in its might, primal, elemental, swept him blindly
forward. Paris--she would be there, she who held him in a spell, who
made him forget Marie-Louise. And there was fame and glory there,
honour and wealth--all, all, everything that the world could give. And
it was his, all his--he had only to reach out and take it. There, all
France would be at his feet. It made his brain swim with the mad
intoxication of it. It was as a man dying with thirst who sees afar
the water that is life to him. Here, he could never be contented now,
he could never be happy, and in a year, two years, Marie-Louise,
therefore, would be unhappy, too. But--but he could not go ... that
night that he had held Gaston Bernier's hand ... and there was
Marie-Louise that he loved ... Marie-Louise with the pure, fearless
face, the great eyes that were full of a world of things, of calm, of
trust, of tenderness and love, the lips, the wonderful lips that were
so divinely carved, the lips like which there were no others. And he
must choose now forever between Marie-Louise and--Paris. If he went,
he would never come back. He was honest with himself now. He knew
that. Marie-Louise knew that. He must choose now. Choose! Had he
not already decided that he would--that he would--_what_?

It began all over again, and after that again for a hundred times,
until the brain of the man was sick and weary, and the torment of it
had brought the moisture to his forehead and into his eyes a fevered,
hunted look--and still he lay there, and the hours went by. And after
a time, beneath the rim of the sea in the west, the sun sank down, and
the golden afterglow, soft and rich and warm, was as a gentle, parting
benediction upon the earth--and Jean's head was buried in his outflung
arms. And twilight came--and after that the evening--then darkness,
and the myriad, twinkling stars of a night, calm and serene, were
overhead--and it grew late.

And there came a soul-wrung cry from Jean, as he lifted a worn and
haggard face to the moonlight.

"What shall I do? What shall I do?"

BOOK II: TWO YEARS LATER

-- I --

THE DUPLICITY OF FATHER ANTON

It was early evening in Paris; an evening in winter--and cold. Father
Anton drew his chair quite close to the little stove that, not without
some prickings of conscience at his prodigality, he had fed lavishly
with coals from the half empty scuttle beside it; and, leaning forward,
alternately extended his p