— VI —

"JEAN MUST NOT KNOW"

Jean's model! Even in that moment, when it seemed that all else was extraneous, that nothing mattered save that white face, that still form on the floor, the thought brought a strange, troubled amazement—but it was gone almost instantly, as her mind, still refusing to centre on anything but the one great fear that perhaps Jean might die, carried her swiftly back to what was passing around her. She looked again at the doctor as he knelt on the floor and worked with deft fingers over Jean, and something in those grey hairs, in that kindly face, even if it were so grave now, gave her a little courage—surely, surely he would not let Jean die; she looked at the man who, too, was kneeling beside Jean—but he meant nothing to her, she could only wonder why he was there; she looked at Paul Valmain—and shuddered. It was Paul Valmain who had done this, who perhaps had killed Jean—and he was still staring at her in such a fixed, horrible, fascinated way. She rose quickly to her feet, clenching her hands.

And then the doctor, raising his head suddenly, was speaking in quiet tones:

"I need hardly say that if Monsieur Laparde recovers, we are in honour pledged to secrecy, messieurs. Monsieur Vinailles and I will carry Monsieur Laparde upstairs to his bed, so that clatter-tongued concierge and his wife will know nothing of this—and to-morrow, if they are told that Monsieur Laparde has met with an accident it will be enough. Monsieur Vinailles and I will attend to everything here; and I would suggest, Monsieur Valmain, that you and Monsieur LeFair withdraw at once. I will send you a report in half an hour."

Paul Valmain shook his head.

"No," he said, in a low, shaken voice. "LeFair will go—I remain here." He pointed suddenly to Marie-Louise. "I must speak to her—alone. Go, LeFair—wait for me at my rooms."

Marie-Louise drew hurriedly back.

"No, no!" she exclaimed sharply. The man filled her with abhorrence; and now, besides, he was trying to keep her away from Jean—and nothing, nothing in all the world would make her leave Jean's side now.

But no one seemed to be paying any attention to her—not even Paul Valmain any more, who had turned away, and, whispering as he went, was walking rapidly into the salon with the man they had called LeFair. The doctor had slipped his wrist through the handle of his black bag to leave his hands free, and he and the other man were lifting Jean up in their arms—and then, numbly, as they carried him from the room, she followed.

She saw nothing now only Jean's face, so ghastly in pallor, with its closed eyes, and with the black hair tumbling over his forehead. It brought a greater fear upon her; but she kept telling herself that she must be brave, for perhaps they would let her help them when they got upstairs, perhaps there would be something that she could do.

They went on through the salon, and out into the hall, and began to mount the stairs—and then some one, hurrying from the direction of the front door, caught her arm.

"Wait, mademoiselle, wait!" a voice said hoarsely. "Wait—I must speak to you!"

It was Paul Valmain again. She pushed him violently away from her, and, without looking back at him, went on after the others.

On the landing at the head of the stairs, they halted for a moment to open a door, and then for the first time the doctor appeared to notice that she had been following.

"Pardon, mademoiselle," he said a little brusquely. "If mademoiselle will be good enough to wait below!"

They were trying to keep her from Jean again. Every one tried to keep her from Jean. She clenched her hands passionately. But now—now they should not keep her away any longer.

"No!" she cried out fiercely. "You shall not send me away! I will not go—I will not!"

He stared at her for an instant, then shrugged his shoulders.

"Very well, mademoiselle. It is perhaps your privilege. I have not time to question it. But since you remain, perhaps you will be good enough to help us."

"Yes!" she said eagerly. "Oh, yes! Tell me what to do."

"Water!" he said tersely. "A basin—cloths!"

With a quick nod of understanding, she ran ahead of them through the door, and hurried on down the hall. She had never been there in Jean's apartment before, but Madame Mi-mi had not been loath to tell her all about it—and so it was not strange to her, and there was something to do now and that seemed to relieve the dull pain that had been torturing her brain, and she could remember again every little detail that Madame Mi-mi had described. The sitting-room, the dressing-room, the bedroom, the dining-room, and from the dining-room into the kitchen—it was a complete menage, though Jean used it so little, save to sleep there, and for his déjeuners which Madame Mi-mi prepared. She procured the basin, filled it, and hurried back with it—going through the rooms this time instead of the corridor—to where in the bedroom they had placed Jean upon the bed. And then there were the cloths—a sheet would serve best for bandages, and that was kept in the linen closet, where too there were clean towels, Madame Mi-mi had said. She could think very clearly now, and she could be much more brave because there was something to do. She flew to the closet, tore a sheet into strips, gathered up some towels, and returned with them again to the bedroom.

