—and—" the words died away in a sort of frightened sob, at a quick, warning touch upon his arm from Myrna.

Steps came running across the hall—and the next moment Jean himself was standing in the doorway.

"Tiens!" he cried out gaily. "It is the first time I have left the studio. I would not let the man announce me. Me voici! Here I am! It is a surprise—eh? But—eh!—what is the matter?" He stared at the three—at Henry Bliss, who was evidencing palpable confusion; at Myrna, who seemed suddenly to have lost her colour; at Father Anton, who had tears trickling down his face, and acted as though he were gazing at a ghost.

"It—it is Jean!" faltered Father Anton nervously, the letter fluttering from his hand to the floor.

"But, yes, of course, it is Jean! Who else?" Jean laughed—and stepped forward mechanically to pick up the paper. "Permit me. I—"

A dainty satin-slippered toe was covering the letter. Myrna was smiling reprovingly.

"It is quite time enough for you to be gallant, Jean, when you can do so without the danger of reopening your wound!" she said sweetly. "Have you not been told often enough that you are not to stoop down like that? Father Anton is much better able than you to pick it up!"

"Yes, yes," said Father Anton hurriedly, reaching for the paper and tucking it into the breast of his soutane. "Yes, you—you must be careful of yourself, Jean."

"Nonsense!" declared Jean. "I am perfectly recovered!" He stared at the three in turn again for a moment. "But—but perhaps I am intruding—de trop?"

"Not at all!" Myrna answered composedly. "It is a matter that concerns only father and Monsieur le Curé; and they"—she glanced brightly at her father—"I am sure, will be only too glad to get away to father's den where they can discuss it by themselves."

"Yes—er—yes, of course," coughed Henry Bliss. "It's—er—good to see you out again, Jean, my boy." Then jocularly, in an attempt to disguise his self-consciousness: "Come along, Father Anton"—he caught the other's arm, and led the curé out of the room—"there are perhaps others who prefer to be by themselves."

A slightly puzzled expression on his face, Jean watched them out of sight across the hall; then turned inquiringly to Myrna.

Myrna's shoulders lifted daintily.

"If it isn't one thing, it's another," she said, as though the subject bored her. "There has always been something or other ever since father started that fund of his; and the curé trots to father with everything. This time, it seems that one of Father Anton's protégées has run away from him; and, as you saw, the curé is beside himself." Again the shoulders lifted "But you, Jean"—infusing a sudden note of perturbed anxiety into her voice—"are you sure you were wise in coming out to-night? What brought you?"

And then Jean threw back his head, and laughed, and closed the door—and caught her in his arms.

"Mon Dieu!" he cried, holding her close to him, and trying to kiss the suddenly averted face. "Do you ask what brought me? Well, then, I will tell you! Did you not say that you would come this afternoon, and did you not promise that we would settle about our marriage? And you did not come, and all the afternoon I was waiting, and now"—his face fell a little, as she slipped away from him—"and now that I am here you run away from me."

"You are too impulsive, Jean! You are destruction on gowns!" she laughed, and backed merrily away from him to sink down gracefully in a chair.

"Gowns!" he echoed, a sudden flush of anger coming to his cheeks, as he followed her. "What does it matter, a gown, when—"

"Now, don't be cross!" she commanded teasingly; and, gaily regal, extended her hand. "See, here is my hand to kiss."

He hesitated; and then, as, a little sullenly, he bent and touched her fingers with his lips, she laughed again. She loved to excite and watch moods in Jean—as now for instance, when the tall, strong figure was drawn up haughtily, and the emotions, that he would never learn to hide, were so apparent in his face, as he bit his lips and pulled at his short, pointed beard. Jean was as readable as a book at all times, and always would be—which was not a bad trait for a husband to possess! And this was Jean Laparde, the man of genius, unquestionably at that moment the most famous man in France! She smiled at him through half veiled eyes. To be Madame Laparde! Socially, it meant an incomparable triumph; intimately, it meant—well, at least, it was obvious enough that the marriage need hold no terror of tyranny in store for her! Jean, for all his greatness, and save for his occasional passionate outbursts, was as plastic as his own clay. Her eyelids lifted, and in the grey eyes was laughter.

