"But I have told you, and you know," she said. "To see Jean."
The curé's hands tightened upon her shoulders. What was he to say to her? How was he to tell her of the danger she in her innocence would never guess, that lay so cold and ominous a thing upon his own heart? How was he to put into words his fear of Jean for this pure soul that was at his knees? As wide as the world was the distance that lay now between Marie-Louise and Jean--but it was not that, not even that Jean was openly attentive to Myrna Bliss--that was only a little thing. Jean was not the Jean of Bernay-sur-Mer. The man was glutted now with power and wealth. And swaying him was not the love of art that might have lifted him to a loftier plane, it was the prostitution of that divine, God-given genius for the lust of fame. And for fame he had exchanged his soul. What was there sacred to Jean now? It was a life closely approximating that of a roué that Jean lived. And for Marie-Louise, with her love a weapon that might so easily be turned against her, to come in touch with--no, no; it was not to be thought of!
"Marie-Louise," he said hoarsely, "you must go back. You do not understand. Jean is very different now--he is not the Jean--"
"I know," she interposed, with a catch in her voice. "I know--better than you think I know. It is you who do not understand. He is of the _grand monde_, I understand that; and I--I am what I am, and it must be always so. But I love him, father. Is it wrong that I should love him? I will never speak to him, and he shall never know that I am here; but I must see him, and see his work, and--and--oh, don't you understand?"
"And after that?" asked the old priest sorrowfully.
"What does it matter--after that?" she said tensely. "I do not know."
"No, Marie-Louise," he said earnestly, "no, my child, no good can come of it. You must go back to Bernay-sur-Mer."
She drew away from him, staring at him a little wildly.
"But do you not understand?" she cried out with a sudden rush of passion. "But do you not understand that it is stronger than I--that I could not stay in Bernay-sur-Mer because I was always thinking, thinking--that I could not go back there now any more than I could stay there before? I must do this! I will do it! Nothing shall stop me! And if you will not help me, then--"