The doctor glanced at her approvingly.

"Thank you, mademoiselle," he said, in a much more kindly tone. "That will be all for the present."

But if they were more kindly, his words, they were too a sort of dismissal. She did not know what to do for a moment; and then she went slowly to the foot of the bed and knelt down—she would be out of their way there, and ready in an instant if the doctor called again. She would have given so much to help him in the intimate way this Monsieur Vinailles was helping, to hold Jean, to touch Jean, but—but they seemed so occupied, both of them, and—and she must not interfere. She could only watch, while the agony of suspense crept upon her again; watch the grey-haired man, in his shirt sleeves now, working so quickly, so silently—and then suddenly she turned away her head, and her heart sank with dread. It was so terrible a wound that she had caught sight of in Jean's side, as the doctor straightened up for an instant! It—it did not seem that any one could live with—with that. And Jean lay so still, so motionless, and in his unconsciousness seemed so much like—like dead. She shivered a little, and fought back the tears, and tried resolutely to think of something else—of anything—of how beautifully Madame Mi-mi had told her Jean's rooms here were furnished.

She forced herself to look around her. Yes, yes, it was as Madame Mi-mi had said—the carpet seemed to shine as though it were of silk; and the bed was very large and made of brass, which was something she had never seen before; and in all the rooms, as she had passed through them, she had been conscious that everything was very magnificent, just as the salon downstairs was very magnificent. And here on that big, carved dresser were wonderful candlesticks like those Father Anton used to have at the altar in Bernay-sur-Mer, only these were perhaps real silver, just as Father Anton had said that some day, when the parish grew very rich, theirs would be instead of only looking like it, and—she turned quickly back again toward the bed. Monsieur Vinailles and the doctor were speaking.

"But what would you have!" Monsieur Vinailles was exclaiming in a low voice. "I know no more than you what it was about—and neither does LeFair. We tried to bring about an understanding, LeFair and I, before we called for you, or at least get them to consent to a delay in which their tempers might cool; but neither Valmain nor Jean would listen to us. Not a word! If LeFair and I would not act for them, they would get some one else. Voilà tout! What would you have!"

"H'm!" returned the doctor gruffly. "Well, then, Vinailles, as I shall not need you any more for the moment, I think you had better go and tell Monsieur Bliss what has happened."

"Sacré—no!" ejaculated Vinailles. "I prefer some one else should do that! And besides, I do not think that he has returned to Paris yet."

"Then Mademoiselle Bliss," insisted the doctor quietly. "It is all one! They are Jean's family, as it were, are they not—eh? And then is not Mademoiselle Bliss as good as his fiancée? Well? I consider that she, or Monsieur Bliss, or both of them, should know."

"You mean," said Vinailles, in a startled tone, "that Jean is—"

"I mean nothing!" answered the doctor bluntly. "He is a long time unconscious, and he is not responding well to stimulants, that is all. On the other hand, you need not unnecessarily alarm any one; if I get him through the next hour or so, and no septic complications set in later on, we'll have him on his feet in a few days. If you take Jean's car you should be back in fifteen or twenty minutes. Go at once, Vinailles."

"Very well," Vinailles agreed a little reluctantly—and left the room.

What did the doctor mean? Marie-Louise crept timidly around to the opposite side of the bed where she could watch his face, and where she could see Jean's face too. What did the doctor mean? If—if everything went right, Jean would be well in a few days, but—but he was in danger now. She questioned the grave face piteously with her eyes—but received no response. The doctor was bending over Jean, and did not look up.

The minutes passed, ten, fifteen perhaps, as she knelt there—and then it seemed that she could not endure it any longer, and that all her self-restraint was at an end.

"Jean!" she whispered—and because they were stronger than she, and because she could keep them back no longer, the tears came in a flood, and she reached out and caught Jean's hand that was outstretched on the bed, and held it between both her own, and buried her face between her own two arms.

She felt the doctor's hand laid gently on her shoulder.

"Do not give way, mademoiselle," he said soothingly. "Courage! We shall win, I promise you."

