He waved his hand genially, and, without waiting for a reply, went out.
For a moment Jean did not move; then his eyes, as though drawn irresistibly in that direction, shifted from the door that had closed on Henry Bliss to the marconigram lying on the desk--and abruptly he walked over and picked up the wireless message. He read it through laboriously, for his English still came hard to him--and read it again, more slowly, lingering over the words, muttering snatches of the sentences aloud. "... Shall spare no effort ... endeavour worthily to express our sentiments ... splendid genius of which France is so justly proud..."
And, holding it there in his hands, a dull flush came and spread itself over Jean's face. The triumph of his career, Henry Bliss had said--the greatest moment of his life! This great and wonderful America, of which he had heard so much, was waiting for him eagerly--waiting for him--Jean Laparde--Jean Laparde! This was to be his welcome to that New Land where all was on a scale so tremendous and magnificent. To his ears there came the mighty roar of thousands shouting again and again the name of Jean Laparde; before his eyes a sea of faces looked up into his from dense-lined streets as he drove along--and all, all in that vast multitude were cheering, waving, acclaiming Jean Laparde. They were waiting for him there at the gateway to America, open-handed, royal in their hospitality, to pay him honour such as he had never known before. They were waiting for him there--for him--for Jean Laparde! They were waiting--
The flush faded from his face, and a whiteness came, and upon his forehead oozed out a bead of moisture--and, as the seconds passed, he hung there almost limply, swaying a little in the agony that was upon him. And then slowly the paper that was in his hands was torn across, and the pieces fluttered to the floor, and the great head rose proud in kingship on the broad shoulders--the kingship of himself, the kingship of Jean Laparde.
Ay, they were waiting for him--but there was another beside who was waiting too! He looked at the torn pieces of paper on the floor--and his laugh rang suddenly clear and buoyant through the cabin. Once he had sold his soul for such as that; but to-night, in spite of these devil's tempters that sought to shake his resolution--there was his answer! There was his answer--the answer that had come to him through the fog and mist as through a veil rent suddenly asunder, the answer that was in Marie-Louise's outstretched arms, the answer that was in her banishment from the friends and the France she loved, in the bitter wrong that he had done, in her love that now he knew for its priceless worth! There in that torn paper was his answer!