The Beloved Traitor (Mystery Classic). Frank L. Packard

tell me that you were born here, and have lived here all your life?"

      "But yes, mademoiselle," he smiled again, and shrugged his shoulders; "since it is so. I have never been anywhere else."

      "And since it is so, it must be so," she nodded. "What is your name?"

      "Jean Laparde," he replied.

      "Jean"—she repeated the word deliberately. "I like Jean," she decided, nodding her head again. "I like Laparde, too, but I will call you Jean."

      Jean's eyes met hers a little quizzically. She carried things by assault, this beautiful American girl! There was a certain element of intimacy, an air of proprietorship adopted toward him that somehow, at one and the same time, quickened his pulse at the vague promise that they would not be strangers if only she should stay in Bernay-sur-Mer, and piqued his man-mind at the hint of mastery being snatched from him.

      "All call me Jean," he said quietly.

      "Then that is settled!" she announced brightly. "Now tell me—Jean. Is there any other place in the village besides this impossible Taverne du Bas Rhône where we could stay for a week—a month—as long as we liked?"

      "A week—a month!"—Jean leaned suddenly toward her, an incredulous delight unconsciously spontaneous in his voice. "You are going to stay that long? But Papa Fregeau said you had no sooner arrived than you decided to go again, and—"

      "Your Papa Fregeau has a tongue that runs away with him," she interrupted quickly. "One may change one's mind, I suppose? This place will do for to-night; but afterwards—surely there is some other place where we could stay?"

      Jean shook his head.

      "There is only the Bas Rhône," he said slowly. "I—I am afraid—"

      "And now, after all, you are going to be stupid!" she exclaimed reproachfully.

      What was it? What did she mean? It was not the words—they were nothing. It was the tone, her eyes, an appeal in the exquisite grace of the lithe form bending toward him, the touch of the fingers laid lightly on his sleeve, that look again that levelled all barriers between them—until she was a woman and he was a man. His mind was in riot. He was a fool! And yet, fool or no, the thought would come. Why did she want to stay now? Papa Fregeau had said that almost on their arrival they had decided to go on. It was during her walk that she had changed her mind. What had happened on that walk to make her change her mind? A walk in Bernay-sur-Mer was not full of incident! It was ridiculous, absurd, fantastical, but it was there, the thought, sweeping him with a surge of wild emotion—was it that meeting on the bridge? But why? How? He was a rough-garbed fisherman, and she—

      She laughed delightedly.

      "What a frown! How fierce you are! Is it then such a terrible affair to help me a little—Jean?"

      "Mon Dieu!" cried Jean—and the words were on his lips with a rush. "But—no!"

      "Oh!" she murmured, and drew back a little; and the colour, rising, glowed pink through her cheeks. "You are impulsive, aren't you? Well, then, since you are to help me, what are we to do?"

      Jean's eyes were revelling in that pink flush. It was satisfying to the man-mind, that—even though she were of the grand monde then, a woman was a woman after all. It was a sort of turning of the tables, that added to the magnetism of her presence because it put him suddenly more at his ease. But to help her—that was another matter. Bernay-sur-Mer was—Bernay-sur-Mer! Voilà tout! Apart from the Bas Rhône there was no accommodation for strangers, for there was nothing stranger than strangers in Bernay-sur-Mer. Since then there was no other place for them to go, he could think of no other place. And yet, a week, a month—to think that she would spend that time in Bernay-sur-Mer! Ciel! Where were his brains?

      "Well?" she prompted, with alluring imperiousness.

      It was the force of habit. In trouble, in perplexity, in joy, in sorrow, for counsel, for advice there was but one court of appeal in Bernay-sur-Mer—the good Father Anton. The rôle of Father Anton was not only spiritual—it was secular. Bernay-sur-Mer was a child and Father Anton was its parent—it had always been so.

      "I will ask Father Anton," said Jean.

      "Father Anton? Who is Father Anton?" she demanded.

      "He is the curé," Jean answered. "I do not know of any place, but Father Anton will know if there is any, and—"

      "Splendid!" she broke in excitedly. "Let us go and ask Father Anton at once. Come along"—she crossed the café to the front door. "Come along, Jean, and show me the way."

      Yes, certainly, she carried things by assault this American girl. She bubbled with life and vivacity. And he was to walk with her now to Father Anton's—half an hour ago he would as soon have dreamed of possessing a fortune! It was incredible! It must be a marvellous world that, where she came from—but no, even the women of her world could not be like her! The suppleness of her form, it was divine; the carriage, the poise, the smile—it was intoxication, it went to the senses!

      "I am mad! It is as though—as though I were drunk with wine!" Jean muttered—and followed her across the room.

      "Now where is this Father Anton of yours?"—as Jean joined her outside the tavern.

      "There," said Jean, and pointed along the street. "Do you see the church—behind the second cottage? Well, it is there—just on the other side."

      She nodded—and Jean, glancing at her, found that she was not looking in that direction at all. Instead, she seemed wholly engaged in watching a boat start shoreward, as it pulled away from the side of a smack anchored out in the bay. Father Anton might have been the last thing that concerned her. Jean's eyes, a little puzzled, followed hers. When he looked up again, the grey eyes were laughing at him.

      "Is it quite safe out there?" she asked, waving her hand.

      "Safe?" repeated Jean, in a bewildered way.

      "Stupid!" she cried merrily. "Yes, of course—safe! If I am to stay here, I cannot lie all day upon the beach and do nothing. You have a boat, haven't you, Jean?"

      "But, yes," said Jean.

      "Then I am quite sure it will be safe," she decided. "I must have a boat, and, of course, a boatman. You will be the boatman, Jean. Oh, I really believe that, after all, Bernay-sur-Mer will be possible. There will be places where we can go, little excursions, and heaps of things like that. There, that is settled! And now I am more eager than ever to see Father Anton."

      Yes; it was settled! It was phrase of hers, that! To have demurred would have been as impossible as to have said no. And, besides, he had no wish to either demur or refuse. It seemed as though he were hurried forward captive into some strange, unknown land of enchantment. It staggered him, bewildered him, lured him, fired his imagination—and there was no desire to rouse himself from what seemed like a wonderful dream. No woman that he had ever seen, or imagined was like her. To spend a day where he could feast his eyes upon her!—and did she not now talk of many days! Even a fisherman might lift his eyes as high as that—since she gave him leave. Afterwards, she would go away again; but, bon Dieu, one could at least live in the present! It would be something to remember! Her eyes were on him again. He felt them studying him. Her hand brushed his arm. There was a faint, enticing fragrance of violets in the air about her.

      "You are not very gallant, Jean!" she laughed out. "Aren't you pleased with the suggestion; or would you rather—fish?"

      They had reached the church, and turned.

      "I was thinking," said Jean, with unconscious naïveté, "that I was afraid Father Anton would not know of any place."

      She looked at him quickly, a flash in the grey eyes—then the lids lowered. The next instant she was pointing ahead of her.

      "But there!" she cried out. "There is Monsieur le Curé's house, is it not?" She clapped her hands in sudden delight. "Why, it is a play-house, only a make-believe one! And how pretty!"

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