The Beloved Traitor Part 40

And what days after that! If you could but have seen Jean in the joy of his work, and Marie-Louise there beside him! And I must needs go to Bernay-sur-Mer to buy back Marie-Louise's house without her knowing it, and see to the building of an _atelier_ to be added to it. And--it is there they went this morning--to live."

And Bidelot was very quiet now, and his eyes were wet.

"I understand," he said, as Father Anton opened the door with a key.

"But"--shaking his head a little--"even in Bernay-sur-Mer Jean will be famous, and the world will follow to Bernay-sur-Mer."

"That is perhaps true, and it would be a sad thing if it were otherwise," said Father Anton, with his rare, grave smile, "for there is a pride that is pure, and a joy like no other joy in the tribute that is paid to one for work well done. And if the world follows to Bernay-sur-Mer, it can be only to the life that it will find there, the life in which Marie-Louise has her glad place, a life that the world, as you speak of it, will never mould or change."

They pa.s.sed in across the hall, and entered the salon, and walked down its length to the portieres that hid the _atelier_ from view--but here Bidelot paused.

"Wait!" he said. "Tell me one thing more. Why has Jean stayed here in Paris to work in secret like this for all these months since he came back?"

"I think you will find the answer here," said Father Anton--and, reaching out his hand, drew the portieres quietly apart.

And Bidelot, with a low, sudden cry, stepped forward into the _atelier_--and after that stood still, and neither spoke nor moved.

Two life-sized figures were before him--a woman, and a man. And the woman, a fishergirl, stood as on a perilous, wave-swept ledge, and leaning forward was stretching out her hands; and at her feet, from storm-lashed waters that swirled around him, rose the head and shoulders of the man, one hand clasped in both of hers, the fingers of the other clawing into the crevice of the rock, the muscles of the bare arm, where the shirt had been torn away, standing out like whip-cords as he drew himself to safety. And as Bidelot gazed, the studio, the surroundings, all were gone. Alone those figures--as in some mighty power that was supreme, that knew naught but itself, but in itself knew all of triumph, of defeat, of struggle, of glory, of undying love, of victory, that knew the sadness and the joys of life, its empty things and its immortal truth! And in the wind-wrapt, wave-wet clothes that clung about the fishergirl, disclosing in pure, chaste beauty the strong young limbs and form, in the torn and bleeding shoulders of the man, buffeted, near spent, there seemed to fall upon the studio the darkness of blackened skies, to come the roar of waters in turbulent unrest, the play of lightning, the roll of thunder, now ominous, now dying muttering away--and all was storm and battle and dismay and death. And then, as sunshine breaking through the clouds--a glad and perfect triumph--victory! It was in the woman's face that was rigidly set with high, unfaltering courage, yet softened as by some divine touch with a wondrous tenderness until the beautiful lips, as they panted in the struggle, smiled, and the brave, fearless eyes held trust and love; it was in the man's face, shining like some radiant glory from out the drawn and haggard features, as though the physical evidence of the torture and pain of one who had been near to death were lost in the joy and wonder of life regained--is though his soul were in his face.

It was long before Bidelot spoke.

"There are no words," he said. "It is what I dreamed and hoped that I might see."

"It is Marie-Louise--his wife," said Father Anton softly. "It is his statue of dreams, with the base at last that he could never see before."

There were tears upon old Bidelot's cheeks.

"I understand," he said. "It is Jean himself." He moved closer to the figures, and stood silent again. "It is a priceless thing," he said presently. "It is not himself alone; it is the womanhood of France, pure in her courage and her love, immortal in her sacrifice, that is the inspiration, the life, the anchorage, the guiding star, the hope of France itself! Ah, my friend"--the grizzled head was high, the eyes were shining with pride and a glad excitement--"I speak for this for France. All must see it--the France as yet unborn, the children when we are dead and gone who shall serve their country better for the masterpiece of Jean Laparde and the story that it tells. I go to-night! I go to-night to Bernay-sur-Mer to Jean--to speak for this for France!"

Father Anton made no answer; but he stooped and from the pedestal of the group removed the cloths that, as though they had fallen in a careless heap when the figures had been uncovered, were bedded around it. He was smiling through misty eyes, as he stood up again.

"It was the message that I had for you," he said. "Read!"

And Bidelot, bending forward, read the words that were carved there in the clay:

TO FRANCE--FROM JEAN LAPARDE

THE END