She grew quieter after a little while—and again she tried to think. They had sent for Mademoiselle Bliss, and very soon mademoiselle would be here. It was the mademoiselle who had spoken to her so sharply that day because she had not put on her shoes and stockings.... Hector had said that Mademoiselle Bliss and Jean were to marry ... and—and that was what the doctor had just said to Monsieur Vinailles ... and—and so it was true. And what then? What—if Mademoiselle Bliss found her here? She would do Mademoiselle Bliss no harm to stay here! Her hands closed tighter over the one in her grasp. How cold Jean's hand was! What would she do—what would she do? She did not want to go, it seemed so hard to go, and it was so little to ask, so little out of all her life, just to stay there and kneel beside Jean and hold his hand, and—she raised her head, quickly, suddenly. The hand in hers twitched a little, there came a half moan, half gasp, and then Jean's voice, mumbling, wandering, reached her.

"Gaston, see, we are back! Put your arms around my neck, mon brave, and I will lift you up, and—" The words grew thick upon his tongue, lost their coherence, and died away. And then he began to speak again, and Marie-Louise leaned closer to catch the words. "See, it is a beacon—and it is for you, Marie-Louise, because it is you ... sacré nom, why do you say that? ... I can make a thousand ... has it not those lips that I could fashion even in the dark ... a thousand, I tell you ... how—not another, when—"

"Tiens!" exclaimed the doctor briskly. "That is good! He is regaining consciousness now, and—heh!—but what is the matter, mademoiselle?"

With a startled little cry, Marie-Louise was on her feet. She was vaguely conscious that, while they seemed to call up all her life, all the old life of Bernay-sur-Mer, her life and Jean's when they had been together, Jean's words too held some strange relation to something that had just happened here that night, some strange, puzzling, bewildering significance—and that then all this seemed swept away from her on the instant before a still greater significance in the doctor's words. What had the doctor said—that Jean was returning to consciousness! It brought joy and gladness and hope surging over her; but it brought too something cruel and hard and cold, as though a sentence had been pronounced upon her. She must go now, whether she wanted to or not. Jean must not see her. It was not Mademoiselle Bliss she had to consider now—it was Jean. He must not see her—he must not even know that she had been there. He must not, he must not see her—he must not know! And then a sort of panic fear seized her, and she ran around the bed to the doctor's side.

"Monsieur, monsieur, I must go!" she cried agitatedly. "And he must not know—he must not know that I—that—that any one has been here. Monsieur, will—will you promise that?"

"But, mademoiselle!"—he looked at her in amazement. "But, mademoiselle, I—"

She caught his hands wildly, and dropped upon her knees.

"See, monsieur, see, I beg it of you!" she pleaded almost hysterically. "It is not much to ask—that you will not tell. Promise me, monsieur, promise me! Why should he know, why should any one know? I have done no harm! And it—it is for his sake that I ask it. Monsieur, monsieur, you will promise!"

"I see no reason now why I should say anything," he answered gravely; "but if I promise it must be with a reservation. I will promise you, mademoiselle, that unless circumstances leave me no choice I will say nothing." Then, quickly, as he leaned toward the bed: "But if he is not to see you, you must go at once!"

"Yes!" she breathed. "Yes! You are good, monsieur—you are very, very good. And—and Monsieur Vinailles, and Mademoiselle Bliss, if Monsieur Vinailles should have told her—you will not let them tell Jean any one was here?"

"I will speak to them," he said quietly. "But go then, mademoiselle, immediately!"

"And—and, monsieur"—her voice breaking—"Jean will not—not die?"

"No, mademoiselle, he will not die, I think I can promise that now without any reservation," he replied with a smile. "But, ma foi, if he is not to know—eh!"

She stole a half frightened, half wistful glance toward the bed—then ran from the room and out into the hall.

"He must not know! He must not know!"—she kept saying that to herself; repeating it again and again, as she went slowly down the stairs. It seemed as though those were the words that summed up her life, that she had been saying them in her soul ever since the day those strangers had come to Bernay-sur-Mer. "Jean must not know!"

She halted suddenly on the lower step, and her face whitened a little. Paul Valmain was standing in the doorway of the salon. He was still here then, this Paul Valmain, the man who—who had tried to kill Jean!

"Mademoiselle!" he cried out. "See, I am still waiting! I must speak to you—here—in the salon—in the atelier for a moment!"

It seemed that she must run from him, that she abhorred him—and yet—and yet—"Jean must not know!" She must get Paul Valmain to promise too—Paul Valmain, and that other man who had been with him.

"Mademoiselle!" he said again. "I—"

"Yes," she said—and stepped past him through the salon door.