"Well, and why the brown study? What are you thinking about?" she demanded pertly.

"I was thinking of Paul Valmain," he answered abruptly.

"Paul Valmain!" she repeated—and sat suddenly upright in her chair.

"Yes," said Jean, a little bitterly. "That he would have small reason to be jealous, even now that we are engaged."

"Don't be absurd!" she retorted sharply.

Jean shrugged his shoulders.

"And speaking of Paul Valmain," he went on, a menacing note creeping into his tones, "I have been talking to Hector again this afternoon about that night—the night that Valmain said he saw you enter the house."

She looked at him quickly. Surely, after what she had said to Hector, Hector had not dared to speak of the girl to whom he had given—reprehensibly, she had taken pains to make Hector understand—a key to Jean's studio. She believed she had frightened Hector and Madame Mi-mi too thoroughly for that, and yet—if he had!

"Well?"—serenely, as her eyebrows went up.

"Nothing! He knows nothing! He heard nothing!" Jean flung out impatiently. "But Hector is a fool, and Valmain said he saw you go in."

"Well, was I there?" she inquired frigidly.

"No, you were not there—naturally!" he asserted with wrathful finality. "But—I have been thinking—if it were some one else!"

"Ah!" Myrna's smile was cold, as she rose with a curiously ominous air from her chair. "Ah! Some one else! Well, since you bring up the subject again, do you imagine I am so stupid that such a possibility has not also occurred to me? Your conscience seems to trouble you, Monsieur Jean! If there was some one else—a woman in your rooms from two o'clock at night until daylight—you should know better who it was, I imagine, than either Hector or Madame Mi-mi! And since I am your fiancée, Monsieur Jean—perhaps you will explain!"

"But, sacre nom d'un diable!" Jean shouted in angry amazement. "I know of no woman!"

"If there was a woman there it is inconceivable that you should not know it"—Myrna's voice was monotonous, relentless.

"But, I tell you—no!"—Jean's hands went up in the air, as he raged in exasperation. "Do you understand, that I tell you—no? It is not so! There was no woman there!"

"Well, then?"—still monotonously.

"Well, then?" Jean stormed furiously, clenching his fists, "it can be nothing but that cursed Valmain and his damned jealousy! It can be nothing but a lie, all of it, that he has made up! It is all a lie then—nothing but a lie! And so I am not through with him! He will answer for it! I am not through with him! It will not be with swords this time—we will fight with pistols, and I will kill him! He thinks he has no longer any reason to hide and stay away—but, nom de Dieu, he will see! I promise you that! Vinailles told me that Valmain would be back the day after to-morrow, and"—he laughed out harshly—"the day after to-morrow—"

"You are going to America," said Myrna calmly.

Jean's clenched fist, raised, remained motionless in mid-air. He stared at her open-mouthed.

"To—to America!" he gasped.

"To be married there," supplemented Myrna composedly.

"To be married there!"—he repeated the words in his bewilderment like a parrot.

"And to receive an ovation, to be accorded a triumph such as you have never dreamed of." Her laugh trilled out deliciously. "You will see how they do things in America!"

He was still staring at her in dumfounded amazement.

"To America—to be married—a triumph!" he mumbled dazedly. "But—but who—"

"I did," said Myrna, laughing at him again. "Did you not remind me that I had promised to tell you about our marriage to-day? Well, we are to be married in America. Are you not delighted?"

"But—but, yes! Mon Dieu! But—but, yes!" stammered Jean helplessly.

"Well, then," said Myrna, puckering up her brows in prettily affected deliberation, "I think, Monsieur Jean, you may kiss me—once."