only
Hector had not disturbed it! _Bon Dieu_, if Hector had not meddled
with it! He wrenched up the lid. It was Marie-Louise who had thrust
that fisherman's suit into his arms that day when she had told him he
was free! What was it she had said? Yes, yes! "Promise me, Jean,
that you will keep these with you always, and that sometimes in your
great world you will look at them and remember--that they too belong to
France." And he had laid them in the bottom of the trunk; and, because
he had not forgotten so soon, when Hector, whom he had found already
installed at the studio, had unpacked for him on his first arrival in
Paris, he had told Hector always to leave them there, never to take
them out--but after that he had forgotten. He lifted out the tray, and
began to remove the clothing that lay beneath it. It was Hector who
had packed the trunk for the journey, and--with an exultant cry, he
straightened up, the old, worn, heavy boots, the coarse socks still
tucked into their tops, in his hands.

He put these down, and reached into the trunk again. Yes, they were
all here--the cap; the woollen shirt; the rough suit, crumpled,
white-spotted with the old salt stains of the sea.

And then for a moment he stood and looked at them--and looked about the
cabin--and for a moment fear came. As a blow that staggered him there
fell upon him the full significance of their glaring contrast with the
rich fittings of the stateroom-de-luxe about him. They seemed to mock
at him, these garments, and jeeringly bid him put them back again into
the trunk--as he _had_ done once before. What hideously insincere jest
did he imagine he was playing with himself, they sneered at him! What
had he to do with toil, and poverty, and hardship, with the life these
things stood for--he who knew the palaces of kings, he who had luxury,
he who had fame, he who had all that he had ever longed for, he who had
everything that money, that position, that authority could procure, he
who had but to rub the lamp and demand of the world his will?

"No, no!" he cried out suddenly aloud--and, with a quick, impulsive
movement, tore off his ulster and threw it on the bed. It was
Marie-Louise now--Marie-Louise! Once she had given her all for him.
It was Marie-Louise, wonderful, beautiful, pitiful, the saddest soul in
all the world, out there alone on the steerage deck!

And then he stood still again, hesitant, listening. Some one was
knocking on the ca